A Notorious Ruin Page 7

  Indeed, the map he’d been examining was not properly refolded into the book. He placed the book on the counter and folded the map to its creases. “There. Disaster averted.”

  “My sister is mad about maps.”

  More than a hint of panic shadowed Mrs. Wilcott’s features. “I’m sure I am not. One worries about damaging a book for which one has not paid.”

  Miss Glynn coughed gently. “We ought to have dancing at Withercomb Hall. What do you think, Mama? It’s been an age since we have had dancing anywhere but at the Bartley Green assembly. Harry is home, you know, so we will have extra gentlemen for once.”

  “An excellent idea.” Mrs. Glynn clasped her hands. “You must have a new gown, of course, Clara. Is there one here that you like?”

  At this, both the younger women returned to the prints. Miss Sinclair summoned her sister with an imperious glance. “Come help us decide, oh Oracle of Fashion.”

  Perhaps, Thrale thought, Niall had a point.

  Mrs. Wilcott replaced the book she’d been paging through with rapt attention and returned to the prints. “If there is to be dancing at so elegant a home as Withercomb, then here is something that will look well on you, Emily. Gauze sleeves, gold tassels—” She sorted through the plates. “Violet silk would suit.”

  “Violet? Oh dear, no.” Mrs. Glynn leaned over her shoulder. “That is not a color for this season. Not a’tall. What do you think, Captain Niall? My Lord Thrale?”

  Thrale knew better than to reply to such a question with any degree of specificity. “I know nothing of ladies’ fashion and have no opinion of purple.”

  “Violet,” Mrs. Wilcott said, still searching among the plates.

  “Does it matter whether a gown is purple or lilac or violet?” Niall walked to the counter and stared at the prints. He rested a hand on Mrs. Wilcott’s shoulder. Under cover of reaching for another print, she moved away from Niall. “Or any other color so long as it looks well?”

  “There is something to that.” Emily leaned in, too. “That’s your color, Lucy.”

  “This for you, Emily. And for Miss Glynn, perhaps this one?” She held up a plate. “Brussels lace, I think. And not so many flowers here.” She pointed to the hem.

  “I like that gown exceedingly.”

  Mrs. Wilcott gave Miss Glynn an assessing look. “Yes, yes. Have you slippers that will do?”

  “I believe so, Mrs. Wilcott.”

  Mrs. Wilcott put a finger on the plate in question. “This gown, I submit, has just such a pleasing confluence, with the alterations I have suggested. Provided one pays the proper attention to execution, that gown, in violet, would be an excellent addition to most any woman’s wardrobe.”

  Mrs. Glynn coughed delicately. “Violet will not suit anyone this season. Pale green for you, Clara. And for you, Miss Sinclair—” She touched Emily’s cheek. “Sky blue would suit, I declare it absolutely.”

  “Here is a gown that will look divine on my sister.” Mrs. Wilcott found the print she meant. Thrale again found himself attempting to reconcile this quiet, uninteresting beauty with the woman who had looked at him and seen more than he liked. “I’ve a particular shade of blue in mind. Some of the trim here.” She pointed. “The hem ought to be reduced for a young lady who is not tall.”

  Miss Sinclair leaned in to look. “What do you think, Captain?” she asked with a sly grin. “In your opinion, which of us will it suit?”

  Niall moved closer. “I must suppose that you would look beautiful in anything you choose to wear.”

  “A philosophy without flaw,” Mrs. Wilcott murmured.

  Niall laughed. “I can offer no more cogent opinion than that, I fear. Though I daresay, it is enough.”

  “Quite enough, Captain Niall,” said Mrs. Glynn. “We women, even those of a lower rank, must strive to impress the opposite gender by all possible means. A gentleman need only know whether he admires a young lady or not.”

  “A gentleman hasn’t the need to fuss about his clothes,” Miss Sinclair said.

  “You’ve never heard of Brummel, then?” Niall opened his arms wide. “As I hope you will agree, I am a devotee. What say you, Thrale?”

  Mrs. Glynn settled a hand over her upper chest. “You are masculine perfection, sir. No improvement necessary.”

  He lowered his hands. “Ah, but what is the opinion of the woman who knows all of fashion. Mrs. Wilcott?”

