Slightly Wicked

Chapter IX

Judith remained in her own room for two days, nursing a painfully sore chest. Her grandmother, who forgot her own maladies now that there were someone else’s to occupy her mind, visited her often, bringing her books and bonbons and news from the rest of the house and admonitions to lie down and sleep if she could. And Tillie, on Grandmama’s orders, brought food trays to Judith’s room and came every few hours to apply more of the soothing salve.

Horace Effingham sent up a bouquet of flowers with Tillie and a note explaining that he had picked the blooms with his own hands and wishing her a speedy recovery.

Branwell came in person to see her.

“Are you enjoying the house party?” she asked him when he had inquired after her health.

“Oh, I am having the greatest good time,” he said. “We went riding to Clynebourne Abbey this morning.

There are just a few old ruins there, but it is very picturesque. We rode over to Grandmaison first to invite Bedwyn to join us. I think Julianne fancies him, but she is looking to have her heart broken, if you were to ask me. The Bedwyns are all enormously high in the instep. Bewcastle—the Duke of Bewcastle, that is, head of the family—is known as a thoroughly cold fish and would be very unlikely to approve of an alliance with the daughter of a mere baronet.”

“I am glad you enjoyed the ride.” Judith smiled. What would Branwell have to say, she wondered, if he knew that Lord Rannulf Bedwyn had offered to marry her just yesterday?

“I say, Jude.” He got up abruptly from the chair on which he had been seated and paced across to the window of her bedchamber to stand looking out, his back to her. “You would not be able to lend me a few pounds by any chance, would you? Maybe thirty?”

“No, I most certainly would not,” she said. “I doubt I could scrape together a shilling even if I were to turn my purse inside out and upside down and squeeze it. Why do you need thirty pounds?” It seemed like a vast sum to her.

He shrugged and turned to face her with a sheepish grin. “It is not important,” he said. “It is a trifling sum, and Effingham did tell me not to worry about it. But I hate to be in his debt. I hated to have him pay all the expenses of my journey, but Papa has turned remarkably tight-fisted lately. Is he sickening for something?”

“The journey here cost thirty pounds !” Judith asked, considerably shocked.

“You do not understand what it means to be a gentleman moving in the company of other gentlemen, Jude,” he said. “One has to keep up with them. One cannot look like a country bumpkin with ill-fitting coats and breeches and boots that look as if they were made by an apprentice to a country cobbler. And one needs fashionable digs and a decent horse to get about on. And unless one struts one’s stuff all alone, one must do what other gentlemen do and go where they go—the clubs, the races, Tattersall’s.”

“Bran,” she asked, not really sure she wanted to hear the answer, “do you owe other people money too?”

He waved a dismissive hand and grinned at her, though there was something sickly in the expression.

“Everyone owes money,” he said. “A gentleman would be thought queer in his attic if he did not owe half a fortune to his tailor and his bootmaker and his haberdasher.”

“And do you have gambling debts, too?” she asked before she could stop herself. She really did not want to know.

“Trifling ones.” Again he flashed her his sickly grin. “Nothing like some fellows, who owe thousands.

Some men lose whole estates, Jude, on one turn of a card. I never wager what I cannot afford to lose.”

She was too cowardly to ask him the extent of his gaming debts.

“Bran,” she asked, “when are you going to decide upon some career?”

“Actually,” he said, laughing and looking his sunny-natured self again, “I have been thinking of marrying a rich girl. It’s a pity Julianne has her eye on Bedwyn—though she does not have a hope in a million of snaring him, I daresay. But the Warren sisters have a papa who is as rich as Croesus, or so I have heard, and they are both passably pretty girls. I do not suppose their papa would give me the time of day, though, would he?”

He spoke as if the whole idea were just a lighthearted joke, but Judith was not sure it was. He was obviously deep in debt—again. She did not know if their father could extricate him this time without completely ruining himself. And then what would happen to Mama and their sisters?

“Oh, come now, Jude,” Branwell said, getting to his feet and possessing himself of both her hands, “don’t look so grim. I’ll come about. You must not worry about me. Did you burn yourself very badly?”

