A Christmas Gambol (9 page)

“Fairly is going to raise the subject in the House,” Meg said proudly when the tale was told.

“Is he, by God?” Montaigne exclaimed. “I shall show you where your seat is, Fairly,” he added with a touch of cynicism.

“And you must show me where the visitors’ gallery is,” his sister said. “I shall take a group to hear him. Do they serve wine as they do at the theater at intermission, or must we take our own?”

“I should hold the wine until you reach home, Meg,” he replied. “No doubt you will be having a party to celebrate Fairly’s maiden speech in the House.”

“What a gorgeous idea! A speech party! Why did I not think of it? It is so difficult to find new excuses for an afternoon party. I shall invite the prime minister.”

Montaigne drew a deep sigh. “I doubt a Tory prime minister will be interested. An occasion of this sort is strictly partisan.” Meg frowned in confusion. “Your husband is a Whig,” he informed her.

“Oh, yes, of course. I must warn the ladies not to wear anything blue. True blue and Tory, too—is that not what folks say? Pity, when I look so well in blue.”

“P’raps you would give me a hand with my speech, Monty,” Fairly said. “Sissie thinks I should mention poverty. What do you think?”

“That would dilute the aroma of self-interest,” Monty agreed with a nod of appreciation at Sissie.

When Montaigne had escorted Sissie out, he turned a quizzing look on her. “What really happened this afternoon?” he asked and assisted her into his carriage.

She always felt like a princess when she stepped into Montaigne’s beautiful crested chaise. She felt a pang for the denizens of Seven Dials as he placed the fur rug over her knees.

“I believe Fairly hired a pair of bruisers to hold us up, so he could act the hero. Unfortunately—or fortunately, as it turned out—two real ones got into the carriage during the performance and stole my reticule and Meg’s bonnet. Fairly got his nose punched during the fracas. I succeeded in convincing Meg he is a hero.”

“I assume Hawkins handled the fellows? You weren’t hurt?”

“No, I wasn’t. Fairly had taken along a cudgel, so I used his walking stick. Hawkins and I managed to subdue the real thieves.”

In the darkness of the carriage, Montaigne allowed a smile to peep out. It came as no surprise that Sissie had rescued herself. He was coming to realize she was a lady of many accomplishments.

“I’m surprised you let the fellows snatch Meg’s bonnet from your head.”

“I wasn’t wearing it. Fairly brought it for me to wear when we went on the strut later. I hope Fairly carries through on his promise to raise the matter in the House. It was incredible, Montaigne. The poverty, the real destitution. Is there nothing that can be done about it?”

“The Whigs are taking an interest in the matter. Such major changes are needed that it will take time. Education and jobs are the crux of the matter. Private charities don’t go far, as I am learning.”

“The earnings from
Chaos—”

“An orphanage, for some of the worst cases,” he said curtly. “I suggested it to my aunt.”

“I feel a wretch for teasing you about the orphans. I had no idea until I had seen them myself. You have been to Seven Dials, I think?”

“Yes, I have been there and other places. But we shan’t discuss all that now and spoil your party.”

“It doesn’t spoil it,” she said in a pensive tone. “It just makes me realize how important it is. I shall give some of my earnings to charity as well—if I sell my novel, I mean.”

To lighten the mood, Montaigne inquired how Cicely had liked Bond Street.

“As things turned out, we didn’t get there after all. That is one thing I should like to do before I leave London. It might be best if you could accompany me. I would not like to put Meg in temptation’s path. Fairly has forbidden her to buy anything else this Season.”

Montaigne’s head turned slowly to gaze through the shadows to his partner. “I beg your pardon?”

“The little altercation with the thieves painted Fairly as a temporary hero. When Meg inquired why her bonnet was in the carriage, I told her Fairly was returning it to the milliner because she was spending too much money. A plumper, of course, but for a good cause.”

“And she swallowed that?”

“She was thrilled to death at his daring.”

“I find that hard to believe. Meg without a new bonnet is like—like Prinny without a new jacket.”

“Oh Monty, don’t you know
anything
about ladies? They make a fuss about being independent, but they really like to think their husband is a strong man, one who takes charge and looks after their best interest. They went upstairs together almost immediately. Meg was making big eyes at him. I’m sure they were going to—” She stopped.

