Miss Westlake's Windfall Page 6

  Ada hoped Uncle Filbert was a better shot than Cousin Algernon. She fancied her flock of sheep. Then again, if Mr. Johnstone managed to put food on the table, it would be a welcome contribution to the household, his first contribution, in fact. “Do you hunt, Mr. Tobin?”

  Leo had been known to hunt deserters, informers, and the occasional French spy. “Aye.”

  So much for that topic of conversation. Ada was about to start discussing the weather—surely a seafarer would be knowledgeable about that—or horses, Chas’s favorite topic, about which Mr. Tobin was surely unknowledgeable, judging from the narrow-chested pair she could see through the window. She was spared the necessity by her sister.

  Drawn from her creative trance by the smells of tea and pastries, Tess drifted toward the tea cart, the thick sheaf of note-filled pages in her hand. Leo carefully set his cup and plate and napkin aside, to rise and bow. “Ch—ch—Charmed,” was all he had to say at Ada’s introduction, but he really was, charmed, that is; charmed, ensorcelled, his mouth magicked shut by a divine vision, or a witch, all in flowing, fluttering layers of multicolored fabric. With green eyes.

  As for Tess, she took one look at the tall, dark, and wickedly handsome stranger, and tossed her papers aside. “Sebastian!” she exclaimed, rushing to throw her arms around him. “My pirate!”

  “My gawd,” Leo managed to utter from a flurry of cloth and paper and soft, sweet-smelling woman.

  “My salts,” Jane cried.

  “He’s a smuggler, not a pirate,” Ada whispered as, mortified, she pried her sister away from the red-faced gentleman.

  “Smuggler, pirate, pish-tush.” Tess had her hands pressed to her chest—her own chest, Ada was relieved to see—as she watched Mr. Tobin bend down to gather up the scattered pages. “You don’t understand. He is my hero, my Tristan, my Lancelot, my Lochinvar.”

  “My stars,” Jane moaned.

  “The hero of my opera, you ninny,” Tess said, grabbing up one of the papers and making rapid, undecipherable notes on the back.

  “You must forgive my sister-in-law, Captain.” Jane tapped her forehead. “We humor her odd turns, don’t you know.”

  “We admire her creative talents,” Ada corrected. “Don’t we, dearest?”

  Tess shrugged, still making notes. “Genius is seldom recognized in the artist’s lifetime. But you wait, I’ll be the salvation of this family yet when I make a fortune for us with my masterpiece.”

  Jane whimpered into her handkerchief.

  “What do you think, Mr.... ah?”

  “Mr. Tobin, Tess, Mr. Leo Tobin.”

  Leo stood up, most of the pages firmly in hand, and bowed again.

  Tess made a perfect curtsy. “Thank you. But did you think, Jane, that Mr. Tobin would not notice that the tea service is earthenware, not porcelain?” He hadn’t. “Or that you moved those cushions to cover the stain on the sofa or that the draperies are faded and threadbare?” He hadn’t, being too concerned with not spilling his lea. “Of course he noticed. Further, everyone knows your husband left us without a feather to fly with.” She aligned the pages in her hand. “But that will change. You see, Mr. Tobin, I first set out to write heroic poetry, like that Byron fellow, until I realized how little money versifiers earn from their works. So I am setting Sebastian and the Sea Goddess to music. Now I can design the handbill for my opera! What woman would not spend her last shilling to see a hero with those shoulders, those legs, that—”

  “Tess!”

  “Do say you will pose for me, Mr. Tobin. You can keep your jacket on, for the preliminary sketches, anyway.”

  “Tess!” Ada was wringing her hands by now. Jane had started mewling like a lost kitten, but Leo finally got “Charmed” out.

  “Good.” Tess pulled a charcoal stick out of her pocket and turned over another page. “Stand there. No, there. Cross your arms and spread your legs as if you were on a sailing ship. La, I can see you are a natural at this. No, don’t keep looking at me.”

  Ada poured herself a fresh cup of tea, and one for Jane, who had her hands over her eyes.

  “You are still looking at me, Mr. Tobin. This is not working. I know, we must have you with the sea goddess in your arms, in the ravishment scene. That’s sure to sell more copies. Jane, would you—Of course not. Ada, be a dear and let Mr. Tobin embrace you.”

