The Bishop's Daughter

  "I was about to ask you the same thing," Harry muttered. "Why have you come?"

  Folly, overhearing the question, released Kate's clenched fingers, his eyes rounding with surprise. "Why, have I got the wrong day again? Nay, I cannot have. It says right here on the invitation." With that he fished a slightly rumpled card from his pocket.

  A tiny gasp escaped Kate. Harry was equally confounded. Good lord! Could Kate possibly have invited him? No; it was obvious she hadn't, for she was looking at Harry with an expression of utter betrayal. Stumbling about, she gathered up her skirts and fled across the lawn.

  "Kate!" Harry cried taking a distracted step after her, but he could not go haring off until he had sorted to the bottom of this.

  "What is amiss with her?" Folly asked.

  "Starched-up female," Erwin growled. "Where are the Cyprians?"

  "And when is the mill to take place?" Folly chimed in. "Have we missed it?"

  "What in blazes are you talking about?"

  "It says it all right here in the postscript of your invitation." Folly waved the vellum before Harry's eyes.

  Harry seized it, frowning at the inked lines promising all manner of diversions from a prize fight to young ladies more than willing to play Hunt the Squirrel. Whoever was responsible for this mischief had done a credible job of imitating Harry's own spatterdash style of handwriting.

  "This is someone's notion of a very poor jest," he said, crushing the invitation in his fist.

  "We rode out ten miles for a jest?" Erwin snarled.

  "No mill?" Folly asked, his mouth drooping with disappointment.

  "I am afraid not and as you can see, the entertainment here is not at all the sort you would care for—"

  "You mean," Folly interrupted. "you didn't even invite us?"

  "You would not like such a party. It is mostly to reward my tenants and laborers—"

  "I believe my lord is trying to tell us," Erwin said, his eyes narrowing dangerously, "he intends to order us off his grounds."

  "I say! Harry!" Folly protested.

  Harry sighed. He did not give a damn for any of Erwin's angry bluster. He had never much liked the man, considering him a deplorable influence on weak-minded fellows like Ffolliot. Harry found it much more difficult to harden his heart against his old friend. Folly was regarding him with a mixture of hurt and chagrin like a small boy being chased off from joining in a game of cricket.

  "Of course you are welcome to stay," Harry conceded. "As long as you remain on your best behavior. My guests here today are the like of the squire, the vicar, clergy from Chillingsworth and elderly ladies. I would not have any of them offended."

  "Certainly not!" Folly brightened. "You need not lecture me like I was a dashed schoolboy, Harry."

  Harry arched one brow in dubious fashion. He would far rather Folly and Erwin had gone, but saw no remedy for the situation. His immediate concern was to find Kate and clear up this misunderstanding. Although uneasy about leaving the pair to wander tame among his staid guests, Harry excused himself.

  Watching Harry go, the honorable Mr. Ffolliot shook his head. "Vicars? Clergy? Elderly ladies? What's got into Harry?"

  "Heard tell as how he's been dangling after some parson's daughter." Lord Erwin snorted with disgust. "That's enough to be the ruination of any man. Let's get out of here."

  "Don't be so hasty. There's oft jolly sport to be found at these fête things, usually some sort of games, I believe. We might get up a wager or two."

  Erwin mopped his sweating brow with a soiled handkerchief. "I suppose I could use a drop of something to wet my throat. Let's see what's being dished out in that tent over there."

  The two men strode toward the smaller of the two tents, ducking beneath the silk flap. The only one about was a young footman arranging dainty silk-cushioned stools next to a table bearing a silver urn.

  Pulling a face, Folly gave the tea service a wide berth, moving toward a promising-looking punch bowl. As he bent over, stirring a ladle through the golden-colored liquid, he sniffed suspiciously, catching the odor of lemon.

  "Damnation! You don't suppose Harry really means for us to drink this stuff?" Folly exclaimed.

  "Wouldn't surprise me. The man's become as priggish as a bleedin' Methodist." Erwin's mouth tipped into a sly leer. "Fortunately, I always come prepared."

  Waiting until the footman had gone, his lordship reached beneath his frock coat and produced a small flask that he uncorked. He sniffed the contents with appreciation.

