Kidnap Confusion Page 2

  "Well, there isn't much else," Gillian said, busily re­garding his clasping and unclasping fingers. "We left the window to Old Perkins's bedroom open so we could watch, and when we heard him coming, we bolted out that way- he has lodgings on the first floor, you must know—and I must say, Giles, that even if we probably shouldn't have done it—"

  "Probably shouldn't have done it?" his brother repeated.

  Gillian sighed. "All right. Even though we shouldn't have done it, I do wish you could have seen it, for it truly was a capital sight. As soon as Old Perkins opened the door, he startled the pig, and of course the animal squealed and jumped up, and seeing the open door headed for that, knocking Perky down as he passed through his legs. And if you've ever seen a pig racing across the commons in a nightshirt, with a nightcap falling over one eye, well, Giles-—" The grin on his face disappeared as he saw his brother's raised eyebrows.

  "And for this the Dean rusticated you until the end of the term?"

  "Yes." Gillian sighed heavily. "Shabby of him, wasn't it?"

  "My dear Gillian, it is a wonder to me you weren't sent down permanently. Of all the cork-brained schemes—"

  Gillian, who had no turn for learning and who wouldn't mind being sent down permanently, said reasonably that the bagwig was laughing as loudly as anyone when he saw Old Perky chasing the pig for his nightshirt, and only sent Gillian down when the nob demanded that he do something. . .

  He risked another glance at his brother's dark, impassive face, and waited in miserable silence for Giles to pass judgment. He did not have to wait long.

  "I believe, Gillian," his brother said, the well-manicured fingers tapping together as they rested on his lean stomach, "that I cannot concur with the Dean that it would be wise for you to be separated from your studies for the remainder of the term. In fact—" he held up one hand for silence as Gillian tried to tell him that being separated from his studies would not bother him at all—"I believe that it is important now more than ever that you learn to apply yourself to those topics for which you were sent to Oxford. And if I am not mistaken—again, my most lamentable memory—you will find, dear brother, that 'pigs' and 'annoying the nobs' are not among them."

  Giles appeared almost absentminded as his eyes swept his head-hanging brother before continuing. "I am sure, Gillian, that if we ask him nicely, John will be only too happy to tutor you several hours each morning to keep you in form for your return to school. That, coupled with what I am sure is going to be your quite avid interest in the knowledge found in this library—shall we say, an avid interest to be pursued six afternoons each week—should put you in top form. Don't you agree?"

  His bored glance rested again on his younger brother, whose mouth was opening and closing at an alarming rate as he goggled at Giles. Gillian, who had planned to spend his rustication riding and hunting, found many thoughts chasing themselves around in his head, and gave vent to the chief among them.

  "John?" he repeated in horror, starting up out of his chair. "John? To lecture and scold past bearing—six days a week? Confined to the library? Really, Giles—"

  His brother had risen also and now stood behind his desk, one hand trifling with the papers that lay there as he gazed down his nose at Gillian. Even in the midst of his anger, Gillian could not help noticing how well the buff coat his brother wore fit his frame, or how his elegant neck cloth was so clearly tied with a mastery quite above that of the more common gentry,, his brother included. Gillian sighed enviously, and wondered again why Giles, usually the best of brothers, would not share the secret to tying that elegant cravat.

  Giles, following his brother's gaze and knowing how that young man's thoughts wandered, recalled him gently to the topic with a dry "Really, Gillian. John is just what you need."

  "Oh, no!" Hastily Gillian attempted to disabuse his brother of that misconception. "John is never what I need! He'll prose on forever, and he'll frown and he'll scold and he'll tell me that I shouldn't be putting pigs in nobs' beds—"

  "Well. . ." Giles interrupted.

  "Oh, I know I shouldn't!" Gillian burst out. "But when John says it, there's nothing I want to do more than go out and find another pig and another nob and do it again! Don't you understand, Giles?"

