Lord Iverbrook's Heir Part 27

"I believe I'll take a gla.s.s. Come to think of it, it's your brandy, my boy. You don't mind?"

"Of course not."

"I generally retire at ten. The pigs rise early, what? No need for you to do so though. Make yourself at

home." He laughed at his little joke. The viscount looked around the drawing room and wondered what he was supposed to occupy himself with for the rest of the evening. "I think I'll go to bed too," he sighed. "I have grown accustomed to country hours at Milford." * * * * Iverbrook woke early next morning and went downstairs. It was a wet, bl.u.s.tery day, made no warmer by Prynn's sour greeting. The butler's manner did not thaw as he served his lordship's solitary breakfast.

He waited until Iverbrook had abandoned a half-full cup of lukewarm coffee and pushed back his chair before he announced ponderously: "I believe, my lord, that an urgent letter for your lordship was delivered late last night." He ruminated.

"Or possibly early this morning, my lord. Would your lordship wish to see it now?"

Iverbrook looked at him in exasperation. "Yes," he said shortly.

"I shall ring for Frederick, my lord, to fetch it from the hall table for your lordship."

"Don't bother. I shall fetch it for myself." He strode out, ignoring the butler's smug face.

He recognised the writing at once, though it was less neat than usual.

Selena, he thought. The darling! She must have written it only a few hours after he left the Manor. Smiling

in antic.i.p.ation, he went to the library to enjoy it in comfort.

The smile faded as he read the salutation. "My lord, Pray do not trouble yourself to return with the betrothal ring. It will not be needed after all. I daresay I should be flattered that you finally decided marriage to me was preferable to a lawsuit. I find I am not. As no doubt you will be pleased to hear, Mr.

Hastings is delighted that you have at last taken his advice. S. Whitton."

"The devil!" he said aloud. "Next time I see you, Hasty, I'll wring your wretched neck, or better, pull out your tongue with red-hot pincers. Selena, my love, for an intelligent woman you are the veriest featherhead! Now what do I do next?"

A clock striking ten reinforced his dilemma. Prynn's lethargic service had left him no time to think. How could he tell Lady Lavinia of his betrothal when his poor, deluded sweetheart had just cried off? On the other hand, if he waited until he had persuaded her of her error, he would have to come right back to Iver Place, starve through another dinner, doze through another endless evening, and suffer through another painful interview.

Put that way, the choice was easy.

He made his way to his mother's boudoir. As he expected, she had risen from her bed only to collapse immediately upon her chaise longue, guarded by Miss Sneed. Not for the first time, he wondered if she was really the frail invalid she appeared; unfortunately, he could think of no way to test the matter that would not lead to disaster if it was true.

The elegant, diaphanous gown was the colour of woodsmoke this time, a fashionable shade described in Ackerman's as soupir d'automne.

"Charming, Mama!" said Iverbrook hopefully. "How well that dress becomes you."

"But I am very unwell, Hugh," she sighed. "If your poor, sainted papa can see how you neglect me, he must be turning in his grave. Four months with never a word."

"Three and a half."

"Don't contradict me, Hugh! I am sure a few days are neither here nor there. What have you been doing all this weary time that is more important than comforting a sick mother?"

Seeing an opening for his main purpose, Hugh began to explain that he had been getting to know his nephew.

"A child, a mere child, can be of no interest to a gentleman of your years. Or indeed of any age. I regret to say that I do not believe you, my son." Agnes Sneed was heard to snort in agreement. "You have returned to your libertine ways, the shocking conduct you dare not describe to your loving mama. How well I know the lies, the evasions! My vinaigrette, Agnes!"

Hugh backed away from the acrid vapours and tried not to listen as his character was torn to shreds. It was very unjust, he felt, since he had turned over a new leaf. At last, despairing of an end to the peroration, he interrupted.

"I have news for you, Mama, which I hope will please you. I mean to settle down and live respectably. I am engaged to be married."

Silenced at last, Lady Lavinia gaped at him. Before Miss Sneed could take up cudgels on her behalf, Hugh continued.

"You need not fear that I mean to ask you to remove from the Place. Miss Whitton has her own house and we shall live there and in London."