  "Blue Ruin," he announced and proceeded to tip the flask, dumping some of the gin into the lemonade.

  "Here now!" Folly said. "I don't think you ought to be doing that, Erwin."

  "Why not? If Lytton is too big a nipsqueeze to provide proper refreshment, then his guests must look to themselves."

  Raising the ladle, Erwin took a sip. "Still too weak." Before Folly's horrified gaze, he poured the rest of the gin into the punch bowl, emptying the flask. Folly considered himself a two bottle man, but only the finest Madeira. Gin was damned strong and coarse, fit for naught but the lower orders.

  Satisfied with his creation, Erwin was just about to dip himself out a cupful when a stern voice rang out. "Sir! My lord, I beg your pardons."

  Folly whipped about as guiltily as if he had been the one plying the gin. Framed in the tent opening, he saw that stiff-necked manservant of Harry's, the butler he believed, name of Gravedigger or some such.

  The elderly retainer did not appear to have noticed Erwin's actions for he said with frigid courtesy, "This tent is solely for the use of the ladies, but if you gentlemen would be pleased to follow me, I shall provide you with more suitable refreshments."

  For the ladies! Folly stared at Erwin aghast. But his lordship merely shrugged, his mouth splitting into a malicious grin.

  It took Harry so long to find Kate, he had begun to fear she had ordered up her carriage and gone home. He located her at last, leaning against the maple near the area where the children were taking their pony rides. She stared at the ground, fidgeting with the handle of her parasol, her face shadowed with unhappiness.

  "Kate." Harry hastened to plant himself in front of her. Bracing one hand on either side of her against the tree trunk, he cut off any possibility of escape.

  She made no move, expect for her initial start of surprise. Paling, she refused to glance up, the thickness of her lashes veiling her eyes.

  "I realize how it must appear to you, Kate," Harry said. "But I would not have invited Folly here, knowing how you feel about him. And certainly I would not have asked a peep of day boy like Erwin."

  "They had a card—" she began.

  "How they got it, I have no idea. If you didn't send it."

  "Of course, I didn't."

  "Then someone tried to stir up a nasty piece of mischief. I have no notion of whom, but I shall get to the bottom of it before the day is out."

  A seemingly endless silence ensued, in which Harry could do nothing but regard her anxiously. Then she raised her head, her earnest gaze probing his. Slowly, she nodded. In that moment, Harry felt much like a general, finally emerging the victor in a hard-fought campaign.

  She believed him. She trusted him.

  He cupped his fingers gently beneath her chin. "Don't worry, Kate," he said. "I won't let them do anything to spoil our fête."

  His reassurance coaxed a smile from her. Her lips were so inviting, he would have given much to linger, steal a kiss, but despite Folly's assurances, the honorable Samuel had a way of creating disasters and Harry didn't trust Erwin one jot. If he was going to keep his pledge, he must tear himself away from Kate. He did so with reluctance, his only consolation being that before this day's end, he would himself wring a pledge from Kate, one that would bind her to him forever.

  Even though she watched Harry depart with regret, Kate's spirits soared from the misery that had engulfed her but moments before. It had been a jolt to see Mr. Ffolliot and Lord Erwin arrive. It had not hurt her that Harry
had asked them, so much as the thought he had done so without warning her. She had not wanted to believe it, but the invitation card had seemed incontrovertible proof.

  She was so very glad to know she had been wrong. For all Harry's faults, deceit was not among them. But who could have played such a terrible trick? Kate's mind drifted back to the day she had been addressing invitations, a sudden clear image of Miss Thorpe leaning over the writing desk.

  No, surely not! Kate was shocked by her own suspicion. Despite Julia's unreasoning dislike of Harry, Kate could not picture the vicar's sister doing anything so dishonorable, so deliberately cruel.

  Yet the thought persisted to trouble her. It only added to her distress to perceive that Mama was not having a good time, either. It was the most pernicious thing, but Kate observed that every time Mrs. Prangle settled in for a comfortable prose with Mrs. Towers, along came Lady Dane. Grandmama's icy hauteur quite cowed the archdeacon's wife and frightened her from Mama's side.

  Her poor mother retreated at last into the tent that had been erected for the ladies. Scolding herself for not looking after her mother better, Kate hurried to join her.

