Chapter Twenty-three
Westland frowned at Sylvie’s note for the third time that morning, as an unfamiliar and thoroughly disagreeable sensation twisted in his stomach.
“There is a Miss Mason to see you, my lord.”
Looking up, his frown deepened. “Alone?”
“In a manner of speaking, my lord. She’s… persuasive.”
“I see. Very well,” he sighed. “Show her into the morning room and have some tea brought up.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Westland pulled on his coat slowly, contemplating what he might say.
He could not deny the chill that struck him when he thought Sylvie had been taken, nor the immense relief when she was found — though that was quickly overshadowed by the discomfort of the conversation in the carriage.
Yet one thing, however, was now certain.
Miss Mason was still harbouring romantic delusions and hopes of a fairy tale marriage.
It was time he put an end to this once and for all.
He would not soften his words or temper his tone, and if there were tears or a tantrum to be had, then so be it.
Though he wondered briefly if his happy, carefree, feather-headed fiancée was even capable of throwing a tantrum, then shook the thought from his head.
With a deep breath, he tugged down his coat and strode from the room.
At the entrance to the morning room, he paused and commanded his mind to calm and his long-time companion ‘indifference’ take control. Then he stepped inside.
He made it precisely three paces before he came to a shuddering halt.
Slouched in a high-back chair, swinging her legs and greedily licking butter from her fingers, sat a small girl who grinned up at him. “Buttered crumpets,” she announced proudly, waving her hand towards a plate on the table beside her. “They’re delicious. Would you like one?”
“Miss… Masie?” Westland stammered, though his attention snapped to the floor as something brushed up against his ankle. “Ah, and I presume this is Tuppence?”
“Yes! She likes crumpets too, especially the butter, but she might like your boots better.”
The tiny black-and-tan, long-haired dachshund pup darted in and out between his feet, gave an excited yap and made a valiant dive for his toes.
Instinct overruled dignity, and he bent and scooped the pup up. “Tuppence, no nipping,” he said gravely, as though addressing a delinquent footman. The puppy wriggled and wagged her tail madly, then darted out her pink tongue to lick his chin.
“And absolutely no licking,” he muttered, trying not to smile, before tucking her neatly under his arm. He might have little affection for people, but he had never been able to resist the charms of a puppy.
“Now, Miss Masie,” he said firmly, fixing her with a steely stare that had made grown men flinch, “would you care to explain why you are sitting in my morning room, eating my crumpets?”
Masie shrugged. “Waiting to start our sparing practice. You’re late.”
“I… I beg your pardon?”
“Papa refused, and the girls won’t even try,” she said, as though this explained everything. Hopping out of her chair, she wandered towards him and reached up to scratch Tuppence under the chin. “You can fence, can’t you?”
“Yes, but…”
“I can do an hour every morning apart from Sundays. Not that we really go to Church to pray, Mama just likes to see who is there so she can gossip. Anyway, we’ll have to keep it secret.
They think I’m in my room reading the dictionary.
I told them I need peace if I’m to get to the D’s before Juliette.
” She looked up earnestly. “But I really need to become adroit.”
“Adroit?”
“Yes. Skilful. Good at it. As soon as possible, please. I don’t have much time.”
Annoyingly amused and distracted by this little hellion, he shook his head to come back to his senses. “Did you come here alone?”
“Yes. Well, sort of. Ned showed me the way. He is waiting in the kitchens.”
“Ned?”
“He’s my friend. He lives in the stables, but he won’t play swords with me either, so you will have to do.
” She skipped back to the chair she had just vacated and brandished two little wooden swords.
“Shall we practise in here?” she cried, leaping a lunge and shouting, “En-guard!” then proceeded to waggle one of the swords about as if parrying.
Tuppence yapped excitedly as Westland stood rooted, the picture of long-suffering patience. “No,” he said, as evenly as he could manage. “We shall not be practising anywhere. You, Miss Masie, will be returning home in my carriage. Immediately.”
She froze mid-swing and tutted loudly. “But, but it’s… it’s balefully crucial.”
“Balefully crucial?”
“Yes,” she replied, giving him a pitying look as if she thought him witless. “Deadly important.”
He arched a sceptical brow. “And why is it so crucial?”
“Pff, so I can win my duel, of course.”
“Your… your duel?”
“My duel with Mr Winkle.”
“This Mr… Winkle has called you out, has he?”
“No, I am calling him out. He squealed to Papa when I put pickles on his seat.”
“Oh?”
“He called Mrs Higgle-Piggle filthy vermin and tried to kick her out of the door, but she’s not filthy vermin, she’s my hedgehog! He’s a mean old trout, so I was going to put Ferdinand in his water glass, but Mama said I’m very wicked and Papa won’t let me have cake for a month of Sundays.”
“Ferdinand?”
“Ferdinand Frog.” She said solemnly. “Sylvie said poor Ferdi might have been swallowed up whole.” Leaning closer, Masie, the youngest of the Mason girls, whispered conspiratorially, “And Sylvie said it would be better if I used a cactus instead. I think she was right, don’t you?
That horrid trout deserves a few pickles stuck in his behind. ”
“Pickles… ?” spluttered Westland.
“Yes. The more pickles, the better, I say.”
Westland rubbed a hand over his face. “Good Lord.”
“Shall we start then?”
“Um, yes… No, I…”
“Forgive me,” drawled a voice from the doorway. “I didn’t realise you were entertaining.”
Westland turned sharply to find Humber leaning against the door frame, eyes glinting with amusement.
