Vixen

Chapter 9

Chloe didn't co back to sleep. She sat on the window seat, watching the sunrise, Dante's head on her knee, Falstaff preening his raggedy feathers with a peacock's pride. Beatrice climbed out of the hat box, stretched, yawned, arched her back, and glided purposefully to the door. Chloe let her out. The cat knew her way in and out of the house by now.

Chloe examined her emotions with an almost distant curiosity. She discovered that she was no longer hurt or confused; she was, very simply, angry. She supposed it was none of her business whom her guardian chose to bed, but the supposition did nothing to cool her indignation. He'd banished her from his presence and taken a fat whore in her place! Maybe she was a kind, fat whore, but a whore nonetheless. From now on she was going to have nothing to do with Sir Hugo Lattimer beyond the absolute necessities engendered by his guardianship. She'd been hurt and humiliated enough, and the sooner she made arrangements to leave his roof, the better it would be for everyone. The only question was where she should go.

And then she remembered Miss Anstey. Why shouldn't she set up an establishment with Miss Anstey? Presumably her fortune could pay a companion at least as much as she'd be paid by Lady Colshot. She would write first to Miss Anstey, and if she received a favorable response, then she would lay out the plan in a formal letter to her guardian. He'd made no secret of his anxiety to be rid of her, and it was so like the plan he'd had

himself that he'd surely jump at it. But she would insist on establishing herself in London.

Thus resolved, Chloe went down to the kitchen to fetch a jug of hot water. The library door was closed as she passed it, and she stuck out her tongue at it in a childish gesture that nevertheless relieved her feelings.

"You'll be wantin' your breakfast," Samuel observed as she entered the kitchen. In full possession of the facts now, he cast her a shrewd glance, assessing her state of mind. The leaden depression of the past few days seemed to have left her, although the light in her eyes didn't strike him as particularly joyful.

"I'd like a bath more than anything," Chloe said, surprising herself with the realization. She ran her hands through her hair. "I'd like to wash my hair."

"Long as you don't mind the kitchen," Samuel said. "I don't relish carrying jugs of 'ot water up them stairs. There's a tub somewhere in the scullery." He went into the small back kitchen, reappearing with a tin hip bath. He set it down in front of the range. "Reckon ye'll need a screen or summat."

"There's that fire screen in the library," Chloe said, moving to the door.

"I'll get it, miss. You're not to go in there, you understand?" The sharp urgency of his voice arrested her.

"I've seen him drunk before," she said acidly. "And rather more than that."

"I know," Samuel said. "But what's goin' on in there now is between Sir 'Ugo and 'is own self. You put one finger on that door, and you'll be answerin' to me."

Chloe blinked at this unlooked-for ferocity from the usually phlegmatic Samuel. "What's he doing, then?"

"Never you mind. None o' your business." He stomped to the door. "I'll set that bath up for you straightaway."

Chloe sat at the table, thoughtfully picking at the crust on a loaf of bread. Now what was going on?

Samuel went quietly into the library. Hugo was still sitting in the chair, his hands clenched on the arms, the knuckles bloodless. Sweat shimmered on his forehead.

"Bring me some coffee, Samuel."

"Right you are." Samuel picked up the heavy fire screen. "Miss is goin' to 'ave a bath in the kitchen."

"Well, watch young Billy," Hugo said. "I wouldn't put it past him to play Peeping Tom."

It was an attempt at levity, and Samuel smiled tightly in response. "You want anythin' to eat'"

Hugo just shook his head.

Samuel returned with a pot of coffee and set it down beside Hugo. He filled a beaker and silently held it out. Hugo took it carefully, his hands curling around the warmth, the aromatic steam hitting his nostrils. "Thanks."

"Anythin' else?"

"No, just leave me."

The door closed behind Samuel, and Hugo took a sip of coffee. His stomach revolted and a wave of nausea broke over him. He set the mug down and closed his eyes. He'd been blind drunk for four days, in a constant state of semi-intoxication for several years, and it was going to get a lot worse before it got better.

