Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,7
of ’is tonic.” Mrs. Molesworth appeared with a spoonful of something that smelled of licorice.
Alicia took the spoon and passed it to Gerald, who grimaced at the thick, dark liquid. “I hate the taste.”
“Drink it down quickly, then.” How many times had she spoken those words to him? Since boyhood, the chest ailment had plagued him through the damp months of autumn, winter, and early spring. The physician could do no more than recommend the tonic, and a poultice for more severe episodes.
A ray of sunlight through the high casement window cast a halo on his honey-brown hair. With trembling fingers, she touched those gold-kissed strands, remembering him as a mischievous lad who would dispose of his medicine in the nearest vase if she didn’t keep a close watch on him.
And now Gerald could be locked in a dank prison cell with no one to care for him.…
Sliding a glance upward, he thrust the empty spoon at her. “You needn’t fuss, Ali. I’m perfectly fine.”
There was something wary about that glance. Suspicion drilled past her worry, past the weariness of another sleepless night. Alicia set the spoon in the scullery, then went to the hearth and poured herself a cup of tea from the kettle on the hob. Her faded brown skirt swishing, she walked toward him. “Why are you dressed to go out?”
“Business,” Gerald muttered around a bite of his pasty.
“What sort of business?”
He brushed a crumb from his smart blue riding coat. “’Tis nothing to concern you.”
“Tell me,” she said in the stern governess voice she’d once used while teaching him his lessons. “If you’re gambling again—”
“No, I am not.” Elevating his jaw, he stared down his nose at her. At times, he could look as imperious as the earl he was. “Do you think me a complete ninny-hammer?”
She thought him too naïve, too achingly young. Sliding into a ladder-back chair opposite him, she cradled the hot cup in her chilly hands. “I should hope you’ve more sense than that. And if you wish me to cease badgering you, then tell me where you’re off to at this early hour.”
The lordly arrogance vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He sat silent and sullen, a stubborn boy with his lower lip jutted out.
From across the kitchen, Mrs. Molesworth banged a tin pot into the dry sink. “Go on, m’lord. Your sister’ll find out soon enough, any’ow.”
Pouting, he reached for another pasty and took a big bite. For all that he ate, he remained poker-thin, his ribs almost concave. He chewed a moment, then mumbled defiantly, “I’m taking Pet to Tattersall’s.”
Alicia gasped. “You’re selling the mare?”
He gave a jerky nod. “There’s an auction today. She’s in prime condition and should fetch a high price.”
Alicia’s heart swelled and her eyes filled with tears. Gerald had raised the fine gray mare from a filly at their estate in Northumberland, before their father had gambled away their unentailed lands. Her brother’s love for the horse was reflected in its name and in his devotion. For the past five years, since they’d sold the other horses, the barouche, and the traveling coach, and dismissed their stable help, Gerald had groomed and curried the animal himself. With great enjoyment, he rode Pet through the streets of London and along the bridle paths in Hyde Park. The mare was a source of pride to him, a final vestige of their former wealth.
“Oh, Ger,” she said, leaning across the table to place her hand over his bony fingers. “How dreadful for you.”
A telltale brilliance in his green eyes, he swallowed convulsively and looked away. Then he thrust back his chair, the wooden legs scraping the flagstones. “I’d best get on with it,” he said with wobbly cheer. “Can’t send off the old girl without a proper brushing.” Trudging across the kitchen, he headed up the short flight of stairs to the tiny garden and the mews beyond.
Alicia sipped the scalding hot tea to ease the lump in her throat. At the edge of her awareness, she heard the tap-tap of Mrs. Molesworth chopping vegetables for the soup at luncheon. The fire whispered on the stone hearth and the clock ticked on the mantelpiece. But the familiar cozy sounds of the kitchen held no comfort today.
Blast Drake Wilder! He had lured a gullible youth to the gaming tables, milked him of money he didn’t possess, and forced Gerald to relinquish his most prized possession. She couldn’t excuse her brother’s part in the matter, yet she blamed Wilder