Barbara Metzger (24 page)

Wally and Annemarie followed after, but they were discussing their own futures. If the Minch brothers stayed with Sydney and the general, how could Annemarie go off to Hampshire with Winifred? But it was a better position, and Wally might never be able to afford that inn, or a wife. No one would arm-wrestle with him anymore, and he’d promised his mother, Sydney, and Annemarie not to enter another prizefight.

So involved were they in their conversation, and the pretty maid’s anguish which needed to be assuaged behind a concealing tree, that they did not notice Sydney was no longer with her sister and Lord Mainwaring. She could have been beaten, drugged, and stuffed in a sack before they noticed she was gone, which was Bella’s intention, except for the sack.

* * * *

“Help, miss, oh, help!” the bent old woman cried as she used her cane to clear a way through some bushes to the path where Sydney walked. “We’ve been set on by footpads! My little girl is hurt! Oh, help!” She grabbed on to Sydney’s arm with a surprisingly strong grip for one so ancient and frail, and tried to drag her back off the path with her. “My Chessie, my baby. Oh, please come help, kind lady.”

The woman had an overbite like Puff’s, though not as attractive, and bits of red hair sticking out from her turban. Her voice was a shrill whisper of distress.

“I’ll get my footman, ma’am; he’ll send for the watch,” Sydney offered, trying to turn back.

“Mama,” came a screeching falsetto from behind the bushes.

“They’re long gone,” the old lady told her, pulling Sydney forward. “And I just need you to help me get my little girl Chessie back to the coach. Do you have any vinaigrette? Hartshorn?”

“No, but my maid is right behind me. She must have something.” Sydney looked back, wondering just where Annemarie and Wally were. She knew she should not get out of their sight, but a lady in such dire straits ...

“Don’t worry, dear, I’m Mrs. Otis. Everyone knows me. Your maid will find you, but we can have poor Chessie in the carriage by then. It’s her foot, you see.”

And indeed another female was limping toward them, crying into a large handkerchief. Her cheeks looked rouged and her dress was not quite the thing either, being a coliquet-striped silk with cherry ribbons. The female’s hair, under a bonnet with three ostrich feathers, was an improbable yellow shade. All in all, Sydney realized this was not a person she should know.

The outfit had not been to Chester’s taste either, but Bella’s short, wide black dresses did not fit his tall, thin frame, and he was not about to go outside to shop the second-hand stalls. The only business next door this week was a Covent Garden streetwalker who’d died of the French disease. The mortician swore on his mother’s grave Chester couldn’t catch the pox by wearing her dress. Of course the mortician’s mother didn’t have a grave; he’d sold her body to the anatomy college. Chester did not know that, so he stuffed some more stockings in the bodice, crying the whole time anyway. He limped effectively, too, with his weight on Sydney so she had to keep moving toward the coach she saw ahead.

“But, but it’s a hearse!” Sydney exclaimed when she got a better look at the vehicle with its black curtains, black horses, and casket sticking out of the back.

“Yes, isn’t it a shame?” the old woman lamented. “Here we are, on our way to bury Chessie’s husband, and she felt the need to get out and compose herself in the serenity of nature. Then what should happen but three ruffians jumped on us! They robbed the money to pay the grave diggers, can you imagine? Then they knocked down poor Chessie and stole her wedding ring. What is this world coming to?”

Sydney didn’t know, when the driver with his black top hat and weepers didn’t get down to help two women in obvious distress, and when a bereft wife dressed more like bachelor fare than grieving widow. “What is this world coming to, indeed?” she echoed.

By the time they finally reached the carriage, Sydney was breathing hard. Mrs. Otis opened the door and stood back for Sydney to help Chessie up ... with the weighted handle of her cane poised near Sydney’s head. The coffin lid creaked open a crack so Bella could breathe inside it without being knocked out by the ether-dipped cloth in her hand. And Chessie wept. Sydney put one foot on the carriage steps and hauled Chessie up. Then a dog barked.

“Puff!” Sydney shouted. “I forgot all about my little dog! Here, Puff, here I am.” She pushed right past the unprepared Mrs. Otis, leaving Chester to teeter on the steps. They could hear the dog barking and, getting closer, Wally’s voice calling “Miss Sydney.” Brennan Mainwaring shouted from the other direction.

