“You smell like tears. What happened? Was it something terrible?”
“No,” Josie said wanly. “Not at all. I shouldn’t be bothered. I keep telling myself not to be bothered.”
Imogen gave her a squeeze. “Tell me.”
“It’s too humiliating.”
Josie tried to move away, but she had forgotten that Imogen had very strong arms, due to restraining twitchy horses.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Imogen asked. And then, when Josie showed no signs of revealing all: “So shall I tell you what happened to me last night?” She asked it casually, as if she didn’t have Josie in a strangle grip.
Josie sighed. “I suppose this will be some sort of morality lesson, like at church?”
“Not precisely. In fact, definitely not.”
“I had about all the morality I could take from the monks who live with Ewan.”
“You mean the monk who won all my bawbees playing cards and left me without tuppence to my name?” Imogen said, trying to tease her into a better mood. “So there I was up on the wine cask,” she said a while later, “and Cristobel hopped up right beside me.”
“Next to you?” Josie asked, clearly fascinated.
“Very much so. The cask did not have a large circumference. Do you remember Peterkin’s favorite song?”
“Do you mean Peterkin who was in charge of cleaning the stables when we were growing up?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.” Josie giggled. “If you sang that song, Imogen, I hope that your disguise was an excellent one.”
“The disguise was excellent—at least until it washed off.”
“Washed off?”
“In the wine,” Imogen said.
“What!”
Imogen explained.
“And then Mr. Spenser brought you right back here? Not—” Josie added—“that he would take you anywhere else.”
“I should hope not,” Imogen said. “It was very kind of him to offer to take me to hear her in the first place.”
Josie looked at her, unconvinced. “Are you setting up Rafe’s illegitimate brother as your cicisbeo? Like Mayne?”
“Absolutely not!” Imogen said with dignity. “It’s an entirely different situation.”
“What’s different about it?” Josie said, looking intently interested.
Josie had such expressive eyes and lovely eyebrows; like a stroke of lightning, Imogen knew what had happened.
“Someone said something unkind about your figure, didn’t they?”
Josie had been laughing, but the joy drained right out of her eyes. “Certainly not!” But she said it too hastily.
“I’ll travel to the Highlands and send whoever it was on a long carriage ride with Griselda.”
Josie managed a wobbly smile. “That was one wonderful thing about my return trip. Miss Flecknoe’s stomach is made of iron. She sat opposite me and read improving tracts aloud for hours without turning the faintest shade of green.”
“Tell me,” Imogen said.
“I don’t want to.”
“If you don’t, I’ll write a note to Tess and ask her to come for a visit. And you know that Tess will have the truth in five minutes.”
Tess was their eldest sister, and since she had practically raised them, she had perfected all kinds of examination techniques. “I would be worried, if I didn’t know that Tess was traveling on the Continent with her husband,” Josie pointed out. But then she relented. “It wasn’t so bad. Really, it was almost a compliment.”
“You disliked this compliment so much that you fled Scotland?”
“Yes,” Josie whispered.
Imogen tightened her arms around her little sister. “Humiliation is a universal condition. My only consolation is that I will likely never again make such an ass of myself as I made over Draven.”
“I’ll never have the chance to make a fool of myself over a man.”
“Yes, you will.”
“Men will never even consider me, so I shan’t have to worry about embarrassing myself.”
“Who said what?” Imogen asked. “A carriage trip with Griselda may be too good for them.”
“They didn’t say anything to me,” Josie said wearily. “It was people who live next to Ewan. The Crogans.”
“You mean the men who tried to feather Annabel? Why in heaven’s name would you pay any attention to what those fools said?”
“Because they were saying what everyone else thinks,” Josie said. “I didn’t mean to overhear them.”
“Perhaps they meant you to overhear.”
“No. I was hidden behind an oak tree.” Josie sniffed.
Imogen kissed her on the forehead.
Then it all rushed out. “The older one tried to get his brother to marry me. Except he didn’t want to, because he said I was a prime Scottish hoglet. And then the older one said he’d love to snuffle around my skirts. But the younger one said that his brother could snuffle all he wanted, but when a girl is as fat as—as I am, she’s going to turn into a proper sow. A—a sow!”
“They’re cruel drunkards,” Imogen said, stroking Josie’s hair and wishing that she had the Crogans within the sights of a hunting rifle. “I think you’re right in that the older one might have been attempting a compliment. I wish that men didn’t think that snuffling was a compliment, but they do think that way.”
“They spoke about me as if I were disgusting, as if—as if I was incontinent or something. That’s how they talked about it. The older one said that at least I would never cuckold my husband, because—” Her voice broke again.
“You could cuckold anyone you pleased,” Imogen said, resting her chin on Josie’s soft hair and stroking her shaking back, “although I hope you never do.”
“He said I would never cuckold anyone because all my husband would have to do is give me enough bacon and I’d be happy.” She lost her voice for a few moments.
“That was cruel, and they are both horrible, horrible people,” Imogen said with conviction.
“The worst of it was that the next morning the younger Crogan showed up and started to court me!” Josie said in a wail. “He brought me flowers, and he smiled at me, just as if he didn’t think I was a great fat sow. It was—it was awful!”