“I will be better in a day or two,” she told him.

“Good.” He squeezed her hands. “If you do happen to come by a few pounds within the next week or two, perhaps when Papa sends you your allowance, could you see your way to lending me some of it? I am good for it, as you must know, and there cannot be much for you to spend money on here, can there?”

“I am not expecting any money,” she told him.

“I say.” He frowned. “You did come just for a visit, did you not, Jude? Papa did not send you here to live and depend upon Uncle George’s bounty, did he? That would be the outside of enough. What is happening to Papa lately?”

You have been happening to him, Bran, she thought— and to all of us. But though she was suddenly angry and would surely have ripped into him and told him a few home truths of which he seemed remarkably ignorant, she was prevented from doing so by the arrival of Tillie with more salve and a dose of laudanum.

“You are going to have to excuse me now, Bran,” Judith said. “I must rest for a while.”

“Of course.” He raised one of her hands to his lips and smiled one of his sweetest smiles. “Look after yourself, Jude. You cannot know how pleasant it is to have one of my sisters here. I miss you all, you know.”

If only he had someone to take him in hand, she thought, he might yet turn out well. However, she was not at leisure to brood on the matter. She was in pain. Whoever would have thought that a mere cup of tea could be so lethal?

On the third day Judith ventured downstairs after luncheon. She hoped to avoid intruding upon the houseguests and find her grandmother. But as fortune would have it, the first person she saw as she descended the stairs was Horace Effingham, and he came hurrying to meet her, all smiles.

“Judith!” he exclaimed. “You are recovered at last. I apologize most profusely for my clumsiness the other evening. Do come to the drawing room. We are trying to decide what to do this afternoon now that last night’s drizzle and the morning clouds have cleared off. Come and have your say.”

He was offering her his arm.

“I would really rather not,” she said. “I do not know anyone in there. Do you know where Grandmama is, Horace?”

“You do not know anyone?” he said. “You astonish me. Has no one thought to introduce you to all the guests?”

“It really does not matter.” She shook her head.

“Ah, but it does,” he said. “I cannot have you running away again after waiting patiently for three days for you to reappear. Come.”

She took his arm reluctantly and found herself immediately drawn indecorously close against his side as he led her toward the drawing room. But it was, she conceded over the next few minutes, just as well that someone had thought to introduce her to all the guests. She was not quite a servant, after all, and it would be awkward over the next week and a half to be constantly running into people to whom she had not been formally presented. She looked almost like a servant, of course. Branwell grinned at her and asked her how she did, Mrs. Hardinge commiserated with her on her unfortunate accident, and Julianne told her she was glad to see her up again so that she could save the rest of them from Grandmama’s tedious conversation and constant demands. Most of the guests, however, though polite in their acknowledgment of the introductions, made no attempt to engage her in conversation.

Judith would have made her escape as soon as all the introductions had been made, but she was forestalled, at least for a few moments, by the arrival of Lady Beamish and Lord Rannulf Bedwyn.

“Ah, two more introductions to make, Cousin,” Horace said, leading her toward them.

“I have already had that pleasure,” she told him, but she was too late to prevent a face-to-face encounter.

“Miss Law,” Lord Rannulf said, bowing to her, “I hope I see you well again?”

She curtsied and tried not to remember the last time she had seen him—outside the door of her bedchamber with Grandmama, giving her advice on how to treat her burn and looking at her with genuine concern in his eyes before striding off to hasten the arrival of a servant with the salve she had asked for.

After what had happened earlier in the day, she had wanted only to despise him and forget him.

“Rannulf told me about the unfortunate accident,” Lady Beamish said. “I trust you have taken no permanent harm from it, Miss Law?”

“No, indeed, thank you, ma’am,” Judith assured her. “I am quite well again.”

Julianne was clapping her hands for everyone’s attention. She was glowing and pretty in a dress of daffodil yellow muslin, her blond curls bouncing about her heart-shaped face as she moved.