  She gave him a serene gaze and said not a word.

  Miss Sinclair filled the silence. “One can say nothing that is not to your credit, sir.”

  “Thank you, miss.” He bowed.

  “In my experience,” Mrs. Wilcott said with her attention on the prints, “gentlemen are rarely aware of the precise reasons for their admiration of a lady, while ladies of any age are aware of the importance of detail and understand the necessity of a toilette that results in myriad details converging into a pleasing whole.”

  Niall plucked the fashion-plate from Mrs. Wilcott’s hands. He walked to the shopkeeper. “The ladies must have their patterns of perfection. And you, Miss Glynn and Miss Sinclair. Do chose what you mayn’t live without. Our night of passionate dancing must be one without flaw.”

  “How very kind of you, Captain Niall.” Mrs. Glynn bent a knee. “Beyond kind.”

  Not to be outdone, Thrale laid a banknote before the shopkeeper. “Ladies, while we are here, is there a book you’d like? I would be pleased indeed if you allowed me to purchase something for each of you. So that you will have the continued improvement of your intellect as well as your wardrobes. A novel, if you like. Or poetry or some other uplifting work.”

  “Clara will have a book of sermons.” Mrs. Glynn fixed the shopkeeper with a stern look. “Have you something improving for a young lady’s mind?”

  “I enjoy novels.” Emily tugged on one of her gloves. “Don’t you, Lucy?”

  “Oh, lah, Miss Sinclair,” said Mrs. Glynn. “You are a lively, intelligent young lady. You may well enjoy a range of works. Not every woman is as accomplished as you, nor does every woman enjoy the benefits of reading.”

  “Beauty,” Niall pronounced, “Needs no improvement.”

  “Lucy reads vastly more than I.”

  Mrs. Wilcott stared at nothing at all. But her cheeks were pinker than they had been moments ago.

  Miss Sinclair pointed at the other counter. “Lucy would adore that book. The one Lord Thrale was looking at.”

  Niall picked it up and shook the pages hard enough that one of the maps came partially unfolded. “A dashed bore, I say. This is the sort of reading to put a man to sleep at any time of day.”

  Thrale cocked his head. “Come, ladies, if you will not have a novel, then permit me to choose something for you. A volume of poetry, perhaps?”

  Miss Glynn shot a glance at her mother and then at Mrs. Wilcott. “The Ghost of Monkston Parish is a thrilling read. You might enjoy that, Mrs. Wilcott, for I know I did. I saw as well a copy of The Mad Man of the Mountains.”

  Miss Sinclair draped an arm around Miss Glynn’s shoulder. “Mad Man of the Mountains? I think I should like that very much. Either sounds delightful.”

  Mrs. Wilcott returned his tilt of the head and softly said, because she meant it for Miss Glynn and her sister’s ears alone, “We’ve only begun to look for something to read, and already he says Dunne.”

  Miss Sinclair stifled a laugh and pointed to The Gazeteer. “Were you not looking at that book, Lucy?” She went to the counter and plucked the book from the stack. “It’s full of maps, Lucy. You adore maps.”

  “Maps?” Mrs. Glynn laughed. “Oh, gracious, I do not think so, Miss Sinclair. A novel is more to her sensibilities.”

  This was intolerable, the woman’s constant digs at Mrs. Wilcott. “If no one wishes to have the Mad Man, then I shall have it.” To the shopkeeper he said, “The sermons, please. All four volumes of the other. Pope for you, Mrs. Glynn? I assure you, you will find much inspiration in the pages.”

  “So generou
s of you.”

  “Miss Glynn, when you have read from your sermons, I shall expect you to tell me your favorites.”

  Miss Glynn curtsied while her mother beamed at him. “She will be delighted to, milord.”

  Before long, Thrale’s additional purchases were wrapped in red paper and securely bound with heavy twine. Doubtless Mrs. Wilcott would have preferred to return to The Cooperage by herself. He could not blame her for that if she did.

  Roger trotted beside him the entire way.