While Chloe bathed, she tried out her plan for Miss Anstey's companionship on Samuel, who was peeling potatoes beyond the screen, keeping a watchful eye out for unexpected visitors.

"I should think Sir Hugo would approve," she concluded, pouring a jug of water over her hair. "If he ever sobers up enough to listen, of course."

"There's no call for talk like that," Samuel reproved. "Don't go meddlin' in what you don't understand."

"You mean the demons?"

"Reckon so."

"But you don't understand them either. You said so."

"No, I don't. And so I don't go throwin' stones."

Chloe was silenced. She stood up and reached for the towel hanging over the screen. "I wish I did understand," she said finally, twisting the towel around her wet hair. "Then maybe I wouldn't be so angry." She shrugged into a dressing gown and came out from behind the screen. "I could stick a knife in his ribs, Samuel!"

Samuel smiled his tight smile. "I wouldn't recommend tryin' it, miss. Not with Sir 'Ugo. Drunk or sober, 'e's a hard man to tangle with."

Chloe went upstairs to dress. As she selected one of her new gowns, she found herself wondering if Crispin would pay her another visit. The prospect surprisingly was rather pleasing. Not least because she suspected Hugo would be annoyed by it.

A man who amused himself in drunken sport with fat whores deserved to be annoyed.

She was in the stable yard, examining Rosinante's wounds when Crispin arrived, leading a roan mare of elegant lines.

"What a disgusting beast," he said without thought as he took in the turnip seller's abused nag. "It should be fed to the crows."

Chloe laid a strip of gauze over one of the still-oozing wounds on Rosinante's flanks before saying in a deceptively neutral tone, "Oh, do you really think so?"

"I know so." Crispin dismounted. "It's not even worth a bullet. Why are you wasting your time and good medicine on such a travesty?"

Chloe turned and surveyed her visitor. The look in her eye caused Crispin to take an involuntary step backward. "You always were a brute," she declared, fire and ice in her voice. "Too good for a bullet, is it? This piti-

able creature has been tortured throughout its life, and when it can't endure anymore, it's to be fed to the crows? That attitude makes me sick, Crispin." She turned back to the patient.

Crispin flushed a dark red at this vigorously uncivil castigation, and it took the certainty of his stepfather's wrath and the promise of eighty thousand pounds to keep him from rewarding her insolence with the back of his hand.

"It was a manner of speaking," he said at last. "There's no need to fly into the boughs, Chloe. And I must say"-he laughed, a feeble and unconvincing attempt-"I must say, to accuse me of always being a brute is a bit much, you know."

Chloe continued with her ministrations in silence for a minute, then said, "You used to pull the wings off butterflies."

Another unconvincing little laugh. "Oh, come now, Chloe. Boys will be boys, you know." "No, I don't know," she said shortly. "Well, I don't do it anymore," he said somewhat lamely.

"No. But do you still bring your hunters back from the field bleeding and foundered? A hunter with broken wind isn't worth much either, is it? But I expect you'd do it the kindness of a bullet."

This bitter, passionate speech left Crispin for a moment dumbfounded. The attack seemed to have come out of nowhere, and he floundered around, trying to find a way of recovering his equilibrium. Chloe had suddenly reduced him to the status of an unpleasant little boy. His gloved hands flexed as he held himself on a tight rein.

"If we could change the direction of the subject of horseflesh, Sir Jasper has sent you a present," he said stiffly.

"Oh?" Chloe turned, squinting up at him against the sun.

He gestured to the horse he was leading. "This is Maid Marion. She's out of Red Queen by Sherrif. Your brother thought you might like a good riding horse."

"Oh, I remember Sherrif," Chloe said. "A magnificent stallion. No wonder she's such a pretty lady." She accepted the change of subject with the rueful reflection that her attack on Crispin had rather gone to extremes. "But I couldn't possibly accept her."

He'd been warned to expect this and had his answer ready. "Why not' It's perfectly customary for brothers to give their sisters gifts."