"Miss Whitton! I feel a Spasm coming on, Agnes. Who is Miss Whitton?" demanded Lady Lavinia in a failing voice.

"Well really, Mama! She is Gil's sister-in-law. You remember your son Gilbert and his wife?"

"There's no call to be sarcastic," said Miss Sneed sharply.

"Of course I remember Phoebe Whitton. A n.o.body! Unexceptionable for a younger son, perhaps, even if he was a Carrick of Iver, but you are a viscount, Hugh. It is your duty to the family to make a grand match and I'm sure I do not see any reason why you should not. You were born hosed and shod and have not yet managed to bring an abbey to a grange, thanks to my dear Mr. Ffinch-Smythe. Your lineage is impeccable and your looks pa.s.sable, and though your character is unstable I do not by any means despair of an eligible connection."

"I have formed a connection, Mama. I am not informing you of my intentions but of a fait accompli. Miss Whitton and I are betrothed." Iverbrook crossed his fingers behind his back. "And I want to bring her to see you soon, because I do not care for long engagements." Not with a volatile lady like my Selena, he added silently.

"You have sent a notice to the Gazette?"

"Not yet."

"Then Miss Whitton must be persuaded to see that it will not do." Lady Lavinia regained sufficient strength to sit up straight and push away Miss Sneed's anxious hands. "No one need know you have cried off. I have the very girl in mind for you: Lady Mary Hodgkiss. Superior breeding, prettily behaved, and thirty thousand pounds if she has a penny."

Iverbrook ignored Lady Mary's claims; he laughed.

"You might as well resign yourself to it, Mama," he said, "for Lennox Hastings knows all about it and his tongue has a greater circulation than the Gazette!"

His mother wilted. "Mr. Hastings!" she said with loathing. "As well tell the world. You may write to Miss Whitton and tell her that I will receive her next week."

"Thank you, Mama. I shall go in person to inform her of the honour. I mean to leave at once."

"But Hugh, you only arrived yesterday. Agnes, the smelling salts! Four months with never a word and then you stay only one night. Your poor, sainted papa must be turning in his grave."

Realising that the interview had returned to its starting point, the viscount dropped a kiss on Lady Lavinia 's hand and slipped out of the room under cover of the fuming sal volatile.

Chapter 20.

It rained from Iver to Beaconsfield. It rained from Beaconsfield to High Wycombe, and from High Wycombe to Watlington it rained some more. Between Watlington and Kings Milford darkness fell, but it didn't stop raining. Watery needles glinted in the light of the carriage lamps, hissed when they hit them, turned the road beneath the horses' hooves to a quagmire.

Inside the Iverbrook travelling carriage, with its crested doors, his lordship was almost as wet as Tom Arbuckle on the box outside. The roof leaked. For years Lady Lavinia had refused to leave home if there was a cloud in the sky, though in any case she never ventured more than five miles from Iver Place, and no one had thought to investigate whether the aged vehicle was still as waterproof as it was impressive.

His lordship cursed as a drip ran down the back of his neck, and wondered if any woman was worth it.

At least Selena could hardly turn him out on a night like this.

They drove past the Royal Oak and turned up the lane towards the Manor. Dry clothes, thought Iverbrook hopefully, and a hot meal. Then he would explain matters to his beloved; he would be patient,

kind, and firm, forgiving her flights of fancy, her unreasonable reproaches. He would take her in his arms and she would forget that Hasty had ever spoken.

The carriage crunched to a halt at the front door. Iverbrook sprang down and dashed up the steps. The

door opened as he reached it."My lord!" exclaimed Bannister in surprise. "I thought . . . My lord, thank heaven you've come!"Lady Whitton hurried into the hall, Delia close behind her."Hugh, thank heaven you've come!""Peter has been abducted by gypsies and Selena has gone after him," announced Delia. "Alone!""Alone? Gypsies? What on earth are you talking about?" Iverbrook handed his soggy hat and coat to the butler and took Lady Whitton's arm. "You are worn to a shadow, ma'am. Come and sit down whileDelia explains what is going on."