Imogen narrowed her eyes. “You should have spoken to Annabel. Ewan would have killed him for the impudence of it.”
“What would be the point? They knew he was courting me for my dowry. She and Ewan thought it was funny that the Crogans were so hopeful.”
“So what did you do?”
Josie sniffed.
“I know you,” Imogen observed. “I’ve known you for your whole life. I don’t believe for a moment that you simply allowed this Crogan to court you, without saying a word to him about his true intentions.”
“I didn’t do anything the first time he came. I was so shocked that he would attempt it, after those things he said about me. But he acted as if he’d never said them.”
“Horrible.”
“A few days later he asked if I wished to attend an assembly. Annabel told him immediately that an assembly was out of the question because I hadn’t been formally introduced to society. So he showed up the next evening with some sort of musical instrument.”
“Oh, no!”
“Apparently he sang for hours before anyone noticed him. He had hoisted himself up onto the tree outside Annabel’s chambers, rather than mine, and it’s impossible to wake her up these days.”
Imogen was laughing so hard that she was clutching her stomach.
“When Ewan came to bed, at first he had no idea what the noise was, and then he realized that it was a scratchy version of ‘Will Ye Go Lassie, Go.’”
“Were you being courted by the short, roundish Crogan or the tall, thin one?”
“The short one. The tall one is the older brother, and he’s already married.”
“What happened next?” Imogen asked, catching her breath.
“Well, a f
ew days after that he came bringing a poem he’d written about my eyes. It was rather short.”
“You did keep a copy, didn’t you?” Imogen implored, starting to laugh again.
“Naturally,” Josie said with dignity. “It might be my only love poem, so naturally I entered it in my book. But I have it memorized. Wait a minute…” She struck a declamatory pose.
Her eyes they shone like diamonds,
You’d think she was queen of the land
And her hair it hung over her shoulders
Tied up with a black velvet band.
“What next?” Annabel said after a moment.
“That was all.”
“When did you tie up your hair with a black velvet band?”
“I think,” Josie said thoughtfully, “that he might have run out of room on his sheet of paper.”
“It’s surprisingly good.”
“Yes, Ewan said it’s a well-known song that his grandmother loves.”
“So a borrowed love song…”
“And an enforced suitor. It just made me so angry. What if I had believed him? What if I had thought that poem was his, and his feelings were genuine?”
“And now we come to the heart of it. What did you do to that man?”
“I dosed him,” Josie said. There was satisfaction in her voice and her eyes were—indeed—gleaming like diamonds.
“You dosed him?” Imogen asked, bewildered.
“With one of Papa’s horse medicines. Actually it’s one I developed myself to treat colic caused by green apples. But I know that it doesn’t agree very well with humans, because Peterkin gave it to one of the stablemen when he had a stomachache, and the poor man was sick for a week.”
“Oh, Josie!” Imogen said, laughing again. “That’s so cruel.”
“I wouldn’t have done it,” Josie said, “but I told him to go away, and he wouldn’t. So finally I said that I knew perfectly well that he thought I was a hog-faced sow.”
“What did he do?”
“He just stared at me for a moment, and then he said that I wasn’t going to have any other chance at marriage, and it was best that we were clear amongst ourselves. And then he said that he could make me happy, and I would never do as well. He couldn’t see anyone wanting to marry me, especially in England.”
“What an ass,” Annabel said dispassionately.
“He said they have standards in England.” Josie looked a little teary again, but she took a deep breath. “I still wouldn’t have done something as mean as dose him, except that he said he’d watched me eat and he could tell that I liked my food better than any man. And then—and then I made up my mind.”
“Good. He deserved it.”
“But it didn’t stop what he said from being true. I do love Scottish food. I ate and ate while I was there, and Miss Flecknoe kept talking about how I should go on a vinegar diet, and I kept not doing it, because Ewan’s chef would make fresh bannocks in the morning. Every night I decided to start with vinegar and cucumbers in the morning. And then every morning, there would be bannocks and kippers and ham in the breakfast room, and before I knew it, I would have eaten.”
“You can’t eat vinegar and cucumbers!” Imogen said. “Where did she get such a ridiculous idea?”
“She says that the Duchess of Surrey’s daughter lost three stone doing that. And she says that I am lacking in determination, and unless I stop eating, I’ll never be able to marry.”
Imogen rubbed her sister’s back some more and decided to talk to Rafe about Miss Flecknoe. “If you drank nothing more than vinegar during the day, darling, you would probably die. Waste away.”
Josie looked unconvinced. “I have a long way to go before I waste away. I could just stop somewhere between here and the grave.”
“It’s not safe. Besides, you’ll get spots.”
That was a better argument, she could see at once. Josie had been through a rather spotty spell last year, but these days her skin was as flawless and smooth as Irish cream.
“All over your face,” she added. “The red, sticking-out kind.”
“Perhaps I should just stop eating altogether,” Josie said, sniffling a bit. “I can’t have a season when people are calling me a Scottish piglet behind my back. I just can’t. I’d rather be a spinster, like Miss Flecknoe.”
