Pumpkinnapper Read online

  *

  The Wild Rose Press

  www.thewildrosepress.com

  Copyright ©2009 by Linda Banche

  *

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

  *

  CONTENTS

  Pumpkinnapper

  Dedication

  Lindsell, Essex, England

  Her refusal increased his fury. The sight of her hand on that damned goose’s head didn’t improve his mood, either. He balled his fists as his patience thinned and something else thickened. “I’ll find you a guard dog. You require protection out here all alone.”

  “But I have Henry.” She patted the goose’s head, and the bird snuggled into her hand. Again.

  “Henry is a very good watch animal. He also crops the grass and eats weeds.” She caught her lower lip in her teeth as, with mischief in her eye, she looked from Henry-the-goose to him. “Although I might consider replacing him.” She fluttered her eyelashes and smiled sweetly. “Do you eat weeds?”

  Heat again swept over Hank, part desire for Emily’s touch, and part desire to murder that damned goose, who was where he wanted to be. His insides groaned. “I might be tempted.” He gave himself a mental shake and admitted defeat. “Very well, then, you leave me no choice. I will help you catch the culprits.” He raised his hand as she opened her mouth to protest. “No, I insist. I worry about you. Please, agree, for old time’s sake.”

  “But—”

  He changed his voice to the voice that either melted a woman or earned him a slap in the face. “Who knows, mayhap we would enjoy ourselves as I lie in wait with you.” I would love to lie with you.

  Her eyes widened. Had she understood the innuendo?

  “I cannot stay alone with you, and you know it,” she said, her voice severe.

  “You are a widow in your own home, and no one will see. I will ensure it.”

  “No.” She marched back into her cottage and slammed the door. Henry smirked and waddled away.

  Hank grinned. He would be back, whether she liked it or not.

  Pumpkinnapper

  by

  Linda Banche

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Pumpkinnapper

  COPYRIGHT ©

  2009 by Linda Banche

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Nicola Martinez

  The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First English Tea Rose Edition, 2009

  Published in the United States of America

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Dedication

  To Jim. Again.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Lindsell, Essex, England

  Late September, 1816

  “You—you—pumpkinnapper!”

  With only the greatest difficulty did Henry, Baron Grey, prevent his jaw from sagging onto his chest.

  He’d watched with pleasure and a tug of recognition as the lovely lady now standing before him had marched down the walkway of Lindsell’s main street. Short, with a shapely figure under her pink dress, and with wisps of silky blonde hair curling around her perfect oval face, she was a male fantasy come true.

  Or, she would have been if those eyes—eyes the crystalline blue of the autumn sky above—didn’t contain murderous rage. He hoped the lacy reticule dangling from her wrist didn’t hold stones with which she intended to crown him.

  Collecting his wits, he curved his mouth into his best smile, the one that always charmed the ladies. Pray it did so now. “Madam, I have been called many things in my life, but never a pumpkin—pumpkin—”

  “Pumpkinnapper.”

  “And what, may I ask, is a pumpkinnapper?”

  “You know very well. Last night you tried to steal my pumpkins. And I have the proof.” She waved a folded handkerchief in his face. “Is this handkerchief yours, or is it not?”

  He rescued the white silk square from her flailing hand, and squinted at it. The “HG” of his monogram, the right-hand upright of the capital “H” and the left side of the capital “G” fused together, stared back. “This handkerchief is indeed mine. I lost it yesterday. Where did you find it?”

  “In my garden. You dropped it last night when you tried—and failed—to steal my pumpkins.”

  “I did not steal your pumpkins.”

  “Of course not, because I chased you away before you could get one.”

  “Why would I want your pumpkins?”

  “Why did you bedevil me when we were children? For the sheer pleasure of it.” She fluttered her eyelashes, and her mouth curved into a smile too sweet for humor. “Handkerchief.”

  Behind him, the Honorable Mr. Philip Lawson snorted. “‘Handkerchief’? Did the lady call you ‘Handkerchief’?”

  Memories of that almost forgotten, annoying nickname galloped into Henry’s mind. Only one person in the world had ever called him Handkerchief. He looked the lady up and down, an assessing stare, and she squirmed. By Jupiter, whoever would have thought that skinny, annoying weed, Miss Emily Browne, would blossom into such a gorgeous flower?

  “I am happy to see you, too, Emily. And how could I try to steal your pumpkins when I have no idea what a pumpkin is? I only arrived yesterday, along the…” Pray she didn’t remember the even worse nickname.

  “Oh, come now, Hanky, you can do better than that.”

  “Hanky?” Mr. Lawson sputtered. “Oh, but this little discussion just gets better and better.”

  Henry felt heat rise into his face. Time to change the subject. “Oh, my manners. Let me introduce you. Miss Emily Browne—”

  “Mrs. Metcalfe.”

  “Ah, my mistake. Mrs. Emily Metcalfe, Mr. Philip Lawson. Lawson, Mrs. Emily Metcalfe.”

  With an appreciative gleam in his eye, Mr. Lawson clasped Emily’s hand and kissed her knuckles. No lips brushing air here, but a real kiss. For a blinding second, Henry wanted nothing more than to plant his old friend a facer.