Chloe blew softly into the mare's nostrils. Maid Marion wrinkled her velvety nose and rolled back her lips in a horsey smile. Chloe stroked her neck and said as neutrally as she could, "Perhaps so, but I really can't accept her as a gift. Maybe I could borrow her one day though."

It would achieve the same purpose. Crispin relaxed and asked lightly, "Will your guardian permit you to ride with me?"

Chloe frowned. Hugo had forfeited all rights to dictate to her. There was not the slightest reason why she shouldn't spend time with her own family. It wasn't as if she had a surfeit of caring friends and relatives around her. She swallowed hard, castigating herself mentally for self-pity. She knew instinctively that Hugo would not permit her to ride with Crispin, but the reasons had nothing to do with her; they belonged to whatever lay between Jasper and Sir Hugo. She failed to see why her happiness should be sacrificed.

"I shan't ask him," she said. "But it can't be today. I'd have to plan it."

Crispin couldn't hide his satisfaction and asked eagerly, "When, then?"

"Let me think about it and we'll make plans when you come tomorrow… If you come tomorrow," she added.

"You'll have to promise to receive me with more courtesy," Crispin said. He tried to make his voice teasing, but his eyes were hard and he bent to pat the ever-present Dante, hoping to conceal his expression. The dog moved away.

"If I was rude, I apologize," Chloe said. "I sometimes speak out of turn when I'm angered… and I do become very angry when animals are maltreated." She shrugged as if such a response were only to be expected. "Poor Rosinante. Can't you imagine what it must have been like, unshod, starved, and beaten, and forced to haul impossibly heavy loads?"

"Not being a horse, I'm afraid I can't," Crispin said. He offered a wry grin and Chloe, whose sense of humor was never far from the surface, half smiled in response.

"I suppose I do become rather obsessive," she conceded. "But you did pull the wings off butterflies."

Crispin raised his hands in a disarming gesture of defeat. "But I was very young, Chloe. No more than nine or ten. I've reformed, I promise."

"Oh, very well," she said, laughing. "We'll consign it to the dim and distant past."

"And you really won't let me leave Maid Marion with you?"

Chloe shook her head. "Thank Jasper for me, but I can't possibly accept such a gift. I'd be happy to buy her though," she added. "Sir Hugo said we would purchase a good horse for me, once-"

"Once?" Crispin prompted when she seemed disinclined to continue.

"Oh, once it's been decided where I should live and in what manner," she said with another dismissive shrug.

"And when will that be decided?"

When and if my guardian is ever sober enough to think about it. "Soon, when Sir Hugo's looked at all the options."

"And what are the options?"

For some reason, despite her newfound charity with him, Chloe discovered she didn't want to confide her plans to Crispin. "Oh, I'm not sure yet," she said casually. "I have to prepare a fresh poultice for Rosinante, so…"

"I have to be On my way." Crispin took the hint. He reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. "Until tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow," Chloe agreed, retrieving her hand in some surprise. She hadn't expected gallantry from Crispin. So far, in the arena of gallantry, she'd experienced only the stammers and fumbles of the curate and Miss Anne's nephew. The butcher's boy didn't really count.

And neither did what had happened between herself and Hugo. That hadn't been gallantry. What had it beea?

She waved good-bye as Crispin rode out of the courtyard, leading Maid Marion. What had it beea' It had been magical, but it had far transcended the games and rituals of gallantry. It had not been play. There had been nothing playful about it at all.

That night she heard the pianoforte again. But there was nothing merry or rollicking about the music-in fact it wasn't music. It was a harsh melange of discordancy, the notes beaten from the keyboard with a desperation that chilled her. It was a cry of pure anomie-a despairing statement of aloneness. The agonized cry of a man who'd lost his grounding in his own world.

Chloe could find no words for the pain described in the sounds coming through her window. But she felt the pain as if it were her own. She got up and sat on the window seat. Dante was shivering against her and Be-

atrice had curled around her kittens, her body and her warmth a protective arc.

Chloe heard Samuel's tread, heavy on the stairs. She heard the library door open and she drew a ragged breath. Samuel would help him as she knew she could not. The depths of her own ignorance, her own inability to grasp such pain, stunned her.

