A Christmas Gambol (18 page)

“I trust you mean kiss me? No, he didn’t. I daresay he expected a kiss in gratitude for the brooch, the fool. I should have slapped his face. The best I could do was pinch his nose.”

Montaigne, biting back a smile, picked up the book. “Is this what he was reading to you?” he asked.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Loosely translated,
Excerpts from the Roman Light-Skirts’ Handbook.”

“Is
that
what it is!” she exclaimed angrily. “Shocking! He read it in Latin, you see. I hadn’t a notion what any of it meant. He probably hadn’t, either. He just enjoyed strutting about, declaiming, pretending he was Kean.”

“Pretending?”

“Kean, the actor, I meant.”

“Ah. Shall I ask Debora to come in here for a moment?”

“Would you mind?”

Montaigne’s eyes glittered dangerously. “Not at all. It will give me the opportunity for a private word with His Grace.”

He left but returned a moment later, wearing a frustrated expression. “The Morlands have retired for the evening and don’t wish to be disturbed. Typical! A house full of guests, and the hosts go to bed. Yahoos!” Cicely laughed. “Come. I’ll take you home.”

As no serious harm had come to Cicely, Montaigne was just as glad the contretemps had occurred. It alerted her to the dangers adrift for a greenhorn in London and wrote finis to the Hastings party.

“Not all the gentlemen are so harmless as Morland,” he explained as they drove through the darkness. A light fog had settled in. The stark outline of nude branches formed a tracery above in the mist.

“Even a Morland could make mincemeat of a lady’s reputation,” she said. “I definitely shan’t go to Hastings, even if Debora asks me. I cannot think she will after tonight.”

“Debora is peculiarly forgiving. Morland’s tried his stunts with most of their female friends. Last year it was Lord Harelton’s young wife. A diamond bracelet.”

“What did she do?” Cicely asked, staring in astonishment.

“Kept it,” he said with a
tsk
of disgust.

“Did she—”

“No, she didn’t. She’s not that bad. Nor did Morland expect her to. Until a lady has given her husband a son or two, she is expected to limit her favors to him. A man likes to know his heir is his own flesh and blood.”

“Gracious! They even have rules about adultery! Very practical, of course, but when sin is regulated, it gives it the air of being acceptable.”

“An astute observation.”

When the carriage drew up in front of Fairly’s mansion, Montaigne said, “May I come in for a moment, or have you had enough of gentlemen imposing their presence on you for one evening? I promise I have no diamonds up my sleeve.”

“What I would really like is to go for a little walk. It was so hot and stuffy at the Morlands’, and the food was so rich I felt nearly ill. We needn’t go far. You won’t want to leave your team standing long.”

Montaigne took Cicely’s elbow and they walked down the street with the fog caressing their cheeks. It was warm for December. Patches of light from saloon windows cast hazy puddles of orange into the mist.

“Now that we won’t be going to Hastings, will you return to Elmdale on the tenth or remain in London?” he asked.

“Perhaps split the difference. The extra few days will give me time for a little more sightseeing. But why do you say
we
won’t be going? There is no reason for you to withdraw.”

Montaigne glared. “Just like a lady! I was only going to keep you out of trouble. I despise that sort of do. Too much drinking and gambling and gossiping and flirting. There won’t be a sensible word spoken. I don’t know how Meg can abide it. I shall call off.”

“Where will you spend Christmas?” she asked.

They reached the end of the block and turned around to retrace their steps. “Do you think your papa would allow you to come to London for the Christmas pantomime? Along with Anne and himself, I mean. It seems a shame for you to miss your moment of glory.”

“I know Anne would love it. So would I, but Papa—I’m not sure. We always spend Christmas at home. He would be uncomfortable at a hotel, and I can hardly impose the family on Meg.”

“I meant as my guests,” he said.

“I wasn’t hinting,” she said, embarrassed.

“I am aware of that. You’re not a hinter. When you want something, you say it. It is one of the things I admire about you.”

Cicely grew flustered at this unexpected shower of compliments. She concluded Montaigne was trying to repay her for posing as the author of his book and keeping quiet about it. She stopped walking and stared at him.

“That is extraordinarily generous of you, Montaigne.”