  Where had that thought come from?

  “But the street is no place for this talk.” Henry gritted his teeth as he forced down his rage. His breathing eased when Philip released her hand. “May I call on you this afternoon, and we can consider the matter?”

  “No need, I am fine.”

  “Please, Emily, I want to find out what happened.”

  She hesitated for a few seconds, annoyance overlaid with something he couldn’t decipher flitting across her face. “Turnip Cottage on the Lindsell Road.” She glared at him once more, smiled at Mr. Lawson, and then turned and stalked back the way she had come.

  Henry frowned as she strode into the distance. “What was she talking about?”

  “Yes, what was she talking about, Handkerchief?” Philip quirked an eyebrow. “Indeed, do tell … Hanky.”

  Henry ran a hand over his face. “A
play on my name. ‘Henry’ is a popular name in my family. My father was Henry, my older cousin, Harry, and I, as the youngest, became Hank. And since I always lost my handkerchief, she bestowed the name ‘Handkerchief’ on me. When she was really angry, she called me ‘Hanky’.”

  “Ah, she must be extremely angry today.”

  She remembered him. Hank’s heart gave a grateful lurch as he followed her progress back up the street. By thunder, but she was lovely, even from the back. His little Emily was no longer in the first blush of youth, but rarely had he seen a more fetching beauty.

  As he lost sight of her bobbing bonnet in the crowd, he dropped his gaze to the handkerchief he still held. Not dirty, as it must have been when she picked it up from the ground, but washed and pressed. She couldn’t be too angry if she had laundered it. His mouth curved into a smile. He would enjoy his visit with Mrs. Metcalfe.

  Philip’s eyebrows rose. “And what does that grin signify?” He laughed out loud and clapped Hank on the back. “I believe a tale is in the offing, and I cannot wait to hear it.” He waved a hand at the tavern behind them. “Come, I will stand you to a pint.”

  They paused a short way inside the tavern entrance and searched the noisy smoke-filled main room for a place to sit. Now, at the noon hour, all the scarred tables were filled with laughing, talking men wearing workmen’s smocks. Philip tapped Hank on the shoulder and pointed to a small, unoccupied table in the corner. Hank nodded, and they pushed their way through the crowd. As they seated themselves, Hank raised a hand in the owner’s direction, and in a moment, the man placed two foaming tankards before them.

  Philip took a long pull from his pint. “Now tell me about the delightful Mrs. Metcalfe,” he said as he set his drink on table.

  Hank didn’t like the glint in Philip’s eye. “Not much to tell, really. We were childhood friends. But I last saw her ten years ago. We were both little more than children, then. I heard she had married and moved away. Indeed, her presence here surprised me.” He drank a long swallow from his own tankard.

  Yes, she was married now. At seventeen, he’d left Lindsell for Oxford. Three years later, he’d swaggered back, all grown up and a man of the world, or so he had thought, cock-sure she would be waiting for him.

  Well, she hadn’t been. A lucky seafaring man had snapped up the vicar’s pretty daughter. Ha, the arrogance of youth. He uttered a silent curse. Your own fault, you gudgeon.

  Philip opened his mouth to comment, and Hank rushed in to turn the conversation.

  “And what brings you to this part of the country?” he asked as he licked foam from the corner of his mouth.

  Philip’s eyes narrowed at the abrupt change of subject, but then his lips curled into a knowing grin. “On my way to the Earl of Lindsell’s house party. The man is your neighbor. Were you not invited? In truth, I am astonished the delicious Miss Clark let you off her lead.”

  “I was never on Miss Clark’s lead, as you so quaintly phrase it.”

  Philip’s grin widened, but he said nothing. “Well, then, are you also here for the earl’s party?”

  “Lindsell cannot get away from town at this time. He postponed the party for a month. I received his note in London. Did he not write you?”

  “For the past few weeks I have been visiting the parents at the country estate. His letter must have missed me.” Philip yawned. “Very boring there, but I suppose I must return.” Then, a shadow crossed his face. “And sad, as well. All our fields look as if an army trampled them.”

  “Here, too. Looks to be a very bad harvest. I returned early to determine how my tenants fare. As long as I was headed here, the earl asked me to check on his tenants, too. We discussed the problem and decided to open our granaries if need be.”

  “A capital idea. I shall write my father and suggest he do the same. We have had trouble with people stealing food. Poor buggers.”

  They pushed their empty tankards aside, and the tavern owner bustled over and placed two more foaming pints on the table. The man paused, scrubbing his hands on the apron stretching over his capacious middle. “We haven’t had such problems hereabouts, but…”

  Hank and Philip exchanged a glance. “Yes?” Hank prompted the owner, as he sipped his ale.

  “I hear tell a stranger with a lamp been walkin’ the roads at night. He’s not done anything, so far as anybody knows, but that light gleaming all alone is eerie-like. Folks say it glows bright and never flickers, like a demon-light.” He scratched his head. “Can’t make heads nor tails of the stories.”