  Jane’s cup hit the floor.

  “I can always put in Jane’s face and figure on the final painting.”

  Jane’s head hit the floor.

  “She’ll be fine, Mr. Tobin. She does that all the time. Go on, Ada. Step closer so Sebastian can put his arms around you.”

  “Please, Tess, I am sure this is not necessary. Surely an artist of your caliber can imagine—”

  “Bosh. Do you want to be scrimping and saving the rest of your life, Ada? This will make our fortunes, I know. Now go on, I just need a rough sketch.”

  Scarlet-faced, Ada took a step nearer to the smuggler. “Do you mind? Tess will be unconsolable if we don’t model for her. And she is a quick sketch-artist, I promise.”

  Leo had wanted to take a hand in his friend’s love affair, not take his friend’s love interest in his own calloused hands. He could no more have refused Tess Westlake’s pleas, however, than he could have stopped breathing. Now that he thought of it, Leo wondered if he had taken a single breath since she’d dropped her papers and landed in his arms. For sure he was dizzy enough to have gone without air. He took a deep breath and nodded his acceptance of the inevitable.

  “Excellent. Over there, please. That’s right, both arms. Now bend sideways, balancing her back over your right arm. Ada, you are a graceful sea goddess, not a Fireplace poker. No, Mr. Tobin, you are supposed to be looking at your lover, not at me. Ada, gaze up at Sebastian adoringly. No, do not giggle, worship. That’s it, perfect. Hold that pose.”

  And that, of course, was when Viscount Ashmead entered the room.

  Chapter Eight

  “Bloody hell!”

  Chas had spent all morning debating whether he should visit Westlake Hall, whether his face was healed enough, whether enough time had gone by that Ada would have forgiven his harsh words, whether Leo was correct and he was giving up too easily. Whether, he’d told himself, the orchard money had arrived safely or not.

  It had arrived safely, all right, in the hands of a despicable, double-dealing dastard. This was betrayal of the worst sort. Chas felt as if his heart was being torn out of his chest, with his mother’s tiny embroidery scissors. Losing Ada was one thing, but losing her to Leo, who hadn’t wanted to return the money, who didn’t like talking to ladies, who claimed to be Chas’s friend, was outside of enough. That Leo was handling Ada as if she were one of his barmaids, after a visit to one of the upstairs rooms, was far beyond the powers of any mortal man’s restraint.

  “Get your filthy hands off my woman, you bastard!” Chas shouted, his good hand clenched in a fist.

  Ada shouted back, “I am not your woman.”

  Tess shouted back, “He is not a bastard.”

  Leo just grinned. Oh, he was enjoying himself now. He did set Miss Ada back on her feet, though, and took a step away from the little lady, tugging down his waistcoat and smoothing back the dark lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. Then, because he really was a smuggler and a bastard, by George—or by Geoffrey—he helped tuck a soft brown curl back into Miss Ada’s topknot.

  The growl that came from Chas’s throat would have made a wolf take notice.

  “Oh, Charlie, get off your high horse,” Tess chided him, patting his arm and leaving a streak of charcoal down his sleeve. “It’s not what it looks like. Mr. Tobin—or is it Captain?—has agreed to pose for the advertisement for my opera. You refused to portray Sebastian, if you’ll recall.”

  “You wanted me to pose half naked, if you will recall.” He ignored Leo’s sudden cough. “And I should have known you would defend such havey-cavey goings on as poetic license or some such.”

  Having put
herself to rights, Ada beckoned him over to the sofa. “Give over, Chas. There was no impropriety intended, not with Jane in the room.”

  Chas was already lifting that lady back onto the sofa. She opened her eyes, look one look at his scraped and scabbed face, and swooned again. This time she fell back onto the cushions.

  “Yes, I can see what a proper chaperone Lady Westlake was,” Chas grumbled, going to pour Jane a glass of wine to restore her nerves, and one for his own, with the familiarity of an old family friend.

  By now Ada had a chance to get a better look at the viscount’s appearance, and she winced. “Oh, dear.”

  Tess, predictably, wanted to paint him. “For when Sebastian vanquishes the evil kraken to rescue his princess. Where are my pastel crayons? Or should I use watercolors? Don’t move, Charlie, and don’t fade.”

