A Christmas Gambol (13 page)

Montaigne assumed its real meaning was that she was different from Debora. As he wished to avoid any mention of that young lady, however, he said, “I expect it means outspoken and intelligent without any girlish tricks, yet still dashed pretty.” He peered to see how she reacted to this ducal compliment.

“It is no compliment to be thought intelligent by
him,”
she scoffed.

“Surely he must be allowed to know a pretty face at least. After all, he did marry Debora.”

“I rather think she married him.”

“That is implicit in his marrying her,
n’est-ce pas?”

“It’s not the same thing at all. He’s the harum-scarum sort who could have been nabbed by any determined lady. I think she just wanted to be a duchess.”

“And I think her mama wanted to be a duchess’s mama, but I take your point. You did not take mine, however. I was trying to compliment your pretty face.”

“My pretty face thanks you,” she said airily.

Montaigne found it difficult to continue his flirtation in this inhospitable climate. They drove along in silence. When they alighted at Berkeley Square, a wind had arisen, a cold wind that spoke of winter’s approach. It whipped Cicely’s mantle about and pulled at her curls.

Montaigne took her elbow. “Come, let us get inside before you develop chicken skin.”

“Is that snow?” she asked. A few stray flakes blew against her cheeks. They caught in her hair, where they glistened like diamonds in the moonlight.

“The first of the season. Not a real snowfall,” Montaigne said, glancing up to read the luminous sky. Then he looked at Cicely and felt a strange warmth grow inside him. How lovely she looked in the semidarkness, with her big eyes shining. Like a phantom lady in a romance.

“A cup of tea would be nice,” she said, huddling into her cape as she hastened up the stairs, unaware of his mood. “If it wasn’t so late, I’d ask you in.”

“It’s only one o’clock,” he said.

“Only! Good gracious, if I were at home, I would have been snoring for three hours by now. But I don’t feel tired, somehow. I expect I’m too excited from the rout.”

Montaigne flickered a glance at her. Her quaint views and her blunt manner of talking about “snoring” brought a fleeting smile to his lips. A phantom lady should speak more elegantly.

“When in Rome,” he reminded her.

“Tomorrow’s a working day.” She looked at him. “Well, are you coming in or not?”

He took this ambiguous invitation as encouragement and replied, “That was my intention.”

The butler opened the door for them. Montaigne asked for tea, and they went into the saloon. Cicely looked surprised when he sat beside her on the sofa, instead of in one of the chairs.

“You must get at your script as soon as I bring you home from Bond Street tomorrow,” he said. “Mustn’t miss that important research. Do you have an idea yet for the pantomime?”

“Oh, I have it written. I just have to polish it,” she replied.

“Finished! When did you find time to do it?”

“I had the whole afternoon free, you recall. Tomorrow morning I shall polish it, and tomorrow afternoon we go to Bond Street.” As she spoke, she removed the clasp from her hair. “You don’t mind my dishabille?” she asked. “Perkins made the barrette so tight it’s giving me the megrims. What a horrid chore it is, trying to look stylish.”

She ran her fingers through her hair to relieve the scalp irritation of the barrette. Montaigne studied her, trying to decide whether she looked prettier with the cluster of curls on her shoulder or with her hair all tousled up, as it was now. The carefree style suited her better.

“I expect you were pretty cut up when the duchess married Morland,” Cicely said leadingly.

“Let us speak of something else,” Montaigne said testily. He had had quite enough of the duchess for one night.

She reached out and patted his hand. Montaigne felt a little ripple of pleasure at the implied intimacy of it.

“I understand, Montaigne,” she said. “But really, you know, it is for the best. You’ll get over her eventually. Morland is over her already. He invited me to Hastings for a huge Christmas party they are having. Can you imagine! I scarcely know them. If anyone invited me, it ought to have been the duchess. As if I would go anywhere but home for Christmas. He had the most lecherous light in his eye!”

Montaigne felt such a murderous rage, he could hardly contain himself. “The sooner you turn that script over to Palin and go home, the better,” he said, and splashed too much milk into his tea cup.

“Yes, I should like to be home at least a week before Christmas, to help Anne with the preparations.”

“That’s weeks away! It’s only the beginning of December!”