The discordant music ceased. She exhaled slowly, feeling the tension leave her body.

When Samuel's callused hands covered Hugo's on the keys, Hugo's head dropped onto his chest. "I don't know if I can do it," he whispered.

"Aye, you can," Samuel said softly. "You need rest."

"I need brandy, damn you!" Hugo held out his hands. They shook uncontrollably. "My skin's on fire," he muttered. "I feel as if I'm shoveling fuel on Satan's fires already. Eden in hell." His crack of laughter was mirthless. "Seems appropriate, doesn't it, Samuel? You want to join me there? I promise you the road is paved with every debauchery known to man. The question is-" He shook his head slowly. "The question is, Samuel, whether the joys of the road are worth the hell of its destination."

"Come upstairs," Samuel said. "I'll put you to bed-"

"No, damn you!" Hugo pushed away his helping hands. "I can't sleep. I'll stay here."

"You need to eat something-"

"Samuel, leave me alone." The sentiment was savage, the voice quiet.

Samuel left the library and went back to bed. Chloe heard him come upstairs and crept back beneath the covers of her own bed, encouraging Dante to leave her feet and come up beside her. His breath was damp and warm on her face, his heavy body like an extra blanket, and finally she fell asleep.

In the library Hugo kept up his lonely vigil of endurance.

Crispin didn't come the following morning, and Chloe, who had already worked out a plan for evading her custodian's sharp eyes, was more disappointed than she cared to acknowledge. Restlessly, she decided to take Hugo's advice and divert her energies into housekeeping. She took down the hangings and curtains in her bedchamber and washed them, hanging them to dry in the courtyard. With Samuel's grumbling assistance, she hauled the Elizabethan rug outside and beat the clouds of dust from it, then swept and polished the oak floor and the heavy wooden furniture in the bedroom. By sundown she was exhausted but satisfied. Dante, who'd had a long walk in Billy's charge, was equally at peace and flopped muddy and breathily at her feet in the kitchen.

Samuel was preoccupied, his grizzled, beading eyebrows drawn together in a frown of anxiety as he clattered copper pots on the range. He'd been in and out of the library all day, bearing pots of coffee, bowls of soup, all of which he'd brought back untouched.

Chloe was well aware of this, but when she asked what was going on with Sir Hugo, Samuel told her it was none of her business and changed the subject. All her speculations led back to the assumption that he'd drunk himself into unconsciousness and Samuel was waiting for him to come to. She contemplated going into the overgrown garden and peering in through the library window, but quailed at the thought of what would happen if Hugo caught her and this time could justifiably accuse her of prying.

She lay in bed, waiting for the haunting sounds of the pianoforte, but Hugo had gone far from the solace of his

music into a world where nothing could express his anguish. His body was racked with pain, every muscle and joint aching with the single-minded concentration of his will. It would be so easy to put a stop to his agony. One swallow and he would begin to feel better, but he fought on even when he saw shapes in the corners of the room, felt creeping things on his arms, and his spine was terrifyingly alive with myriad tiny feet he could neither catch nor see. He prayed for the gift of sleep, for just an hour of surcease from his torments, but he remained wakeful, sweating, staring into the room, visited by every evil memory and every shame of his past.

There was no sign of Crispin the next morning, and ^ Chloe decided that she'd mortally offended him. She minded more than she felt she should, and the realization didn't sweeten her temper. By late afternoon she was on the verge of defying prohibition and taking herself off for a long walk across the fields, when Crispin rode into the courtyard.

His absence had been carefully calculated and had achieved the desired result. Any doubts Chloe might have had about playing truant in Crispin's company had been defeated by the prospect of losing the opportunity for truancy.

She greeted him with a warmth she'd not shown before.

"I give you good afternoon, Chloe," he said with a slightly smug smile as she came swiftly toward him, ready words of welcome on her lips. "Or is it evening? I'm sorry I couldn't come before, but Sir Jasper had some business he wanted me to transact for him in Manchester." He dismounted carefully, holding a small lidded box against his chest. "I have a surprise for you."

