The Dandy and the Flirt (The Friendship Series Book 6) Page 4

  He glared at the closed door, sour and suspicious. “It’s early days.”

  She slid her arm through his and walked him deeper into the drawing room. Lowering her voice, she said, “True. In such cases as these, it’s best to adopt a cautious tack. I’m willing to wager that they’ve already done something, especially after seeing the gloat Howie sported on his way out. A first volley, if you will. Something not too exceptional. I’m quite aflutter to discover what it might be.” She halted at the long bank of windows. “Oh, I’d forgotten the marvelous view of the stream from this room.”

  “Emily—”

  “Not to worry, Hugh. I don’t think it will be anything elaborate. Not a snake, although I do find them fascinating.”

  Hugh’s upper lip twitched. “Revolting creatures.”

  She slipped her arm free. “I would be suspicious if they didn’t do something, since you rode ahead to make everything ready for the mean Stepmother’s arrival.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t say such things.”

  “Nevertheless, that will be how the boys perceive me. For a while. For today, I suspect my welcoming surprise will be in the bedchamber. Have you put me in Beryl’s rooms?”

  “Of course. Where else would you sleep?”

  “Well, not with you for the next six months. No need to flush-up, Hugh. We’ve been adults for a long time and understand the intricacies of marriage. I’m going up now and have my maid move my luggage from Beryl’s rooms. Do you have a bedchamber close to yours?”

  “Certainly, but what—”

  “Please tell the housekeeper, I believe you introduced her as McReedy? Have her prepare that room. I can’t wait another moment to go upstairs and discover what they’ve concocted as a welcoming gift. I can’t recall. Does that bedroom have an adjoining door to yours?”

  “No, but Emily—”

  She patted his cheek. “Not to worry. This is going to be so amusing. I’ll tell you all about it at dinner.”

  She left him in the withdrawing room, looking unusually anxious, which was amusing in itself. The idea of the stodgy Sir Hugh, moved to any degree of feeling by anything, she deemed a miracle. Poor little Waldo looked on the road to becoming the same sort of disappointing stick. Perhaps she could do something to circumvent that outcome.

  She waved off a footman preparing to escort her upstairs. She climbed the steps, remembering the location of Hugh’s mother’s rooms. Beryl would have been placed in them and would have undoubtedly rearranged its style and content. Hugh’s gregarious mother had crammed her bedchamber and sitting room with curious items from around the world. Emily had been given permission to be in the rooms every day, but only after the maids had done their work. She would wait impatiently in the hallway then spend hours studying paintings, statuary and artifacts. She particularly loved the liquid-filled jars with weird specimens.

  She encountered her maid before she reached her destination. Ferris came rushing down the passage, her round face flushed and expression harried. “Oh, my lady, you must have different sleeping arrangements. Immediately!”

  “Calm yourself, Ferris. Tell me what this is about.”

  “There is a horrid…object. It sits on the windowsill, my lady. Oh, the odor. It’s not to be believed. I let out a shocking scream when I discovered it. Is that what brought you upstairs, my lady?”

  “Why, no, but I expected something on this order.”

  Ferris followed her down the corridor, muttering under her breath. She whipped out a handkerchief to cover her nose and mouth as they entered. They encountered an odor that felt palpable, a tangible wall of stench.

  Emily strode to the windowsill that held the carcass of a rotting frog. It had disintegrated to a melted lump, distinguishable only by its triangular head and the remainder of a rounded abdomen. The arms and legs had withered to filaments. She felt more than a little admiration for the task of arranging the corpse. The thing had reached a squishy state of decomposition, which required patience in the process of laying it out on the sill.

  She leaned over the deceased and pulled up the sash. Sweet air rushed into the room. “Ferris, go downstairs and fetch a few footmen. Have them move my trunks to the end of the hall, the last room on the right. If the housekeeper has not sent someone to make it ready, open the windows. Allow my baggage to air and rid my things of this smell. Fortunately, the trunks haven’t been in here that long.”

  “But my lady, why would the servants allow your things to be placed in a room with this ghastly odor?”

