Kidnap Confusion Read online

  AN

  INDISCREET SUITOR

  "Margaret!" The earl captured her hands again. "For a generally sensible woman, you say the most extraordinarily foolish things!"

  "Gi—I mean your lordship—" A blushing Miss Tolliver was finding it difficult to speak. "You forget yourself."

  "Giles," he corrected her, kissing her fingers again and watching her face in enjoyment as she tried to pull her hands away. His hold remained firm. "Your lordship—"

  "Giles." He seemed to have a particular interest in the tip of her middle finger, rubbing his lips against it in a way that made the normally capable Miss Tolliver feel rather— well—incapable.

  "Giles!" she said. "Really! There are other people in the room."

  'Yes," he agreed, smiling at her in approval and releasing her hands to turn to them. "I have noticed that I cannot imagine why they are still here!"

  KIDNAP CONFUSION

  WARNER BOOKS EDITION

  Copyright © 1987 by Judith Nelson All rights reserved.

  Warner Books, Inc.

  666 Fifth Avenue

  New York, N.Y. 10103

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing: September, 1987 1

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 1

  It was one of her brother Charles's infrequent missives that set Margaret Tolliver thinking. He had sent it to inform her that he was making some slight adjustment in his investment of her funds, and from long experience she knew that the letter was informational only; Charles did not require or want her opinion on what he planned to do.

  Usually one to disagree with her brother in most matters, Margaret approved of his actions in this instance. She knew without doubt that he was as careful in the investment of her funds as he was in the investment of his own. And if, as Margaret suspected, that came less from familial affection and more from his tendency to look upon his sister's inheritance as his own, she was not unduly troubled. Charles had a profound dislike of dispensing with an unnecessary penny, and it made him a frugal agent in the long-term investment of her money.

  If that were not the case, Miss Tolliver would have had no compunction about removing him as her agent; since he was such an expert manager of money, and since he was her only brother and moreover one of whom she was fond— although, she admitted fair-mindedly, it was much easier to be fond of Charles when she was in Yorkshire and he in London—she let him continue with the investment of her funds as he had done before she came of age.

  At first Margaret scanned the letter rather absently, won­dering how it was that she and her brother had both learned their penmanship from the same tutor, but Charles had never mastered a hand that could be described as more than a scrawl. Her interest sharpened, however, when she reached the next to the last paragraph in which he informed her that he would be traveling to Somerset a few days hence, to visit a friend, and would not be back in London for three weeks.

  He gave his direction, but Miss Tolliver was not interest­ed in that. What interested her was the information that he would be gone from the London house—information she digested as she folded the letter again and tapped it against the table.

  For several weeks now, Miss Tolliver had been experienc­ing a feeling of ennui and a vague dissatisfaction with her life in Yorkshire—a life that usually pleased her greatly. It was Providence, she decided, that was sending Charles from London at a time when a trip there was just what she needed. She knew that now; Charles's letter made her realize that a chance to renew her acquaintance with those few persons among the ton whose opinions she valued, and to refurbish her wardrobe, see the capital's sights, and be part of the city's bustle would soon set her to rights, and make her happy to return in due time to her tranquil living. And if her return to Yorkshire coincided with her brother's planned return to London—well, she would call it Provi­dence again and not a disinclination to spend time in her stuffy brother's presence.

  Never one to argue with Providence when Providence happened to please her, Margaret smiled and began to make plans.

  At supper that evening Miss Tolliver announced that she would be traveling south to spend several weeks in London. Her Aunt Henrietta, with whom she lived, was vaguely surprised—but Miss Tolliver knew that all of her aunt's reactions tended to be vague—but agreeable, declining Margaret's invitation to join her by remarking comfortably that she and Lazaurus, her pet rooster, were more inclined to country life.

  "Country worms are more tender than city worms, you know," Aunt Henrietta told her niece wisely, "and Lazaurus has a great fondness for them."

  Miss Tolliver, who did not know the merits of country wrigglers over their city brethren, but who was much too polite—and too little interested—to say so, merely smiled and nodded. Over time she had grown used to her aunt's unusual pet—especially after Henrietta had, by means un­known to Margaret, house-trained him—and to her aunt's predilection for starting the statement of many of her own ideas or partialities with "Lazaurus says. . ."

  If Aunt Henrietta and Laz did not care to stir from home, they had Margaret's blessing. She was relieved to find that her aunt had received the news of her trip so agreeably, and turned her mind to other things.

  So it was on the next day that Margaret informed her staff of her impending departure, and by Thursday morning she had nothing left to do but to pack those few of her belongings that she did not care to leave to her maid to handle, to kiss her aunt good-bye, and to be on her way.

  It was during the last-minute packing that the most peculiar thing happened—peculiar at the time—and, when she thought about it later, even more peculiar.

  Margaret had just placed her pearls in her valise, and was reaching for the ivory-backed comb and brush set that was a special gift from her late father when Lazaurus, who mo­ments before was sitting quietly beside Aunt Henrietta on the bed as both of them watched Margaret pack, suddenly rose and jumped onto the valise, pecking at her pearls as if in an effort to pull them out again.