  Chas fixed his eye, the one that was not swollen and lurid enough to send Tess into transports, on Leo, who decided that perhaps he had overstayed his welcome.

  “Oh, no, Mr.—Captain—Botheration, Leo. I am not done with the sketch.” Tess saw that he already had his hat and gloves. “Or you’ll simply have to come back.”

  Ada and Chas chorused “No,” with Jane rousing herself enough to add an echoing denial. The last thing Jane needed was for some adventurer to encourage Tess in her artistry. The captain would already be sure to tell the world what an odd household they had at Westlake Hall. Then too, if Viscount Ashmead was back to calling, they did not need any jumped-up fisherman on their doorstep, much less a smuggler.

  Ignoring all the others, Leo looked toward Tess. “Ma’am?”

  “I need you for the painting. You will return, won’t you, sir?”

  “Aye,” Leo said with a smile, a bow to the ladies, and a wink toward his lordship.

  Ada walked him out while Tess hunted for her drawing pad and Chas assured Jane that he looked worse than he felt.

  “You know, Mr. Tobin,” Ada began softly as they reached the door, where Cobble waited to see the caller on his way, “my sister is not like other women.”

  “Aye, she’s an artist. Never known a real painter before, nor a poet.”

  “And I daresay she has never known a smuggler before. Still, her emotions and enthusiasms ...”

  “Be you warning me off, ma’am?”

  Ada blushed. “I am not my sister’s keeper, Mr. Tobin. It’s just that her reputation is already so ... so...”

  “Squirrelly?”

  She nodded. “Nuttier than a whole forest full of squirrels. I should not want to see her laughed at or belittled.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, Miss Ada, though your protectiveness does you credit. I’d never hurt the lady.”

  Ada looked into his eyes and saw honesty there. The smuggler had brought back the money, too, so perhaps he could be trusted with her sensitive sister. She was almost confident of his motives, morals, and mental state, until he added, “Besides, no one will laugh at Miss Westlake when our opera is a success.”

  * * * *

  “Leo Tobin is not a proper person for you to be entertaining, dash it.”

  “How dare you act rudely lo a guest in my house, sirrah. You have absolutely no right to be telling me who or who not to see. Besides, who are you to be criticizing me for the company I keep, Lord Lowlife? I’m not the one who was mauled about in an alehouse brawl with a bunch of foxed sailors and out-of-work fishermen.”

  Jane fled the room. Tess was already gone, mixing colors in her attic studio. Ada and Chas were alone in the parlor, squared off like prizefighters at opposite corners. She had her hands on her hips, he had a glass in his good hand.

  “I was not in any tavern fight. I fell off my horse, confound it.”

  “Hah, a likely tale. You’d have to have been tossed off down the side of a mountain, then been rolled on by the horse, to look the way you do. Besides, you have not fallen off a horse since you were twelve and took out your father’s stallion without permission. Even then you were hurt worse by the beating you got than by the fall. Moreover, the egg man’s sister’s husband was there that night and he saw you in the rowdy melee. At least you don’t have a missing tooth, like he does.” Ada took a step or two closer to look at his poor face. “Does it hurt?”

  “Not at all,” Chas lied.

  She came closer still. “And your arm?”

  Chas had done without the sling today so he could drive his curricle, but he was holding the tightly wrapped wrist stiffly. Now he wriggled his still swollen fingers. “Not broken.”

  “Well, if you expect me to feel guilty about your injuries,” Ada said with a sniff, “you can just think again.”

  Chas took a sip of his wine. “Why the deuce should you feel guilty when I was the gudgeon?”

  “Jane says that I drove you to drink, and her uncle says that you started the fight to restore your manly pride.”

  “Since when do you hold credit with anything Jane and her uncle say? They utter a great many remarkably foolish things, as you well know. Where is the pride in getting beaten bloody? Furthermore, I did not start any fight. I fell off my horse, which was no more your fault than the man in the moon’s. In fact, had the moon been brighter, I might not have lost my footing, er, seat.”

  “You are just saying that to make me feel better.”

  “What, first I am trying to make you feel guilty and now I am trying to make you feel better? I take it all back, Ada; trying to follow your reasoning is enough to make any man take up the bottle.”

