A Wish For Nicholas. Jackie Manning

wagon disappeared behind the rise.

      

      * * *

      The sun had barely reached the ten o’clock position in the morning sky when a black-lacquered coach rumbled up the weedy lawn of Thornwood Hall. Chickens, pecking crickets from the grass, flew in the air, cackling in annoyance.

      From the study, Becky glanced up from her account books to peek through the lace-curtained window. “Pox and calamity! It’s Willoughby.” She turned to her cousin Sally. “Quickly, help me hide these books—”

      “It’s not Willoughby, it’s his wife, Hazel,” interrupted Sally, who stood beside Becky at the window.

      “Saints! What does Hazel want now?” Becky watched as the liveried footman helped a short, stylishly dressed woman from the vehicle.

      “She must want it pretty much to fussy herself up in this heat.” Sally wiped a bead of sweat from her brow. “Well, we’ll soon find out. She’s practically running to the front door.”

      Becky glanced back at the pile of gold coins from the sale of furniture Keane had taken to market. “Show Hazel into the withdrawing room, Sally. I don’t want her to see what I’m doing.” Becky yanked the floral scarf from the back of the sofa and covered the desk with it. The coins and ledgers were safely hidden from view.

      Satisfied, Becky straightened her gown, patted a few wisps of hair from her face and strode into the withdrawing room as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

      “Hazel, what a lovely surprise.” Becky greeted the older woman with a dazzling smile. If Hazel had come to see how Becky was enduring the loss of Thornwood Hall, she’d be damned if she’d show her.

      Sally hovered uncomfortably, unsure whether to stay or leave. “I’ll bring a tray—”

      “Oh, stay, Sally, and hear my plans, too.” Hazel began most sentences with “oh” as if it gave importance to everything she said. Becky also thought it made her face look like a trout’s.

      “Oh, wait until you hear about the social!” Hazel fluttered her hands in her lap.

      “Social?” Becky hoped to get rid of her so she could finish posting the accounts. “For what occasion?”

      Hazel’s pink cheeks flushed with heat and excitement. She pulled out her beaded fan and waved it dramatically. “First, please tell Molly Twaddle how sorry we are for what happened to her son.”

      “Her son?” Becky felt a prickly sense of unease. “Ben Twaddle? What happened to him?”

      “Oh, an unfortunate accident last night” Her round mouth pinched in sympathy. “Ben was running through our gaming fields and fell into the ravine. His howling woke the gamekeeper’s dogs, who woke the gamekeeper, who woke Mr. Willoughby.” She rolled her eyes. “Imagine a grown man bolting through the fields in the dark of night, jabbering on about being chased by the devil.” She closed her eyes dramatically. “Poor dear Molly. What is she to do with a son like that?”

      Becky and Sally exchanged glances.

      Hazel shook her head. “Thought his back was broken, for sure.”

      Becky listened skeptically. “Was he deep in his cups?”

      Hazel shook her head. “Stone sober.” She made a face. “Oh, Ben Twaddle’s a rascal, they say.” Hazel’s thin brows knitted together. “But he won’t be rustling the skirts at the Seven Swans for a while, from what Dr. Rivers said.”

      “You sent for Dr. Rivers?” Sally asked.

      “It was our Christian duty, dear. Twaddle was howling like he’d seen the devil.” Hazel whirled the fan in her lap. “The doctor said Twaddle should remain abed for a week or two. Then Mr. Willoughby ordered our lads to lift Twaddle into the wagon, and they drove him to Molly’s croft, this morning.”

      The back of Becky’s neck prickled with alarm as she listened to Hazel’s tale. Something wasn’t right. She’d just left Ben Twaddle in the turnip fields, a little more than two hours ago. And from every indication Geer had given her, Twaddle had been hoeing since sunup.

      But if Ben Twaddle was the lad found tripping through the Willoughby fields last night, then who was the man hoeing her turnips?

      An ominous thought crossed Becky’s mind, and she almost gasped. “What did Ben Twaddle look like, Hazel?”

      “Covered with dirt and twigs, it was hard to tell. But he had the Twaddle chin. Aye, he takes after Molly’s husband.”

      For a moment, Becky couldn’t move as Hazel’s words sank in. Why hadn’t she realized it before?

      “Becky, dear. What’s the matter?” Hazel leaned forward and fluttered the fan in Becky’s face. “You’re white as a cloud.”

      “It’s the…heat,” Becky said, the terrible truth crashing around her with the weight of an anvil.

       She should have known by his commanding presence. His skill with the blade as his sword whirred through the air, touching the ribbons at her bodice with chilling exactness. The muscular strength of his warrior build, the callused hands, the arrogant challenge in those gray eyes.

       Sir Nicholas Sinclair!

      She had aided him in his intrigue as easily as if she were his willing accomplice. Pox and calamity! She’d let the fox in the henhouse, now what was she to do?

      Becky glanced at Hazel and Sally, who were both watching her with a worried frown. “I—I’m sorry, Hazel. I don’t know what came over me.” Becky took a fortifying breath and moved near the door.

      “Thank your husband for me, and for your time, Hazel.” Becky opened the door, waiting for Hazel to take the hint. “I’ll see to Molly and Ben immediately.”

      Hazel frowned. “But I haven’t had the chance to tell you of my social.”

      Becky forced a smile, then reluctantly shut the door and took a seat beside Sally, who offered her a sympathetic look. Despite her best efforts, Becky couldn’t keep her mind on Hazel’s droning monologue.

      Why had Sinclair tried to fool her into thinking that he was a common laborer?

      “Dear Becky, I don’t think you’ve heard a word I’ve said.”

      Becky sat up with a start “Of course I have, Hazel. You were talking about your social.” Becky’s lips froze into a smile.

      “Aye, for Sir Nicholas Sinclair, of course.”

      “Sinclair?” Becky strangled a whisper. “Do I understand that you’re planning a social to welcome that—”

      “Oh, I know it wouldn’t be appropriate, under the circumstances—” Hazel’s voice lowered “—for you to do it. Besides, your lack of furniture and…” She glanced around the cavernous room, frowning at the few chairs and sofa.

      Becky stood, her hands flew to her waist. “I can’t believe you’d give a social for that…that stuffin’bob who is removing me and my family from our home at the end of the month.”

      Hazel stiffened. “Oh, my dear. We must remember that Sir Nicholas Sinclair is a wounded war hero. He distinguished himself at the battle on St. James Day, defending our country against those barbarous Dutch.” She lifted her chin. “Mr. Willoughby says Sinclair is the talk of London.”

      “Humph!” Becky paced to the window and stared at the overgrown driveway. What would Hazel think of the war hero if she knew Sinclair as Becky did? Her cheeks flamed with the memory of his mouth taking hers and the riffle of feminine pleasure it had given her.

      If only Hazel would leave. She tapped her foot as she gazed out the window. Afternoon sunshine glimmered off the Willoughby coach, while four perfectly matched, high-spirited black horses snorted impatiently. From the rear of the coach stepped Becky’s