A Banbury Tale (12 page)

Motley made an imperious motion, and Maddy reluctantly rose. “To delay longer will give rise to comment,” she said miserably. “We must meet again, and soon.”

“It would be better,” Clem protested, “if we did not.”

“No.” Maddy’s eyes flashed. “We must. I will hit on a solution, if given time to think. Can you put off Lord Bechard a while longer? We must have time to plan.”

Clem shrugged. “A day, a week, who knows? I can only try.”

“You must! We will come about. I own I do not immediately see how the thing is to be done, but I will think very particularly about it. Meet me here again, two days hence. Tomorrow I am engaged with my aunt, and to cry off would arouse her suspicions. Will you do this?”

“You would do better to wash your hands of me.” Clem laughed at her friend’s indignant face. “But I know you too well to expect you to behave so sensibly. Very well, I shall meet you then.”

“And do not despair!”

Motley had firmly taken her charge in tow. Clem walked slowly across the park. She did not believe that Maddy could work a miracle, and it seemed that only a miracle could extricate her from this predicament, but her friend’s stubbornness cheered her. If there was a solution to be found, which Clem seriously doubted, then find it Maddy would.

* * * *

Wilmington appeared to have little appreciation of the unmaidenly emotions he’d aroused in Maddy’s virginal breast, and had, indeed, been heard to remark that he had no desire to squander his time in complying with an untried damsel’s whims. Tilda, privileged to view the succession of high-flyers who had enjoyed the Earl’s protection, had little reason to doubt the sincerity of his remarks, though lately she had come to suspect that he’d experienced a change of heart, for he exhibited a marked preference for Miss de Villiers’ vivacious company. Tilda wondered at the capriciousness of women, who would ignore the attentions of a perfect gentleman to cast longing glances at a swarthy rake who discarded mistresses as easily as he acquired them, and who additionally bore the stigma of murderer. The wretched Cassandra had proved to be no less vexatious dead than she had been alive.

“Are you pleased with your adventure?” the Earl inquired. Tilda gazed about the small supper box, set discreetly in a leafy arbor.

“Inordinately. Why is it I have never before attended a Vauxhall masquerade?”

“Because it is most improper.” Micah gazed with distaste upon the remnants of their meal, a sumptuous repast that had consisted of Arrack punch, powdered beef, custards, and syllabubs laced with rum.

“You have no conscience.” Tilda laughed huskily. “Admit that it was reprehensible of you to bring me here.”

The Earl watched as she rose. “Have you come to a belated awareness of the proprieties, Tilda? Do you wish me to escort you home?”

Tilda paused by his chair. The sound of revelry was everywhere. “How fainthearted you think me!” she protested. “I have not said I wish to leave.” She felt giddy with a combination of pleasure and champagne. “I vow I could make merry the whole night through.”

Drunken laughter came closer, and the sounds of a sportive chase through the underbrush. The Earl grasped Tilda’s wrist, pulled her onto his lap, and proceeded to kiss her most thoroughly. Unaccustomed to such treatment, Tilda was too startled to protest. The unknown revelers, upon discovering that this particular secluded refuge was already claimed, offered ribald advice and took themselves away.

Tilda, when she was allowed to breathe, studied her captor doubtfully. “I suppose that I should thank you,” she remarked, “for saving my reputation.” Her evening cloak, with its concealing hood, lay abandoned on her chair, for the night was warm.

The countless lamps that illuminated the night threw Micah’s face into shadow. “You may thank me if you wish,” the Earl murmured, “but acquit me of altruistic tendencies.” His eye seemed to gleam, but not, Tilda thought, with mirth. “I had no thought for your good name.”

Had Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson the least degree of prudence, she would have considered the Earl’s notoriety and removed herself forthwith from his grasp. Instead, she sighed and rested her head on his shoulder, most comfortably. “I might have known. Micah, you are no gentleman.”

“Am I to apologize?” the Earl inquired. So great was his aplomb that he might have every day cradled a rather scantily clad, and somewhat inebriated, lady in his arms.

“No,” replied the lady, after judicious thought. She peered up at him. “I believe that I would much prefer that you did it again.”

Micah’s arms tightened around her. Tilda saw devils dancing in his eyes before his face blocked out the light. It was with some shock that she found herself placed firmly on her feet.