"Oh?" Chloe took the box. Instantly, she knew it held something living. Gently she lifted the lid, where air

holes had been bored. "Oh," she said again. "Poor baby. Where did you find it?"

A baby barn owl lay in a nest of straw, its dark eyes unblinking in the heart-shaped face. Its plumage was ruffled, one buff wing oddly angled.

"It must have fallen out of its nest," Crispin said. "I found it near the ruined belfry of Shipton Abbey. I think it's broken its wing."

"Yes, I'm sure it has." Delicately, she touched the awkward-looking wing. "If it's a simple break, I believe I can splint it. How clever of you to find it, Crispin."

"And even cleverer to bring it to you," he said with another complacent smile. "I trust I've made up for my unkind remarks about that pathetic nag."

Chloe laughed. "Indeed, you've earned your pardon."

"Sufficiently for you to come on a picnic with me?" He slapped the reins in the palm of his hand, watching her reaction through narrowed eyes.

"Certainly," Chloe said promptly, gently stroking the bird's breast. "I have it all planned. I will meet you at the bottom of the drive. But it would be best if we made it early in the morning. Samuel's busy then, helping Billy in the stables."

"Tomorrow?"

"If you like." She was too absorbed in the wounded owl to look up at him. "About eight o'clock."

"Then I'll be at the bottom of the drive with Maid Marion. But I can see you've got more on your mind than chatting with me at the moment, so I'll leave you to your doctoring." He remounted. "Until tomorrow, Chloe."

"Yes," she agreed absently. "Bye, Crispin." She hurried into the house with her prize without waiting to see him go.

Crispin rode out of the courtyard well satisfied. By

this time tomorrow Chloe Gresham would be safely secured in her half brother's charge.

Chloe carried the bird into the kitchen and set the box on the table.

"What you got there?" Samuel asked, coming in through the back door with a basket of apples.

"See for yourself," Chloe said distractedly. "I'm going to warm some milk and mix it with bread to make pellets for it. It'll do for food for the moment, since I don't think I'm capable of regurgitating mice."

"Lord love us," Samuel muttered, peering at the bird. "What's the matter wi' it?"

"Broken wing. I have to find two very light, thin pieces of wood to act as splints. Do we have any thread?"

"Reckon so." He watched with a resigned curiosity as she mixed bread and milk into tiny pellets and sat down, holding the bird in the palm of one hand, patiently opening its beak to pop the food inside. After two pellets the baby owl was opening its mouth without assistance.

"There, that's better now, isn't it7" she crooned, laying the bird back in its box. "Now, for a splint."

She was working intricately with two shavings from the log basket wrapped in thread when Hugo came into the kitchen. He leaned against the door jamb and said tranquilly, "Good evening."

Chloe was painstakingly straightening the broken wing and made no response. Samuel, however, sighed in audible relief and beamed, scrutinizing the haggard figure in the doorway. Hugo's face bore the ravages of four sleepless days and nights and the deeply etched lines of endurance. His eyes were red-rimmed, the paper-thin skin beneath swollen, a week's worth of stubble on his chin. But he exuded an air of peace, a sense

of being purged, of being washed up on a calm shore after shipwreck.

"Come you in." Samuel rubbed his hands together, his eyes shining with pleasure. "What can I get ye?"

"Coffee first, then food," Hugo said. He surveyed Chloe's rigid back and said, "Good evening, lass." Again there was no response. He raised his eyebrows interrogatively at Samuel, who shook his head and set the kettle to boil on the range.

"What are you doing, Chloe?" Hugo tried again.

Chloe ignored him, concentrating on the exquisitely delicate operation of binding the splint to the owl's wing.

Hugo came over to the table. "Didn't you hear me, lass?"

"I should have thought it was obvious what I was doing," she muttered. "I'm splinting a broken wing."

Hugo watched her fingers and pursed his lips in admiration at their precision. He decided to ignore the issue of blatant discourtesy and sat down opposite her.

