Barbara Metzger Read Free

Clarence and his dear—that emphasis gave the lie to Miss Croft’s written words—wife Gwen refuse to cross our doorstep, not even for Cook’s raspberry tarts, and you know how Clarence always ate more than his fair share of them, then filled his pockets when he thought no one was looking. I digress.
     
    She certainly did. Ty wanted to know what her difficulty was, that she encouraged a soldier to sell out in the middle of a campaign, not how gluttonous their cousin was.
     
    Clarence, through written communication, has refused to release further funds. How could you have left that pastry-stealing nodcock in charge of our finances?
     
    A man who stole tarts? Ty found himself chuckling. How indeed?
     
    So we do not have the wherewithal to leave the neighborhood where matters are so Uncomfortable.
     
    What, Croft’s sister was being snubbed by the local matrons for some social gaffe, so she wished to move away from home? For that the woman thought the lieutenant should leave his post, abandon his men? Ty shook his head, his smile fading.
     
    Lord Dallsworth has let it be known, through the vicar, who directed last Sunday’s sermon directly to our pew, I’ll have you know, to my utmost mortification, that he is withdrawing his offer of marriage.
     
    Ty stopped smiling altogether. A gentleman did not break off an engagement without good reason. Damn, what bumblebroth had the female embroiled herself in, that she needed money and her brother to fix—or a change of venue?
     
    I thought of asking Aunt Rosalie in London if we could visit with her, but she refused, saying I would be welcome after this Minor Embarrassment faded away. As if an infant is a Minor Anything. Or if it will wash away, like a spot.
     
    Hell and damnation, Ty feared he understood all too well the nature of Miss Croft’s mingle-mangle, although what the deuce she expected poor George to do about it was a mystery to him. Carry her off to some cottage in Wales where she could remain anonymous, he supposed. But no, the woman’s next lines refuted that possibility.
     
    I fear travel is no longer an option. The calculations appear to have been in error, and Time is even shorter than Belinda and I originally believed.
     
    Belinda must be her maid or some such.
     
    I do not wish to worry you, dearest, but I am dreadfully concerned over the eventual outcome.
     
    As well she should be. Not only couldn’t the woman keep her skirts down but, it seemed, she could not even count.
     
    What am I to do, George?
     
    What was George to do, from the Peninsula? Lud, Ty thought the wench must expect George to marry her off to one of his chums, or perhaps bring the father to book. That was just what the poor lieutenant needed, to go home to fight a duel for his sister’s honor. Better he died here, for a worthier cause.
    Ty could barely finish the letter, for his disgust, especially when the female tried to lay part of the blame on Croft, for joining the army when he was so badly needed at home. Well, the Crown needed good men here, too, to keep Bonaparte from taking over the world, and so Ty would tell the woman. In fact, he had a good mind to tell the whining, carping Miss Croft that her letter had sent George off in a desperate frenzy, dying for an unknown officer. Women, faugh. Ty’d always believed they were the death of a man. Now he was proved right.
     
    Your loving, anxious sister, indeed! Light-skirted executioner, more like.
    George, it seemed, did not share Tyverne’s outrage.
     
    My dearest sister, Croft’s unfinished letter, the last in the pile, began. No recriminations, no remonstrations. Ty supposed he was as fond of his own sister as the next man, but if she’d blotted her copybook so blatantly, he thought he might have a censorious word or two. Or three, like “How could you?” The viscount shook his head. Better make that four words; “How could you, dammit?”
    Instead George asked his sister’s forgiveness for not being there at