“It has been decided,” she announced, “that we are to stroll in the wilderness walk for an hour and then have a picnic tea on the lawn. Now that Lord Rannulf Bedwyn has arrived, we need delay no longer.”

She smiled radiantly at him, and Judith, glancing at him despite herself, saw him bow his acquiescence as he looked her cousin over with appreciative eyes.

It hurt. Stupidly, stupidly, it hurt.

“We must fetch our hats and bonnets and be on our way,” Julianne said.

Her plans appeared to meet with general approval. There was bright chatter as most of the room’s occupants hurried away to get ready for the outing.

“I must go and find Grandmama,” Judith murmured, sliding her hand free of Horace’s arm at last.

But her grandmother had appeared at the drawing room door with Aunt Effingham, and Grandmama had heard her.

“You must not bother yourself with me, my love,” she said, beaming fondly at Judith. “I will have Sarah for company. Now that you are up again, you must run along and enjoy yourself with the other young people.”

“The fresh air will do you good after a few days of confinement indoors, Miss Law,” Lady Beamish said kindly.

Aunt Effingham had other ideas, of course. “I can certainly make use of your help, Judith,” she said briskly. “It has been most unfortunate that your own carelessness resulted in such a lengthy spell of idleness.”

“But Stepmama,” Horace protested, smiling ingratiatingly at Aunt Effingham, “I have dire need of Judith’s help too—help in saving me from the fate of being a wallflower. Perhaps you had not noticed that the gentlemen outnumber the ladies at this house party.”

“It is because you did not inform me that you were definitely coming, Horace,” she said, looking somewhat chagrined. “Or that you were going to bring Branwell with you.”

“Judith.” Horace bowed to her. “Run along and fetch your bonnet.”

Life at Harewood was proving to be even more trying than she had expected. Although Mama had always kept her girls busy at home and Papa had strict expectations of their behavior, nevertheless she had never felt totally powerless there. Or without any freedom whatsoever. At least her preferences and opinions had often been solicited there. Here they were not. Everyone might have been surprised to learn that she would have far preferred to be put to work by her aunt than allowed the dubious pleasure of strolling along the wilderness walk feeling like an intruder and paired with Horace—and in full view most of the time of Julianne and Lord Rannulf Bedwyn, who walked arm in arm while she chattered brightly and he bent his head closer to hear her. A few times they laughed together and Judith was unwillingly reminded of the times when he had laughed with her , most notably outside the village shop when he had unwrapped his snuff box.

The wilderness walk wound its way through the trees to the west of the house and had been planned with some care for maximum beauty. Wildflowers grew within sight of the path, and there were occasional seats and small grottoes, most of them placed at the top of rises in the path and affording pleasing prospects of the house and the rest of the park. It was a path designed to shelter the walker from the heat of the summer sun and the chill of an autumn wind.

Judith was unable to appreciate its loveliness, though she thought that perhaps it would become another quiet retreat for her down the years, whenever she had an hour to spare.

She was not enjoying this hour. Horace was ignoring everyone else and concentrating all his attention on her. But far from being flattering, his attentions were distressing. He tried to take her arm through his, but she clasped both arms firmly behind her back. He tried to slow their steps so that they would fall behind the rest of the group, but she determinedly increased the pace every time a noticeable gap developed.

His eyes were on her rather than the scenery most of the time, mostly on her bosom, which even her loose dress could not entirely hide. He commented upon how the wet tea had molded her dress to her and revealed a figure that should be dressed far more becomingly than it was.

“But I daresay Stepmama has something to do with your dresses,” he said, “and your caps. She is determined to marry Julianne off this summer, preferably to Bedwyn. Have you noticed how my half-sister is many times prettier than all the other girls who have been invited here?” He chuckled.

“Stepmama cannot countenance competition at such a crucial stage of Julianne’s career. Least of all from a cousin.”

