Lord Iverbrook's Heir (27 page)

Iverbrook looked up. “He’d best drive the gig. We’ll need it to get home.”

“I won’t go in it!” declared Selena.

“Of course not, love. You ride with me.” He helped her to rise.

“We must hurry. Poor Peterkin must be frightened half to death.”

“Selena, if we hurry you will not suppose that I followed you only for Peter’s sake?” There was a laugh in his voice.

“No, oh no, Hugh!”

He kissed her hot cheek and mounted. Tom threw her up before him and they set off.
With his arms encircling her, her head on his chest, she asked, “Did you get my letter, Hugh?”

“Yes, love. I decided to ignore it.”

“Oh.” Pause. “Good. It did not make you angry?”

“Not in the least. I have decided to make allowances for your megrims in future.”

She sat up straight. “You are odiously condescending!” she said.

“You must learn to make allowances for me too. If you love me as much as I love you, you will not find it difficult.”

“I shall try,” she said, relaxing against him again. “I do love you, Hugh. If I didn’t, I shouldn’t be so . . .”

“Skittish?”

“Yes,
only that sounds like a high-bred horse.”

With Jem leading, they turned off the high road at Cowley and soon rode between ornate stone gateposts, up the short drive to the Gants’ baroque mansion. The moon shone full on the facade, illuminating every scroll and curlicue with pitiless brilliance.

“Good God!” said Iverbrook. “A piece of Florence set down in the middle of the English countryside.” He turned as the gig pulled up behind them. “You there! What were you to do when you arrived?”

“Just show the lady in, my lord. Most of the servants is off for the night.”

“Very well. Go harness a fresh horse and wake the lad from the Royal Oak to drive us back.”

“But my lord . . .”

“Do you wish to make the acquaintance of the local magistrate?” asked his lordship politely.

“No, my lord! I ain’t done nothing, my lord. I’m going, I’m going!”

Iverbrook helped Selena to slide to the ground, and swung down after her.

"Jem, go and keep an eye on that rascal. Tom, come in with us, but I want no interference unless it proves necessary to defend Miss Whitton and Master Peter. Understood?”

“Yes, m’lord,” said Tom grimly as they trod up the steps.

"Hugh, you are not going to challenge Aubrey to a duel?” Selena hung on his sleeve, stopping him.

“As Hasty pointed out, whatever his manners and morals he is a gentleman. I cannot decently horsewhip him.”

“So you will offer to let him try and kill you! I shall never understand men’s idiotish notions of honour. And if instead you kill him, you will have to flee the country. Either way, I am a widow before I am a wife. Hugh, you must not!”

“Indeed I must. I could never hold up my head again, else. I am generally accounted a good shot; I’ll engage not to kill your cousin.”

Tom intervened. “Mr. Dimbury did mention as Sir Aubrey don’t have no firearm to his name. He can’t ride nor drive. Maybe he can’t shoot neither.”

“You see, Selena, I am quite safe.”

She was unconvinced, but followed him into the house. The marble-floored entrance hall, crowded with a bewildering display of statuary in varying degrees of disrepair, had several doors leading off it. Only one was open, the room beyond it well lighted.

“Wait here, Tom,” said the viscount.

Selena ran forward, Iverbrook close behind her.

“Peter!” she cried. “Thank heaven! Are you all right?”

He was sitting cross-legged on the table in an otherwise empty dining room. The table was set with a lavish cold collation. His chin liberally smeared with whipped cream, he was attacking the apple pie in his lap with a large fork.

“This is a good pie,” he said, manoeuvring a chunk towards his mouth. “You want some, Aunt Sena?”

“No, thank you, pet. You
are
a mess.” Relieved as she was to find him unharmed, Selena hesitated to embrace the sticky brat.

“So are you,” pointed out her nephew. “So’s Uncle Hugh, only he’s not as bad as you.

Selena looked down at herself. The horrid green dress she was still wearing was no longer green but an indescribable brownish black. “Oh dear,” she said, “you’re right. I am more likely to make you dirty than the other way about.”

“Might I enquire as to the present whereabouts of the villain?” Hugh was leaning against the wall, lips twitching at the picture presented by his hovering beloved and the matter-of-fact victim.

“Yes, where’s Uncle Aubrey?”

“Being sick,” said Peter with considerable satisfaction. Abandoning his pie, he swung his legs over the side of the table and explained. “I putted some black mustard seed in his wine and he drinked it and he went sort of green and putted a napkin on his mouth. And then he runned out and Mrs. Parrot runned after him and I ‘spect she’s holding his head like Grandmama does when I be sick.”

“I expect so,” agreed Selena faintly. “Wherever did you come by the black mustard seed?”

“I keep some in my pocket, case I eat some bad berries again by mistake. I gived it to Uncle Aubrey ‘cos I knowed you’d come and get me soon."