Imogen laughed at that. “Miss Flecknoe is like a long drink of the vinegar she’s trying to get you to take. No one would want to be with her.”
“Nor yet with me.”
“That is not true. You are a beautiful young woman. You are curvaceous and beautiful, as well as being funny and loving.”
“I wish that was true,” Josie said heavily. “But the truth is that I curve out and out. And after being in Scotland, those curves just got bigger. I had to leave. And I simply couldn’t bear to tell Annabel why I was leaving. I don’t know why I have no will power, and everyone else in the world seems to have it. Even the disgusting Crogan brother isn’t as round as I am.”
“We’ll write Annabel and say something. She’s obviously worried.”
“I doubt it. She lies around and sleeps all the time, when she’s not eating. But she’s carrying a child. I have no excuses.”
“Annabel has never been as slim as those women pictured in La Belle Assemblée. And yet she has never failed to make a man desire her.”
“Well, I’m plumper than she is. Her curves are in different places. And I haven’t the faintest idea how to make anyone desire me!” Josie wailed.
“Have you had breakfast this morning?”
“I’m never eating again. I quit last night.”
Imogen sighed and put her feet over the edge of the bed.
“Euw,” Josie said. “You really do smell like wine.”
“That happens if you fall into a wine barrel. I bathed last night, but I didn’t want to go to bed with wet hair. Let me have a quick scrub and then we’ll both have breakfast. The world is always tragic if you haven’t eaten. I swear all those Greek dramatists must have been writing in the midst of a hundred-year famine.”
“Sophocles was at war for years,” Josie said, looking marginally more cheerful. “He probably had to eat soldiers’ rations.”
Imogen shuddered. “Mrs. Redfern may not make bannocks as well as Ewan’s chef, but we can do better than soldiers’ rations.”
“So what is Mr. Spenser like?” Josie asked. “Annabel and I are utterly fascinated by the subject and talked about it endlessly after we got your letter about the play. We must write her today and describe every detail.”
“He’s quite gentlemanly.”
“Does he have any sign of his birth? Say, a hunchback?”
“Josie! How can you be so unkind, especially after the story you just told me?”
“I suppose you’re right,” Josie said, after a moment. “That was unjust. I just find it interesting, that’s all. I’ve never known anyone to be illegitimate except for Auld Michael in the village. Do you remember him?”
“The old man who used to sit on the well and charge ha’pence to draw up the water? And if you refused, he’d spit tobacco juice down the well?”
Josie nodded. “I have only that charming example to go on.”
“Well, expecting every man born out of wedlock to be like Auld Michael is like expecting every woman to be as slim as Lady Jersey herself.” Imogen pulled on her dressing gown and headed for her bathroom.
Josie’s voice stopped her. “Could it be that you’ve taken a true liking to Rafe’s brother, Imogen?”
She stopped, hand on the door, and didn’t turn around. “He’s a very likeable person.”
Josie said: “Oh, but—” and then stopped.
Imogen went into the bathroom and closed the door.
22
In Which a Seducer is Brought Up-to-Date on His Private Activities
Rafe had to suppose that there would be many a gentleman among his acquaintances who might feel awkward after almost seducing his ward. Alternatively, the
re were other gentlemen who might feel a certain amount of self-reproach at the idea that they had almost seduced a young widow. Even the most hardened reprobate would presumably feel awkward about encountering the said ward at the breakfast table.
Which only went to show that people should wear false mustaches far more often. True, he had barely restrained himself from dragging Imogen into his bedroom the previous night and stripping her down to the dregs of wine. But, mustache-free, he could eat an egg opposite her with total impunity. And likely Gabe could as well, since he enjoyed a blameless sleep in his own chamber.
“Your Grace,” Trevick said. “May I ask you to stand still? I am having some trouble with your cuffs.”
“Do you think I ought to have some new clothes?” Rafe asked, idly surveying himself in the mirror. His shirt was spotless, but even he had noticed lately that it seemed all his shirts were fraying.
Trevick’s eyes lit up. “A wonderful decision, Your Grace. Wonderful!”
The poor man was almost babbling. “You could have just ordered a few shirts,” Rafe said, turning to the side. Damned if his gut wasn’t just fading away. At this rate, he’d be as thin as Gabe soon.
“You gave me a direct command not to do so,” Trevick said reluctantly.
“I did?” Then, after a moment, “I must have been cup-shot.”
Trevick’s silence was confirmation enough.
“Get someone out here from London,” Rafe said, tying his neckcloth. “One of those people Mayne uses. I can’t look like a castaway when I’m bringing my wards into society.”
His man said nothing, but Rafe knew his thoughts. “Not that I didn’t look like that and worse, last year,” he said resignedly.
“Only very occasionally,” Trevick said reassuringly, pulling the shoulders of his coat straight. “Will you ride after breakfast, Your Grace?”
Rafe nodded. “Do you know what’s amazing about not drinking, Trevick?” He didn’t wait for a reply: the curse of a manservant was that they had to listen to all their master’s trivialities. “The day is long. Endless, in fact. I’ll go riding, and then I’m meeting the bailiff, although I just met him four days ago. I used to go a month or two before I would find the time to see him.”