  Giles understood perfectly but refused to say so. "John," he replied, each word deliberate, "is an excellent scholar, and definitely the most sensible of my brothers. You won't find John sitting in the rain, catching a chill, in the hopes of seeing if fish rise to the surface or dive deeper into the pond when the water comes down, as Peter does; nor will I find him betting on cockroaches"—here Gillian had the grace to blush—"or backing geese races in the park, as you have been known to do."

  "Oh, well—I daresay—in my younger days. . ." Gillian began.

  "Six weeks ago, Gillian?" Giles's mobile eyebrow lifted, and the sinner hung his head again.

  "But John," Gillian moaned, and Giles frowned.

  "If John agrees to help you, you may count yourself fortunate, Gillian. We will speak no more about it."

  The thought that his next elder brother might not agree caused Gillian's face to brighten slightly before it fell, and he cast himself into a chair again. "Of course he'll agree," he said sulkily. "John always does what you say. We all do—"

  Giles's brow lightened suddenly, and he smiled. "If that were the case, Gillian, I wish that sometime in the past twenty years it had occurred to me to tell you not to put pigs in other people's beds! Or in your own, for that matter!"

  Gillian's grin was reluctant but, encouraged by Giles's smile, he suggested that it really wouldn't be so bad if he postponed his studies until the next term. "I'll tell you what," he offered, inspired, "I'll take young Peter in hand and endeavor to get his mind off his studies. You know you're always saying he needs to get out more, and—"

  The earl agreed that it was true, and wondered aloud how he came to have one brother with no interest in books, and another who wished never to be without one. Gravely he thanked Gillian for the nobility of his proffered sacrifice, but declined to allow him to martyr himself in that way.

  "Oh, it wouldn't be so terrible, Giles," Gillian began, but Giles interrupted.

  "Yes, Gillian, it would. It would be very terrible indeed. Because next term, when the thought of doing something disgraceful pops into your head—as I have no doubt that it will—I fully expect the memory of the alternative form of study available to you to deter your more outrageous activi­ties." With a nod he dismissed the young man in front of him, and a disgruntled Gillian made his way to the library door. He paused there, hand on the knob, to turn and stare at his eldest brother.

  "I would just like to say, Giles," Gillian said with a reproachful dignity that sat awkwardly on his young shoul­ders, "that I expected better from you."

  Giles raised his eyes from the papers on his desk, and smiled agreeably. "Certainly, Gillian. Say whatever you wish."

  "Hmmph!" A disgusted Gillian slammed out the door and stomped down the hall. Had he stopped for a moment, he would have heard laughter echoing behind him as Giles gave himself up to the feelings that had for the last half hour been threatening to overcome him.

  "A pig and Old Perkins," Giles gasped, sinking into the worn leather chair that had been his father's. "Sore tempta­tion, indeed!"

  Chapter 2

  His temper not assuaged by that single slamming, an angry Gillian rushed pell-mell down the hall and through the mansion's front entrance, savagely pushing the large oaken doors closed behind him. His mood was in no way im­proved when those doors, too heavy and too well-hinged to partake of any intemperate action, swung shut with no more than a muffled thud.

  Knowing himself extremely ill-used, Gillian strode to­ward the stables. Every feeling was offended, and all pun­ishments meted out by the unfeeling Giles in past years crowded his mind. The problem, he told himself, completely forgetting the action that had led to the recent confrontation with his brother, was that Giles still considered him a child while h
e, Gillian, was more than ready to take his place alongside Giles as a leader of fashionable men. He knew that Giles at twenty already had established his place at the forefront of the ton, but now that Gillian had attained that age, Giles did not seem to consider it of any great moment.

  That Giles had been a very different person from Gillian at twenty the younger man did not recognize; all his thoughts were focused on the infamy of his brother's actions, and the growing conviction that he must, somehow, convince the one he had always considered the best of all brothers that although his role as stern and guiding guardian might do very well for young Peter, Gillian's advanced age moved him far beyond it.

  And if Giles really thought that Gillian was going to give his head to John for daily washing—well, neither Giles nor John had better assume that! It was foolish for Gillian to keep up with his studies, he told himself; very few of the people he wished to ape were known to have distinguished themselves at Oxford. In fact, when he put his mind to it, he could not think of one.

