Page 26 of The Smuggler’s Escape

Chapter 7

Richard Boltwood woke to another annoyance entirely: his mother’s voice. Usually, his mother didn’t annoy him at all. He liked his mother more than any other woman, not counting Noelle.

Rather more than Noelle, the way things were going, Richard recalled with a groan, until his mother’s reproachful tone dragged him relentlessly from the depths of a too-short sleep. Damn and blast the entire gender. He rolled away from the nagging voice.

“Richard, wake up, drat you!” She drew the bed curtains with a rattle, letting in a hellish draft. He pulled the blanket over his head.

“You are a sweet boy and I love you dearly, but I cannot put up with thoughtlessness,” his mother said as if he were still ten years old. “You must account for yourself, and you must do it now.” With unprecedented ruthlessness, she threw the covers off his legs, exposing them naked to the chilly night air.

He yanked the blanket back where it belonged before she exposed him completely. She was his mother, devil take her, and he wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. He uncovered his head and opened his eyes to pitch darkness, broken only by a wavering candle flame and his mother’s pale face.

“It’s the middle of the night, Mama. I’d be happy to account for myself in the morning. Go back to sleep, there’s a dear, kind parent.”

From somewhere below a melancholy howl dragged Richard further toward full consciousness.

“It’s already morning,” his mother said, “seven o’clock to be precise, and my maid has just given me some distressing news about your behavior. Much as I would like to believe it is only servants’ gossip, I fear it is all too true.”

Richard yawned. “Distressing news is no fun in the morning. Set it aside for now and let me go back to sleep. And do something about that yowling dog while you’re at it.”

“I cannot set it aside, nor can I control the dog.” A stir in the corridor interrupted her. “Excuse me a moment, dearest.”

Richard took advantage of the respite to don an ancient wool robe and cinch it at his waist. He made his way barefoot to the corridor and stuck his head out. Blocking the door to the room next to his stood Holmes, his valet, disapproving but determined. A groom carrying a stretcher waited nearby, while a pretty young maid hovered in the background.

“Yes, the nursery is what I said.” His mother beckoned to the maid. “Have you made up the fire there, Betsy?”

“Morning, Betsy.” Richard winked at the maid, who giggled as she curtseyed. “What’s toward?”

“It’s that gypsy friend of yours,” his mother said, as another despairing howl assailed their ears. “Holmes says you ordered him put next door to you, but really, dear, with guests coming, wouldn’t the nursery be better? It’s much more secluded, so he won’t feel quite so out of place. So inconsiderate of you! By what I understand, the poor man was much distressed when he woke to find himself here.”

Richard raised his brows at the valet. “Put up a fight, did he?”

“He expressed his displeasure with extreme vulgarity, my lord.”

“And how is my old friend faring now, Holmes?”

“Feverish, my lord,” Holmes said in a pinched voice, “but as well as can be expected. After removing the shot, the doctor gave him a draught to keep him asleep.” From the valet’s expression, he hoped that sleep would be lengthy, if not eternal.

“Excellent,” Richard said. “Leave him where he is for now. I’ll speak to him later. Get my shaving water, will you? I’ve a deuced busy day ahead. And let that dog come upstairs. It will quiet down if you let it in with Johnny.”

“But, Richard, it’s a flea-ridden mongrel!” Lady Boltwood cried.

“Fleas at this season? Come, come, Mama, you can do better than that.”

“It can’t possibly be housebroken,” his mother suggested weakly. “Your gypsy doesn’t live in a house.”

“He’s a tinker, not a gypsy.” Richard smiled lovingly down at her. “You don’t suppose he lets it soil the wagon, do you?” He grinned at the groom. “Get the wagon here all right, Stubbs?”

“Yes, my lord, it’s next the stables, but—”

Lady Boltwood broke in. “But it can’t possibly stay there. I may be able to keep the gypsy out of sight, but the dog will be difficult and the wagon impossible.” She led Richard into his bedchamber. “With the conservatory in disarray, a funeral to plan, and guests arriving today, the last thing I need is an eyesore on the grounds. It will look so peculiar.”

“Blame it all on me.” Richard stuck his head back into the corridor, asked Betsy to bring coffee, and told the groom, “Send for Tommy and Will Dalbey, please. I need them here with their cart within the hour.” He wandered through the bedchamber to his dressing room and began opening and shutting drawers. “Who are your guests? Why not put them off? Tell them you’re sunk in mourning and cannot see anyone.”

“Put off Miranda Darsington? How, I ask you? Most likely she’s already on her way here.”

“Good God, Mama!” What in Hades was Sir Frederick Darsington about to let his wife and daughter come to this small corner of Sussex now, of all inconvenient times? Richard returned to the doorway, dangling a pair of smalls on one finger. “Why did you invite that harridan to spoil our peace? I’ve seen more than enough of her in London.”

“I didn’t invite her! She invited herself and her daughter as well, to attend the funeral, although I have no notion why. We have never been close, and now I shall have to put her in the best bedchamber, along with the Persian carpet and my favorite Hepplewhite chairs.”