  An astonished Miss Tolliver picked him up at once and placed him on the floor, admonishing him with a "Lazaurus, you silly bird! Whatever has gotten into you?"

  The rooster, ignoring her words, ruffled his feathers and crowed loudly, making a great deal of noise in his throat and stretching and scratching in a way that she did not under­stand, but that seemed to affect her aunt greatly. Without ado Henrietta rose, lifted the valise, hurried with it to a cupboard, and stuffed it inside.

  Miss Tolliver was even more astonished.

  "Aunt Henrietta!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing?"

  Her aunt gazed at her in surprise. "Why, I'm putting your valise away, my dear!"

  "What?"

  "I'm putting your valise away. Lazaurus does not think you should go."

  "What?"

  Miss Tolliver's voice rose in spite of her best efforts to control it, and Aunt Henrietta's surprise deepened.

  "But Margaret," her aunt said reasonably, "Lazaurus just told you. And Lazaurus knows."

&
nbsp; With a tolerant smile Miss Tolliver removed the valise from the cupboard and, holding it tightly, asked just what it was that Henrietta thought Lazaurus knew. Her aunt in­formed her it was not a thought, it was a certainty—Lazaurus was telling them that if Miss Tolliver took this trip, something—and, from Aunt Henrietta's tone, it was an obviously ominous something—untoward would occur.

  "It's fate," Aunt Henrietta said simply. "It never does to tempt fate, Margaret. I'll help you unpack."

  No, Miss Tolliver said, she would not.

  With a great deal of firmness—and a disciplined grip on her laughter—she informed her aunt that she, Margaret Tolliver, considered herself mistress of her own fate, and that she was not going to cancel a trip to London on the advice of any bird—not even a bird with such high intelli­gence as her aunt's rooster.

  "Chances are it was only a cramp in Laz's leg, anyway," she said with a smile, opening the valise slightly to drop in a bottle of her favorite scent, but not letting go her hold of it just in case the other woman should reach for it again.

  Aunt Henrietta's headshake was grave. "Lazaurus knows," she repeated. "Fate is riding on this trip to London."

  Miss Tolliver assured her she had her own fate well in hand, and with a quick kiss to her aunt's faded cheek, and an equally quick pat on the back for Laz, she went gaily out of the room and down the stairs, cloak over one arm, valise in the other. When she arrived in London without mishap, she tolerantly shook her head over her aunt's musings, and thought no more about it. Until later.

  Fate, grinning widely, sat back and waited.

  * * *

  On the same day Margaret Tolliver felt she was taking charge of her own fate, fate was having a grand time meddling in the life of someone then unknown to her.

  Standing in front of the mantlepiece, his collar growing tighter by the moment, Gillian Manfield was miserably aware of the loudness of his waistcoat. He could feel the hue grow in gaudy brilliance as his brother's eyes surveyed him, and casting wildly about for something to distract Giles, Gillian wondered what had ever possessed him to think the Willowdale library the most pleasant room in the house.

  True, he and his younger brother Peter had spent many contented hours there by the fire, watching Giles and John maneuver across the polished chessboard the ivory pieces that were their grandfather's, their talk ranging from politics to war to the classics. It had seemed a warm room then, relaxed and inviting. But as Gillian surveyed it now, those memories were forgotten.

  And as Gillian met Giles's interrogating gaze and glanced hurriedly away, it occurred to him that the library was filled—positively overflowing—with faults heretofore undis­closed to him.

  The mantle clock, for one thing—it ticked much too loudly. Casting a covert look at his brother, Gillian was amazed that Giles could ignore it. For the first time, he wondered seriously about his brother's hearing.

  And that portrait of Father, hanging above the fireplace— Gillian wondered if Giles recognized how accusingly the old man seemed to stare at his third son. Almost as accusingly as Giles. . .

  Gillian gulped, and directed his glance to the windows. He thought it odd that such large, light spaces could cast such harsh shadows on his brother's already dark features. And the carpet, Gillian decided, was positively shabby! He wondered how Giles could prefer a worn antique from Persia to something bright and new of good English wool.

  Gillian risked another glance at his brother and unconsciously tugged at his cravat, his eyes sliding hurriedly to the floor-to-ceiling bookcases as he wondered if the hundreds of books thereon had been dusted in years. It was a question that would have filled Mrs. Cross, their industrious house­keeper, with righteous indignation had she heard it.

  It was when his gaze transferred to the ceiling that his mind was recalled by his elder brother and guardian.

  "Well, Gillian?"

  The tone was quiet, and quite calm, but Gillian, accus­tomed as he was to his brother's voice through long experi­ence, heard the implacable note behind the simple words, and flushed.

  "Well," he parroted, one booted toe unconsciously dig­ging into the old carpet as he sought words to cast his latest indiscretion into a more appealing light. None came.

  "Well," he repeated, his eyes rising to the other man's. "You see—" He stopped suddenly as he stared at his brother, and a note of indignation crept into his voice. "I must say, Giles, that I didn't expect to find you at Willowdale in the midst of the season!"