  Oh yes, his brother John had distinguished himself, but Gillian could think of nothing more deadly dull than to pursue the career in politics so dear to John's heart. No, he was thinking about the sporting men in the world—the real men who knew how to drive to an inch, tossed off daffy with the denizens of the ring, and shot regularly at Manton's.

  Visions of his eldest brother rose before his eyes, and he paused uneasily. In all fairness, he must admit that Giles has done well—the dons had even liked him. But it wasn't that Giles was a scholar—no, no, Gillian liked his brother too much to call him that. . .

  Although not at the moment, he reminded himself, and his brow darkened. How could Giles? How could such a gentleman of the first order come so high-handed over a younger brother whose only wish was to imitate all the more daring of his adventures?

  That his brother, learning from experience, might be trying to steer Gillian away from such adventures never occurred to him; his "Damme, it's not fair," came through gritted teeth as he reached out to break a branch off the nearest bush, and switched it angrily against the other shrubbery along the path.

  "What's not fair?" a gentle voice inquired to his right and he stopped, startled, to meet the inquiring eyes of the youngest and certainly the least censorious of the late fifth Earl of Manseford's sons. Peter surveyed him closely, and his eyes grew sympathetic. "Really gave it to you, did he?" he asked, and Gillian sighed.

  "He was bloody unreasonable," Gillian pronounced, joining Peter on the bench in the quiet alcove between the stables and mansion, and gazing gloomily out at the spa­cious gardens so loved by their late mother.

  The bench had been a favorite resting spot of hers; Gillian could vaguely remember finding her there after her early morning rides, or in the heat of the afternoon when she sat, stitchery in hand, directing the gardeners in whatever was her newest project. Peter had no such memory, for as the youngest of the four boys, he had been only one when their mother died. Yet ever since his brothers had mentioned in passing that the bench was once a prized location for the late Lady Manseford, Peter was often to be found there, his dreamy brow resting in one hand while with the other he turned the pages of whatever he was reading.

  It never ceased to amaze Gillian that Peter, who despite his delicate constitution was an admirable brother, neither stuffy like John nor occasionally censorious like Giles, could be so bookish. In fact, John said half-grudgingly and half-proudly that young Peter would one day show them all the lead as a scholar. Gillian had been indignant on his younger brother's behalf the first time John said it, but when he realized Peter was coloring from pleasure and not anger, he had let it pass, tolerant of so odd an ambition in one to whom he was genuinely attached.

  That Peter was not now at Eton was due to the severe bout with influenza he suffered shortly before term started, and not to any disinclination on his part to study. He had begged Giles to let him return to school despite his weakened condition but Giles, who remembered their gay and laugh­ing mother with tenderness, and who saw much of her in this, her smallest and weakest son, would only say that he might study with a tutor when he was stronger, and return to school the second term, if he was completely well.

  To that end Peter dutifully gulped the nasty potions left by the doctor who had treated him all his life, and studied daily with the Willowdale vicar. It was one of the pleasures of his existence when he could engage either Giles or John in a discussion of the works of Homer or Dante.

  He never engaged Gillian in such discussions, of course; he was a sensitive child, and had long ago discovered that Gillian, so adept on the hunting field or in the boxing ring, or taking out a gun for a day's sport, was bored almost to tears by anything that would-be man-about-town referred to disparagingly as "using the old bone box." Peter knew that to engage Gillian in any serious discussion would be a struggle that would not produce any insight past the rudi­mentary notions Peter had passed long ago.

  Now it was with an air of quiet gravity that Peter closed his book and eyed Gillian consideringly. "What did he say?" he encouraged as Gillian sat, one hand disarranging his hair and the other drawing slashes in the dirt with the branch he'd so recently detached from the Willowdale shrubbery.