Chester couldn’t catch her, not with his foot bandaged like a mummy, and Bella couldn’t get out of the coffin in time. Randy bent to throw the knife in his boot, then recalled he wasn’t wearing boots.

“Bloody hell,” Randy cursed, “let’s get out of here.” So he shoved Chester through the door, smack into the ether-sopped rag, and sprang in after him. Bella pushed the coffin lid aside, hard, right through Randy’s new choppers. The coach was already moving.

When Sydney brought her friends back to the clearing to see if they could be of further assistance, no one and nothing was there, except some ivory dentures Puff found. Bottoms.

Chapter 25

Plans and Provisions

The duchess could well understand Sydney’s megrims. Forrest’s intransigence was enough to make a saint blue-deviled. Lady Mayne asked him over and over, and all the close-mouthed churl answered was that the time wasn’t right. Stuff, he’d be cutting up chickens and consulting stargazers next.

What was worse, she could not even discuss it with Sydney to reassure the poor girl. The duchess didn’t want to get the lass’s hopes up, in case her war-hero son never gathered enough courage to come up to scratch. Moreover, the duke threatened mayhem if she meddled. With all their friends coming to dinner in two weeks, she could not chance the monogrammed dishes.

Then there was the matter of that loan, the one not spelled out in the settlements. The duke vowed he knew nothing about it, and Forrest was as quiet as a clam. It would have been beyond the pale to question Sydney, and useless to subject Bren to an inquisition, for he was more in awe of his brother than of his mother. But the duchess knew about the hair and she knew about pride, better than most.

“You know, Sydney,” she casually remarked as they wrote out invitations one afternoon, “it occurred to me that you might think me an interfering old biddy, sending you servants, ordering your life about.”

“Never, Your Grace.” Sydney jumped up to get more cards to address and kissed the older woman’s cheek. “Aunt Harriet is an interfering old biddy, you are an interfering old dear. You are kind and generous and have only Winifred’s best interests at heart. I would be cloddish in the extreme not to be grateful.”

“Yes, but gratitude can be wearing on one,” the duchess persisted. “I do not want you to feel the least bit indebted, especially not to my son.”

“I shall always be thankful to Lord Mainwaring for the care he takes of Winnie and the general,” Sydney answered hesitantly, not sure she liked the trend of this conversation. The duchess was charming, and as sneaky as she could dare.

“I didn’t mean Brennan, my dear.”

“Did he tell you? That villain! He swore the loan was forgotten, that he wouldn’t take the money back under any conditions! Why, I’ll—”

The duchess moved the ink pot, from long practice. “No, my dear, Forrest would never be so ungentlemanly.” Ignoring the snort of derision from her young friend, she went on. “You must know Forrest would not go back on his word. No, I just got a hint of a loan, from little snippets of information. And no, I am not prying into the details. Of course, if you should wish to confide in me . . . No, well, as I was saying, I do not wish to intrude, but I cannot help noticing a degree of constraint between you two. I would not wish you to be—” She almost started to say that she did not wish Sydney and Forrest to begin their married life with a molehill between them; marriage provided enough mountains to climb. She caught herself in time. “I do not wish you two proud people to be at odds.”

Sydney laughed. “I suppose I do have a surfeit of pride, Your Grace, for I should dearly love to pay him back, but I could never find the money and he would never take it. For that matter, I would love to throw a ball for Winnie’s engagement, to repay all the hostesses who have invited us throughout the Season, and I cannot do that either. I thought Aunt Harriet might, being the bride’s family and all.” Now it was Her Grace’s turn to make rude noises. “But Winnie does not mind, so I shall have to swallow more of my damnable pride. And please,” she said before the duchess could say anything, “do
not
offer me the funds, because then I would be offended.”

“You wouldn’t let me ... ?”

“You have already done so much, why, I wish I could do something for you!”

“You can, dear girl, you can.” You can shake my stodgy son from his cave of complacency, she thought, and out into the sunshine and moonlight.

* * * *

The duchess had a plan, a great and glorious plan, making Sydney’s schemes look like child’s play. Best of all, the enterprise was neither dangerous, scandalous, nor illegal. It was perfect. Sydney was going to throw a ball!

“But, ma’am, you cannot have thought. The money, the space, all the expenses ...”