  A few other women had also retired out of the heat, among them Mrs. Gresham and Julia. Kate longed to ask Miss Thorpe if— But how could she accuse her of anything so terrible? It would be most shameful if Kate were wrong, which she must be.

  It did not help Kate's feelings, trying to remain generous and just to Miss Thorpe, to hear Julia in the process of abusing the fête to Mrs. Gresham.

  "A dreary affair," she said, "even the lemonade has gone bad." She sniffed with disdain, setting down her cup.

  "What utter nonsense." Kate was quick to spring to the defense. "Lemonade going bad? I never heard of such a thing."

  "Taste it for yourself," Julia said with a shrug.

  Kate stalked over and poured herself a cup. With the first sip, she almost choked. It did indeed have a most peculiarly bitter flavor, but she would have choked even more before admitting such a thing to Julia.

  "There is nothing in the least wrong with it." She forced down another swallow.

  Julia's mouth pursed in annoyance. "My dearest Kate, there is something gravely amiss with your sense of taste."

  She raised her cup and took another drink. "Ugh, nasty."

  In pure defiance, Kate downed the entire contents of her own, if only to prove how mistaken Julia was. Soon the other ladies were drawn into the dispute. After swallowing a glassful, Mrs. Gresham sputtered and ranged herself on Miss Thorpe's side. Mrs. Towers, although she puckered at her first mouthful, agreed quite loyally with Kate. The women continued to sip, argue, refill their cups and argue some more.

  By her third glassful, Kate began to feel rather strange. Her fingers were going numb, but the most delightful tingly sensations rushed through her veins, making her feel quite light in the head. The quarrel started to seem not only downright silly, but the most amusing thing she had ever heard.

  When Julia swayed, trying to say "purr-perfecktly dretful" and could not get it out, Kate clapped a hand to her mouth.

  A high pitched giggle escaped her that she scarce recognized as her own.

  Harry handed out the last of the prizes, a new cloak of gray worsted to the burly youth who had won the final race. He smiled vacantly while he glanced about him. Where was Kate? After all her anxiety, she had not come to watch any of the games. Nor had many of the other ladies. Perhaps the heat was proving too much for them. The sun blazing down on his head was certainly beginning to make him feel a little irritable.

  He had not even had a chance to tell Kate that Mr. Ffolliot and Lord Erwin had departed with as much haste as they had arrived. Folly had slunk away, barely taking time to bid farewell, looking guiltier than a pickpocket caught with his hand inside a lady's reticule. Harry had been too relieved by the departure to wonder overmuch at such odd behavior. He was sorry to see Ffolliot so much in Erwin's company. Perhaps at some later date, he could make an effort to persuade Folly—

  A reluctant grin escaped Harry. He was indeed far gone if he planned to begin preaching reformation to others. What would the governor have thought!

  So far the fête had been an unqualified success. But as the hour for the supper approached, Harry began to get a little anxious. He never had been much good sorting out ranks or who should be escorting whom into dinner. Where was Kate?

  Harry's mind was not eased by the sight of Grayshaw approaching him. The man appeared uncommonly flustered, his coattails flapping behind him in a most unbutlerlike fashion. Harry grimaced. Flying into a pelter was getting to be an infernally bad habit with his once indomitable servant.

  "Oh, my lord. You must come at once."

  "Now what? Has one of the kitchen boys dropped the custards?"

  "No, my lord." Grayshaw bent forward and mumbled something about grave crisis and ladies in the tent.

  "What sort of crisis?" Harry drawled. "Are they in danger of bringing the contraption tumbling about their ears?"

  "It wouldn't surprise me, sir."

  "What!"

  Grayshaw pokered up, refusing to say more, glancing about him as though fearful of being overheard. With an exasperated sigh, Harry motioned him off, falling into step behind, feeling a little impatient of having to deal with another tempest in a teapot. Where the deuce was Kate?

  "There, my lord." Grayshaw pointed at the tent flap with a trembling finger. "Never in all my days as—"

  "Oh, stubble it, Grayshaw. I get enough high drama from Lady Lytton without you. . ."