Judith could think of no reply to make to such a speech and so made none. She lengthened her stride to close the gap between them and Mr. Peter Webster and Miss Theresa Cooke, the nearest couple ahead of them. But then Horace exclaimed with annoyance and stopped walking altogether. There was a stone wedged in the heel of his boot, he explained, and he set a hand against the tree trunk on the other side of Judith and lifted his foot to dislodge the stone, effectively boxing her in between himself and the tree.

“Ah, done,” he said after a few moments and returned his foot to the ground and lifted his head to smile at Judith.

He was uncomfortably close, and by now they had fallen well behind the others.

“You know, Judith,” he said, his eyes flitting over her face but coming to rest on her bosom, “I could make you very comfortable indeed at Harewood. And I could be induced to visit here far more often than I have been in the habit of doing.”

One of his hands lifted with an obvious destination. She batted at it and moved forward in order to get around him, but since he did not step back, she only succeeded in bringing herself closer to him.

“I am quite comfortable enough here as I am,” she said. “We are being left behind.”

He chuckled low and his hand found its target, closing around one breast. But only for a brief moment.

He lowered the hand and took a short step back as the crunching of twigs heralded the return of one of the walkers. She could have almost cried with relief when she saw Branwell.

“Oh, I say,” he said cheerfully, “a problem, is there?”

“I almost had to have your sister haul my boot off,” Horace said with a chuckle. “I had a stone lodged in the heel and it was devilish difficult to get rid of it.”

“Ah,” Branwell said, “Bedwyn was wrong, then. He sent me back here because he thought perhaps Jude was not feeling quite the thing and might need to be escorted back to the house. The stone has gone, has it?”

“I wrestled it free,” Horace said, offering his arm. “Judith? Shall we restore Branwell to whichever lady was fortunate enough to win his escort? Did you know that your brother has become the darling of all the ladies?”

But Judith was not going to miss the opportunity that had been presented to her on a platter, so to speak.

“Do go on without me,” she said. “Both of you. I do not need an escort, but I do feel rather weak after spending the last two days in my room. I shall go and sit with Grandmama and Lady Beamish. Or perhaps I will go and lie down.”

“Are you sure, Jude?” Branwell asked. “I am quite willing to come with you.”

“Quite sure.” She smiled.

A few minutes later she had found her way out of the walk and was hurrying toward the safety of the house. She felt as if her flesh was crawling. His hand had felt like a snake, or what she imagined a snake would feel like. He had been offering to make her his mistress. Were all men alike?

But it was Lord Rannulf who had sent Branwell back to her, she remembered. Had he really thought she was ill? Or had he guessed the truth? But how was it he had even noticed that she and Horace had disappeared from the back of the group?

She could not return to the house yet, she realized suddenly. Even if she could reach the privacy of her room she would feel too confined. But the chance was strong that she would not even get there before being seen by either her grandmother or Aunt Effingham. She was feeling too agitated to encounter either the affectionate kindness of the one or the tart irritation of the other.

She turned toward the back of the house and a minute or two later was hurrying through the kitchen gardens and across the back lawn and up the slope of the hill. She had intended to sit there, allowing the air and the wide view to soothe her agitated spirits. But the lake looked invitingly cool and secluded. She shuddered, feeling that hand close about her breast again. She felt dirty .

After nearly three days of being almost constantly in the company of Miss Effingham and her houseguests, Rannulf was longing for the quiet sanity of Lindsey Hall, the ducal seat where he still made his home for most of each year. There were never house parties there, and most guests were chosen with care as people who were likely to have something sensible to say. Freyja and Morgan, his sisters, might be unconventional and headstrong and difficult and quite untypical of other young ladies of their class, but Rannulf would take them any day of the week over the likes of the Honorable Misses Warren, Miss Hardinge, Miss Cooke, and Lady Margaret Stebbins. They were all bosom bows of Miss Effingham, who was flaunting him before them like a newly acquired and prized lapdog.

He simply could not do this, he thought at least once an hour when in her company. He could not marry her and shackle himself to her pretty silliness for the rest of his life. He would be stark raving mad within a year. Freyja and Morgan would make mincemeat of the girl, and Bewcastle would freeze her with one disdainful glance.