“Stuff and nonsense, child, think. We’re both country girls, so tell me: If the church needs a new roof, what do the parishioners do?”

Sydney giggled. “They dun the richest man in the neighborhood. Is that what I should do?”

“Don’t be impertinent, miss. If the local nabob does not choose to buy his place in heaven, what then? What if a farmer’s barn burns down? Don’t tell me things are so different in Little Dedham. Now use that pretty brain box of yours.”

“Why, the villagers would all donate what they could to the church, and they would all get together to help rebuild the barn. Sometimes they would hold a potluck supper, or an auction to raise money. And sometimes,” Sydney said, excitement building in her voice, “they would throw a subscription dance, where everyone paid an entry fee and the money went to charity!”

“Exactly! We’ll make the guests pay for the pleasure of your ball.”

“But that’s countryfolk,” Sydney said uncertainly. “Not the quality here in London.”

“Fustian. Pick a worthy charity and they’ll come. There’s nothing the wealthy like better than getting something back for their money. You’ll help them feel generous without getting their hands dirty. That way you can reciprocate your invitations and show off your sister with all the pomp and glory you want.”

The pride of the Lattimores, Sydney thought fondly, but they could never afford it.

“Goose, you tell the guests beforehand that the
profits
are going to a good cause, so they know the expenses are being deducted. You don’t need much for the original outlay; most merchants are used to getting paid months later. I shall underwrite the refreshments, and I’ll take great pleasure in seeing that Lady Windham pays for the orchestra. I’d make her pay for the food, but I fear we’d be served only tea and toast.”

Sydney was laughing now; it really was fun to let one’s daydreams take flight, even if they could never come home to roost. “Your Grace, I am sorry to disappoint you when your scheme is so lovely, but there is not even a ballroom in the house. Indeed, our whole house could fit in some ballrooms I’ve seen. And if we hold the ball at Mainwaring House, as I can see you are going to suggest, then it will not be the Lattimore ball.”

“No such thing. We’ll hire the Argyle Rooms. They cannot say no if it’s for charity. And I’ll make sure we get a deuced good price, too.”

Sydney thought a good many people must find it hard to say no to the duchess. Out loud she voiced more objections. The duchess had an answer for each.

“Flowers are very expensive.”

“So we’ll call it a holly ball. There’s acres of the stuff growing at Mayne Chance, and armies of gardeners doing nothing this time of year. You’ll have to make arrangements out of the stuff, of course, you and Winifred and that platter-faced cousin of yours. Everyone will have a share of the expenses, a share of the work.”

“You’re forgetting that Winnie and I are just young girls. I never heard of two females hosting a ball.”

“I do not forget anything but my birthday, Sydney. And you are forgetting the general. About time the ton honored one of its heroes. Lattimore will be the host. Be good for the old codger to get out more anyway. Now, what else are you going to nitpick over?”

Sydney had a hard time putting her last objection into words without insulting the duchess. “The, ah, worthy cause, and the, uh, loan from the Viscount of Mayne. You weren’t thinking that I should tell everyone the ball was for charity, and then give him the money, were you?”

“Lud, infant, where do you get your notions? You know Forrest won’t take your money. He certainly won’t take money out of the mouths of babes, or whatever. But if you were to give the money in his name, say, or let him give it to that veterans’ group he supports, then I daresay he’d be proud to accept.”

And Sydney dared hope he’d smile at her again.

* * * *

Sydney refused to go one step further with the plans until she consulted the viscount, even if she had to suffer Lady Mayne’s knowing looks.

“It’s not that I care so much for his approval,” she lied, blushing. “I need to confirm which charity he prefers.”

So that evening at the Conklins’ ball, during their one dance, a waltz, Sydney waited for the usual empty pleasantries to pass. She was looking lovely; he was feeling well. He did not say that she looked like a dancing flame in her gold gown, that her warmth kindled his blood. She did not mention that she thought him the most handsome man she’d ever seen in his formal clothes, that she blushed to think of him out of them.

She appreciated last night’s opera; he enjoyed his morning ride.

Neither said how much they wished the other had been there to share the pleasure. They danced at just the proper distance apart, in spite of their bodies’ aching to touch. They kept the proper social smiles on their faces. Until Sydney mentioned money.