“Yes, you were saying?” he asked, enjoying a silent laugh at her predicament.

“You know what I mean. I see that as an excellent sign,” she said, trying for an air of dignity. “I only hope something comes of it. I’m convinced a child would do them both a world of good. They couldn’t act like children themselves if they had a real child to worry about. I have done my bit; it remains only for you to read Meg a lecture, and I believe the marriage may be saved yet.”

Montaigne considered the notion of chiding Cicely for intimating what might have gone forth between Meg and Fairly in their bedchamber, but he let it pass. It would only lead her on to some worse solecism.

“It wouldn’t have come to a divorce,” he said.

“They would probably have gone on inhabiting the same house for the looks of it. That’s not my idea of marriage. A marriage means sharing all of life, its hardships and victories.”

“Till death do us part, in fact. It’s that suggestion of a life sentence that puts me off the notion of marriage.”

“Me, too,” she said, surprising him. “I have never yet met a gentleman with whom I could envisage sharing the rest of my life, but those who have made the bargain ought to live up to it. Marriage is a gamble, in a way, and a gentleman, I understand, always pays his gambling debts. His debt, in this case, is to his wife. And I am not talking about money.”

“A very pretty piece of sophistry, Miss Cicely. Where is the gamble when one is guaranteed losing his freedom for the temporary pleasure of enjoying a pretty lady’s company? Talk about loaded dice! That is not a gamble, it is a life sentence.”

She scowled at him in the darkness. “What about children? A man needs a son and heir. One would never guess you cared for children, the way you talk. What about those orphans you spoke of, that the Whigs are trying to help?”

“That is a different matter entirely. One cannot blame the children. They are helpless victims. I help them to assuage my conscience.” As Cicely didn’t reply, Montaigne peered at her through the darkness and spied a smile. “Why are you laughing at me?”

“I never heard a man making excuses for his generosity before.”

“Don’t go turning me into a saint, Sissie. I would not want to see myself canonized in your next opus.”

“How did you know I was on the lookout for a hero? Fairly failed me entirely. Perhaps I shall find someone tonight at the party.”

With a thought of the guests, Montaigne replied, “I shouldn’t think so.”

The dinner party was held at the Pulteney Hotel. As it was in honor of a lady, Murray had included the wives of his guests in the invitation. Murray was a youngish gentleman to have attained such prominence in the field of literature. He was not yet in his forties. He introduced Cicely to his wife, who expressed admiration for
Chaos Is Come Again,
then presented Cicely to the one literary giant he had managed to bring to his table, George Crabbe.

This aging widower was a modest gentleman who was vicar at Trowbridge, in Wiltshire. Cicely fell speechless when she was introduced to this legend.

“Oh, Mr. Crabbe, I have read
The Village
dozens of times,” she said, shaking his hand firmly. “My copy is literally falling apart. I wish I had it with me for you to autograph. Anne would never believe it! Anne is my sister.”

“You have good taste, Miss Cicely,” Murray said, smiling to see his new writer was happy with only one luminary to honor her. “Everyone from Dr. Johnson to Lord Byron counts Mr. Crabbe among their favorite poets. You will be happy to hear I’m bringing out a new edition of Crabbe’s works, along with a new piece he is working on.”

“What is it called? I shall be on the lookout for it,” Cicely said eagerly.

“It is called
Tales of the Hall,”
Crabbe said, smiling almost shyly at such praise. I’m afraid I cannot say I have read your novel.,Miss Cicely, but my housekeeper has been late with my tea the past week. I cannot get her nose out of your book.”

“You wouldn’t like it,” Cicely said. “It’s a gaudy thing. You write about real life. That is what I should like to do.”

Murray and Montaigne exchanged a startled glance. “There is room for everything under the broad mantle of literature,” Murray said. “Some prefer Byron, some Mrs. Radcliffe, and—”

“And those with good taste prefer Mr. Crabbe,” Cicely said.

Murray hustled her away, with Montaigne on her other side. “When you meet Sir Giles Gresham, it might be best to not insult your own book,” Montaigne said rather testily.

“You said I must be particularly nice to Sir Giles, as Mr. Murray doesn’t own his magazine. Which one is Sir Giles?”

“I wouldn’t say I own the
Quarterly Review,”
Murray objected. “I have an interest in it. They have their own editors and editorial policies.”