But at least once each hour, following directly upon the heels of that thought, came the memory of his promise to his grandmother that he would at least try to consider her as a bride. He had spent enough time in his grandmother’s company to see that she was indeed ill. She would be dreadfully disappointed if he did not become at least betrothed this summer. And it was a disappointment she might well take to the grave. He simply could not do it to her.

And so he persevered, playing Miss Effingham’s silly flirtation games with her, charming her friends, jollying along all the young gentlemen who continued to make him feel like an octogenarian at the very least even though he was only a few years older than most of them.

He had firmly set aside his guilt over Judith Law. What had happened between them had not been seduction, and she had gone to some lengths to deceive him. He had done what was proper and made her an offer. She had refused. There was no more reason for feeling responsible for her. But he knew Horace Effingham’s type. And he knew that tea spilling incident had been deliberate on Effingham’s part.

Rannulf had guessed that the man would pursue his lecherous intent at the earliest opportunity.

It had become quickly apparent to him on the wilderness walk both that Effingham was maneuvering to get her alone and that she was resisting his efforts. And then they disappeared altogether. Fortunately Branwell Law was within hailing distance and was easily persuaded to go back to attend his ailing sister.

A few minutes later Law was back, Effingham with him, announcing that his sister was indeed feeling weak but that she had insisted upon returning to the house alone. And yet, Rannulf observed a couple of minutes after that as they strolled past another seat and view down to the house and park, she was not going to the house—or looking either weak or weary. She was hurrying away from the back of the house.

A picnic tea was set out on the front lawn when they left the wilderness walk. Everyone milled about, mingling and laughing and wandering off in groups. Rannulf took the opportunity to be free of Miss Effingham’s empty, boastful chatter for at least a short while and withdrew with his plate to the terrace, where his grandmother and Mrs. Law were seated side by side.

“I wonder where Judith is,” Mrs. Law said, searching for a sight of her granddaughter.

“Did Branwell Law not inform you, ma’am?” Rannulf asked. “She was feeling somewhat weary after a while and returned to the house for a rest. She would not let him accompany her.”

“But she is missing her tea,” Mrs. Law said. “I must have Tillie take a tray up to her. If you would be so good, Lord Rannulf—”

He held up a staying hand. “If I may make so bold, ma’am,” he said, “may I suggest that it might be better to allow Miss Law to rest in quiet for a while longer?”

“Yes, indeed,” she agreed. “You are quite right. May I trouble you to fetch that plate of pastries, Lord Rannulf? Your grandmama did not take one, but I am quite sure she must wish to try them.”

He brought the plate, offered it to his grandmother, who shook her head, and to Mrs. Law, who took three, and returned the plate to the table. No one’s attention was on him, he noticed with a quick glance around. Lady Effingham was talking with Mrs. Hardinge, and Miss Effingham was in a laughing group with Miss Hannah Warren, Lord Braithwaite, and Jonathan Tanguay.

Rannulf slipped around the corner of the house before someone could notice him and around to the back. There was no sign of her. Where had she gone? he wondered. Had she returned yet? Perhaps she really was resting in her room by now. There was a tree-dotted hill in the near distance. He squinted ahead to it but could not see her there. It looked like a quiet place to go anyway. He lengthened his stride and made his way toward it.

She must indeed have returned to the house, he thought a few minutes later as he climbed the last few feet to the top of the hill and looked around appreciatively at the view. And it was just as well. He had not really been hoping to meet her, had he? For what purpose? He had not thought of asking himself that until this moment.

There was a lake down below. It looked neglected and overgrown but rather lovely nevertheless. He was surprised it had not been connected to the wilderness walk. He was trying to decide whether to go down there or not when he saw her. She had just appeared from beneath the overhanging branches of a willow tree. Swimming. She was on her back, kicking lazily, her hair spread about her like a dark cloud.

Ah. She had come here to be alone.

He should respect her privacy.

But he found that his legs were carrying him down the far side of the hill nonetheless.