Barbara Metzger (10 page)

“Wake up, you comatose clunch-head, you inebriated imbecile,” Fenton raged. “Your lickspit life is being ruined. Get up and do something about it!”

Bloodshot eyes opened in their pouches. Stringy fingers groped among the debris on a nearby table for a glass, a bottle, anything liquid to irrigate the desert in his throat. “Aargh. It’s water.”

Fenton threw the folded newspaper at Percy’s head. “Read this, you wantwit, if you can. Lord knows if you stayed at any school long enough to learn how.”

Percy bent to pick up the paper. A monocle, a fob watch, two keys, and assorted seals fell out of his pockets, all dangling by gold chains and ribands, now hopelessly tangled across his puce waistcoat, which was embroidered with green and red cabbage roses. Percy managed to gather up the paper and read: “‘The Upper House voted today in favour of—’”

“Not that, you feebleminded fribble. The on dits column.”

“Oh. ‘During last night’s rout at Lady E.B.’s, a certain Miss G. W. was seen returning from the garden with a Spanish dignitary. Could it be—’”

“Lower.”

“‘It is rumoured that a certain hero of the past campaigns, known to love ’em and Leigh-ve ’em, will shortly be escorting to Town for the Season an unknown deb, announcement to follow.’ That was what has you in such a taking?”

“Are your attics to let, boy? Do you know what this means?”

“M’cousin Leigh’s getting leg-shackled after all this time, right? It is about Leigh, ain’t it, Da?”

“It means that damned Claibourne cub made it through the bloodbath, and now he’s looking to marry and fill his nursery.”

“Well, he is thirty-something, ain’t he? Time he saw about his posterior.”

“His posterity, you gap-toothed gudgeon! You’re his heir!”

“’Druther be yours, gov, more money, don’t you know.”

Fenton grasped his head in his hands and moaned. “Whatever I may have done in my life, I never deserved this.” He took a deep breath. “Listen, Percy. Shut your mouth if it will help. With my money and his title, you could be anything, go anywhere. Parliament, Carlton House, you name it. Any woman, any government post, whatever you want. Don’t you see? That’s what they promised me, those Claibournes. They promised me, and then they stole it away and put me here in this chair. But it’s yours, boy, yours. They owe you. Don’t let some unbreeched bastard rob you of it!”

“He won’t be a bastard, Da, if Leigh marries the girl.”

“Then see that he doesn’t, you addle-pated ass!” With a final roar, Fenton shouted “Jensen!” and a small-sized mountain lumbered into the room. Little-headed, beef-broad, and as mad as his master, Jensen picked up Fenton, wheelchair and all, and carried him from the room.

Alone, Percy gathered all his chains, fobs, and ribbon pendants back into their more or less appropriate places, and stumbled over his boots on his way to a bottle and a glass. He poured himself a generous portion while he tried to set the problem in perspective.

There was his cousin, Leigh Merrill, Earl of Claibourne. Handsome, heroic, handy with sword, pistols, fists. A devil with the ladies and accepted everywhere.

Then there was himself, Percival possibly-Fenton. Handy with nothing, accepted nowhere. But a fine dresser, if he had to say so. According to the governor, somehow it was Percy’s job to prevent Claibourne’s marriage. No one was
that
stupid. Percy had another drink.

*

Meanwhile, across town in her Portman Square mansion, Lady Amabel Parkhurst was sipping a glass of ratafia to settle
her
nerves. Two weeks to prepare and she was still not easy about her niece’s coming. She’d had plenty of notice: her brother’s letter, Claibourne’s visit, the arrival of Mme. Aubonier’s baggage via post chaise. The baggage was attended by a homely shrew of a maid named Hammersmith who’d set Parkhurst House at sixes and sevens, ordering everyone about, redecorating Madame’s room, informing the chef of her mistress’s tastes. Then a carriage had arrived from Treverly with trunks full of Jacelyn’s belongings, whose unpacking Hammersmith insisted on overseeing, while a newly hired, very pricey lady’s maid had tea in the housekeeper’s pantry. The Treverly chaise was accompanied by an impudent boy by name of Lem, in charge of two riding horses. According to Trevaine’s message, Lem was to act as groom to Jacelyn, see to her mounts, etc. The
et cetera
had Lady Parkhurst trembling with memories of apes in little red jackets. How bad could it be? Lady Parkhurst wondered. The girl had a groom, a chaperone, a maid, a chaperone’s maid, and a near-fiancé. Surely her aunt had nothing to worry about.