His first draft of coffee was a revelation. He'd taken notHing but water since incarcerating himself in the library. Anything else had made him violently nauseated. Now the hot liquid seemed -to bring renewed life to every crevice of a body that seemed as sore both inside and out as if it had been passed through a mangle. He was famished and exhausted. But he was cleansed, his body freed of poison and his mind clear, his spirit somehow healed, as if in those long hours of endurance he had finally expiated the past.

Now he had to address the problem of his beautiful ward from whom anger and resentment radiated in almost palpable waves. He knew he had hurt and confused her. From now on they would conduct their relationship on the friendly practical basis of guardian and ward, and Chloe would soon forget what had

passed between them in his drunken madness. And he would make up for it in whatever ways he could without compromising his authority.

"The problem now is where to put you," Chloe said, examining her handiwork with a critical frown. "Somewhere dark and quiet… and safe from Beatrice. Although she's fairly occupied with the mice," she added.

"A mouser, is she?" Samuel tossed sweetbreads in a skillet over the range.

"Yes, I just wish she wouldn't play with them before she kills them," Chloe lamented, sniffing hungrily.

"It's the nature of the beast, I suppose," Hugo remarked.

Chloe flicked him a look of supreme contempt, as if he'd said something idiotic, and pointedly addressed Samuel. "So, do you have any suggestions, Samuel, about where I could put him?"

"Why don't you use the old stillroom?" Hugo persevered. "It's dark and there's a key in the door, so you can be sure it won't accidentally open."

"Where will I find it?" Chloe continued to address Samuel, as if it had been his suggestion.

"End of the north corridor upstairs," Samuel provided. "Full o' cobwebs, prob'ly."

"Then he'll feel quite at home." She picked up the box and left the kitchen.

"Oh, Lord!" Hugo groaned, resting his head in his elbow-propped hands.

"Reckon as 'ow some fences need mendin'" was Samuel's laconic response. He put a loaf of bread and a crock of yellow butter on the table.

"An understatement… but I haven't the energy to do anything about it tonight."

"Now, don't you let Miss trouble ye," Samuel advised with a touch of asperity. "You just get rested." He scraped the contents of the skillet onto a plate and set it

before Hugo. "Get that down you, Sir 'Ugo. Do ye a power of good. And there's a nice brook trout to follow. Caught it this mornin'."

"And what are you going to feed the lass?" Hugo asked with a slight smile. "It's not going to sweeten her temper if I eat her dinner."

"She'll 'ave ham an' eggs like me an' be thankful."

Chloe had no fault to find with ham and eggs and cast no envious glances across the table at her guardian's dinner. She had, however, been shocked at his spent appearance on her one surreptitious examination, although the green eyes, despite their red-rimmed exhaustion, were clearer than she'd ever seen them. The memory of that dreadful music knocked at the carapace of anger she was fiercely preserving. If he hadn't been drinking during the long days and nights in the library, and he obviously hadn't, what had he been doing?

"How's Rosinante getting along?" Hugo asked, laying down his fork with a sigh of repletion.

Chloe shrugged. "All right, I suppose." She'd have liked to have discussed the animal's condition, but perversely denied herself the opportunity for a second opinion.

Hugo pushed back his chair. "I'm dead on my feet, Samuel. I'm going up to bed. Don't wake me."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Samuel declared.

Hugo came around the table and stopped at Chloe's chair. Catching her chin, he lifted her face. The deep blue eyes glared, but he could read the deeper emotion the belligerence was masking.

"I grant you the right to punish me this evening," he said evenly. "But tomorrow morning, lass, you'll accord me ordinary civility at the very least. Is that clear?"

"I am not uncivil," Chloe replied, trying to pull her chin free of his fingers.

"Oh, yes, you are. Abominably so, and I won't have it

after tonight. We have a lot to discuss, and I don't intend to conduct the discussion with a monosyllabic brat." He softened the words with a weary smile because she was heart-stoppingly beautiful despite the truculence of her expression. Then he remembered where contemplation of that beauty led and abruptly released her chin. "I bid you both good night."

The kitchen door closed on his departure. Chloe brushed her chin where the imprint of his fingers still lingered.