“You’re a most ingenious young man!” said his Uncle Hugh. “Tell me, how did Uncle Aubrey manage to make off with you in the first place?”

“Aunt Sena said she may marry Uncle Aubrey so I wanted to go with Mr. Hasty to find you, only it wasn’t not Mr. Hasty’s carriage it was Uncle Aubrey’s. I hided under the rug."

Iverbrook looked at Selena in dismay. “You actually considered marrying the man?” he asked incredulously.

She coloured. “I don't believe I’d really have done it, but after I wrote that letter I was in such despair, anything seemed better than that emptiness.”

“Poor darling!” In two strides he was at her side, holding her close.

“You’ll get all muddier, Uncle Hugh,” warned Peter.

He released her and looked down at his clothes. “I don’t think that is possible,” he said. “Well, I daresay I had best go and confront the wicked baronet.” He put his finger to Selena's lips, stilling her protest. “You stay here with Peter, my love. You might try what a wet napkin will do for his appearance, though you and I are beyond repair. Do not leave this room until I return, or Tom comes for you.”

“Hugh!”

He took her face between his hands and kissed her very gently, then turned and left the room, his tall, lean figure moving with jaunty insouciance. Cold with fear, Selena watched him go.

“Do you want some bread and butter?” asked Peter.

Declining, she dipped a napkin in the water jug and set about scrubbing his face and hands. He submitted patiently. Whenever it was safe to open his mouth, he told her about his adventures with Uncle Aubrey. She did not hear a word.

She was listening for a shot.

* * * *

It took the viscount several minutes to run Sir Aubrey to earth. The baronet was reclining on a wooden bench in a well-scrubbed scullery, strategically close to the sink. The ghastly hue of his countenance was intensified by the pinkish orange of his coat.

Beside him, a rose velvet angel of mercy, Mrs. Parcott knelt on the stone-flagged floor, wiping his face with a lace handkerchief. She heard Iverbrook’s footsteps and jumped up.

“Hugh!”

“Correct, Amabel.”

“What are you doing here? Aubrey said you were at Iver.”

“I was. I have come to settle accounts with Aubrey.” He drew his duelling pistols from his pocket and offered one to the baronet, who groaned and turned away.

“You desire a more formal arrangement?” queried his lordship. “Seconds, a meeting at dawn, perhaps a doctor in attendance?”

“How can you be so insensitive!” stormed Amabel. “Aubrey is extremely unwell and cannot possibly answer your challenge now.”

Grinning, Iverbrook returned the guns to his pocket.

“Clever lad, my nephew,” he commented. “His Grandmama is a witch, you know. It’s a mistake to abduct a witch’s grandson.”

“The little brat did this?” Sir Aubrey sat up abruptly. “He has poisoned me!” His face turned a still more interesting shade of green and he subsided, clutching his stomach.

"I hope you will punish him severely,” said Mrs. Parcott, billowing to her knees again and patting the baronet’s hand soothingly.

Iverbrook looked at her in amazement. “I consider his behaviour an exemplary instance of self-defence. I suppose you think that instead of shooting Sir Aubrey I ought to pay his fare back to Jamaica?”

“There is no need for that,” she said stiffly. “If he chooses to go, I shall pay his fare.”

“Oh, but he most definitely chooses to go! He has already discovered how unhealthy the English climate can be. If he should stay, he might find it fatal. What is more, Bel, I’d join him if I were you. No telling but that you might find the Indies healthier too.”

She shot him a look of dislike, but before she could speak Sir Aubrey groaned again, struggled to his feet and leaned over the sink.

Lord Iverbrook beat a quick retreat.

When he entered the dining room, Selena was standing in front of a long mirror framed with gilt cherubs, attacking her own face with a damp cloth. Their eyes met in the reflection.

“Are you hurt?” she whispered.

“Not in the least.”

“Did you . . . did you kill him?”

“I’m afraid not. He was by far too ill to be shot. He will shortly return to the Indies, and I have a feeling that Mrs. Parrot will accompany him. In fact, I should not be surprised if they made a match of it. Sir Aubrey wants money, Mrs. Parrot wants a title, they are perfectly suited.”

Selena giggled. “I like to hear you call her Mrs. Parrot,” she confessed, turning at last.

“You’ll like it even better when I call you Lady Iverbrook." He held out his hands and she ran into his arms.

Swinging his legs, Peter watched with tolerant interest. Some minutes passed before Hugh became aware of his scrutiny.

“Your aunt and I are going to be married after all,” he announced, slightly flushed, over Selena's shoulder.

“That’s all right,” said Peter benignly. “I told Aunt Sena already, aunts and uncles is s’posed to be married to each other!”

Copyright © 1986 by Carola Dunn

Originally published by Walker and Company

Electronically published in 2003 by Belgrave House

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

     http://www.RegencyReads.com

     Electronic sales: [email protected]

This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.