He batted this notion away with a flick of his fingers. “The first presentation of the pantomime is on the twenty-third. Your folks could come early, say the twentieth. If your papa is quite bent on Christmas at home, you could leave on the twenty-fourth to be home by Christmas Eve.”

A smile trembled on her lips. “I know Anne would love it,” she said again.

“And you? Would you like it, Sissie?”

“Oh yes. It would be beyond anything great. I have been writing to Anne. It would be so nice if she were here, someone to share all the ton’s foolishness with, you know. You’re the only one I can talk to, and you already know all their doings.”

“I see them in a new light, through your eyes,” he said, gazing down at her. The eyes of innocence.”

“My eyes have been opened since coming to London, though.”

Montaigne lifted his hands and cupped Cicely’s face in his warm palms. One hand slid down to her chin and tilted her face up to his. He gazed at her for a long moment in silence, then placed a light, fleeting kiss on her lips.

When he spoke, his voice was gentle. “Don’t change too much. I like you the way you are.”

Cicely just gazed at him silently. She couldn’t think of anything to say. The breath seemed to have caught in her throat. Montaigne took her elbow again and led her to the door of Fairly’s house.

“Can we begin our tour of London tomorrow?” he asked. “In the afternoon for choice. I shall wage war on the Holy Alliance in the morning.”

“And I shall make a few changes to
Georgiana.
Afternoon will be fine. Thank you, Montaigne, for— everything.”

“It has been my pleasure.”

He tipped his hat and returned to his carriage. Cicely went inside and up to her room.

It seemed strange, almost incredible, that Montaigne could have remained so sane in wicked London. He wasn’t as rich as Morland, but he was rich enough to indulge in any vice. And, as far as she knew, he ignored them all. He had chosen his bride poorly, and Cicely was glad Debora had refused him. Montaigne required a sensible wife, someone who would encourage him in his work. Someone like—

But that was going a good deal too far. He was just being polite and thoughtful, wanting to invite Papa and Anne to London. Papa would never consider such a thing. Cicely didn’t even plan to ask him. But she was sorry to have to miss seeing her own pantomime.

Chapter Seventeen

Cicely worked on
Georgiana in
the morning, and in the afternoon Montaigne arrived to begin her tours of London. The weather had worsened. The wind was bitterly chill, but in Montaigne’s well-sprung carriage with a fur rug over their lap, a thermos of coffee, and warm bricks at their feet, they were as cozy as mice in malt.

First he drove her through the prestigious West End, where the wealthy had their mansions, each marked off with iron railings. Some of the windows were boarded and the brass door-knockers removed, indicating the owners were away for the winter. To emphasize the difference, he next drove her through the squalid desolation of Long Acre.

The afternoons were so short in the early part of December, that Montaigne came even earlier the following afternoon. Over the next days, Cicely saw Billingsgate and an art exhibition at Somerset House, hospitals and poorhouses, Carlton House and gin houses (from the outside) and the theater district, ending the last afternoon at the Ladies’ Gallery of the House of Parliament to hear a bill being debated on the final day before Christmas recess, when the House was even rowdier than usual.

“I had thought it impossible anything could be worse than Seven Dials or Bedlam,” Cicely said. “I see I was mistaken. I have never been more disgusted in my life than to see Members of Parliament behaving like rowdy schoolboys. Why do they not let the speaker speak? Three-quarters of the seats were empty, and any who
were
there were stamping their feet, uttering catcalls, and throwing paper balls across to the other side of the House.”

“The rowdyism is an added difficulty, certainly,” Montaigne replied mildly. “And makes it dashed difficult to sleep during the duller speeches, too.”

In the evenings, they went out to plays or routs or concerts, usually with the Fairlys and a few other couples. Montaigne broached the matter of Anne and Mr. Caldwell’s coming to London for the pantomime again, and again was told that there was no point in suggesting it. Papa would never agree.

The duke called often at Berkeley Square; Coddle had standing instructions to inform him Miss Caldwell was not at home. Cicely had written her note to the duchess, who had not seen fit to reply. On the fourth morning, Cicely was surprised to hear that Debora planned to call on Lady Fairly at eleven o’clock.

“I would like a word with her in private, Meg. Would you mind delaying your arrival in the saloon?”

“I always like to make a grand entrance,” Meg said. “But what do you want with Debora? I thought you two were on the outs.”

