Page 35

Appearances were all so strong,

The World must think him in the wrong.

“What on earth are you doing here?” asked Horace Langworthy, in a low, shaking voice at which those on deck who had served under him would have blanched.

“Why shouldn’t I be here?” Wrigley answered, not the least bit daunted.

They had made their way wordlessly down the long Perryfield drive, Langworthy’s hand on the footboy’s narrow shoulder as he limped. But once they were out of sight of the house, shielded by the stone half wall, both the hand and the supposed lameness fell away.

“There are a thousand reasons,” he rejoined, “beginning with that disguise which wouldn’t fool a child.”

“I beg your pardon,” retorted Wrigley, “but this disguise has fooled several children already and an equal number of adults.”

In reply to this he said only: “Mary.”

A giggle burst from Wrigley, his nose wrinkling in fun and his hand reaching to remove his wig. But Langworthy’s own hand flashed up to stop him.

“Don’t, you little imp! Do you want to be discovered?”

“Ha! There, I told you. If you didn’t think my disguise was convincing, why would you object to my removing it?”

“Because, feeble as it is, it is essential. Now is neither the time nor the place for you to metamorphose into a young lady.”

His erstwhile intended bride grinned up at him unrepentantly, executing a little twirl.

“Aren’t you going to tell me how charming I look in livery?

The color suits me, don’t you think?” But she pouted when, instead of him smiling ruefully at her, fighting to hide his admiration, she saw his eyes had narrowed to glittering slits.

“Mary,” he bit out, “what can you possibly be thinking, taking such a risk to come here?”

“If you have a thousand reasons why I shouldn’t be here, I have a few of my own why I should,” she returned roundly. “And as I am my own mistress, why should I not do as I please?”

In answer, he began to stride away, following the road which ran along the wall.

“Where are you going?” she demanded.

“I am going to Oxford,” he said simply, “where I will put you on the evening coach to London and thence to Portsmouth.”

“That’s a half-hour walk!” she protested, chasing after him. “And how can I possibly take the coach unchaperoned?”

This drew an incredulous snort. “As you noted, you have your impenetrable disguise.”

“But I can’t just leave poor Blodgett! She will have no idea what became of me, nor any notion what to do.”

“Good Lord,” he groaned, not slowing. “I suppose I should have guessed. That poor ancient creature is female?”

Another giggle. “Of course she is. Though Tibby does have rather a square jaw and hulking person.”

“And you involved your companion—for I suppose this Miss Blodgett is your companion—in this wretched scheme?”

“ You always did your mischief with a companion,” she reminded him. “It was always Sebastian this and Barstow-and-I that.”

He ignored this. “However did you persuade her to the ruse?”

“Tibby Blodgett is not an opinionated person and will do whatever I ask because she adores me. As you once did.” She threw this last bit down like a gauntlet, but again he did not take it up.

“Can’t we walk a little more slowly?” she wheedled after another minute. “Your limbs are much longer than mine and it’s growing darker. I wouldn’t want either one of us genuinely to wrench an ankle. May I take your arm?”

“Why would I be arm in arm with Wrigley the footboy?”

“You really are angry with me, aren’t you, Horace? I thought you would be glad to hear I didn’t marry Captain Colley. I thought you would come back at once when your uncle wrote to you. And when you didn’t, well, I had to see what delayed you.”

“I have obligations here,” he said gruffly. They had reached Wallingford Way, but no wagons or carriages were in sight which might be stopped and asked to carry them. They might indeed have to walk all the way.

At least in the exercise and the brisk air, Langworthy could feel his initial shock beginning to ebb, along with the fierce fury which attended it.

He marveled at his blindness now. Despite denigrating the effectiveness of her disguise, he had neither noticed nor recognized Mary Pence in Wrigley the footboy until she threw herself between him and Mrs. Sebastian.

But how could he possibly have recognized her, so wholly out of place, where she was not only unexpected, but possibly even the last person on his mind?

Little wonder, then, that sheer perplexity—unbelief—had almost paralyzed him.

Mary Pence—here? In Iffley? At the Perryfield children’s ball? Dressed—heaven help him—as a young man in livery?

And then the first thing to follow, breaking through his fog of astonishment, was nothing he would have guessed.