The butler, Marcus, opened the front door when the carriage pulled up. Through the entryway proceeded her niece, certainly looking much more presentable than Amabel had hoped. On one side of her, however, stalked a veritable vulture of a black-clad crone, and on the other side, smiling wolfishly down at the girl as if she were a tender game pullet, strode one of the most notorious womanisers in all of London. Worst of all—she’d strangle that brother of hers—was a creature so immense its wagging tail threatened the Chinese vase on the hall table. The outrageous girl was still trying to turn Parkhurst House into a menagerie!

The butler’s lapsed “My stars” was shortly followed by Amabel’s “My salts! My vinaigrette!”

*

Vapours cannot be hurried, but eventually matters sorted themselves out. Lem was called to take Penelope for a walk in the park and an introduction to the stables. Hammersmith was summoned to escort her elderly mistress to her rooms, after a few mindless “lovely’s” and “
bien
’s.” The earl forfeited his reputation for bravery by hastily bowing his way out of Lady Parkhurst’s baleful stare. On his exit he reminded Jacelyn of their early morning ride, assuring her aunt he was at her service, if she required his presence sooner. She didn’t, not even for the quiet dinner
en famille
, which would have been courteous, so he left the ladies to become reacquainted. It did not take long.

“Why isn’t it a formal announcement, Jacelyn? Your father wrote that Claibourne offered. Let me tell you what a feather that is in your cap. But you cannot dangle a man like him forever, you know. He’ll not stay still for your shilly-shallying. Or do you think you’ll do better, and that’s why you’re holding off?”

“Oh no, Aunt Amabel. Leigh is everything that a girl could want. It’s just that…”

“Just what, for heaven’s sake?”

Jacelyn looked away. “He doesn’t love me.”

“Hogwash! What’s that to the point? He offered for you, didn’t he? You like him, it seems from that foolish grin on your face whenever you mention him, and he looks at you as if you are some bonbon to be snapped up. So what’s the difficulty? You’ll lose him, girl!”

“He’d marry me for his honour, and be pleased with the money. Oh yes, I know all about that, and his reputation, too. That’s just it: we’d be wed, and I’d lose him anyway, if he didn’t love me. Oh, he’d show me respect, Aunt Amabel, but it’s not enough, so I have to wait, and try.”

“Jacey, you and your crusades and hopeless causes! Why do you always take the long way ’round? This fox-hunt business, that absurd chaperone no one’s ever heard of, now trying to win the heart of a man who may not even have one! Ridiculous, child. Do you remember that visit some years ago when Cook promised you one of her tabby’s kittens to take home?”

“I was only ten, Aunt Amabel. You can’t compare—”

“And she let you choose. There was a fluffy white one I admired, I remember that. But you couldn’t pick the pretty one, or the biggest one, not you. You had to choose the one that wouldn’t nurse, the puny one that kept getting stepped on by the others.”

“He needed the most love.”

“Yes, and you cried for days when he died. You even climbed down the tree outside your bedroom, to sit by his grave so he wouldn’t be alone at night. Thank goodness you’re too old for that, my dear. You wouldn’t listen then, though, and I’m sure you won’t listen now, but I’m afraid you’ll still cry over this new foolishness of yours.”

*

Before going to her own room after dinner, Jacelyn scratched on Mme. Aubonier’s door. It was opened by the hatchet-faced Hammersmith.

“
Belle-tante,
I just wished to see if you were comfortable.”

The old woman was reclining among a flotilla of pillows, a glass of warm milk by her side, a book in her hand. “Fine,
petite
, lovely.”

“
Tante
Simone, I don’t wish to be impertinent, but why do you just say things are fine, even when my aunt was too busy having the vapours to offer us tea, and Pen tried to get the butler to play with her by stealing his gloves?”

Blue eyes twinkled back at her. “Why should I waste my breath, child, with useless chatter? This way I tell people what they want to hear, I smile and nod, and
alors
, I am free to read my book, see?”

Jacelyn laughed. “I see I am dismissed, Aunt.” She went over to the bed and kissed the elderly woman’s cheek. “Good night. Thank you.”

Her own room was the neatest a room of hers had ever been. No clothes lying about, no stack of unfinished books, no dog hairs, only a very proper lady’s maid in dark grey with a black apron and a black lace cap. Not a wrinkle, not a smile, not a first name. Just “Vincent, miss.” Jacelyn dismissed her as soon as her gown was unbuttoned. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts, especially those that Aunt Amabel had termed her fool’s missions.