Cicely gave him a cagey smile. “The one who pays the piper calls the tune,
n’est-ce
pas? I am sorry, Mr. Murray. I didn’t realize it was a secret that you exert an influence beyond your book-publishing firm. How very convenient for your authors.”

She was led to a tall, ascetic-looking gentleman who stood by himself in one corner, his lips curled in distaste as he stared at the assembled guests through a quizzing glass. His chestnut hair had silver wings, giving him an air of distinction.

“Sir Giles, I would like to present my new writer, Miss Cicely Caldwell,” Murray said. “How did you like that copy of
Chaos
I sent you?”

“Well-named, Mr. Murray,” Sir Giles said in a drawling voice. “I’ve not laid eyes on such a chaotic load of mumbo jumbo since your Byron landed on the scene to pervert public taste.”

“He has certainly tapped into something the public craves.”

“Yes, sensationalism. Bread and circuses, sir. Lord Byron provides the circus.”

“Childe Harold is
still selling remarkably well.”

“There will always be a market for pornography, unfortunately. I see his
English Bards and Scotch Reviewers
gathering dust at the bookstalls. A spiteful, childish rant.” He lifted his quizzing glass and stared at Cicely. “So this is your new star. She is younger than I thought.”

Cicely smiled demurely. “Young enough to improve the quality of my writing, I hope, Sir Giles. I do appreciate your kindness in giving a sincere critique. Most gentlemen, you must know, only give the false coin of flattery. I hope we have time for a long chat this evening, and you can tell me all the things in my horrid book that require improving in my next effort.”

Sir Giles stared at her a moment, suspecting irony. Cicely stared back demurely at the enlarged eye behind the quizzing glass. Sir Giles’s sneer softened to condescension.

“I daresay I could give you a few pointers,” he said.

Murray darted off to rearrange the seating. Sir Giles was to have the seat at Miss Cicely’s right hand. Cicely gave Montaigne a conning smile that did nothing to reassure him of her ability to carry off her plan.

“Well, Monty, how am I doing so far?” she asked in a low voice as he led her to the table.

“Sir Giles didn’t come down in the last rain. He won’t be so easy to con as you think.”

“But he is a bachelor,” she said. She then unfolded her shawl, which added considerably to Montaigne’s sense of foreboding. He saw that the modest-seeming gown was extremely revealing. Gresham might be an old stick who railed against pornography, but if he had any blood at all in his veins, he would be inflamed by those tantalizing, creamy globes.

When Montaigne realized where his thoughts were wandering, he pulled himself back to attention and scowled.

“I have always regretted being so full-figured,” Sissie said. “A thin figure is so much more elegant, but I see these ridiculous appendages have some use after all.”

“Cover yourself up!” he said sharply.

“If Lady Godiva could reveal her legs to free her people from servitude, then I can reveal my breasts to help the orphans.”

“Let us hope Gresham realizes the role you are playing—and remembers Peeping Tom was blinded for his impertinence.”

“If they blinded a man for ogling, there would scarcely be a man in London who has the use of his eyes.”

Lord Montaigne’s response was inaudible, but it sounded remarkably like the growling of a cur.

Chapter Eight

Montaigne, who had originally been assigned the seat next to Cicely, was now placed across the table from her. He could overhear only snatches of her conversation with Sir Giles. What he heard annoyed him to no small degree. Cicely was casting herself at Giles’s feet like an apostle seeking guidance from the Lord. It did not improve Montaigne’s temper to hear Sir Giles eviscerating his novel, and Sissie agreeing with every word.

“The ending was totally unrealistic,” Sir Giles scoffed. “That marriage to Lord Ravencroft and the hint at nothing but bliss to come. Any novel that ends in marriage is a tragedy waiting to occur. You young romantics ought to be required by law to write a sequel. Then we should see how far those buckets of tears get your heroines. Any sane man would wring the wench’s neck—if he survived drowning in her ocean of tears.”

“It was only a novel,” was her sole defense, since she agreed with him heartily. But did she have to say it so apologetically?

“I see you are going by Dr. Johnson’s definition: A small tale, generally of love. We may assume that was one of the doctor’s little jokes. My definition would be a prose work of fiction with realistic characters enacting a realistic plot. Anything else is a fairy tale.”