“I’m not,” snapped Westland. “Miss Masie was just leaving.”
“No, I wasn’t,” she squeaked as her head bobbed around toward the intrusion, then, to Westland’s astonishment, darted behind him. Instantly coy, she started fiddling with the end of her ribbon sash.
“Are you going to introduce me?” asked Humber, the inflexion of teasing unmistakable.
It was not the first time Humber had rendered a female speechless. He was dubbed one of the most handsome men in the kingdom. The French had even named him Ange déchu, the Fallen Angel, but Masie? What was she? Eight at most.
Westland rolled his eyes heavenwards. “Miss Masie,” he sighed. “May I introduce Lord Sebastian, the Earl of Humber.”
Tentatively, Masie stepped out from behind Westland’s legs and dipped a dainty curtsey. With her eyelashes lowered, she looked the picture of angelic innocence.
“Hello, how do you do?” she whispered.
“Very well, thank you, and whom do we have here?” purred Humber, taking the pup from Westland. “What a pretty little thing you are,” he laughed as Tuppence gave his chin a good lick, “and full of trouble, I don’t doubt.”
“That’s Tuppence,” Masie said shyly, edging toward him as he sat and settled the pup on his knee.
“Is she yours?”
“Yes… Well, I’m supposed to share her, but I think she likes me best.”
“Oh?”
“Mmm. She likes Sylvie too, but Mae is too boring… always got her nose stuck in a book… and Trix is always playing with her pongy potions. She’s… smelly.”
“Who?” Humber asked, sniffing the pup’s neck. “Tuppence or Trix?”
“Trix,” giggled Masie.
“Ewe! What does she smell like?”
“Roses and violets… and tree things.”
“Oh dear, she sounds very smelly indeed,” laughed Humber, flipping open his pocket watch. Giving Westland a mischievous smirk, he turned back to the little girl, now utterly mesmerised. “Well, I think it is time we go and take tea with your smelly sister. Will there be cake?”
“Oh yes,” Masie cried, then frowned. “But I am not allowed any for a whole month of Sundays.”
“Right, yes, what a pickle indeed. Lucky for us then, it is only Tuesday.”
* * *
Westland had scoffed, voicing his concern that there wouldn’t be room, but Humber had insisted his new curricle was more than roomy enough for them all to squash in.
“And what of your shoulder?” asked Westland sharply. “I hear you took quite a trouncing during sparring practice yesterday. Should you not consider giving the ring a miss for a while?”
“Pha! Utter rot. It merely slowed me a tad. One must maintain one’s fitness, regardless of a little pain.
It’s character building, my friend. Pursuing all the pleasures life offers requires a certain degree of strength and stamina…
and you know how I enjoy my pleasures. So, alas, no, I am not considering giving up my sparring practice.
And I think I can manage a sedate little trot down the street, one-handed if necessary, as I am rather the whip.
And you, my friend, will no doubt be at the ready if I am found lacking. ”
At the prospect of such a treat, Masie scrambled for the chair and stuck on her bonnet haphazardly, fumbling with the ribbons.
Before he’d even thought it, Westland knelt on one knee and took the silky strands from her.
Straightening the little straw hat, he carefully tied a neat double bow under her chin.
Unaware she was staring at him through wide-open eyes, he finally looked up and gave her a small, awkward smile.
“I think we might say that Lord Humber and I were on our way to Mason House when we saw you and Ned playing in the yard with Tuppence… and, as it’s such a fine day, gave you all a little ride in Humber’s new carriage… as a special treat?”
Her eyes widened further.
“Because you understand,” he went on, “it is not the done thing to call at a gentleman’s residence unchaperoned, and demand fencing lessons. A young lady who did such a thing might find herself in very big trouble — with no cake for a whole year.”
He nearly toppled backwards as she suddenly launched herself at him, wrapping her little arms around his neck in the tightest of hugs.
“I knew you’d be the bestest big brother I could ever have. And I promise I will never, ever put pickles on your chair.”
A strange, unfamiliar warmth filled his chest, and it unsettled him. Extracting himself as gently as he could, he half grunted, “Yes, well… right… shall we…”
As he stood, he caught Humber watching with one brow raised, his mouth quirking in that infuriatingly knowing smile.
Westland shot him a look, but the little hand that slid inside his — fingers curling round his own — made him glance down.
Masie, smiling up, so innocent, so trusting, tugged his hand gently.
“Come on then,” she whispered, “shall we go on our adventure, brother?”
Ned had been fetched up from the kitchens and looked fit to burst with pride as he and Masie sat safely between Westland and Humber — Masie grinning unabashedly at the latter, while Tuppence stood on Westland’s knee barking happily at all the passing traffic, her silky ears flapping in the breeze.
“Do a lap of the park,” grunted Westland.
Humber glanced back, momentarily puzzled.
“Giving the children a treat… It’s the ruse.” Westland’s tone was clipped, and at Humber’s raised brow, he added rather petulantly, “They are enjoying themselves, tis all.”
A shrewd glint lit Humber’s eyes as he laughed. “Indeed, my friend. A grand idea. Miss Masie, Ned… what say you? A bit of fun in this glorious sunshine?”
“Oh, yes, please,” squeaked Masie.
“Golly, yes,” whispered Ned.
“Well, hold on… we’re about to fly with the winds!” Humber chortled, taking a sharp turn into the park and giving his pair of matching greys their heads as Masie giggled, Ned held his breath, and Tuppence howled her delight to the heavens.