For, upon seeing again the young lady he had known half his life and wanted to marry nearly as long, the young lady who had so recently broken his heart, he felt neither elation at her reappearance, nor any passionate desire to take her in his arms and call her his own again, nor even a flicker of amusement at this latest prank. A prank to top all previous pranks.

No, indeed. The first thing to flood him was dismay.

Alarm.

Horror, even.

Because what would happen, if she were discovered?

What Mary Pence considered a romp, a lark, would be for him the end of all.

The end of his time in Iffley. The end of his friendship with Mrs. Sebastian.

The end of his liberty. For what could he do under the circumstances, but rescue Miss Pence from the consequences of her own reckless actions?

And what form could such rescue take, to silence scandal, other than to claim her before all the world as his bride?

These were the hideous fears swirling through him when Mrs. Dere summoned them back to the drawing room, leaving Mrs. Sebastian in Mary Pence’s custody!

Oh, the dread of those minutes, waiting for them to reappear, while he moved like an automaton through the figures with his partner.

What would Mary say to Mrs. Sebastian, he wondered, arming right with little Kate Chauncey.

And, then, as he wound around Mrs. Lane in the figure eight: What would Mrs. Sebastian think and do?

Whatever her opinion of Mary Pence and Mary Pence’s outrageous conduct, Langworthy knew he would be tarred with the same brush.

Would she possibly think he endorsed it?

Perspiration broke out on his forehead, causing the baron to say, “This is a lively one, eh, Langworthy?”

And then, when the dance ended and Mrs. Sebastian at last re-entered the drawing room alone, subdued and avoiding his gaze, he thought he would go mad with the uncertainty.

One thing had become clear to him as crystal, however, in the midst of his distressful minutes. The sudden apparition of his former beloved, like the parting of nighttime clouds to reveal the stars, allowed Langworthy all he needed to calculate his new position with perfect accuracy.

That is, he needed only that glimpse to understand.

When he had come to Iffley, he considered himself rudderless and adrift, leagues and leagues from all familiar landmarks and without any fixed destination.

But somehow, in spite of his circumstances and in spite of all expectations, he had been carried along by friendly, unseen currents. He had come, after all, safe to harbor.

He had come home.

And home bore the shape of a woman with light brown hair and blue eyes, outwardly quiet but with fire beneath the surface.

Home was now Sarah.

“To what obligations do you refer?” Mary Pence demanded, breaking into his thoughts.

Unknown to him, she had observed the softening of his profile, the easing of tension from his muscles, even as he kept to his deliberate pace.

In the exact proportion that Langworthy’s ire faded, hers increased.

“It seems to me your obligations here have been fulfilled. I know Sebastian Barstow wanted you to make sure his wife and child weren’t starving in the hedgerows, but it’s quite clear they have fallen upon their feet—petted friends of a peer, no less!

Dining and dancing and being waited upon. So that’s taken care of.”

“I have taken up teaching the baron’s great-nephew, along with some other boys, in mathematics—”

“As if such as Lord Dere, a stone’s throw from Oxford, could not find ten dozen mathematics tutors,” she scorned.

Further defenses died in his throat because, truly, had he not all but announced the lessons would end with the ball?

He might be following Mary Pence and her companion Blodgett back to Portsmouth within the week.

Not that he wanted to tell his companion that bit.

If he knew Mary, she would insist he come with her now.

Or she would insist on waiting for him, that they might travel together.

“They have enlisted me, at any rate,” he replied. “For pay. And I have found I enjoy the work.”

“ You, Horace Langworthy—a schoolmaster?”

He knew from experience that, if not checked, there was a point at which her temper would fizz and pop like a sackful of lit fireworks, a display which would do neither of them any good.

It was this realization which allowed him to master his impatience.

He had one goal now: to win Mrs. Sebastian Barstow, and he would pay in whatever currency was necessary to secure it—in patience, in hard work, in time, in pride.

The mere thought of Sarah calmed him now.

His new love had a temper of her own, he knew, but with her greater maturity, she fought against giving in to it—never willingly indulged it—the way Mary would.

Only think how Mrs. Sebastian had won him from hostility to admiration through her apology and friendly overtures.

In her generosity, she had even encouraged him to lay down his self-regard in order to reclaim Mary Pence!

But what if he no longer wanted her?