  "No." Giles permitted himself a small smile as his intense gray eyes raked the young transgressor. "Nor did you expect to find John. Nor Peter—"

  "Well, maybe Peter—" Eagerly Gillian entered upon that caveat, hoping it would divert his brother's thoughts. It did not.

  Giles raised one languid hand and, in a bored voice, requested his brother to spare him a list of what he did not expect.

  Hopes blighted, Gillian's face fell as Giles smiled again. "What I want to know, Gillian, is why Willowdale is now graced with your presence in what is—unless my lamentable memory fails me—the middle of the term?"

  Really, Gillian told himself, he would have to speak to his tailor about these much-too-tight shirt collars, and he gave the offending article a tug, to Giles's unexpressed amusement.

  "Oh, it isn't your memory that's at fault, Giles," Gillian responded, striving for cheerfulness. "It never is."

  More feeling than he intended crept into the last sentence as Gillian recalled the times out of mind when Giles's memory had been painfully accurate, and as his thoughts were writ plain on his face, his eldest brother's lips curled again.

  "But the fact is—well—" Gillian grinned placatingly at his brother. "The fact is, I've been rusticated, Giles. But only until the end of the term!"

  "I see." Only Giles's iron will prevented his smiling at the happy insouciance of Gillian's "only until the end of the term." Gillian, relieved that the truth was out, looked much like a spaniel who expects to be kicked but hopes for a pat as he cocked his head to the right.

  "I knew you would," Gillian burst out. "You're a great gun, Giles! Truly top of the trees—"

  The "great gun" held up one strong hand, and when it had stopped his brother's impetuous words he turned it over to carefully regard the well-manicured nails before him. "And would there be a reason for this—ah—enforced return to the bosom of your family?"

  The hopeful look died on Gillian's face and his gaze, too, seemed riveted on his brother's fingers.

  "Well—" Gillian began, taking a hasty turn around the room before he came to stand once more before Giles's desk. A distracted hand pulled again at his high shirt collar and cravat, then moved upward to wreak havoc with his carefully arranged curls. It didn't seem fair to him, and his voice was aggrieved as he told Giles he thought it monstrously bad of all his brothers to be at their ancestral dwelling when he had expected them to be safely out of the way in London, and had thought he might just pop into Willowdale and stay there quietly until the term ended, with no one the wiser.

  "I see."

  Giles, sixth Earl of Manseford, was apparently satisfied with the state of his right hand, and turned his attention to his left before his eyes rose to his brother's face.

  "Do you know, Gillian, I believe I must make you my compliments," he said. "The breadth of your optimism has previously been hidden from me. Do you mean to say that you honestly believed you could spend the rest of the term rusticating here and no one—not the dean, not the servants, not one of your numerous loose-tongued young friends— would tell me of it?"

  Gillian's face fell further. All his energies had been devoted to reaching Willowdale without his brother's knowl­edge; he hadn't thought beyond that. Now, staring across at Giles, the enormity of his folly hit him. Sooner or later— and usually sooner—Giles knew everything about his younger brothers' lives. It was one of the most disagreeable things about him. Gillian wondered if Giles knew that. . .

  A quick glance up made him color and look h
astily down again. No doubt. Giles knew.

  "I believe, Gillian, that you were about to tell me what led to your rustication."

  "Well, no," Gillian replied candidly. "I really wasn't. I don't think you're going to enjoy this, Giles, and I don't wish to distress you—"

  Giles inclined his head gravely and thanked Gillian for his consideration. "However," he said in the dry tone that pricked the hair on the back of his brother's neck, "I shall endeavor not to be completely unmanned by your disclosures."

  Gillian regarded him closely. "You're bamming me, aren't you, Giles?"

  There was another grave shake of his brother's head and an earnest request that he proceed. Sighing, Gillian sank into a chair by the fire and plunged into his tale. His eyes darted now and then to see what effect his words had on Giles, but for the most part he fixed them firmly on the fingers he was clasping and unclasping before him.

  It would have cheered the young culprit considerably had he known that in one instance, at least, he wronged the earl. Giles did enjoy Gillian's story. He enjoyed it completely, understood that once a pig wandered into Gillian's orbit it was only a matter of time before disaster followed, and even sympathized with the youthful spirits that, "a trifle above par," as Gillian so delicately put it, hatched the merry scheme. But none of that showed in his face as he listened carefully to Gillian's involved explanation of how he and some chums decided to put a pig to bed in the quarters of one of the stuffiest nobs at Oxford.

  "And then, of course, when we actually got into his room, and just happened to see his nightshirt lying there— well, it seemed a shame to put the pig to bed naked—"

  A strangling sound from behind his brother's desk made Gillian look up quickly to find Giles regarding him in fascination. "Are you going to tell me—that you put the man's nightshirt—on the pig—" Try as he might, Giles could not make the words come out quite steadily and Gillian, mistaking the tremor for anger, blushed vividly and hung his head. Giles bit his lip and, when he had once again mastered his voice, bade his brother continue.