  Harry trailed off, startled by the sound that suddenly rang out from the tent, laughter, but not the well-bred mirth to be expected from ladies of quality. It sounded more like some doxies on a drunken spree.

  He darted a questioning look at Grayshaw who stared stolidly ahead of him. Harry entered the tent with the butler creeping at his heels. Before Harry had time to so much as blink, a flash of silver came hurtling at him. A lady's sandal glanced off his chest and landed at his feet.

  Startled, Harry tracked the missile to its owner. Julia leaned against Mrs. Gresham, the squire's wife providing none too steady support as Julia struggled to remove her other shoe.

  "Grayshaw!" she barked. "You rashcal. Dinnit I bid you fetch some champagne?"

  Harry's jaw went slack, the flushed blowsy-looking woman hardly resembling the icy perfection that was Julia Thorpe. Her unfocused blue eyes drifted toward him and she hiccuped.

  "Good. Here's Lytton. He'll make that villain obey."

  Mrs. Gresham tittered. She ogled Harry and slurred, "I do love this fashion for tight breeches." She whispered something to Kate's mama and both women went off into a fit of that disconcerting laughter.

  Damnation! If Harry had not known better, he would have said they were all as well glazed as a parcel of sailors on shore leave. In the midst of this madness, it was a great relief to see Kate seated calmly on a stool. Harry hastened over to her.

  "Kate, what's wrong with your mother and Julia?"

  She glanced up slowly, a beatific smile spreading over her face.

  "Harry!" Kate swayed to her feet, and if Harry had not caught her, she would have tumbled to the ground. She merely giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck. Harry inhaled an unmistakable odor.

  "Gin!" he cried, outraged. "Grayshaw, what the devil have you been feeding these women?"

  "It wasn't me, my lord. I came into the tent earlier and and I greatly fear your friend Lord Erwin did something to the lemonade."

  "Ridickulous," Kate said. "Nothing wrong with the lemonade." She clung to him, allowing her weight to sag against his frame, nearly tipping Harry off balance. Harry cursed Erwin under his breath, his mind filling with a vision of what he would do with the bounder the next time he laid eyes upon him.

  "To hell with lemonade," Julia called out. "We want champagne. Go fetch it." She gave Grayshaw a ringing smack on his rump.

  The butler appeared about to have a fit of apoplexy at this affront to
his dignity. As appalling as the situation was, Harry's chest rumbled with the desire to laugh. But it was impossible to do so with Kate maintaining such a stranglehold on his neck. He managed to gasp. "Fetch water, Grayshaw, at once."

  "Why?" The squire's wife trilled. "Is someone about to deliver a babe?"

  Her comment provoked another gale of hysterical laughter.

  "Cold water, Grayshaw," Harry shouted above the din. The butler looked only too relieved to scurry from the tent.

  Harry tried to ease Kate away, but she hugged him tighter. "Schtop giving so many silly orders and kiss me, you foolish boy."

  "Kate . . . Kate! Behave yourself and sit down."

  "I am behaving very badly, aren't I?"

  "Yes, you are," Harry said with all the gravity he could muster.

  "It is great fun." She chuckled and stood on tiptoe until she brushed the tip of her small nose against his. She stared owlishly into his eyes. "Harry, I . . . I don't know how. But I think I may have shot the dog."

  "I fear you have, love." Harry regarded her with tender amusement. She wriggled out of his arms. Although somewhat unsteady, she managed to keep her feet.

  "Need some air. Need to find Mrs. Prangle."

  "No!" Harry cut her off in alarm. "Believe me, Kate, this is not the time to go seeking out the archdeacon's wife."

  To his relief, she nestled contentedly back into his embrace. Harry felt beads of perspiration gather on his brow. This was the most damnable coil he had ever found himself in. If he did not wish this day to end in complete disgrace and scandal, he had to keep all these women confined to the tent until they could be brought to some state of sobriety.

  "Ladies, please. All of you sit down," he commanded. "We're going to have some tea."

  "Tea be damned," the incorrigible Julia shrilled, shying her other sandal at him. "Bring us the bloody champagne."

  While Harry wondered where Julia had ever acquired such language, Kate looked up at him, breathless with laughter. "You are so 'dorable, Harry, when you try to be stern. I do love you. I will never be vexed with you again."