The Wastrel. Margaret Moore

inside the inn, so she said, “I will show you which ones they are. There is also an easel and a large package of canvases.”

      The driver nodded and led the way outside. The coachman was seeing to the changing of the horses, and some of the passengers milled about in the yard. Clara ignored their speculative looks as she showed the driver the appropriate baggage, then followed him to Lord Mulholland’s gleaming black landau that was at the far side of the yard. A pair of very fine horses had their noses in feed bags.

      The driver glanced at her as he loaded the largest piece of baggage. “Quite a pair, those two, miss.”

      “My aunt is an artist and my uncle is a poet,” Clara explained matter-of-factly. “They are both very... emotional.”

      The driver chuckled companionably. “Oh, we’ve had lots of emotional people at Mulholland House,” he said. “And some were just plain crazy, if you ask me.”

      Clara wondered peevishly which category the driver thought Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron would occupy. Perhaps Lord Mulholland didn’t invite people to his country home only for his own amusement; perhaps he tried to keep his servants laughing, too. She should have refused the invitation, and let Aunt Aurora complain....

      “Our dear mistress, the late Lady Mulholland, that was, liked lots o’ different sorts of people,” the driver continued, chuckling. “Her son’s just the same. Why, one time, this Italian count we had a’ stayin’ here — walked about in somethin’ looked like a baby’s nappy most o’ the time. Been to India or some such.” The driver reached down for the canvases. “’Nother time, these singers came. Sounded like a bunch of cats in a bag, we all thought.” He sighed for happy days gone by. “There, all stowed. We can go now.”

      At least Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron wouldn’t be the most unusual people to stay at Mulholland House, Clara thought as she nodded absently. Nevertheless, her dread was not lessened by that notion. If anything, the closer she got to Mulholland House, the tenser she became.

      She reminded herself that she would simply evade the sleek and seductive Lord Mulholland. The painting would be done soon, and then they would be gone. “I shall fetch my aunt and uncle,” she said.

      As she made her way toward the inn, the coach, with its passengers restored, rattled on its way. Clara was not sorry to see it, or its noisy passengers, leave.

      Uncle Byron spotted Clara in the doorway and sprang to his feet. “Come, my dear!” he called to his wife. “Our chariot awaits!”

      Chapter Five

      

      

      Paris sat in his study in a large, comfortable wing chair, with his dog, Jupiter, at his feet. The yellow-haired beast of dubious parentage lay as still as one of the statues in the garden as he slumbered. His master was likewise motionless as he deciphered two letters, one from Tommy Taddington and the other from Reverend Jonas Clark, both of whom had been Paris’s friends at Oxford. Tommy’s letter informed Paris that Tommy was once again experiencing familial troubles, and unless he heard otherwise from Paris, would arrive sooner than planned. Jonas, to whom Paris was gladly giving the living in one of the nearby parishes, was expected to arrive at Mulholland House shortly, there to stay until the vicarage of St. Andrew’s had been repaired and prepared for the new pastor.

      Paris’s attention was drawn from the letters by Jupiter, who lumbered to his feet just as the study door opened to reveal the presence of the butler, Witherspoon. At present, the white-haired Witherspoon looked decidedly icy.

      “Yes?” Paris asked.

      “My lord, the Wells have arrived.” By a process that Paris had yet to figure out, even though Witherspoon had been butler at Mulholland House for twenty years, Witherspoon managed to convey the impression that it would have been better if the Wells had never been born.

      “Oh, come now, Witherspoon!” Paris chided. “They’re not as bad as all that! Granted, the niece is rather severe, but the aunt is delightful and her husband most amusing.” Grinning, Paris rose and tugged down his waistcoat. “I thought we needed some livening up around here, Witherspoon. I shall die of ennui otherwise.”

      “Indeed, my lord.” The butler’s eyebrow rose a fraction and Paris saw a telltale twinkle of amusement in the man’s dark eyes. “That cause of death would at least be tasteful, my lord, unlike your guest’s bonnet.”

      Paris chuckled amicably as he clapped a familiar hand on the retainer’s narrow shoulder. “Mrs. Wells is an artist,” he explained patiently. “She’s going to paint my portrait.”

      “If you say so, my lord.”

      Paris drew back and examined Witherspoon suspiciously. “You look as if I were up to no good, Witherspoon!” he exclaimed.

      Witherspoon thawed a little, as he always did.

      “I assure you, I will treat them royally,” Paris continued. “Speaking of which, where have you put them?”

      “Since the hour is so close to tea,” Witherspoon said, miraculously conveying the impression that the late arrival of the Wells was somehow their fault, “I told Mrs. Dibble to escort them to their rooms.” He nearly smiled. “I must say the older lady was most fulsome in her praise of Mulholland House.”

      Paris grinned. “I daresay she was. I believe Mrs. Dibble, our jewel among housekeepers, may finally —”

      He was going to say that Mrs. Dibble may finally have encountered someone even more vivacious than herself, when there was a loud crash from the vicinity of the kitchen, followed by the sight of a black shape streaking past the study door as a lamenting female voice wailed, “Zeus, come back!”

      With a bark and a bound, Jupiter shoved his way past the butler and his master and was out the door, his progress impeded by the freshly waxed floor. His huge paws slipped on the polished surface as he tried to give chase toward the foyer. After a moment of desperate scrambling, he found his footing and bounded away.

      “Call off your dog!” Miss Wells cried, appearing in the corridor with a very flushed face and attired in the most ugly brown traveling dress Paris had ever seen. “Call him off!”

      “Zounds and gadzooks,” Byron Wells cried from somewhere nearby, “what’s afoot? Tallyho!”

      Mr. and Mrs. Wells appeared at the top of the staircase, by their appearance having interrupted their toilette. Byron Wells wore a finely tailored tweed suit that owed more to town than country, and Mrs. Wells’ dressing gown simply defied description.

      Before Paris could answer, Clara Wells darted past him at the same time the black cat reappeared, this time returning toward its mistress and the kitchen wing. Before Paris could step back inside the sanctuary of his study, Jupiter tore down the corridor and crashed into his master, sending him reeling. Paris slipped on the polished floor and collided with Miss Wells. Stumbling over her skirts, he managed to right himself, then lost his footing again and finally fell to the ground, one foot shooting out and inadvertently kicking Miss Wells.

      She lost her balance and landed on top of him in a pile of skirts and righteous indignation. “Get up!” she cried, putting her slender hands on Paris’s chest and pushing. “Get up!”

      Paris could easily imagine how ridiculous they looked, him flat on his back in the middle of the hall with a young lady, red of face and glaring of eye, sprawled on top of him and telling him to get up. However, he wasn’t so startled that he didn’t notice that although her eyes blazed with indignation and despite her ugly brown dress, Clara Wells was really very pretty.

      “I should point out that task would be much simpler if you were to rise first,” he said, hard-pressed not to laugh out loud as he put his hands about her slim waist to lift her up.

      She wore no corset, for he felt only soft flesh beneath her gown, not whalebone. She was breathing hard. A few wisps of hair had escaped her tight bun and her mouth was partly opened. He