“My, you do sound eager to see the back of me. You are forgetting the rehearsals. Mr. Palin mentioned that I ought to be available for a week after the pantomime goes into rehearsal, in case they require revisions. I hope to get away by the middle of December, but definitely by the eighteenth. Meanwhile there is ever so much research to be done. That nice Mr. Witherspoon offered to take me to Bedlam.”

“Why do you want to go and gawk at the lunatics?”

“That’s not why I want to go! I just want to see what it’s like, in case I ever want to write about it. Everyone says you ought to write about what you know, and I don’t know anything. Except village life, I mean.” She drew a frustrated sigh. “I daresay I would learn all sorts of interesting things at Morland’s Christmas party. Pity it is a Christmas party.”

“You’re already going to Bedlam. There is no need to go to Morland’s.”

She gave him a cool stare. “I doubt the lunatics at Bedlam enjoy their confinement in ducal style.”

As Cicely had decided not to attend, Montaigne didn’t bother to discourage her further. They had another cup of tea and spoke of other things. His suggestion of driving all around London to see the various quarters found favor. London was growing like a mushroom, with new homes sprouting up overnight.

“I’m sure Meg will lend me her carriage,” she said. “John Groom will know where to take me.”

“I will take you,” Montaigne said.

“I shan’t encroach on your time. You’ve hinted often enough I am overstaying my welcome.”

“I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. It is just that I am a little concerned for the sort of company you are meeting.”

“Why, Monty! You don’t trust me! You think I will fall into a hobble! You needn’t worry. I can take care of myself.”

But when he remembered the duke’s invitation to Hastings for a house party, and how Fairly had botched the trip to Seven Dials, he was adamant.

“I will take you,” he repeated.

He left as soon as the tea had been drunk. Cicely was already yawning into her fist. She went up to her bed immediately, but as she lay thinking over her unusual evening, she remembered something that had escaped her during all the excitement.

How had Montaigne’s Aunt Ethel written such an accurate description of Debora when she had never seen her? Debora was Eugenie; of that there could be no doubt. Montaigne was trying to conceal the real author. Why, he hadn’t even remembered Ethel’s name. He had called her Irma. Whom was he trying to protect? The book was nothing else but a eulogy to Debora. If the author was a friend of hers, she wouldn’t have to hide it.

Actually, the descriptions had rather the air of a lover’s rant. No doubt Debora had dozens of suitors, Montaigne among them. Cicely suddenly sat bolt upright. Of course! Monty had written the book himself! That was why he drew back his ears like an angry mare every time she disparaged it. And that was why he was so eager to conceal the author’s true identity.

Good God! How his colleagues would stare if they ever learned the truth. The white hope of the Whig Party was a romancer. A wicked smile lifted her lips as she lay down again. What fun! A gurgle of laughter echoed in the dark room. Aunt Ethel indeed!

Chapter Twelve

Cicely was an early riser. An advantage to rising early at the Fairlys’ was that she had left the breakfast table long before her hostess was up. She would have enjoyed some privacy with Meg, but Meg usually took breakfast in bed.

Cicely spent the morning polishing her pantomime. By noon she was satisfied with it and sent it off with a footman to Mr. Palin, at Covent Garden. When she glanced out the window to judge the weather, she saw the sky was gray, but not the dark, ominous gray that threatened rain or snow. She would wear her woolen pelisse for the trip along Bond Street, and a plainish bonnet, as the wind would tear any feathers from their moorings.

To add a note of style to the low poke, Anne, who was handy with a needle, had added a fur lining to the brim and lent Cicely her best beaver muff. The muff had a small sealed compartment to hold money, thus avoiding the necessity of borrowing a reticule from Meg.

As she prepared for the outing, Cicely thought of the lovely time she would have ragging Montaigne about his authorship of
Chaos.

“Surely you are not taking Cicely out in this gale!” Meg exclaimed when Montaigne came to call. She was entertaining half a dozen ladies in her saloon. The ostensible occupation was cards, but the real job was gossip. After her success in the matter of Fairly’s invalidism, Meg had ventured down another original path. She planned to serve the ladies apple tart made from Cicely’s apples. Cook had already made one, which had turned out well. Why not, if that French queen—or was it a courtesan— could make her friends milk cows?

“It’s all right, Meg. I wore my woolen pelisse,” Cicely told her.