“I want to find out why she didn’t answer my note. I apologized for that evening at their house and told her I would not be going to Hastings.”

“You
apologized! Ninnyhammer! It is Dickie who should apologize to you. Shocking, the way he carries on. Perhaps Deb is in a snit because you canceled the visit to Hastings.”

When the duchess, resplendent in feathers and furs, was shown into the saloon that morning, she appeared disconcerted to be confronted with Cicely.

“Good day, Miss Cicely,” she said coolly. “I hope I find you well?”

“Fine, thank you, Duchess,” Cicely replied in similar accents. It had been her intention to call Debora to account, but when she saw the girl looking so pale and drawn, she hadn’t the heart for it. Despite the elegance of a sable-lined cape with a lovely fox trim, Debora looked positively ill. The smudges beneath her eyes were nearly as violet as the eyes themselves.

Debora was seated. She made a business of removing her gloves, to avoid looking at Cicely. Eventually she said, “I’m sorry you won’t be able to join us at Hastings.”

“I should think you’d be relieved,” Cicely said with her customary frankness.

Debora was so shocked to hear the truth that she was momentarily stunned into silence. “Indeed I am very sorry,” she repeated.

“Let us not waste time in fustian. We have only a moment to talk. I’m sorry if I have inadvertently caused you dismay. Your husband was not giving me that diamond brooch, Debora. You misjudge me if you think I would accept such a gift from a gentleman.”

“I know it,” Debora said. “It’s not your fault. He is always chasing after some woman. If it’s not you, it will be someone else. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“Why do you put up with it?”

“Because I love him.” Her bottom lip began to tremble, and she added in a low voice, “I’m afraid of losing him, and I am enceinte.” Then she burst into a fit of moist tears.

“Enceinte! Does the duke know?”

Debora drew out a dainty lace-edged handkerchief and sniffled into it. “I haven’t told him. The truth is, Dick and I don’t see much of each other these days. He is very busy,” she added in a pathetic attempt to whitewash her gallivanting husband.

“I see.” Cicely sat a moment, digesting this state of affairs. Her heart went out to Debora in her sorrow. She was every bit as witless as Eugenie Beaureport. Something must be done, and before long Cicely had come up with a plan.

By the time Meg made her grand entrance, the duchess’s violet eyes were not only dry but sparkling with mischief. Meg had to be taken into confidence, as she was to be involved in the plan’s success. Her job was to keep Fairly out of the house that afternoon. Debora and Meg were off to rifle the shops. When the duke arrived an hour later, he was told that Miss Cicely was out but would be home at three.

“Tell Miss Cicely I shall pop ‘round at three, then. There’s a good fellow.”

Cicely dashed a note off to Montaigne, canceling her drive with him. To insure that he didn’t come pouncing in to destroy her plan, she told him she had a meeting with Mr. Moore that afternoon. She would explain the matter to him that evening. She spent the remainder of her morning finishing her revisions to
Georgiana
and sent the manuscript off to Mr. Murray via a footman.

After lunch, Meg took Fairly to view the latest exhibition at Somerset House. The duke arrived at three on the dot, carrying a monstrous bouquet of flowers. To his delight, he found Cicely alone in the saloon. She greeted him with a warm smile and indicated a seat beside her on the sofa in front of the blazing grate. She called the butler.

“Will you please put these flowers in water, Coddle. And if anyone calls, I am not at home. You may close the door after you.”

Morland could scarcely believe his ears. He hadn’t expected such cooperation from Cicely. In fact, he was a little disconcerted at it. Pretty fast for an unmarried lady! He soon came to terms with the new situation, however—bluestocking, up to all the rigs—and sat beside her on the sofa.

“Now what is this nonsense of your not coming to Hastings, Sissie? Do come. It won’t be any fun without you. Dash it, I only arranged the do to get to know you better.”

“We can get to know each better here,” she said leadingly. “After that embarrassing episode with the diamond brooch, I didn’t think the duchess would want me to go.”

“Much difference it will make to her,” he pouted. “She’ll probably take to her bed the minute we reach Hastings.”

“Is she ill?”

“She’s turning into a chronic invalid. That’s what it is. Be buying shawls and ordering possets and catlap, next thing you know. Of course I still love her,” he added, lest Cicely take the notion he was contemplating divorce, or some such thing. He had no desire to be cut off from Society by a divorce.