She stiffened straight as an oak sapling. “He is not here.”
“I can see that he is not. Where can I find him? He’s hiding from me, isn’t he? He left you here to face me.”
He was so close to the truth that it rattled her for a moment. How could he possibly know that? Then she managed to say, “I won’t tell you. You might challenge him to a duel. You might knock out some of his teeth. He needs all the teeth he has. He can’t afford to lose any more.”
“I won’t knock out any of his bloody teeth, even though he likely deserves it. Where is he?”
She shook her head. Her lips were a thin
line again. She had felt pain at George’s death; he didn’t doubt that now. He saw a smudge of dirt at her hairline that she had missed when she’d washed her face. It blended right in with the dark brown of her hair. A warm, dark brown that looked rich and soft. Ah, but her eyes were cold and distant. Those eyes of hers, they were a bright blue gray—not dark and mysterious, but rather light and mysterious, like the oddly faceted sapphire he’d bought some three years ago and kept. His mother had selected it from Rundle and Bridge. She didn’t know he hadn’t given it to a mistress.
He said nothing more. He merely picked up his greatcoat and strode out of the house, with her dogging his heels. Why? Did she believe he wasn’t going to leave? Did she think he was going to steal that settee with the ridiculous Egyptian feet? Did she think he was going to hide in the stable? The curricle was standing there in the front drive, but there was no Gulliver. When he rounded the side of the house he saw Jamie brushing Gulliver, singing at the top of his lungs to the huge gray gelding. It was not an edifying song, but it was catchy.
“There was a young fellow from Lyme
Who lived with three wives at a time.
When asked, ‘Why the third?’
He said, ‘One’s absurd!
And bigamy, sir, is a crime.’ ”
Rohan boomed out laughter. The stable lad had used the best King’s English and had sung the limerick in a rich baritone fit for a lady’s musical soiree.
“Jamie,” Susannah said, coming up alongside the baron, “is the local master of the limerick. He does accents. He’s really quite excellent.”
“Yes, he is.” He watched Jamie lead a rather reluctant Gulliver out from behind Mulberry House. His own horse didn’t want to come to him? Rohan yelled, “Come on, you miserable devil, you faithless sod. Oh, all right. If you like, I’ll learn some limericks and sing them to you.”
Gulliver whinnied and pawed the ground with his front hoof. He perked his ears first toward Jamie, then toward Ro-han.
She was again dogging his heels. He took the reins from Jamie’s hands, nodded the boy away, then backed Gulliver into his traces.
She watched him fasten Gulliver into the straps, readying the horse to pull the curricle. He was quick and efficient. He looked up once to see a frown on her face. She kept looking up at the second floor.
“Did you lie to me? Is your father hiding upstairs?”
“Certainly not. Aren’t you done yet? You should have asked Jamie to do it. He’s had more practice than you. He’s faster.”
“I am perfectly capable of rigging Gulliver in,” he said, his voice cold and stiff. Did she believe him to be a total wastrel? A completely useless sod? Well, he supposed most people believed that and loved him all the more for it. Strange world.
“There, you did it again, looked up at the second floor. What is up there? Who is up there? A mad uncle? Look at you. You even have your hands crossed over your chest like an Italian soprano. What is the matter?”
At that moment, a child wailed.
3
“THAT,” ROHAN SAID THOUGHTFULLY, NOT LOOKING UP at the window, but rather at her set face, “wasn’t your father.”
The child let loose with another furious wail, louder this time.
She left him at a dead run.
Rohan yelled, “Jamie!”
He gave Gulliver’s reins over to the stable lad, saying even as he was striding back into the house, “Sing him another limerick. Then write it down so I can sing it to him later.”
He saw the hem of her skirt disappear at the top of the stairs. He stopped cold.