  Emily pursed a moue and shook her head. “We will know that in good time. For now, merely tell them that I admired the location of the other room when I lived here as a child. Some of the older servants may remember me. Hopton certainly does. His grumpy scowl hasn’t changed a bit. Off you go, and find a box for the departed. It needs burying.”

  After getting settled in the room next to Hugh’s, Emily returned to the stinking rooms up the hallway. She carried a small box and a length of pink, silk ribbon. Using the fireplace poker, she scraped the squishy mess of the disintegrating frog into the box. She tied it with a pretty bow and went up to the second floor nursery.

  She tapped on the door before entering. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

  The boys, in the middle of a snack of tea and biscuits, leaped up from a table by the window. Brushing crumbs from their fronts, they hastily bowed. They had removed their smart looking clothes and now wore comfortable blouses, stockings, brogues, and sturdy twill trousers. They looked like the boys she expected, especially when startled and sans their aren’t-we-the-proper-lads guises.

  “Do return to your meal. I neglected to bring you this gift and will set it here.”

  “Thank you, my lady, I mean, Step-mama,” Waldo hastily said, while Howie’s gaze slid to the box placed on the bed.

  Emily blessed them with her sweetest smile. “Perhaps we can see about a picnic down by the stream, or if you prefer, some angling. I brought my gear, and I’m sure that your father, marvelous angler that he is, will have you fully outfitted. Grilled salmon, my favorite. Good day to you!”

  She paused at the edge of the stairs to listen. After a few minutes, she heard gagging gasps and scuffing noises of shoes on wood floors, then the sound of a window opening. Emily smiled, envisioning the boys pitching the box and its disgusting contents outside. This was followed by complete silence.

  Emily waited. Whispers, then the nursery room door eased open. The halves of two faces peered through the crack. Emily smiled and finger-wiggled a wave. The door slammed shut.

  Working not to laugh, Emily skipped down the steps. She’d won the first round and wished she could hear what was going on in the nursery. The poor things would still feel confident that they could best her. They hadn’t known her as a girl. She hoped that Hugh hadn’t shared with them some of what he had suffered.

  She sat down to dinner with a man who had survived most of her childhood pranks. Thinking back on it, she had been insufferable. Poor Hugh, and he’d only wanted to be helpful and kind, to do his duty. But she loved the old stick. Couldn’t help it, especially now that he’d shown himself to be such a gentleman and help her out of her dilemma.

  Unaware of her warm feelings, he picked up a bouillon soupspoon and dipped its wider bowl into steaming broth. “I trust you are settled in. I heard the shuffling about next door.”

  “Yes, I much prefer the room next to yours. I didn’t want to start off with the wrong step of usurping Beryl’s place by taking over her rooms. Her bedchamber may hold some of the boys’ last memories of being with her.”

  “Not at all. She met them once a week in the nursery. Read to them and sat with them while they had their porridge.”

  After the first course had been served, Hugh said, “I’m afraid I shall have to go down to Glasgow in the morning. My business may take a few days. Were it not for the fact that you think of Coldstream as your home, I wouldn’t feel right about leaving you alone here so soon after our arrival.�
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  She appreciated his thoughtfulness and discretion. Due to her condition, he’d made arrangements for the journey to Callander to be made in slow stages. There might be some estate business to be handled in Glasgow, but it was more likely that he wished to make a visit to his mistress. Beryl hadn’t been in a constant state of pregnancy because he was the cold fish he appeared to the world.

  Now that she thought about it, she’d had lovers who acted indifferent, but they were merely hiding their interest or felt they needed to maintain their dignity. Some acted more coy than the silliest woman. Men could be such strange creatures. Her wicked nature whispered to tease him but she felt too sensible of his kind assistance and his offer of a home for her daughter.

  She gripped her spoon over soup not tasted. Her baby must be a daughter. Her child’s father had no heir and might want a son. He might also want to take the baby, whatever its gender, out of spite, to make her suffer.

  “Emily?”

  She flinched. “I’m sorry. Woolgathering.”

  He waited until her bowl was removed and the next course served before asking, “Will you be comfortable staying here without me in residence?”

