Page 6 of The Earl's Inconvenient Houseguest
‘You remind me of me in my prime and inciting a rebellion is exactly the sort of thing that I would do if only I was five years younger. But alas, age is a cruel mistress and a revolution needs a younger body than my shrivelled old thing, so I can think of nobody better to lead us into battle against our enemy than the only one of us who could prise the truth from the blighter.’ Everyone bar Mrs Outhwaite, whose nose was clearly put out at being overlooked for such a poison chalice, nodded enthusiastically.
‘You clearly have a way with him,’ said the reverend’s wife after a long pause during which Sophie could only blink in shock. ‘And us. A moment ago, we were all ready to wave the white flag of surrender—until you raised the call to arms, Sophie, and gave us hope.’
‘I think a man would be a better choice.’ Several groaned at Mrs Outhwaite’s suggestion although she pretended not to hear it. ‘A respected gentleman of the village...like my husband perhaps? One who is used to dealing with other gentlemen of rank and stature.’ She puffed out her chest with self-importance. ‘Men, in my experience, always respond better to one of their own. It is so much easier for them to discount a woman—no matter how formidable or capable she might seem on the outside.’ The look she slanted Sophie made it plain she thought her entirely incapable of anything.
‘Didn’t he deftly avoid all your husband’s questions, Agatha?’ Mrs Fitzherbert rolled her sunken eyes. ‘Just as he avoided every single pertinent question posed by every respected gentleman who has outright asked him in the past week. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to ignore Sophie’s.’ She whacked her cane hard on the floor as she pointed at her. ‘She is his Achilles heel.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far...perhaps I simply asked the right question at the right time?’
‘Just as you knew exactly what to say to us to rouse us out of our pit of self-pity and give us hope. That is a gift, girl!’ She bashed the floor with her stick once more as if the decision was made. ‘When one gets to be as old as I am, one learns that when the path ahead seems impassable, even though they might not seek the accolade, a natural, worthy leader always springs to the fore who can see a way around it. Today—in this moment, for this rutted pathway—it is you, Sophie Gilbert.’ Two wily old eyes held hers in challenge. ‘So put your money where your outspoken mouth is and lead us, young lady—and we shall follow.’
After an atrocious night’s sleep on the best of the cheaply made and lumpy old mattresses in the mausoleum, Rafe awoke with a start to the sound of a bugle.
Thanks to a decade of strict military training and discipline, he jumped to his feet confused, then briefly scrambled about for his uniform and his weapons before he remembered he wasn’t a soldier any more.
At least that was what he consoled himself with until he tugged on his drawers, looked out of the window and saw the mob of angry people on his driveaway carrying what seemed to be...
Good grief, were they placards?
They were. A veritable sea of them.
As it was barely light, he had to squint a bit to read them, his jaw hanging slacker with each and every one.
Whittleston Will Not Be Wronged!
Repair Our Square!
Long Live Whittleston-on-the-Water!
How dare you put your GREED over our NEED?
As he gaped in disbelief, he watched the comely Miss Gilbert march to the front of the crowd alongside a wizened old lady with a walking stick who looked to be about a hundred years old. Miss Gilbert stared up at him in defiance with an expression of complete and utter contempt, before she and the wizened woman unfurled the long banner she had personally carried to his doorstep. The scarlet painted letters were so big they required no squinting whatsoever.
SHAME ON YOU, LORD HOCKLEY!
‘My lord, we are under siege!’ His unflappable new butler was as white as Miss Gilbert’s damning sheet as he burst through the door, clearly in the flap to end all flaps. ‘What should we do?’ He began to pace and twitch like a headless chicken. ‘I’ve already instructed the staff to batten down the hatches, but if they attack...’
Rafe grabbed the butler’s shoulders. ‘Calm down, Walpole! They are unarmed.’
Although by the fierce glint in her eyes, the strange old lady might well do some damage to his person with her cane if she got the chance. So too might Miss Gilbert and with her bare hands. He glanced back at her, stood tall and proud. Front and centre like Joan of Arc at Orléans as she raised her chin and skewered him with her glare.
‘I’ll go and talk to them.’ But as he stalked towards the door and felt the early morning chill on his shrivelled nipples, he altered course to put some clothes on first. He was already at a disadvantage as far as numbers were concerned, and there was no doubt they thought they had the moral advantage already if they were here for what he suspected they were, and he didn’t need to be naked and shivering as well when he faced them. ‘Have a maid take Archie to his room and keep him there. A calm maid who won’t frighten the life out of him.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ The butler nodded, wringing his hands as Rafe wriggled into his breeches. ‘Once I have done that, shall I fetch the pistols, my lord? Or the Blunderbuss?’
Was everyone in this godforsaken village stark staring mad?
‘We are not at war, Walpole!’ At least not yet. Although judging by this palaver, it might become a distinct possibility if he didn’t handle things delicately.
‘But I have never seen the like, my lord, in my five years here! The villagers are friendly folk and not prone to rabble-rousing, so something is amiss. Perhaps I should I summon the constable instead? Have him read the Riot Act?’ Because that would surely pour oil on troubled waters!
‘No, Walpole. Let us not overreact.’ There was enough of that going on outside without adding fuel to the fire. Rafe was famously diplomatic and a natural leader of men, or so the top brass said when they pinned that worthless medal to his chest. ‘Have some tea brought to the dining room with plenty of cups and instruct cook to prepare a huge breakfast.’ People shouted less when they were occupied and what better way to preoccupy them than with food. ‘I shall invite the ringleaders in for a civilised discussion myself where hopefully we can find an amicable solution to calm their grievances.’ One which did not involve him having to stay in whinging Whittleston on the blasted Water a single second longer than he had planned.