  "He said it's a wonder the bagwig didn't send me down permanently," Gillian said indignantly. "And all because of a little pig! Which isn't nearly the same as a dancing bear, which Brandon wanted to use, but we couldn't find one. . ." His voice trailed off, and his eyes were alight with enthusi­asm as he turned toward his brother. "Wouldn't that have been something, though? I mean, I can certainly understand why one shouldn't use a dancing bear, because it would, I would imagine, break the bed if one wasn't careful, but still—"

  Peter, older in many ways than this brother eight years his senior, was quite young enough to appreciate the picture conjured up by such words, and grinned back. "I wish I could have seen it," he said with a sigh, and Gillian, moved by the wistful note in his voice, forgot his own troubles long enough to straighten up and clap him on the shoulder.

  "You will someday," Gillian said in the bracing voice that those who are never ill use when confronted by those who often are. "One of these days, when you're up at Oxford yourself, you'll cut some ripe old tricks. You'll see."

  Peter knew it would never be so, but the fact that Gillian could think it pleased him, and he smiled. "I'll never be as up to snuff as you, Gilly," he said, and his brother, agreeing modestly to this tribute, forebore to remind him that now that he had attained the advanced age of twenty, it was no longer appropriate to refer to him by a childish nickname.

  "Well. . ." Gillian adjusted his cravat and brushed a speck of dust from his coat sleeve. "It ain't because you ain't pluck to the backbone, old man. It's just that you don't have the turn for it like I do. That's all."

  Peter agreed with due solemnity and only a slight twinkle in his eye that he did not have Gillian's talent for getting into scrapes and then, seeing that Gillian was on the way to feeling quite sorry for him, turned the conversation by asking if Giles had had anything else to say.

  Almost restored to his natural buoyancy before this reminder of his pressing problems plunged him to the depths again, Gillian's chin sank and he leaned forward to rest one arm on his knee while the other resumed making circles in the dirt with the branch he still held.

  "He said I have to study with John." Both face and voice were morose as Gillian's eyes followed the branch back and forth.

  "But that will be fun!" Peter was excited by the thought. "John knows so much—"

  "It would be great fun for you," Gillian interrupted with a heavy frown as, straightening, he tossed the branch away and turned to face Peter, "but it's pure torture to me. And Giles knows it. He said if he punishes me severely enough, perhaps I'll remember it next time I'm up at Oxford and will have a care about cutting up such prime larks." He reflected a moment, and sighed again as his basic honesty made him admit that his eldest brother might be right. Then his indignat
ion rose. "But I think condemning me to John is excessive!"

  Peter, who saw much wisdom in Giles's decision, was moved by the long face before him, and put a hand on his brother's shoulder.

  "Maybe it won't be so bad—" he offered.

  Gillian shook his head mournfully, prophesizing that when he wanted to read the Turf Guide, John would badger him with The Iliad. "And probably in Greek!" he added, the horror in his face showing how deeply the thought affected him. "Lord, Peter—I can't understand it in English! And you can lay wagers that when I'm ready to depart for a prime prizefight, John will descend to drag me off to look at some moldy old ruin where somebody or other signed something or such."

  His face assumed lines of deep mourning. "I tell you, Peter, it doesn't bear thinking of."

  Peter, who could only think of it wistfully, politely refrained from saying so and patted Gillian's shoulder again. "Maybe Giles will reconsider."

  Gillian grunted. "About the same time Old Perkins for­gives me!"

  Peter grinned, hoping for an answering smile on his brother's face. None came. After several moments survey­ing the dejected figure before him, Peter asked hesitantly if Gillian would like him to sit in when John held his enforced classes.

  The thought made Gillian brighten briefly, for it occurred to him that once his two most scholarly brothers became engrossed in one of the subjects so dear to their hearts and so foreign to him, he would be speedily forgotten and could at the least allow his mind to wander. At the most he might be able to slip from the room when discussions grew particularly deep or heated. Then he thought of Giles, and sighed heavily.

  "Giles probably wouldn't allow it," he said, scuffing one booted toe in the dirt. "And besides—most of the time I'd still have to listen to you!"

  Peter accepted this stricture meekly, aware that the words had not come out quite as Gillian meant them.