  “Of course. You’ve been away for quite some time. I expected there would be some catching up in order, and I should love to visit my old haunts, do some fishing.”

  His shoulders visibly relaxed and he returned to his plate. The man loved to eat and had consumed two servings of turbot while she fussed with her few bites.

  While eating his way through a generous slab of roast beef, he paused to say, “One of the servants saw you coming down from the second floor. Were you visiting your old room?”

  “No. I stopped by the nursery to thank Waldo and Howie for welcoming me. I don’t know what those women were going on about when it came to your sons. Perfect little gentlemen, if you ask me.”

  Suspicion narrowed his eyes, but he went back to eating. The odd thought flitted through her head—one that had nothing to do with the rascals upstairs plotting nefarious deeds. In her experience, a man who enjoyed food the way Hugh did often enjoyed the other sensual aspects of life. The image of him slaking his appetite on a woman with equal relish created an odd twisting inside her chest.

  She stopped fiddling with food and stared down at her plate. Was this sad, anxious feeling what people felt when they suffered jealousy? Couldn’t be. She’d never been jealous of any of her lovers. She enjoyed them and was done with them, especially if they ever showed an interest in another woman.

  Then she remembered. When a girl, she had envied Hugh. He had parents and a home. But envy wasn’t the same as jealousy. They were two entirely different responses. Envy had made her spiteful. Jealousy left one feeling weak, inadequate, helpless. Why hadn’t she ever felt that with George? He’d had a long string of affairs and flirtations.

  She looked up. Hugh had taken a bite of rare beef. He slowly chewed with eyes closed in bliss. Smiling, he looked over at his cranky major domo, who stood by the butler’s pantry door. “Hopton, please tell Cook how much I’ve missed what she can do with a joint of beef. And the turbot was sublime. What is next?”

  “Caramel crème with sweet-toasted pecans. Fruit and stilton to follow.”

  Fascinated, her head tilted to one side as she watched Hugh close his eyes and lick his lower lip. Did he know how utterly lascivious he looked? A flush of warmth and weakness slid through every vein and settled low in her belly. When she reached for the wine glass, her fingers trembled.

  Perhaps they would do well together when the time came. He’d certainly done his duty by Beryl. If not birthing a baby, she was miscarrying, and she’d made it clear that she wanted another child. A curious thrill of anticipation trickled down her arms. She’d never taken a friend for a lover, and Hugh had certainly proved himself as a friend. And a potent sire of children, something to think about, since she wanted more than one. Three sounded like a nice number. And they might have to be diligent about it, if her first marriage was any indication. Envisioning it, that strange frisson of energy rippled along her arms again.

  A long, dry spell yawned ahead, nearly a year, before she had her curiosity about his love-making skills satisfied. At least Hugh didn’t have to wait, and the unfairness of that annoyed her almost as much as having to live with naughty thoughts about Hugh and his mistress.

  Chapter 6

  Emily stood on the bank and cast the fishing line in a graceful arc over the stream. A lovely breeze whispered across her cheek and rustled tree leaves overhead. She lazily spun the reel to drag the fishing lure through the water. There were four extras hooked in the tartan tam she wore. She’d pilfered some of Hugh’s stash but preferred not to use them all and leave him without. One couldn’t project when a man would choose to be in the mood to favor a quiet interlude of angling or the delights of his paramour. She squashed that image and relaxed into the peace of the simple joy of throwing out a line, following its travels and travails until the delicate fly attracted the attention of a trout. The two pairs of eyes watching her added more charm to an already perfect day.

  Early that morning, on her way to the path that led to the stream, she heard the distinctive splats of eggs being thrown against a hard surface. Although it had been many years, she recognized the sounds. Erasing the grin from her face, she adopted an aspect of absolute boredom, reversed her course, and rounded the side of the poultry hutch and enclosure. Waldo and Howie froze mid-throw.

  Emily studied the slime drizzling down the wood slats, then lowered her gaze to survey the remaining eggs on the ground waiting to become missiles. She swept a gaze of superiority over the wide-eyed mischief-makers.

