Page 8 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)

Chapter five

Names

“ M agpie! Magpie!” Bel shook her head in disbelief.

She’d searched the house and the barn three times over.

That troublesome cat had disappeared again.

There was always the fear of foxes or other predators taking her, but Bel had a suspicion that Magpie might have gone wandering again to the very place her mistress was most loath to follow.

“If you’ve gone to ground at the Audeleys’ again,” muttered Bel, “so help me, I’ll—”

She did not finish that statement. She had already avoided tea with Nigel Lymington yesterday, tending to the sheep while he was visiting Aunt Lucy.

It had disconcerted her when he stopped in the lane to watch Jer and Tam pull the errant lamb out of the mud, and she hoped he had not recognised her.

She had started wearing male attire a few years ago when working on her own land.

It was easier than fussing with a skirt—although Aunt Lucy had made her promise not to wear it in the house or around any of the gentry.

So far, she had managed to avoid encountering the Brownlees, or the Audeleys, or any of the other upper crust of Upper Cross while wearing trousers, but Mr. Lymington’s perspicacious gaze had taken her by surprise.

Addressing Magpie’s truancy would require a change out of her utilitarian clothing.

Bel took off her jacket and shirt, untucked her thin chemise from the trousers, and fastened a pair of stays over her bosom.

Then, she pulled a serviceable brown wool gown over her head.

She disliked having to call Jenny to help her dress, so she wore her clothing loose.

That way, her arms and fingers were nimble enough to reach behind and fasten all the ties that feminine clothing sported.

Finished at last, she wound her full hair into a bun and placed her old chip bonnet over it. She would dress well enough not to embarrass Aunt Lucy, but not well enough to hint that she had any care for her appearance when entering the presence of Nigel Lymington.

Instead of walking on the lane, she cut through the long field that separated the Morrison estate from Audeley House.

Archie let her into the house when she told him her errand and showed her to the parlour when she asked after Mr. Lymington.

“I was just about t’make tea for his gr—I mean, for Mr. Lymington,” he said proudly.

Bel ignored Archie and pushed open the door of the parlour.

The sight that greeted her eyes might have awakened tender feelings in a woman yearning for domesticity, but the image of Nigel Lymington—eyes closed, leaning against the wing of an old armchair, cradling a fluffy feline in his lap—filled Bel with more annoyance than sentiment.

What was he doing with that cat? The creature clearly belonged to her! She cleared her throat.

Mr. Lymington’s dark eyes sprung open. He straightened in the chair. “Ah, Miss Morrison. I’m used to more warning from my butler when I have a caller.” He paused. “You’ll pardon me if I don’t rise to greet you. The cat is napping.”

“The cat will have to be wakened,” said Bel briskly, ignoring the fact that she had caught Mr. Lymington napping as well, “for she is coming home with me.” She looked at the gentle breathing of the furry bundle that sat atop Mr. Lymington’s muscular legs.

“Magpie,” she said in a firm tone. “Magpie!”

The cat continued to sleep.

Mr. Lymington shook his head. “I must say that your naming skills leave something to be desired.”

“What on earth do you mean, sir?”

“All I am pointing out,” he said, hand raised in a conciliatory fashion, “is that Magpie is not a particularly clever name for a magpie cat. It leaves me wondering if you had a black pony when you were a girl and named it Blackie. Or a pet fish in a bowl that you named Fishy.”

Bel froze. How did he know that? The pony had been brown with the name Brownie, but the principle was the same.

“Perhaps it’s not the cleverest name,” she said her hackles beginning to rise, “but what would you have called a cat?”

He shrugged. “Princess? Guinevere? Melisande?”

She blinked.

“Dido? Coricopat? Scheherazade?”

“Point taken, Mr. Lymington. You are far more clever with names than I am. However, the cat belongs to me, not you, and I shall be taking Magpie home now.”

Reluctantly, Mr. Lymington lifted the furry creature off his lap, rose to his feet, and deposited it into her arms. The cat stretched and flexed its claws, dismayed at having its slumber disturbed so abruptly. “ Au revoir , Magpie,” said Mr. Lymington, kissing the air with exaggerated gallantry .

Bel rolled her eyes. How did this fellow manage to be so humorous and so irritating all at the same time?

At that moment, the Audeley’s undergardener came into the parlour bearing a little plate of ham, minced finely.

“What is that?” demanded Bel.

“Tea for Miss Magpie,” said Archie, attempting to stand to attention like a London footman in livery.

“Tea for a cat?” Bel stared at Mr. Lymington in disbelief. So, this is what Magpie had been eating at Audeley House, an unheard-of indulgence when Bel often expected the cat to catch her own supper in the barn.

“Perhaps you ought to stay to tea and investigate why it seems to be that Magpie prefers my company to yours.”

“I can clearly see why Magpie prefers your company. It is because you bribe her with the choicest cuts of meat from your larder. And in the process, you make her wholly dependent on your table and wholly useless as a mouser.”