“My darling,” said the Earl, with a note of laughter, “you try me too far. If we remain here longer, alone, I will not answer-for the consequences.”

Tilda concentrated on maintaining her balance, for the world had developed an unsettling tendency to spin, and sought to mask her absurd disappointment behind dignity. The Earl caught her face between his hands and would not let her speak. “Or would you prefer to forget who you are?” he murmured. “Forget your title, and your fortune, and your damnable propriety?”

In truth, this was plain speaking. Tilda’s eyes widened. Micah’s lips brushed her forehead, then he enfolded her in the concealing cloak. “Come,” he said. “There is much more for you to see.” There was no anger in his voice. “Before I restore you safely to Agatha, who would curse the pair of us heartily were she to learn of this escapade.”

It was all because of the yellow dress, Tilda thought fuzzily as she took his arm. Cut on simple lines, the clinging silk was caught in at the waist by a thin gold belt Agatha had pronounced the garment more suited to a courtesan than to a gentlewoman, and judging by Micah’s behavior, her opinion was meritorious. Tilda giggled softly.

They wandered down long avenues of trees, pausing to admire fountains and cascades. Soft wisps of music came from the orchestra pavilion, but Tilda was not reckless enough to join the dancers.

“I am grateful to you, Micah,” she remarked, “for bringing me here. I cannot remember when I have had such a splendid time.” She glanced at him. “What prompted you to be so very agreeable?”

“Had I a choice?” the Earl inquired. “You would have tormented me ceaselessly had I not.”

“Wretch!” cried Tilda, and stamped her foot. “This was entirely your idea.” She winced, for her soft slipper had encountered a sharp stone.

“I thought I might divert you from a more outrageous prank.” Micah became aware of his companion’s distress. “Why are you grimacing so dreadfully? Have you hurt yourself?”

“I think,” Tilda replied, with no small chagrin, “that I have bruised my foot.” With the Earl’s assistance, she hobbled to a small stone bench.

“You should learn to control your temper.” Despite his mocking tones, Micah’s hands were gentle as he massaged the injured foot. Tilda found that her cloak was a great deal too warm.

“And so I might,” Tilda retorted, “if you would cease to provoke me so constantly.”

“Are you never to be satisfied?” The Earl replaced her sandal. “At least now you cannot complain that you are dull.”

Tilda prepared for battle, but an interruption occurred. A voluptuous young woman broke away from the boisterous crowd to throw herself into Micah’s arms. Tilda had a glimpse of coal-black curls and sparkling dark eyes before the Earl sent the girl on her way with a resounding slap on her well-rounded behind.

“Your gypsy dancer, I perceive?” Tilda inquired sweetly. She had not missed the glance of loathing that the dark-eyed beauty had flashed at her.

“That is the Dark Walk,” Micah commented, gesturing to the pathway the girl had taken. “Young ladies who venture there alone are apt to find themselves pursued by gentlemen who lurk in the shadows, waiting for just such an opportunity.”

But Tilda was a great deal more interested in the embrace she’d had the misfortune to view, and wondered just how many females Micah had dangling at his heels. There was some excuse for Maddy, for romantic young damsels couldn’t be expected to realize the true character of a rake; but Tilda had proved herself no different from the half-wild gypsy who’d invited the Earl’s embrace. It was a most lowering reflection.

“Poor Tilda,” sympathized the odious Earl. “Does your foot hurt dreadfully?”

Tilda shivered and pulled her cloak more snugly about her. The night air had grown chill. “Why did you kiss me?” she demanded abruptly.

“Because you asked me to.” Micah raised a mocking brow. “Admit it, Tilda, you enjoyed it as much as I.”

Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson scowled. “Knave!” said she.

“Jade!” retorted the Earl, unperturbed. “Are you sufficiently recovered that we may resume our stroll?”

“No.” Tilda’s manner was ungracious. “I would appreciate it, Micah, if you would take me home.”

“Of course,” replied the Earl. “Have I not already demonstrated, lovely lady, that your wish is my command?”