She pulled her lawn nightgown over her head and unpinned her hair before she realised how silly she’d been to send the maid away. There was no Mrs. Phipps to put her long hair into a braid, and she’d only make her usual rats’ nest of it, leaving it in knots by morning. Besides, she hadn’t told anyone to call her early for her ride. This was only her first night in London. How many more mistakes would she make?

Maybe the whole trip was a mistake, maybe Aunt Amabel was right. Her father would know, but he was very far away. The bed was warmed by a brick; still, it was big and strange. The night sounds were different too, all carriage wheels and clatter instead of crickets and bird calls. It was her first night in London, and she could not sleep. Worries gnawed at her like gnats. There was only one thing to do. She opened her window—yes, the plane tree still almost touched the sill—and climbed down. Stopping a moment to locate the kitten’s grave, she picked her way across the rear courtyard’s gardens to the stable. She whistled softly and soon had Pen smuggled back up to her room via the back door, setting a great many worry bugs to buzz around the second footman Eugene and the under cook, enjoying an illicit after-hours cuddle.

Jacelyn’s bed was a lot smaller now, and a lot more like home.

*

Jacelyn needn’t have worried over waking at her usual early hour. If the sun didn’t do it, the baker’s boy would. Or the egg man, knife sharpener, or herb vendour. Milk didn’t even arrive in its usual fashion, from beast to bucket. This was London; milk came in great clanking tins aboard creaking drays.

Jacey washed hurriedly and scrambled into her new habit. There wasn’t much time to fuss with her hair, so she left it in the ragged braid she’d managed for bed, just pinning the whole into a crown on her head, and setting the red cap atop it. She and Pen went out by the kitchen door, winking at that same cook, whose job it was to serve breakfast, a chore considered beneath the French chef’s dignity. The cook grinned back and offered a pan of still-warm, crusty rolls. Jacey helped Pen to two, then wrapped more in a napkin, to share later.

At least Claibourne had thought to notify the stables, for Lem was waiting with both the chestnut gelding and the little bay mare from Treverly, neither saddled.

“Didn’t know which you’d prefer this mornin’, Miss Jacey. Both be rested from the trip, but the gelding’s not used to city traffic yet.”

“Why don’t you put the sidesaddle on the mare then,” advised Claibourne, riding up on Baron, “since Miss Trevaine isn’t familiar with Town congestion either.” Just as she was about to bristle at his high-handedness, Leigh dismounted and disarmed her with: “Good morning, my love. I hope you don’t mind my fretting over you. That outfit is much too grand to land in the gutters.” With a smile he added, “You were intending to ride sidesaddle, weren’t you?”

“Wretch. Only if I must.”

“Almack’s?”

“I must.”

*

Hyde Park was blanketed by fog. The only figures to be seen were exercise grooms trotting horses up and down the paths. After a few such tame canters, the earl led his little party down a different path, headed farther into the park where there were more trees, less people. Pen took off after some geese, then seemed to decide that London squirrels could be gotten down from trees to chase, by barking at them. Jacelyn handed out the rolls.

Claibourne looked at Jacey, sparkling with animation and humour, and knew that, no matter what else, keeping her happy was all that mattered to him. “Lem,” he called out, dismounting, “I think Miss Trevaine’s horse picked up a pebble.” When the groom came near, holding the gelding’s reins, they both bent over the mare’s hind leg.

“Nothin’ there, sir.”

“Sure there is, Lem. The gelding just won’t hold still enough for you to look properly. Why don’t you make sure the mare is all right while we, ah, keep the chestnut from getting nerved up by the traffic?”

“Pardon me, m’lord, there ain’t no traffic.”

Jacelyn was already sliding off the mare, a delighted smile on her face. “May I really, my lord?”

“I won’t tell if you won’t, pet,” Claibourne told her, giving her a leg up onto the gelding, her split skirts to either side. Before the earl could remount she was off at a gallop, her silvery laughter floating back to him.

Lem pointedly turned his back. “I don’t see no traffic, I don’t see no pebble, ’n I don’t see whatever’s goin’ on back there.”

*

“What will your maid think?” Claibourne teased as they rode home in perfect decorum. “Your hair is all undone, and you look decidedly windblown. Quite different from the lady she sent out.”