  She sniffed. “Amateurs, the pair of you. Rank amateurs. If you had let the eggs sit in the sun for a few weeks, they would explode with a bang and spew noxious green everywhere. Gentlemen, if one’s aim is to create a mess, at least do so in style. Good day to you.”

  She’d left them gaping and headed down the path to one of her favorite swimming spots, knowing they’d stalk her. By afternoon, she’d caught nine trout, wrapped them in leaves in a basket kept cool on the turf. She’d also done a great deal of thinking. At least she had the boys on the run. Too bad Hugh wasn’t here to enjoy the fish and her progress with the lads. She tried all day not to think about what he was doing in Glasgow. Was his bit of muslin finger-feeding him sweets?

  She’d not quite worked through her disgruntlement from receiving a letter that morning, informing her that he would be another week before returning to Coldstream. He’d written to tell her—in stultifying, too polite terms—that he would go to Edinburgh and interview a pastry chef recommended by Lady Asterly.

  Behind her, she heard a rustle in the bracken, felt the itchy sensation of being watched. Silly boys. She didn’t scare easily. They were too clever to merely leap out, shrieking blood-curdling screams to startle her. No, her lads were more devious than that. Something else was afoot.

  Glad to be distracted by something other than Hugh swiving his mistress, she didn’t expect the sharp bark behind her back. She covered a start of surprise by turning slightly, while tugging the fishing line with teasing jerks. From the edge of her vision, she saw a massive, black, dog sitting on the grass, tongue lolling. The dog woofed again, sharper this time. She heard a muffled snicker from the greenery.

  Did they think this fellow would scare her? He was on the large side, but even at a glance, the mongrel monster looked cuddly, not frightening.

  She carefully reeled in the line, raised the untouched fly from the stream, and set down the pole. She squatted, made smooch-noises, and called, “Come, pretty pup.”

  The dog hoisted up on all fours and gamboled across the turf, huge paws smashing the grass. Complete stillness reigned in the bracken.

  “Down, my lovely girl.” She emphasized the “girl” to aggravate her watchers. She smoothed both palms over the dog’s head and down over bulky shoulders covered in silky fur. Snout in air to sniff her scent, the dog kep
t his broad skull up and available for more caresses.

  Sensing the outrage in the bracken, she cooed, “You lovely girl! Do you want to come with me? I know some boys who would love to play with you.” She grabbed a nearby stick and threw directly at the spot she judged hid Waldo and Howie. After a longing glance at the water, the dog sprang after the stick, bounding into the bracken, eliciting grunts and whispers from the boys hiding under the bracken fronds.

  Emily pretended not to notice and gathered her accoutrement. The dog escorted her home. She rewarded the happy mutt by throwing the slobber-slick stick ahead on the path. The boys never showed their faces. Perhaps an added dose of humiliation could be gleaned from this episode. She decided to tell kitchen to send up some of the trout for their dinner, a subtle reminder of her successful day and their failure.

  She entered the back door to the kitchen and encountered an odd tension. Cook, and kitchen workers froze in place. When a kettle whistled, a girl swiftly removed it from the heat, while everyone stood statue-still and stared.

  Emily placed the basket on the long, wooden worktable. She didn’t suppose the reason for the stilted silence came from the lady of the house making an unexpected visit to an area where she was never seen. Something else had set them off. Everyone looked at the floor. Cook gripped a cleaver, as if ready to fend off an attacker. The scullery girl clutched her apron. Two footmen and the under-butler had leaped to stand at attention.

  “I apologize for the intrusion,” she began, “but the fish want cleaning. Sir Hugh won’t be returning for another week, which means there’s enough trout for everyone. I shall have dinner in my room. No need to set up the dining table just for me.”

  She scanned the room. Everyone still avoided her eye, which was not unusual for servants, but their collective quiet meant something else.

  Hopton came through the green baize door just as she moved to leave the way she’d come, through the servant’s back door. Grumpy, stooped and cranky as ever, he glared at her from under bushy, white eyebrows. “What are you about down here, my lady?”