He led them back into the drawing room."It's really Cousin Aubrey," Delia said. "She has to marry him to get Peter back, so she had to go aloneor they wouldn't have met her to take her there. Gypsies sell little boys to chimney sweeps, you know."

"Take her where? Where is Hasty?" demanded his lordship, utterly confused and hoping for a rational

explanation.

"He went up to London because he owes you some money. That was before it all happened. Mama made Cousin Aubrey leave because of Polly only she won't tell me about that and then Peter was missing again and a letter came for Selena and he is in league with the gypsies."

"A letter? Where is it?"

"Selena left it on the table there," said Lady Whitton. "Yes, there it is." Iverbrook picked up the still damp paper and studied it. He looked up grimly.

"Sir Aubrey says he will sell Peter to the gypsies," he stated, "but I do not believe he is with them now. I

recognise the hand. This was written by Amabel Parcott!"

"You think they are at Cowley?" asked Delia eagerly. "That is famous! We can carry out my plan after all, Mama."

"What is your plan, Dee?" asked the viscount.

"Call out the farmhands and go take Peter back. And Selena too, now."

"It would take too long, I fear. If she leaves the Crown at seven . . . it is near that now. By the time we

had gathered everyone together, in the darkness and this weather, she must have been in his hands for

several hours. No, I shall go alone as she did.""That you won't, m'lord," said Tom Arbuckle, dripping in the doorway. "It seems young Jem's missingand it's my belief he went after Miss Selena. I'll be coming with you, m'lord, and if you've got your duelling pops, I've got me horse pistols."

The viscount nodded in approval. "Right you are, Tom. Now don't you worry, ma'am. Tell Cook to keep our dinner hot and we'll be back with them in time to eat it. Look after your mother, Delia." He followed his servant into the hall.

Bannister was on his knees unpacking a bag. "Here's a dry coat, my lord," he said.

"Good man. Tom, go saddle a pair of horses quickly. We'll ride."

"I c'n take the carridge round to the stable, my lord," volunteered Polly, brushing his hat. "Me and Doris' ll rub the horses down good. I'll just get me cloak on."

"Here's a mug o' mulled ale, my lord, to put some warmth into you," offered Cook. "There be one for you in the kitchen, Tom, and dinner'll be waiting when you come back wi' Miss Selena and Master Peter."

It was still pitch dark outside, and though the downpour had slackened rain still fell. Tom held a lantern aloft but the going was slow.

"We must come up with her before she reaches the house," fretted Iverbrook. "Who knows what that devil has planned for her arrival."

"Miss Whitton won't be travelling no faster nor us, m'lord," Tom pointed out.

"But she is ahead of us. We must go faster." He urged his unwilling horse to a canter.

As they reached the post road, the rain stopped. A rising wind chilled the riders but it scattered the clouds and a half moon shone intermittently. At a gallop they raced past the turning to Abingdon and flew on towards Oxford.

There was a mile still to go before Cowley when they saw a gig before them in the road. The driver looked nervously over his shoulder, and saw them bearing down upon him out of the night. He whipped up his nag. The single figure huddled in the back did not stir.

"It must be her!" cried Iverbrook, and drew one of his pistols. Tom waved his weapon in reply and they thundered on, parting on each side of the gig to pull up before it, swinging their mounts around. Guns levelled at the driver's head, they shouted together, "Stand and deliver!"

Whinnying in fright, the nag reared between the shafts. The light carriage tilted and driver and pa.s.senger slid gracefully into the mud.

Before the amateur highwaymen could dash to the rescue, another voice was heard. From the shadow of the hedge it came, young, scared, but resolute.

"Hold still an' drop them pops! I got you all covered!"

"Jem!" Selena sat up. "It's all right, it's Lord Iverbrook. Oh Hugh, I'm so glad to see you but what are we going to do now? He won't take me to the gypsy camp now!" She burst into tears.

Dismounting, the viscount strode to her side and knelt in the road. He gathered her wet, muddy form to his heart. "Don't cry, love," he murmured. "Don't cry. Peter is not with the gypsies, he's at Amabel's house. We'll be there in a few minutes, with or without the rogue's help."

Jem emerged from the shadows, leading Pippin. Tom, with the other two horses, met him by the rec.u.mbent driver.