Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

  Chapter 8

  Isn’t that Wyndham over there?”

  Amelia blinked, shading her eyes with her hand (a fat lot of good her bonnet seemed to be doing her this morning) as she peered across the street. “It does look like him, doesn’t it?”

  Her younger sister Milly, who had accompanied her on the outing to Stamford, leaned into her for a better view. “I think it is Wyndham. Won’t Mother be pleased.”

  Amelia glanced nervously over her shoulder. Her mother, who was inside a nearby shop, had resembled nothing so much as a woodpecker all morning. Peck peck peck, do this, Amelia, peck peck peck, don’t do that. Wear your bonnet, you’re getting freckles, don’t sit so inelegantly, the duke will never get around to marrying you.

  Peck peck peck peck peck peck peck.

  Amelia had never been able to make the connection between her posture whilst in the privacy of her own breakfast room and her fiancé’s inability to choose a date for the wedding, but then again, she’d never been able to understand how her mother could know exactly which of her five daughters had nicked a bit of her marzipan, or accidentally let the dogs in, or (Amelia winced; this one had been her fault) knocked over the chamber pot.

  Onto her mother’s favorite dressing gown.

  Blinking her eyes into focus, Amelia looked back across the street at the man Milly had pointed out.

  It couldn’t be Wyndham. It was true, the man in question did look remarkably like her fiancé, but he was clearly…how did one say it…?

  Disheveled.

  Except disheveled was putting it a bit kindly.

  “Is he sotted?” Milly asked.

  “It’s not Wyndham,” Amelia said firmly. Because Wyndham was never so unsteady.

  “I really think—”

  “It’s not.” But she wasn’t so sure.

  Milly held her tongue for all of five seconds. “We should tell Mother.”

  “We should not tell Mother,” Amelia hissed, whipping around to face her.

  “Ow! Amy, you’re hurting me!”

  Amelia reluctantly loosened her grip on her sister’s upper arm. “Listen to me, Milly. You will not say a word to Mother. Not…a…word. Do you understand me?”

  Milly’s eyes grew very round. “Then you do think it’s Wyndham.”

  Amelia swallowed, unsure of what to do. It certainly looked like the duke, and if it was, surely she had a duty to aid him. Or hide him. She had a feeling his preference would be for the latter.

  “Amelia?” Milly whispered.

  Amelia tried to ignore her. She had to think.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Be quiet,” Amelia whispered furiously. She did not have much time to figure out how to proceed. Her mother would emerge from the dress shop at any second, and then—

  Good Lord, she didn’t even want to imagine the scene.

  Just then, the man across the street turned and looked at her. He blinked a few times, as if trying to place her in his memory. Stumbled, righted himself, stumbled again, and finally leaned up against a stone wall, yawning as he rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand.

  “Milly,” Amelia said slowly. She was still watching Wyndham—for surely it was he—until at the last moment she pulled her gaze away to face her sister. “Can you lie?”

  Milly’s eyes positively sparkled. “Like a rug.”

  “Tell Mother I saw Grace Eversleigh.”

  “Elizabeth’s friend?”

  “She’s my friend, too.”

  “Well, she’s more Elizabeth’s—”

  “It doesn’t matter whose friend she is,” Amelia snapped. “Just tell her I saw Grace, and Grace invited me back to Belgrave.”

  Milly blinked a few times; rather owlishly, Amelia thought. Then Milly said, “At this time in the morning?”

  “Milly!”

  “I’m just trying to make sure we have a believable story.”

  “Fine, yes. This time in the morning.” It was a bit early for a visit, but Amelia could see no way around it. “You won’t have to explain anything. Mother will just cluck about and say something about it being curious, and that will be the end of it.”

  “And you’re going to just leave me here on the street?”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  “I know I’ll be fine,” Milly shot back, “but Mother will question it.”