  “Then you are blaming me!” Her eyes were suspiciously damp.

  Chas almost poured himself another glass of wine, but thought better of it. “No, I am my own man. No one drives me to do anything I don’t want,” he lied again. This woman drove him to distraction, constantly. Like now, when she flashed him a sudden smile, going from storm clouds to sunny day in an instant.

  “Then you aren’t angry at me anymore, either?”

  He had to smile back. “Not if you aren’t still mad at me.”

  “I am too glad you came to remember why I was so furious. I was going to write you a note if you hadn’t called soon, apologizing for calling you a jackass.”

  “I came to apologize for calling you a turnip-head.”

  “I like donkeys.”

  “I like turnips.”

  “Friends?” Ada held her hand out.

  Chas sighed inside, but he took her hand and squeezed it gently. “Friends.” It was something, anyway. “I missed you.” More than he missed using his left hand, or his right eye.

  Comfortable with each other once more, they sat down to share the last apple tarts. Between bites, Chas said, “I do have to warn you, Ada, just as a friend, mind, that Leo Tobin really is not the kind of person you should encourage. I realize some women might be attracted by his reputation, excited by the threat of danger, and they might even find him good-looking, in a rugged, weathered kind of way. I suppose he dresses well, and his manners are passable, but, dash it, he is a smuggler!”

  “But a very pleasant smuggler.”

  “There is no such thing as a pleasant smuggler, by Jupiter, for he would not last long at the trade. I saw the liberties Tobin was taking. No honorable man would have behaved in so ... so warm a manner.”

  “Mr. Tobin was only trying to humor Tess. You know how intractable she can be when an inspiration strikes her.”

  “Petting the calf,” he muttered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “He was playacting for Tess so he could impress you. Everyone knows how you dote on your sister.”

  “Why, Charles Harrison Ashford, I do believe you are jealous!”

  “Of an outlaw? Do not be absurd.” If he were any more jealous, Chas feared, his already discolored skin would turn green, so green that he felt no qualms whatsoever in blackening Leo’s already shady reputation. “You and I are supposed to be friends, are we not? Well, friends look out for each other. I simply do not want to see you taken in by such a scurvy knave.”

  �
�Mr. Tobin seemed everything decent to me, and I did not feel that his kindness to Tess was a sham at all. He seemed quite gentle, almost shy, in fact.”

  Chas set his earthenware plate down with a force that would have shattered the fragile porcelain tea set, if it hadn’t been sold months ago. “The man is a blasted free trader! Think of your brother, for heaven’s sake.”

  “I am thinking of my sister, for her own sake. You know, it is odd how you have taken Mr. Tobin in such dislike. He speaks quite fondly of you, as if you were as close as brothers.”

  “We are brothers, dash it! Unacknowledged, of course, as Leo was born on the wrong side of the blanket. I thought everyone knew.”

  “My parents might have known, but no one tells young girls things like that.” Ada paused to take in this new revelation. The idea of the starched-up Viscountess Ashmead having an illicit relationship was too farfetched to consider, so Leo must be a product of the notoriously profligate Geoffrey Ashford, Chas’s father. Now that she thought about it, the similarities in appearance of the two men to each other and to the late viscount’s portrait were even more striking. She should have seen the relation for herself. Anyone could. If anyone could, then Lady Ashmead must. “Good heavens, does your mother know Leo is your father’s ... child?” Ada could not bring herself to call Tess’s new friend a bastard, or even a by-blow.

  “Of course, Mother knows. She has always known. That’s why she won’t let Leo in the house, and won’t visit any home he’s welcomed at. She shut every door she could to him, and I’ve had the devil’s own time opening them since I came into the title, I can tell you that.”

  “Which must be why your brother thinks so highly of you. Otherwise one might have supposed he’d hate you.”

  “Why should he hate me? I wasn’t the one who fathered a child by a woman not my wife. And no, he does not resent me for being the heir, despite the fact that he was born first. Leo was the son who got to be raised by a loving family, not left for servants to rear. He was the one who got to follow his dream and go to sea.” Chas pulled the cuff over his bandaged wrist. It would well nigh kill him if his illegitimate brother got Ada, too. “I am the one who always envied Leo, you see.” He took a swallow of wine. “By the way, what was the scapegrace doing here in the first place?”