their homeland? Do not give me your
faradiddle, Watson! I’ll have her whereabouts or your head.”
The rotund man with wisps of hair around his
gleaming bald pate struggled with his unaccustomed cravat as the tall
lord paced the library like a hungry tiger. He should have worn a wig,
Watson decided. A wig would have made him a gentleman, and his lordship
would not speak to a gentleman thus.
Mountjoy swung around and glared at the silent Runner. “Well? Have you nothing to say for yourself?”
Watson drew in his stomach and tried for a
portentous voice. “There are many things that might befall a child on
such a journey. This has been a harsh winter. It is possible we might
find her bones in the hedgerows at some future date. We can continue
searching for as long as you require, my lord.”
Mountjoy’s color turned choleric, and he lifted his
arm as if to bodily fling this purveyor of bad news from the room. “Get
out! Get out before I have you thrown out, you damned excuse for a man.
I’ll box your ears if you linger! I’ll report your impudence to
Fielding. I’ll see you drawn and quartered should you show your face in
my presence again.”
Paling, seeing all hopes of promotion fly out the
window, Watson scurried out. Far be it from him to report that a girl
resembling the subject in question had been seen at a wayside inn known
to harbor some of the countryside’s worst criminals. That remark would
undoubtedly cost him his head. Let someone else tell his high-and-mighty
lordship that his granddaughter may have fallen among thieves and
harlots.
In the library, Mountjoy paced the jewel-like colors
of his newly acquired Persian rug. He condemned all the incompetent
idiots of the world. He vilified his son and the Wesleyans. He cursed
Lettice and her tear-filled pleas. Then he rang the bell and summoned a
servant to bring his elder—and now only—son to him.
If something weren’t done soon, his title would die
with the foppish macaroni he called heir, and who would never produce a
child.
A granddaughter, indeed! Damn George, he couldn’t even manage to produce a grandson.
Chapter 8
Faith stared in disbelief as Morgan settled his
tricorne on his thick hair, threw back his cloak to check the fastening
of his scabbard, and strode toward the door with a still-noticeable
limp.
“You are mad! You cannot go out like this. Your leg is not yet healed. The ride will tear it open again.”
Morgan turned impatiently. “It is mending. That’s all that is necessary. See to the horses and I’ll return in a day or two.”
It had been nearly a month since he had ridden out.
Faith had hoped that might mean an end to his marauding. She could see
now that she had been a fool to think so, but even shattered hopes were
hard to give up.
“Please, Morgan, don’t go. We have enough provisions
to last for months. I can start a garden. With Melisandra in foal, you
could make a tidy sum at the fair. You needn’t go out.”
One black brow went up. “Melisandra?”
Faith had the grace to blush, but didn’t lower her gaze. “She needs a name. That’s what I call her.”
“Call her what you will. She’ll be sold come fall. I’m going now.” He strode out without giving chance for further protest.
Faith stared at the closed door and fought back
tears. She had tried to divert him from his villainous ways. She had
hoped to atone for her crime by returning Morgan to the Christian life.
If he could not see the path of righteousness, she could not lead him to
it. It was time she took steps toward her own salvation.
She did not dare borrow Morgan’s horses without
permission. So in the morning, after she had set the house to rights and
seen the animals fed and watered, she set out on foot. If nothing else,
she knew there was an inn nearby. Inns had need of cooks and house
maids. She was quite accomplished at such chores.
Actually, she acknowledged with a wry grin, she could fill the
faradiddle, Watson! I’ll have her whereabouts or your head.”
The rotund man with wisps of hair around his
gleaming bald pate struggled with his unaccustomed cravat as the tall
lord paced the library like a hungry tiger. He should have worn a wig,
Watson decided. A wig would have made him a gentleman, and his lordship
would not speak to a gentleman thus.
Mountjoy swung around and glared at the silent Runner. “Well? Have you nothing to say for yourself?”
Watson drew in his stomach and tried for a
portentous voice. “There are many things that might befall a child on
such a journey. This has been a harsh winter. It is possible we might
find her bones in the hedgerows at some future date. We can continue
searching for as long as you require, my lord.”
Mountjoy’s color turned choleric, and he lifted his
arm as if to bodily fling this purveyor of bad news from the room. “Get
out! Get out before I have you thrown out, you damned excuse for a man.
I’ll box your ears if you linger! I’ll report your impudence to
Fielding. I’ll see you drawn and quartered should you show your face in
my presence again.”
Paling, seeing all hopes of promotion fly out the
window, Watson scurried out. Far be it from him to report that a girl
resembling the subject in question had been seen at a wayside inn known
to harbor some of the countryside’s worst criminals. That remark would
undoubtedly cost him his head. Let someone else tell his high-and-mighty
lordship that his granddaughter may have fallen among thieves and
harlots.
In the library, Mountjoy paced the jewel-like colors
of his newly acquired Persian rug. He condemned all the incompetent
idiots of the world. He vilified his son and the Wesleyans. He cursed
Lettice and her tear-filled pleas. Then he rang the bell and summoned a
servant to bring his elder—and now only—son to him.
If something weren’t done soon, his title would die
with the foppish macaroni he called heir, and who would never produce a
child.
A granddaughter, indeed! Damn George, he couldn’t even manage to produce a grandson.
Chapter 8
Faith stared in disbelief as Morgan settled his
tricorne on his thick hair, threw back his cloak to check the fastening
of his scabbard, and strode toward the door with a still-noticeable
limp.
“You are mad! You cannot go out like this. Your leg is not yet healed. The ride will tear it open again.”
Morgan turned impatiently. “It is mending. That’s all that is necessary. See to the horses and I’ll return in a day or two.”
It had been nearly a month since he had ridden out.
Faith had hoped that might mean an end to his marauding. She could see
now that she had been a fool to think so, but even shattered hopes were
hard to give up.
“Please, Morgan, don’t go. We have enough provisions
to last for months. I can start a garden. With Melisandra in foal, you
could make a tidy sum at the fair. You needn’t go out.”
One black brow went up. “Melisandra?”
Faith had the grace to blush, but didn’t lower her gaze. “She needs a name. That’s what I call her.”
“Call her what you will. She’ll be sold come fall. I’m going now.” He strode out without giving chance for further protest.
Faith stared at the closed door and fought back
tears. She had tried to divert him from his villainous ways. She had
hoped to atone for her crime by returning Morgan to the Christian life.
If he could not see the path of righteousness, she could not lead him to
it. It was time she took steps toward her own salvation.
She did not dare borrow Morgan’s horses without
permission. So in the morning, after she had set the house to rights and
seen the animals fed and watered, she set out on foot. If nothing else,
she knew there was an inn nearby. Inns had need of cooks and house
maids. She was quite accomplished at such chores.
Actually, she acknowledged with a wry grin, she could fill the
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