“Nonsense,” said Mr. Lymington. “A little ham never hurt a true hunter. You don’t see peers of the realm giving up fox hunting simply because they have a French cook in the kitchen.”

“I daresay you have no cook in the kitchen, Mr. Lymington, so I don’t understand how you expect to serve me tea.”

“Ah, you are not reckoning with the talents of Mrs. Garrick. She has a plum cake waiting for us. And I happened to walk into Upper Cross earlier this morning and secured some sweetmeats.” He looked at her pleadingly, like a boy hoping for a holiday from his books.

She could not understand why he would want her company, but she grudgingly conceded the point. “Very well, I shall stay for tea, but I shall be certain to scold you and put you into a temper.” She put the cat down on the floor and let it pick fastidiously at the plate of minced ham.

Mr. Lymington clapped his hands together. “Excellent. And I think you’ll find that I keep my temper quite well. It will be a challenge for you to make me lose it.”

Within moments, Archie brought in a tray with a teapot, the plum cake, and Mrs. Audeley’s gold-rimmed teacups and tea plates.

He set it down on the tea table, and Mr. Lymington leaned forward to pour.

He seemed quite comfortable playing hostess.

In other circumstances, Bel might have found his confidence charming, but somehow, it only made her warier.

“No sugar, I assume?”

“Why would you assume that?”

“Because you are not a sugary person, Miss Morrison.”

“Which makes one wonder what lunacy caused you to walk all the way into Upper Cross to obtain sweetmeats.”

“Perhaps I have a sweet tooth,” said the dark-haired man. He gave her a lopsided grin. “Or perhaps I suspected that you would call on me for tea, and I am trying to make you sweeter than you are by nature.”

“Upon my word, Mr. Lymington, did you invite me to tea to insult me?” Bel was beginning to wonder if he would make her lose her temper before she had landed any hits of her own.

“Not at all.” He handed her the dark beverage with no sugar and no cream. She looked down at it and was reminded, uncomfortably, that she took her tea the same way as the vicar. Perhaps it would not hurt to try a little sugar next time.

“I am still puzzled as to why Mrs. Audeley, after such a short acquaintance, would allow you to stay in her house while she is not here. ”

“It is really quite simple,” he said with a drawl. “I attempted to seduce Mrs. Audeley while she was in London, and in the process, we became friends.”

Bel had been about to take a drink, but she paused in stunned silence. “I believe I misheard you. You were attempting to…?”

“Seduce Mrs. Audeley.” He flashed her an apologetic look. “It seemed the thing to do—to put Lord Kendall’s nose out of joint.”

Bel had no idea who Lord Kendall was, but at all this talk of seduction, her ears began to turn red.

Fortunately, they were well hidden by her narrow-brimmed chip bonnet.

She knew Mrs. Audeley as well as one could know a neighbour.

She was a modest and unassuming Derbyshire widow, and Bel was certain that Mr. Lymington’s attentions would not have been welcome.

She changed the subject. “How did you enjoy the vicar’s sermon?” Apparently, Mr. Lymington was in more dire need of divine services than she had initially realised.

“I found it very edifying,” murmured Mr. Lymington, so meekly that Bel could easily see the deviltry lurking behind his eyes. “The wolf shall lie down with the lamb, and all that.”

There was something very wolf-like about Mr. Lymington’s face as he considered her countenance. Were all London gentlemen like this, or just this one?

She put down her teacup and bent down to gather up Magpie. “Thank you for the tea, Mr. Lymington. I will bore you no longer with my presence and will take my cat home where she belongs.”

“Bore me? Certainly not. Your aunt assures me that you are a very interesting person to talk to. And I am still waiting for you to put me in a temper. ”

It seemed, almost, like a plea for her to stay. Bel had no intention of yielding. Mr. Lymington, despite his charm, was a highly inappropriate person to take tea with. And now that she had retrieved Magpie, she had other chores to complete.

Bel rose to her feet. “I daresay you can amuse yourself, Mr. Lymington, since you are on holiday here in Derbyshire. But for those of us who live here, there are many duties to attend to.”

Mr. Lymington looked crestfallen at that although Bel could not understand why. He abandoned his comfortable armchair to stand as well. “Your servant, Miss Morrison.” Before she knew what he was doing, he took her hand—the one not holding Magpie to her chest—and pressed it.

Bel started. She had touched hands with dozens of men in greetings at church, in business at market day, and on the dance floor for assemblies, but she had never felt such a frisson of excitement. Why should contact with the impertinent Mr. Lymington affect her so?

At least she was wearing gloves. And at least her bonnet was covering her ears like a shield. “Good-bye, Mr. Lymington,” she said crisply without a hint of sympathy in her voice.

Then she fled the room, determined to lock Magpie away until the Audeleys’ guest should have left the county.