Chapter Seven

Maddy studied her reflection, and decided that it was not wonderful that Wilmington had begun to exhibit a preference for her company. Many ladies cast out lures to the Earl, but they were beyond the first bloom of youth. In all honesty, Maddy had to admit that the Earl was not the sort of gentleman whom matchmaking mamas encouraged their marriageable daughters to cultivate; not only was his reputation so shocking that even his considerable fortune could not atone for it, but he exhibited a marked disinclination to enter into matrimony. From many sources, chief among them Alathea, Maddy had heard tales of the Earl’s mistreatment of his unfortunate wife. Maddy had developed a strong curiosity about that lady, but those who might have told her more showed a puzzling reluctance to discuss Lady Wilmington.

It was all very perplexing. Despite his attentiveness, the Earl had spoken no word that might be misconstrued, had engaged in no action that went beyond what was strictly proper. Maddy suffered pique. For a man of fabled passions, the Earl was remarkably self-possessed. Maddy touched an errant curl, and thought it might be interesting to provoke Wilmington beyond the limits of that mocking self-control.

Letty, at least, was not inclined to condemn the Earl for his colorful past, and was transported by her niece’s conquest, although she had pointed out that Chesterfield was a better catch. Lionel was a Marquess, and would be unlikely to cause his future wife a moment of alarm. This, to Maddy, sounded dull, though she was not certain she’d accept Wilmington’s offer for her hand, which was sure to come. It might be amusing to watch the Earl suffer the pangs of unrequited love.

But, with this improbable vision, the daydream faded. Pleasant as it was to receive the attentions of two very personable gentlemen, Maddy was not pleased with the way they comported themselves. She was accustomed to jealous young men who quarreled among themselves for the privilege of helping her from her carriage, but neither Lord Chesterfield nor the Earl showed the slightest evidence of that gratifying emotion. The Earl would relinquish her charming company with a courtly bow, and most likely next be seen in the company of Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson; and Lional viewed the older man’s attentions without the faintest trace of alarm.

It was time that they both learned to take her seriously. Maddy feared no competition, for Tilda was quite old, but it would best serve her purposes to sever that lady’s connection with the Earl. Maddy considered how best to achieve this end, then smiled brilliantly. It was time Chesterfield was brought to declare himself.

Her plans well in hand, Maddy turned from the mirror. Such concentrated reflection had caused her head to throb. She paced restlessly about the room, where she’d fled to escape the frenzied efforts that transformed her aunt’s household into a fit setting for an evening’s entertainment. Letty was giving a dinner party, and though the invitations had gone out well in advance, and the cook had been given her orders at least a dozen times, there remained a plethora of last-minute errands to be run. Kenelm had fled the furor in disgust, giving Maddy no opportunity to speak privately with him. She paused to retrieve Lady Henrietta’s missive, which lay abandoned on the writing desk. Wrinkling her brow, Maddy stared at the page.

Lady Henrietta had a lively apprehension that the ignoble Lord Bechard was somehow involved with her husband’s singular ill fortune. Maddy wondered how this could be possible, and was inclined to think that Claude had only himself to blame for his impoverishment. It appeared that Claude actually agreed with her viewpoint, an unusual circumstance; Lady Henrietta did not hesitate to add that her loving spouse had considered this notion one of her most feeble, and had accused her of indulging in women’s fancies. Alastair Bechard and Claude de Villiers might have disagreed on certain matters, but it was the height of absurdity to think that Lord Bechard was even remotely interested in the de Villiers fortunes. Lady Henrietta, bowing to her husband’s superior intellect, agreed that her suspicions were probably mere foolishness, but cautioned her daughter most strongly to remember at all times that Alastair was a very dangerous man, one who would stoop to any reprehensible action to gain his own ends.

Had Maddy not had so many other matters to excite her imagination, she might have wondered what circumstance had led her normally kindhearted mother to form so unflattering an opinion of the man, but her own concerns were of more immediate import. Maddy pulled on a dark pelisse and set her plainest bonnet upon her curls. Clemence must be warned, and since Motley would never approve of so improper an undertaking, it was best that she remain uninformed.

It soon became evident that her expedition was ill advised. Not only was it foolish beyond permission to set out unattended but, with her limited knowledge of the theatrical world, Maddy had blithely expected to find the actress at the theater where she performed. Such was not the case. Not one to be easily discouraged, Maddy had prevailed upon the taciturn hackney driver to take her on to Seven Dials. As a result, she was left virtually destitute. Lady Henrietta’s carefully hoarded pin money, bestowed upon her daughter at their parting, would all go for cabfare.