Chapter 9 #2
‘Forgive my lack of enthusiasm, your grace,’ Rafe countered with a pained chuckle, ‘but from what little I’ve seen of your father-in-law, following orders is not one of his strong suits.
In fairness, I had actually assumed that he and the outlandish Scottish gentleman would be sailing with us.
’ He turned to Roan. ‘Is the ship able to accommodate Mr Noon and his son also?’
Roan sighed and nodded. ‘Though our ruse of a family trip to France is wasted if Fontaine is expecting us. Perhaps we’d be better to simply abandon the ploy.’
Rafe shook his head. ‘He currently believes us entirely unaware of his duplicity and I would prefer we not enlighten him. The last thing we need is for him to realise we are playing a double game. But not only that, it will be far more difficult for someone to harm Tristan with so many people onboard.’
‘And I’d like to see you try and talk Hope out of it,’ Gabriel added. ‘Please feel free to put your suggestion to her…’ The Viscount left the sentence hanging.
‘As much as I’d prefer to accompany you, I believe I will better serve by remaining in England,’ the Duke interjected.
‘I find it hard to believe there are no rumours swirling around London at all, and I have contacts in Westminster I can trust.’ He paused before adding drily, ‘And putting aside the knowledge that my wife too will certainly have my hide if I go to France without her, Grace and I are expected in Grosvenor Square at the end of this month. I can easily bring the visit forward without any undue suspicion.’ He paused, then looked directly at Raphael, his expression chagrined.
‘I believe I owe you an apology, Monsieur Augustin,’ he said finally, stiffly. ‘I can only say I am not usually quite so pigheaded…’
The sudden burst of laughter from both Roan and Gabriel cut him off. Nicholas raised his eyebrows before giving a rueful grin and adding drily, ‘Clearly there are those who would disagree.’
‘I think this calls for a celebratory brandy before we finally retire, Roan chuckled, climbing to his feet.
‘What the devil are we celebrating?’ Nicholas growled, his eyes narrowing.
‘What, other than you admitting you were wrong, Nick? Why, nothing at all…’
‘Dae ye gae me a bit more bed, Revren? Yer big toe be verra nearly up ma nose, and tae be honest, it be mingin’’
‘Well, since your deuced toes look like you could grow potatoes in between ‘em, I wouldn’t go casting stones,’ the Reverend retorted, dragging up the blanket to cover the offending digits just under his chin. ‘There might be a bit more room if Flossy got out from under the damned blanket.’
‘She be keepin’ me warm, Revren, seein’ as ye an’ Da be hoggin’ the blanket an’ ye willnae let me keep ma boots on.’
With a long-suffering sigh, Reverend Shackleford gave his curate a shove. ‘Can’t you move over a bit, Percy?’
‘Sorry, Sir,’ came the mumbled response, followed by a loud snore.
All was quiet for a few moments, and Augustus Shackleford finally began to drift off until suddenly a crunching sound broke the silence. ‘What in blazes are you doing now?’ He growled, sitting up.
‘It be ma puddin’’ Finn explained, sitting up in turn and holding out a biscuit. ‘Dae ye want one, Revren? Ah hae plenty under ma pillow.’
The Reverend stared incredulously at the boy. ‘You had a deuced pudding,’ he growled. ‘In fact, I think you had three.’
‘Four,’ corrected the boy. ‘Mam says ah be gettin’ right guid wi’ ma numbers.’
‘You can’t possibly be hungry,’ Reverend Shackleford went on, wondering what the devil he was doing arguing with a nine-year-old boy in the middle of the night. ‘And you’re getting crumbs in the bed.’
Finn shrugged. ‘It be a wee biscuit is all,’ he retorted. ‘I dinnae care aboot a few crumbs. Better’n lyin’ ‘ere wi yer mingin’ bunions up ma nose.’
The Reverend gritted his teeth and opened his mouth to tell the boy in no uncertain terms that this was his deuced bed, and he’d decide what would be eaten in it, but he was forestalled by a sudden knock on the door.
‘Thunder an’ turf, you’ve woken the whole household,’ the clergyman hissed.
‘Ah didnae dae anythin’,’ protested Finn as the knock came again.
Gritting his teeth, the Reverend climbed out of bed and, shivering at the sudden rush of cold round his nether regions, hurried to the door, his nightshirt flapping round his ankles.
‘What time do you call thi…?’ he started, pulling open the door, only to stop and stare incredulously at his granddaughter, Henrietta.
‘Has something happened?’ he asked immediately, fearing the worst.
‘Be somebody deid?’ Finn quizzed with ghoulish relish, coming to stand beside the Reverend. ‘Or gaunae be deid?’ he added hopefully as Henrietta began shaking her head.
‘No, nobody’s dead – not even a little bit as far as I’m aware,’ Henri muttered before adding in an undertone, ‘Not yet anyway.’ She paused and looked around the deserted landing before leaning forward and whispering, ‘Rosie’s here.’
‘Rosie who?’ the Reverend asked after a second.
Henrietta looked at him askance. ‘Roseanna – your granddaughter.’
‘What the devil is she doing in Torquay? How did she get here?’
‘She…’ Henrietta stopped and shook her head. ‘It would take too long to tell you. I need you to fetch Tristan.’
Her grandfather stared at her in disbelief. ‘Are you addled, girl? I can’t be fetching gentlemen for you to have a cosy chat with in the middle of the night.’
‘It’s not me, it’s Rosie.’
‘Oh well, that makes it alright then,’ he scoffed sarcastically.
‘Ah dinnae ken her da’ll see it that way,’ Finn interrupted doubtfully.
The Reverend and Henri glared at the frowning boy for a second, then Henrietta shook her head, gritting her teeth in exasperation. ‘I daren’t leave it until tomorrow. What if Uncle Gabriel finds out she’s here?’
‘Ah reckon he’ll be fizzin,’ Finn offered helpfully.
‘Shut up, Finn,’ chorused the other two in heated whispers.
Shaking his head, the Reverend stepped out onto the landing, muttering, ‘Lord save me from foolish chits and jaw-me-dead boys.’
‘What be jaw-me deid?’ Finn quizzed, following at their heels.
‘Someone who talks too much,’ Augustus Shackleford threw over his shoulder.
Seconds later, they were standing outside a bedchamber door. ‘How do you know this is the right one?’ the Reverend asked.
‘I don’t - I thought you did?’ Henrietta retorted.
‘How am I supposed to know which room an unmarried gentleman is sleeping in?’ They stared at each other.
After a few seconds, Finn shook his head with a sigh and stepped between them muttering, ‘tumshie heids,’ under his breath as he pushed open the door.