  CHAPTER 8

  Despite the modest size of The Cooperage, two rooms had been allocated to Thrale’s use; a bedchamber and an anteroom with a writing desk, a small table, and an armchair set before the hearth. Flint was quartered above stairs, but, true to pattern, he’d come down in advance of Thrale’s rising. This Thrale knew without leaving the warmth of his sheets because the fire had been brought up. When he entered the anteroom, Flint handed him his morning tea, prepared precisely to his taste.

  Steam rose from his cup while he gave himself a quick wash, heedless of the cold water in the basin. The fire was up in here, too, but he never minded the morning damp unless it was dead of winter. Flint handed him a plate of rolls, fresh from the kitchen. He carried both tea and rolls to the window. Not wearing a stitch of clothing, he sipped his tea and ate two rolls with butter and jam while the sky brightened.

  The view from his window was striking. The rear of the property followed a gentle downhill toward a river. In the distance was a meadow surrounded by more trees. Across the river, a hill blocked a view of Aldreth’s property. The Cooperage, he decided, was not much like its name. Plenty of trees and cover for game, that pretty river for fishing and pastimes to delight the country Squire. The house might be small, but it was well tended inside and out.

  A vision rolled over him, so vivid he paused with his tea halfway to his mouth; him at Blackfern listening to children racing up and down the stairs, knowing that somewhere in the house was the mother of those children. His wife, for the children were his, and he was much satisfied with that state of affairs. As if he’d ever been satisfied with anything at Blackfern. The Cooperage had been like that once, with Sinclair and his wife, and four girls.

  He drank more tea, unsettled by the images and the clench in his chest. The house was silent, with most of the inhabitants abed. In his limited experience, young ladies were rarely early risers. They’d not be up anytime soon. There were but two Sinclair women in the house, and neither of them would race up and down the stairs.

  Niall wouldn’t be stirring for hours, and he didn’t yet know what hours Sinclair kept, which meant he would have welcome time to himself. With Johnson and his Academy, there was excellent fighting and better training. Considering he now had several upcoming engagements at the Academy, he needed to keep his wind.

  “I’ll have a breather this morning.” By which he meant, a half-speed training run. “Then see who’s stirring.”

  Behind him, Flint went about the business of getting him dressed for his morning’s exertions. “Good weather for an outing, if I do say so myself. Not too warm, cold enough to keep you moving, milord.”

  “Yes.” He stepped into his small clothes.

  “Good battles to be seen whilst you are here, milord.”

  “I’m devising excuses now.” Sinclair would understand if Thrale begged off certain engagements in order to be at the Academy or some remote location for a battle. In the case of a battle, Sinclair would surely be with him.

  “I heard a rumor you’ll find interesting.” Flint handed him clothes as they were needed. Stockings, his fighting britches, with no fall and but two buttons at the waistband, a shirt. He blessed the day he’d taken the duke’s suggestion that he hire the man.

  “The rumor?”

  “Clancy versus Granger.”

  “That’s not news.” He yanked his shirt down a tad too hard. Anyone who followed the sport of pugilism would do murder to be here if that fight came off. “The Flash have been filling the villages for miles around in the hope it’s not just talk.”

  Flint tapped the side of his nose. “Before the end of the month.”

  “Gad.” He sat to put on his shoes. Flint set them on the floor for him. In three week’s time, then. “Any truth to that?”

  “I heard it from one of the prizefighters at the Academy. He swore Clancy has increased his training.”

  Johnson had not said a word about a battle like that, but then the final details of some of the greatest matches had been closely held secrets until the last possible moment. “I’d move heaven and earth to see that battle.”

  “Indeed, sir.” Flint pressed a hand to his heart. “Who would not?”

  “Remind me to send letters to the usual set.” The duke would want to know. Aldreth, too, and if he failed to inform Bracebridge, why, he’d never hear the end of it.

  “Milord.”

  Five minutes later, Thrale stepped into the morning air and set out in the direction of the river, not at top pace, but a brisk one. He saw no reason not to make double use of this morning’s route. He’d use the outing to make a study of the water where Sinclair had promised good fishing.

  All thoughts of fishing or glorious battles between heavyweights were dead by the time he’d left the immediate grounds for the well-worn path to the river. His recent lapse in training cost him. His breather became less than half-pace, and more effort than it ought to be. Long before he reached the river, his thighs and lungs were in revolt.