“Woolen? My dear, the wind will cut straight through wool. Does it have a fur lining?”

“There is some fur,” Cicely said vaguely, thinking of her muff. She was becoming embarrassed at having to borrow so many of her hostess’s clothes.

Montaigne noticed that Sissie was looking particularly lively that day. He assumed it was anticipation of the visit to Bond Street that accounted for it. It struck him that her vivacity made Meg’s set look like painted corpses. Their only color came out of the rouge pot.

When he helped Cicely on with her woolen pelisse, she pointed to the beaver muff. “I didn’t say where the fur was,” she admitted. “I feel like a cheapskate, always borrowing from Meg. Is it very cold out?”

“Not terribly cold, but windy. I have a fur rug in the carriage.”

“If it’s too chilly, I can throw it around me for a shawl,” she laughed. “Start a new style. Meg thinks she’s being original by serving her guests apple tart this afternoon. I don’t know where she got the idea that’s something new. We have it at least once a week at Elmdale.”

“The novelty is introducing a touch of country into the city menu,” he explained.

“Perhaps my country duds will set a new style,” she said, but her offhand manner told him she didn’t really care what folks thought of her wardrobe.

He was coming to realize it was morals rather than manners that interested her. A surprising number of the ton didn’t appear to know the difference. Any debauchery was acceptable, so long as it was executed with style.

“I think not, Sissie. You are unique,” he said, and bowed.

“The worst-dressed creature in London, you mean,” she scowled.

“On the contrary. You are the only lady who has the bravura to carry off that bonnet successfully.”

She studied him suspiciously. “I shall look that word up in the dictionary as soon as I get home. I thought it had something to do with music.”

“I shall save you the trouble. It was a compliment.”

“Oh, in that case I shall tell Anne. She put in the fur lining.”

He arranged the fur rug over her knees and they were off. Cicely was about to introduce the subject of his novel,
Chaos,
when Montaigne spoke on a different matter that also interested her greatly.

“I had a note from Murray this morning,” he mentioned. “He’s eager to see
Georgiana.
Has Gresham returned the manuscript yet?”

“Not yet. He hasn’t had it long. I cannot expect him to ignore his own important work. I am dying to know what Murray thinks, though. If Sir Giles doesn’t return it soon, I shall ask him for it. I’d like Murray’s decision before I leave London. If he takes it, I might buy a fur-lined cape. They look so cozy, and I need a new winter cape. Are they very dear?”

“You won’t get much under a hundred pounds.”

Her bright eyes blinked in astonishment. “Good Lord! That much, just for a couple of pelts?”

Montaigne’s lips moved in amusement. “They come all the way from Canada,” he explained.

“They must all be rich as Croesus in Canada if they get that kind of money for their furs. I have half a mind to skin a couple of foxes and let Anne make the lining herself. I daresay she could do it. She’s very handy with her needle.”

As they entered Bond Street, her chatter ceased. She gazed in stupefaction at the storefronts and the members of the ton who had braved the wind to go on the strut. “Can we get out and walk now?” she asked.

Montaigne drew the drawstring and they alighted. “You’re looking very sparkish today, Sissie,” he said.

“I did some thinking last night,” she said with a long, meaningful look at him. “About your Aunt Irma, who has never seen the duchess. Odd how she described her to a T. Even the mole on her chin.”

“Beauty mark!”

“I shall make a note of that. On a duchess a mole is called a beauty mark. Don’t try to divert me, Montaigne. I’ve figured the whole thing out.”

He felt a jolt of shock but assumed he could talk his way out of it. “I was mistaken about Aunt Irma’s not having met Debora. Auntie does come to town occasionally. I recall she was here last winter to visit a doctor, now that I think of it.”

“Along with your Aunt Ethel?” Cicely asked with a conning smile.

“Ethel?” he asked uncertainly. He had a vague memory of some confusion as to the imaginary lady’s name earlier.

“You said it was your Aunt Ethel, from Cornwall, who wrote the book. I asked Meg if she ever got to Cornwall to visit her aunt. She says she has no aunt in Cornwall. You didn’t coach her properly, Montaigne. You ought to have known she’d require hours of instruction. I’ve caught you dead to rights, sir. You wrote that load of mush.” She burst into whoops of laughter, right in the middle of Bond Street.