  Blast it, she hated when Milly was right. They had gone out for a sweet and were meant to return together. Milly was seventeen and perfectly able to walk three storefronts on her own, but their mother always said that proper young ladies did not walk anywhere alone.

  Lady Crowland had not been amused when Amelia had asked her if that included the water closet. Apparently, proper young ladies did not say “water closet,” either.

  Amelia looked quickly over her shoulder. The sun was hitting the window of the dress shop, and it was difficult to see inside through the resulting glare.

  “I think she’s still in the back,” Milly said. “She said she planned to try on three different dresses.”

  Which meant she’d almost certainly try on eight, but still, they could not count on it.

  Amelia thought quickly, then said to Milly, “Tell her that Grace had to leave straightaway, so I didn’t have time to come in and inform her of the change of plans myself. Tell her Grace had no choice. The dowager needed her.”

  “The dowager,” Milly echoed, nodding. They all knew the dowager.

  “Mother won’t mind,” Amelia assured her. “She’ll be delighted, I’m sure. She’s always trying to send me over to Belgrave. Now go.” She gave her sister a little push, then thought the better of it and yanked her back. “No, don’t go. Not yet.”

  Milly looked at her with patent aggravation.

  “Give me a moment to get him out of view.”

  “To get yourself out of view,” Milly said pertly.

  Amelia jammed down the urge to shake her sister senseless, and instead gave her a hard stare. “Can you do this?”

  Milly looked miffed that she’d even asked. “Of course.”

  “Good.” Amelia gave her a brisk nod. “Thank you.” She took a step, then added, “Don’t watch.”

  “Oh, now you ask too much,” Milly warned her.

  Amelia decided she couldn’t push the matter. If their positions were reversed, she would never look away. “Fine. Just don’t say a word.”

  “Not even to Elizabeth?”

  “No one.”

  Milly nodded, and Amelia knew she could trust her. Elizabeth might not know how to keep her mouth shut, but Milly (with the proper motivation) was a vault. And as Amelia was the only person who knew precisely how Lord Crowland’s entire collection of imported cigars had gotten soaked by an overturned teapot (her mother had detested the cigars and thus declared herself uninterested in finding the culprit)…

  Well, let it be said that Milly had ample motivation to hold her tongue.

  With one final glance in her sister’s direction, Amelia dashed across the street, taking care to avoid the puddles that had accumulated during the previous night’s rainfall. She approached Wyndham—still somewhat hoping that it wasn’t actually he—and, with a tentative tilt of her head, said, “Er, your grace?”

  He looked up. Blinked. Cocked his head to the side, then winced, as if the motion had been unwise. “My bride,” he said simply.

  And nearly knocked her over with his breath.

  Amelia recovered quickly, then grabbed his arm and held tight. “What are you doing here?” she whispered. She looked about frantically. The streets were not terribly busy, but anyone could happen along. “And good heavens, what happened to your eye?”

  It was amazingly purple underneath, from the bridge of his nose straight out to his temple. She had never seen anything like it. It was far worse than the time she had accidentally hit Elizabeth with a cricket bat.

  He touched the bruised skin, shrugged, scrunched his nose as he apparently considered her question. Then he looked ba
ck at her and tilted his head to the side. “You are my bride, aren’t you?”

  “Not yet,” Amelia muttered.

  He regarded her with a strange, intense concentration. “I think you still are.”

  “Wyndham,” she said, trying to cut him off.

  “Thomas,” he corrected.

  She almost laughed. Now would be the time he granted her use of his given name? “Thomas,” she repeated, mostly just to get him to stop interrupting. “What are you doing here?” And then, when he did not answer her: “Like this?”

  He stared at her uncomprehendingly.

  “You’re drunk,” she whispered furiously.

  “No,” he said, thinking about it. “I was drunk last night. Now I’m indisposed.”

  “Why?”

  “Do I need a reason?”

  “You—”

  “’Course, I have a reason. Don’t really care to share it with you, but I do have a reason.”

  “I need to get you home,” she decided.