  His planned walk along the bank to study the river enforced a welcome break. There was good water here, with shade and vegetation that suggested Sinclair’s boast of good fishing had been no boast at all. As he walked, he saw more than one likely spot. One of them had fat trout just waiting for him to return with pole and creel.

  He came around a corner and was no longer alone.

  A woman sat on an outcropping of rock that overlooked the kind of shaded, quiet water that promised excellent sport. He recognized the hound at her side, its head on her lap. If he’d known he would find her here, he would never have come round that corner, but there she was, Mrs. Wilcott and her elderly dog, and she had seen him. Too late to feign that he had not noticed her.

  It was a rare occasion when he was at a loss as he was now. He’d behaved badly with her. Beyond anything a lady ought to tolerate from a gentleman. If Cynssyr or Aldreth were to find out what he’d said and done and thought, he’d be deciding between a meeting at dawn or one in the chapel.

  He bowed, once, guilty of relief that his state of undress provided an excuse to avoid her. She remained where she was. Her dog stayed on its stomach, ears forward, at attention.

  “Forgive me, ma’am. I did not mean to intrude.” He remembered how she’d cut Marsey dead, and he prepared himself for a similar response.

  “You are in training, I take it.” While she did not avert her gaze, neither did she look at him.

  “I am.”

  “The hill there.” She pointed to her left where the land rose. “There is a path to the top recommended by many of the fighters.”

  What did a woman know of such things? He bowed again, cautious, yet with a drop of hope that he’d been forgiven. “Thank you for that information.”

  She considered him dispassionately. Her aloofness now was a better result than the cold steel of her reaction to Marsey, and more than he deserved for what he’d said and done. “If you wish to increase your wind and your bottom, a five times repetition of that hill is said to be most efficacious.”

  “Indeed?”

  Her dog thumped its tail on the rock. “You’ll realize great benefits to the large muscles of your legs, as well.”

  “Is that so?”

  Her cheeks pinked up, and her expression smoothed out in that so familiar look of abstraction. “I’ve heard, that is.”

  “Thank you for the advice.” He could not presume forgiveness. He was Thrale. And a guest in her household. She might well feel she must extend
an olive branch against her private inclination. Very well then. If he was not forgiven, he would accept peace.

  “If you’re in training, you’ll want to spar with Mr. Glynn. Were you introduced at the assembly? If you’ve not met him, no doubt you soon will. The Glynns are one of the leading families of Bartley Green. He is a member of Johnson’s Academy. A true gentleman, I assure you.”

  He heard the irony this time. Undeniable. “Already I’ve heard the name.”

  “A neighbor of ours.” She glanced away. “They live five or six miles east of The Cooperage.”

  “I will be glad to know him better.”

  She hesitated, and Thrale waited her out while she considered what she would say. Nothing, as yet, which surprised him not at all, considering his offense.

  “Mrs. Wilcott.” He spoke with deliberation so that she would hear, he prayed, the sincerity of his apology. “I beg your forgiveness. You need say nothing in response, just know I am aware of my transgression with you and deeply regret that I behaved in so ungentlemanly a manner. It will not happen again.”

  “Thank you.” She rested a hand on Roger’s shoulder. “I suppose.”

  What the devil did she mean by that?

  She stood with languorous care. “Harry Glynn was born dexter-handed. Though he was forced to change that preference, I have observed that he never lost his facility. If you step into the ring with him, he’s a good right. Don’t discount that, but watch for his left.”

  He’d no idea what to make of this conversation. None whatever. These details of Mr. Glynn’s abilities were so specific that he wondered, stupidly, absurdly, if she could have seen Glynn fight. Impossible, that. The better explanation was that, with sporting men here with such frequency, even ladies must hear conversations that were not entirely proper.

  “Thank you for that information.”

  She patted the side of her leg. “Roger.” The dog went to her. “You are welcome. My lord.”

  Thus far, the weather had been their most controversial discussion, and here they were speaking of training and another man’s fighting habits. Belatedly, he realized she was not merely repeating what she’d overheard knowledgeable men say. “Your father has taught you something of the science, I take it.”