Suddenly one hand released its hold and the arm went around her waist. Before she had time to even wonder what was happening, his head came down and his lips found hers. She was being soundly kissed, with the man’s two arms around her now, holding her in an unbreakable grasp. It was a bizarre incident. It should have been horrifying as well, but her horror was not so strong as she would have thought. His cheeks were smooth; his embrace, while unwanted and in fact savage, sent a thrill through her. As a host of sensations jumbled through her brain, there emerged in the midst of them the thought that the man was a gentleman. This was patent nonsense. He was a criminal, but he was a clean-shaven criminal at least, not a dirty, rough, repulsive man.
As quickly as he had grabbed her, she was released. The man turned and disappeared into the night. Delsie became aware suddenly of the chilly night air, and of the softly calling voice of her companion behind her. “Are you all right, ma’am? What’s happened?” Miss Milne asked anxiously. “Did he hurt you?”
The unexpected reaction was a definite feeling of pique that Miss Milne had seen the embrace. “No. That is-you saw what happened.”
“He was kissing you, the bold creature! Who could it have been?”
“Let us go inside. I’m freezing.” They hastened their steps back into the saloon. “I’ve no idea who it could be.”
“It looked like… But that’s impossible. He’d never behave so shamelessly,” Miss Milne said, chattering excitedly.
“Did you recognize the man?”
“Oh, no! I couldn’t see a thing but an outline.”
“You said it looked like someone. Who did you mean?”
“It was the size of Lord deVigne was what I thought, and wearing evening clothes too. I saw the white shirt against the black coat, and there aren’t many gentlemen hereabouts. But of course it could not have been him,” Miss Milne stated confidently.
“I should think not, indeed,” the widow said primly. Then together the two remounted the stairs, parting at the governess’s door with a few words as to not mentioning this incident to Bobbie.
“There’s one thing we’re sure of anyway, ma’am,” Miss Milne said. “It wasn’t Mr. Bristcombe, dressed up so fine. I wonder who it can have been.” Her voice sounded a little wistful.
When she was safely back in her own warm bed once more, the widow was forced to admit that she too had been struck with the thought that it was Lord deVigne who had kissed her. She puzzled over this. The height was right, the clothing, the feel of it indicating a good quality, though she had not herself discerned that the man wore an evening suit. She knew deVigne had worn one that evening, just an hour before, when he had brought her home. And that little metal watch fob she had felt hanging from the man’s waistcoat pocket-it could have been a golden wishbone. Indeed, it was hard to conceive what else it could possibly have been-two little prongs she had felt between her fingers. And he had worn that fob tonight. She had particularly noticed he had the habit of fingering it unconsciously when he spoke.
Why should Lord deVigne be skulking about the yard at an hour past midnight? Why indeed, when she had told him less than twenty-four hours before that men had been there. He might have been looking for them, trying to discover who they were, and what they were doing. It was entirely possible he had been there. The likeliest thing was that he had sent his carriage home without him and had stayed behind, so little time had passed between her entering the house and the sound outside. He had even mentioned having a look around. Of course it had been deVigne, which gave rise to the next question. Why had he kissed her? He had not, to her knowledge, the reputation of a flirt. His name was never linked with any of the village girls.
Such a juicy bit of gossip would have been passed along by Miss Frisk. The riddle kept her awake for the better part of an hour. Before she slept, she was concerned too for how she should act when next they met, whether she should drop a hint of her suspicions. She thought she would not. It could not be other than extremely embarrassing. DeVigne was impervious to such trifling matters-he never reacted to anything. It would be herself who ended up with a scarlet face, feeling a fool for his misbehavior. Best to say nothing and hope he would have the grace to do likewise. If it had actually been deVigne, that is. And what if it hadn’t?
This was a new puzzle, one that required a fresher head than hers. She was nodding off to sleep.
Chapter Eleven
Delsie awoke in the morning to her troubling memories, and to lead-gray skies, from which a cold rain streaked down. It was Sunday. Rain had never deterred her from attending church when she had had to walk, and it did not occur to her that it would be a reason when there were carriages to transport her. She dressed in her black gown before joining Bobbie and Miss Milne to descend to the breakfast table. In an effort to enroll herself in her mistress’s good books, Mrs. Bristcombe actually attempted a smile when she served the meal. Her wide girth was encased in a clean white apron, and her hair had been brushed. Taking these changes for tokens of obedience, Delsie said, “You and your husband have a bad day for your visit, Mrs. Bristcombe. It is a pity.”
“It may let up by noon,” the dame answered, still smiling. The widow’s surprise was great when the woman next asked in quite a civil tone if there was any errand she could do while passing through the village. Delsie first said no, then changed her mind and gave her the letters to her former pupils to whom she was offering positions. She even condescended to tell her housekeeper the contents of the letters, assuring her that the girls were good, reliable workers, who would be a help to her. She thought the smile on Mrs. Bristcombe’s face wore a different character than before, but it was so new a sight to see any upturning of the woman’s lips that she could not be sure.
“I’ll deliver them for you. Right on my way,” she said agreeably, and waddled from the room.
“We shall wear our new bonnets, even if it is raining,” Delsie said to Roberta. “We can take an umbrella.” She wished to have some visible sign of her new status on this first trip up the aisle of the local church.
“We don’t go to church when it rains,” Bobbie stated simply.
Roberta seldom attended at all. Delsie tried to remember whether the others stayed away when the weather was bad. They were frequently absent, but they were sociable, often away visiting or in London, and she could not be certain Bobbie was correct. She made her own preparations to attend in any case, then went below to sit in the saloon and wait. Church began at eleven. She watched as the hands of the clock showed her ten-thirty, ten forty-five, ten-fifty, at which time she put aside her bonnet. Clearly there would be no church for her today. Before she had decided what to do, there was a knock on the front door. Bristcombe came to tell her deVigne’s carriage was waiting. It was too late. They would miss half the service. With a tsk of annoyance she hastened to the door herself, to give deVigne a gentle hint that a half-hour drive should be begun at least thirty minutes before the function was to begin. There was only a footman at the door. A glance beyond showed her a perfectly empty carriage.
“Sorry we’re late, ma’am. The master don’t go to church when it pours so. He didn’t think to send the carriage to see if you’d like to attend, till just a minute ago.”
“Pray thank Lord deVigne, but I do not plan to attend either when it has got so late,” she answered coldly, then went back into the saloon, miffed. The next preoccupation was how to pass the morning indoors, for the rain made going out impossible. She was eager to begin searching in earnest for further stores of hidden canvas bags. Lady Jane was not there to join her, but she would start anyway. Mr. Grayshott’s room seemed a likely spot.