  “Home.” He nodded, tilting his head and looking terribly philosophical. “Now there’s an interesting word.”

  While he was talking nonsense, Amelia looked up and down the street, searching for something—anything—that might indicate how he’d gotten there the night before. “Your grace—”

  “Thomas,” he corrected, with a rather wiggly sort of grin.

  She held up a hand, her fingers spread wide, more in an attempt to control her own aggravation than to scold him. “How did you get here?” she asked, very slowly. “Where is your carriage?”

  He pondered this. “I don’t rightly know.”

  “Good God,” she muttered.

  “Is He?” he mused. “Is He good? Really?”

  She let out a groan. “You are drunk.”

  He looked at her, and looked at her, and looked at her even more, and then just when she’d opened her mouth to tell him that they needed to find his carriage immediately, he said, “I might be a little bit drunk.” He cleared his throat. “Still.”

  “Wyndham,” she said, adopting her sternest voice. “Surely you—”

  “Thomas.”

  “Thomas.” She clenched her teeth. “Surely you remember how you got here.”

  Again, that moronic silence, followed by, “I rode.”

  Wonderful. That was just what they needed.

  “In a carriage!” he said brightly, then laughed at his own joke.

  She stared at him in disbelief. Who was this man?

  “Where is the carriage?” she ground out.

  “Oh, just over there,” he said, waving vaguely behind him.

  She turned. “Over there” appeared to be a random street corner. Or it could have been the street that ran around the corner. Or, given his current state, he might have been referring to the whole of Lincolnshire, straight back to the Wash and on to the North Sea.

  “Could you be more precise?” she asked, followed by a rather slow and deliberately enunciated: “Can you lead me there?”

  He leaned in, looking very jolly as he said, “I could…”

  “You will.”

  “You sound like my grandmother.”

  She grabbed his chin, forcing him to hold still until they were eye-to-eye. “Never say that again.”

  He blinked a few times, then said, “I like you bossy.”

  She let go of him as if burned.

  “Pity,” he said, stroking his chin where she’d touched him. He pushed off the stone wall and stood straight, wobbling for only a second before finding his balance. “Shall we be off?”

  Amelia nodded, intending to follow until he turned to her with a weak smile and said, “I don’t suppose you’d take my arm?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered. She slipped her arm in his, and together they walked off the high street and onto a side alley. He was setting the direction, but she was providing the balance, and their progress was slow. More than once he nearly stumbled, and she could see that he was watching his steps closely, every now and then taking a deliberate pause before trying to navigate the cobbles. Finally, after crossing two streets and turning another corner, they reached a middling-sized, mostly empty, square.

  “I thought it was here,” Wyndham said, craning his neck.

  “There,” Amelia said, jabbing her finger out in a most unladylike point. “In the far corner. Is that yours?”

  He squinted. “So it is.”

  She took a long, fortifying breath and led him across the square to the waiting carriage. “Do you think,” she murmured, turning toward his ear, “that you can act as if you are not sotted?”

  He smiled down at her, his expression rather superior for someone who needed help remaining upright. “Jack Coachman!” he called out, his voice crisp and authoritative.

  Amelia was impressed despite herself. “Jack Coachman?” she murmured. Weren’t they all John Coachman?

  “I’ve renamed all my coachmen Jack,” Wyndham said, somewhat offhandedly. “Thinking of doing the same with the scullery maids.”

  She just managed to resist the impulse to check his forehead for fever.

  The coachman, who had been dozing atop the driver’s seat, snapped to attention and jumped down.

  “To Belgrave,” Wyndham said grandly, holding out his arm to help Amelia up into the carriage. He was doing a fine impression of someone who hadn’t drunk three bottles of gin, but she wasn’t certain she wished to lean on him for assistance.

  “There’s no way around it, Amelia,” he said, his voice warm, and his smile just a little bit devilish. For a moment, he sounded almost like himself, always in control, always with the upper hand in a conversation.