  Unease prickled Hank’s skin. Yesterday he had passed a little cottage with a lone woman tending the garden at its side. Did she have a husband to protect her? That isolated cottage was on the Earl of Lindsell’s land, but the woods behind the house formed the border to his property. Since the Earl was not in residence, Hank decided to ride over and check on the tenant.

  He placed a coin on the table. The owner smiled as he scooped the money up and then left.

  Philip shivered. “All Hallows’ Eve yet a month away, and the locals already sprout tales of ghoulies and ghosties.”

  “This report could be more than a tale. Hungry people may be roaming the roads here, too; although, I have not heard of any, and the owner did not report any trouble.” He pushed away his almost-full tankard. “Still, my tenants’ safety is my responsibility. And I must pay a visit to Mrs. Metcalfe.” He slid back his chair and stood. “My estate is nearby. Why not stay with me until the house party? Unless you must attend to more pressing business?”

  Philip stood also and shook out his coattails. “Nothing that will not keep.” He grinned. “And after that interesting scene outside, I cannot wait to see how this little comedy unfolds.”

  Hank drew on the reins to slow his horse as he trotted north along the Lindsell road. He shook his head at yet another field covered with stunted wheat stalks.

  Curse the weather. The fields should now be crowded with tenants harvesting grain for the winter. But not this year. Frosts had lingered well into July, and rain had poured in torrents for most of the summer. Early plantings had died from the cold, or rotted from the excessive moisture, and these later sowings lacked the time to mature. A newssheet had dubbed this year “The Year Without A Summer.” Appropriate, if sad.

  With Napoleon defeated and exiled last year, everyone had prayed conditions would revert to normal. But they had not. The myriads of returning soldiers unable to find jobs were a constant problem. So were the recently-passed Corn Laws, which kept grain prices so artificially high the poor could not afford them.

  And now, these too-short green shoots foretold a bad harvest. Perspiration beaded on his forehead under his hat. With the season now too far advanced for these crops to mature, the weather had become warm. He reached into his breeches pocket for the handkerchief Emily had returned. Nothing. He stopped the horse and searched his other pocket. Still nothing. Had he misplaced it so soon? He felt in his coat pocket and at last, his fingers curled over the silk square. He mopped his face and then secured the handkerchief deep in his pocket. Strange, his losing his handkerchief yesterday. He hadn’t mislaid one since he was a boy. Then, he had lost one handkerchief after another. Emily had reveled in teasing him about it, and had reminded him with that annoying nickname at every opportunity.

  Like today.

  His mouth curved into a wistful grin. Ah, sweet little Emily Browne had been the bane—and the joy—of his youth. She had followed him around like a devoted puppy. Needling her had been great fun, and she had never minded.

  Until the day his world had shifted. He clenched the reins more tightly. All of a sudden, she had turned into a girl. On that fateful afternoon, he had been seventeen and she fourteen. Out of habit, he had grabbed her braid for a gentle tug, and his teasing had changed into something else.

  Her hair, the hair he’d pulled for years, was silk in his hand, and an almost overpowering desire to kiss his way up the glorious golden strands to her mouth had swamped him. Shocke
d at the heated thought, and his body’s unexpected hardening, he had given her braid the usual playful twitch. But, after that, their meetings had become strained, and soon after his father had bundled him off to Oxford. Hank had never seen her again. Slowly he eased his grip and released a sad sigh over what might have been.

  He clicked the reins, and the horse’s gait increased to a quick walk. On the right side of the road, a pretty two-story stone cottage came into view—the one he’d passed yesterday on the way to his manor. As he recalled Emily’s directions, this house must be that Turnip Cottage where she lived.

  By the looks of the sharp-edged roof tiles and the well-made window glass that showed nary a bubble, this dwelling was no poor farmer’s house. Orange and red fall asters spilled over the sides of the ground floor window boxes. Fresh, black paint gleamed on the shutters and trimming. A modest, but tidy, scythed lawn fronted the cottage and in the back, a small lean-to nestled at the forest edge. He saw no one, but the smoke curling upward from the chimney signaled Emily’s presence.

  He dismounted and tied his horse’s reins to the neat white-washed fence that bordered the road. As he walked up the flower-lined flagstones to the front door, he noted the two straight rows of large orange gourds stretching away from the side of the house.

  Ah, he thought as he lifted the polished door knocker. They must be the fabled pumpkins.

  Emily stood in the kitchen at the back of her cottage. Her fingers beat an angry tattoo on the windowsill as she gazed out at her pumpkin patch. Wasn’t it just like Hank to cause her trouble? The gall of the man, to deny trying to steal the pumpkins when she had found his handkerchief.

  The drumming of her fingers caught her attention, and she clasped her hands together to still them. She inhaled a deep breath and concentrated on her pumpkins, her great big wonderful pumpkins. They were fine. That lout Hank hadn’t damaged them.

  Giving herself a shake, she turned to the sink and pumped water into a bucket until her lungs heaved with the effort, then she scooped out a glass of water.

  Somehow, she couldn’t imagine Hank as a pumpkin thief, but his handkerchief was damning evidence.