My Lady's Honor. Julia JustissЧитать онлайн книгу.
she explained at dinner that Parry had remained at the barn to tend his animals, her cousin merely shrugged his shoulders, as if to indicate that her brother’s behavior proved he was the incompetent Nigel claimed him to be. The new baron also seemed satisfied with her terse assertion that everything was in train for the arrival of Lord Edgerton, and happily monopolized conversation for the rest of the meal, expanding on his plans for the modernization of Southford.
Leaving him to his brandy and cigars, Gwennor had been able to creep out of the manor several hours earlier than expected, to the delight of the waiting Davi, who informed her that Parry had departed with the rest of the family at dusk, as decreed by Remolo.
She’d feared at first that her brother might resist leaving Southford. But though he was sorrowful at abandoning his animals, he seemed to sense without her attempting to explain it that with the coming of their cousin, life as they knew it at Southford could not continue. With the sweet-natured trustfulness she found so endearing, he merely inquired where she wanted him to go, and seemed delighted to learn they’d be traveling with the gypsy band.
After much internal debate, Gwennor had decided against leaving Jenny a note. Though she hated to worry her dear friend, she was more concerned about the consequences should Nigel suspect the maid had abetted her flight. This way, Jenny’s alarm and worry would be too genuine for the new baron to suspect her former nurse had any foreknowledge of her mistress’s plans. As soon as it was safe to do so, she’d vowed, she would write to her.
Reaching the swiftly flowing river, Gwennor quickly performed her ablutions. Shivering against the chill and thinking longingly of the hip bath full of hot fragrant water back at Southford, she filled two buckets upstream to bring back to the encampment. She hoped the stew would be ready when she arrived, for Gwennor was starving, and eager to practice her card tricks for the night ahead.
By now she was quite skilled, and not nearly so nervous as she’d been the first night the gypsies had welcomed curious farmers and townspeople to their camp. She rather enjoyed leaving her curly hair long and free, unencumbered by pins or braids, she thought as she tied it back again with the multicolored scarf. Accustomed to long, straight gowns fitted only at the bosom, at first it had seemed shocking to don the low-cut peasant blouse and long skirt that hugged her waist. But now she was as comfortable in her gypsy clothes as she was with the telling of outrageous fortunes and the deft shell games at which she won farthings from gullible young farmers.
If her time with the gypsies had given her a new appreciation for the comforts of living in the Manor, still she had found appeal in their simpler life, the camaraderie of the band and the esteem with which Parry was treated for his skill.
Only one aspect of the experience made her uneasy, she thought as she hefted the buckets and trudged back to Jacquinita’s wagon. Though she’d never tasted passion first-hand, she recognized the hungry look in the eyes of the visitors as they watched the gypsy girls tell fortunes or ply the dice, a look that intensified later when the girls danced. Their steady, openly appraising stares while Gwennor dealt them cards or read their palms had at first shocked her, and often still made her cheeks redden beneath the scarf with which she masked her face.
No matter how hot their glances grew, though, most visitors were wise enough not to try to touch where their eyes lingered. Remolo permitted no carnal transactions with the women of his family, and few wished to risk the wrath of the gypsy men who watched and waited, vicious curving blades tucked casually in waistbands or boot tops. Still, Gwennor could read in the attitude of their male customers the opinion that the gypsy women were merely an exotic variety of lightskirt. Should the society to which Gwennor belonged ever discover she had traveled in a gypsy caravan, worn gypsy dress and read the palms of clerks and farm boys, all Southford’s wealth would not be sufficient to buy her a respectable husband.
Mercifully, the visitors she’d encountered seemed to accept Gwennor as the gypsy girl she appeared, for which she thanked heaven daily, grateful the Lord had created her dark rather than blond. After the first week, when she’d listened night and day for the pounding of approaching hooves, her fear of pursuit or discovery lessened, though she alone of the gypsy women still wore a scarf over her face when strangers came to the encampment.
She trudged back to Jacquinita’s wagon and deposited her twin burdens, mouth watering at the spicy scent emanating from the cooking pot.
The fortune-teller had already spooned her out a large bowl. “Eat quickly, my heart,” the old woman said. “Remolo has ridden into the town. We’ve camped here before, and many will come to have their fortunes told and bet at cards.” She smiled at Gwen. “You must help them leave their money behind when they depart.”
Gwennor laughed and took the bowl offered. “I shall do my best,” she replied.
“I think it’s a terrible idea,” Gilen de Mowbry, Viscount St. Abrams muttered to his brother, frowning at the noisy group of friends preparing to ride out.
Alden de Mowbry grinned at his sibling. “Don’t be a dead bore, Gil. Chase tells me the gypsies camp here every year, and ’tis very amusing to have one’s fortune read, or dice with their pretty wenches. Half the town comes out, as well as nearly all Lord DeLacey’s servants. The masculine contingent, anyway.”
“The females have more sense,” Gilen retorted. “Certainly, visit the gypsy camp—if you wish to have the watch nabbed from your pocket while some dark-eyed charmer tells lies about your future.”
“Come on, Gil!” Alden coaxed. “Remember, you’re bound soon for Harrogate. No amusement to be had in that rubbishing town full of half-pay soldiers and octogenarians. Best find some enjoyment while you can.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Gilen said with a sigh. “Jeffrey nursing a broken heart is devilish grim, and dancing attendance on his sick grandfather will scarcely be more entertaining.”
Alden shuddered. “Sounds appalling! Why go at all? Stay here a while longer. Between billiards and cards, Chase has gone down to you by nearly five hundred pounds. I’m sure our host’s son would welcome the opportunity to win back some of his blunt.”
Gilen chuckled. “Given his level of skill, he’d likely only lose more. And I really must go lend poor Jeff my support. Damn that Battersley chit! I tell you, Alden, there’s nothing so perfidious as a woman! Leading Jeffrey to a declaration, when all the time what she really wanted was to make the Earl of Farleigh’s chinless cub jealous enough to pop the question himself.”
“Abandon old Jeff after he did, eh?”
“As fast as it took to slip Farleigh’s emerald on her deceitful finger.”
“You know Jeffrey, though,” Alden countered, “Ten to one, by the time you arrive he’ll have fallen for someone else. Too easygoing by half, and always fancying himself in love with some chit or other.”
“Who’s he to fall in love with in Harrogate?”
Alden nodded. “Point taken. I suppose you shall have to go cheer him up. Best friend since Eton, and such. Which,” he added, pushing his brother toward the door, “is all the more reason for you to come along with us and enjoy yourself tonight. Mayhap you’ll catch the eye of some fetching gypsy wench.”
“And then catch the edge of her father or brother’s blade? Thank you, no!” he replied, laughing as he gave up his resistance and followed Alden.
Lacey’s Retreat was only a day’s ride from Harrogate, but Gilen had broken his journey here with the ostensible excuse of spending time with his brother before Alden, Chase and their Oxford classmates returned to school. He had, he knew, been putting off the moment when he must confront Jeffrey’s sorrowful face—a sight which would only further inflame his temper against Davinia Battersley in particular and matchmaking females in general.
Thank heaven that, not yet ready himself to become a tenant for life, Gilen confined his attentions to bits of muslin who performed zealously for the high wages he paid them. No fraudulent shows of devotion, no false sighing over his wit, strength, masculinity—just