Barbara Metzger by Rakes Ransom Read Free Book Online

her nose at him one more time, he’d wipe it for her, see if he didn’t.
    Cloth-head Clothilda she’d always been. Cloth-head Clothilda she’d always be, complaining about country morals corrupting her precious Priscilla. As if Squire didn’t have enough in his budget, that skitterwit had decided to faint in his sitting room, as though she’d been in any danger. More likely she resented not being the centre of attention. As for Arthur, the twiddlepoop, they might have squeaked through this if the nodcock hadn’t rushed back to his mama with the news of Jacelyn’s fall from grace. Squire could have hushed the servants, and Claibourne’s fellow officers could have been trusted to hold their tongues, but Priscilla and that milk-and-water friend of hers, Miss Chadwick? They’d have the news broadcast throughout Cambridgeshire faster’n a cat could lick cream. As for Clothilda, she was most likely writing to her friends in London this very minute. She’d announced her connexion, via Ponsonby, to Sally Jersey often enough, and everyone knew Sally Jersey was the biggest gossip in London. Devil take it! Besides, fumed the Squire, feeling thoroughly put-upon, that blasted dog had nigh ruined his wine cellar before they’d freed it, excavating an escape route through some of Bottwick’s best dutyfree bottles.
    This was all beside the point, and Squire well knew it. What was really gnawing at him was the look on Jacelyn’s face, so pale there in the moonlight, when, without more than an “I’ll see Miss Trevaine home,” Claibourne had lifted her onto the back of a huge grey charger. He’d walked beside it out of the clearing, the dog on the other side. Squire’d silently dismissed the other men—he cursed himself again for not seeing they’d keep mum―and followed. Nothing else was said until they reached Treverly, when Jacelyn announced she would use the back door. She’d looked Squire straight in the eye, chin up, and told him there was no need to disturb her father until morning; he needed his rest. She’d slid off that great hulk of a horse before Claibourne could lift her down and, turning without another word, walked toward the house. No tears, no vapours, no recriminations, all of which Squire found waiting for him at home.
    Dang, the chit had backbone. Yes, and class, he’d give her that too. Too bad she wasn’t a boy. She wasn’t though, and now Squire had to face his old friend and tell him—what? That he, George Bottwick, had found Trevaine’s daughter the perfect husband? A nobleman of impeccable background and repute, with fortune to treat his only chick better than she was accustomed, who could be trusted to love and honour her for all of her days?
    The truth was enough to break a father’s heart.
    *
    At precisely eleven o’clock the Earl of Claibourne rode up to Treverly Hall, to the front door this time. It was a stately mansion of warm brickwork, not the rambling hodgepodge of Squire’s manor house, where each generation had added its own style, whether it matched or not. Treverly was elegant and understated, bespeaking good taste and the wherewithal to maintain it. Evidence of Shoop’s skill bloomed in perfect harmony, although the earl’s knowing eye guessed Shoop must command a whole platoon of clippers, mowers, and pruners.
    The boy who ran up to take Baron’s reins before Claibourne could dismount smiled when Leigh warned him not to pull on the horse. “He’ll walk with you if I tell him, but he’ll raise Cain if he thinks you’re making off with him. Cavalry horse, you know.”
    “Yessir,” the groom said, grinning. “I’ll stand right here with’m, if’n that’s what he chooses.”
    The door was opened by a liveried footman who also took the earl’s hat, gloves, and riding crop. Only then did the whitehaired butler step forward. “How may I help you, my lord?”
    “Would you please tell Lord Trevaine that Leigh Claibourne wishes to see him.”
    “Certainly. I