  She set her hand in his, and did he—did she, feel—

  A squeeze. A tiny little thing, nothing seductive, nothing wicked. But it felt searingly intimate, speaking of shared memories and future encounters.

  And then it was gone. Just like that. She was sitting in the carriage, and he was next to her, sprawled out like the somewhat inebriated gentleman she knew him to be. She looked at the opposite seat pointedly. They might be engaged, but he was certainly not supposed to take the position next to her. Not when they were alone in a closed carriage.

  “Don’t ask me to ride backwards,” he said with a shake of his head. “Not after—”

  “Say no more.” She moved quickly to the rear-facing position.

  “You didn’t have to go.” His face formed an expression entirely out of character. Almost like a wounded puppy, but with a hint of rogue shining through.

  “It was self-preservation.” She eyed him suspiciously. She’d seen that skin pallor before. Her youngest sister had an extremely sensitive stomach. Wyndham looked rather like Lydia did right before she cast up her accounts. “How much did you have to drink?”

  He shrugged, having obviously decided there was no point in trying to cajole her further. “Not nearly as much as I deserved.”

  “Is this something you…do often?” she asked, very carefully.

  He did not answer right away. Then: “No.”

  She nodded slowly. “I didn’t think so.”

  “Exceptional circumstances,” he said, then closed his eyes. “Historic.”

  She watched him for a few seconds, allowing herself the luxury of examining his face without worrying what he would think. He looked tired. Exhausted, really, but more than that. He looked…burdened.

  “I’m not asleep,” he said, even though he did not open his eyes.

  “That’s commendable.”

  “Are you always this sarcastic?”

  She did not answer right away. Then: “Yes.”

  He opened one eye. “Really?”

  “No.”

  “But sometimes?”

  She felt herself smiling. “Sometimes. A little more than sometimes, when I’m with my sisters.”

  “Good.” He closed his eyes again. “I can’t bear a female without a sense of humor.”

  She thought about that for
a moment, trying to figure out why it did not sit well with her. Finally she asked, “Do you find humor and sarcasm to be interchangeable?”

  He did not answer, which led her to regret the question. She should have known better than to introduce a complicated concept to a man who reeked of liquor. She turned and looked out the window. They had left Stamford behind and were now traveling north on the Lincoln road. It was, she realized, almost certainly the same road Grace had been traveling the night she and the dowager were waylaid by highwaymen. It had probably been farther out of town, however; if she were to rob a coach, she would certainly choose a more out-of-the-way locale. Plus, she thought, craning her neck for a better view through the window, she did not see any good hiding spots. Wouldn’t a highwayman need a place to lie in wait?

  “No.”

  She started, then looked at Wyndham in horror. Had she been thinking aloud?

  “I don’t find humor and sarcasm interchangeable,” he said. His eyes, interestingly, were still closed.

  “You’re only just answering my question now?”

  He shrugged a little. “I had to think about it.”

  “Oh.” She returned her attention to the window, preparing to resume her daydreams.

  “It was a complicated query,” he continued.

  She turned back. His eyes were open and focused on her face. He appeared a bit more lucid than he had just a few minutes earlier. Which did not lend him the air of an Oxford professor, but he did look capable of carrying on a basic conversation.

  “It really depends,” he said, “on the subject of the sarcasm. And the tone.”

  “Of course,” she said, although she was still not sure he had all his wits about him.

  “Most people of my acquaintance intend their sarcasm as insult, so no, I do not find it interchangeable with humor.” He looked at her with a certain level of question in his eyes, and she realized he desired her opinion on the matter. Which was astounding. Had he ever requested her opinion before? On anything?

  “I agree,” she said.

  He smiled. Just a little, as if anything more vigorous might make him queasy. “I thought you would.” He paused, just for a heartbeat. “Thank you, by the way.”

  It was almost embarrassing how lovely it felt to hear those words. “You’re welcome.”