Barbara Metzger (18 page)

The second pathway back from the fountain brought her to the centre, after only one dead-end bluff. The heart of the maze was larger than she’d suspected, from all the outer rings. It had stone benches surrounding a garden where the sun could more fully penetrate, and in whose centre was a sundial. Jacelyn took off her gloves and sat on one of the benches, lifting her face to the warmth.

“Ah, like one of Nature’s petalled beauties, lifting toward golden Sol’s caress, and I, the wandering bee, to sip its nectar.”

Phoo. Anton-Fredricks was taking a seat next to her on the bench. He was lifting her bare hand to his wet mouth—and what was that drivel about nectar, anyway? She stood up, ready to curtsey and leave, but Anton-Fredricks still held her hand.

“Please, sir, I must be going. The others…”

“Not so fast, lovely lady. I saw you delay until I approached the maze, and I know you were waiting here in the centre for me, clever puss. Now you shall have your reward.”

Of all the idiocy! “I did not do any of those things, and I insist—”

He pulled her to him and was kissing her! This slicked-back shabster was actually drooling on her face, very much against her will. With one well-coordinated effort, necessary due to the disparity in their sizes, she brought her hard, wooden-heeled riding boot into contact with his right shin, and her open palm into contact with his left cheek.

“How dare you!” she hissed, not wanting a raised voice to bring anyone to witness this. Lord, what this could do to her reputation! She wiped her mouth on her sleeve, in disgust.

“Very pretty act, ma’am, but I heard you weren’t quite so clutch-fisted with your kisses.” He reached for her again. She slapped him again.

“Oh, God. I knew it. I take my eyes off the chit for ten minutes, and look what happens. Damn you, Jacey Trevaine, can’t you ever stay out of trouble?”

“No trouble at all, Arthur, I was just leaving.” She took his arm and hurried him out. He didn’t even have time to consult his map. At the fountain, Jacey drew him to a halt.

“I didn’t do anything, Arthur. Really I didn’t. I was just sitting there when he came along.”

“Cut line, Jacey. I know that. You don’t even know how to flirt. You may be flighty, but you ain’t a high flier. Still and all, Claibourne’s not going to like it.”

“But there’s no reason to mention it, Arthur. I’m sure Lord Anton-Fredricks won’t bother me again, and I’ll certainly keep out of his vicinity.”

“’Tain’t that so much, as Claibourne’s the man to teach you. Here, look. You don’t hit a bounder with your hand. Make a good tight fist and throw it from the shoulder. Leigh’ll show you.”

“Why, thank you, Arthur!”

*

Shoop had once tried to teach a very young Miss Trevaine about topiaries, how you have to train the shrub with wires, and trim it as it grew, for years and years. Years were bogey men to Missy, then: when you grow up; your next birthday; in two years. So she took a shears and a likely looking privet bush, and started clipping. At first it was going to be a rabbit, but one ear disappeared by mistake. Fine, a duck would be—oh-oh, a double globe. A small heart?

The result was that Miss Trevaine had great admiration for topiary and its sculptors. Richmond had some of the finest of both. Knights on horseback, jousting. Dragons and unicorns and griffins. A mother goose and three little goslings. All in thick green shrubbery. Jacelyn was enjoying the display with Miss Montmorency and Miss Kinbeck, and enjoying their company.

Miss Mary-Margaret Kinbeck had all manner of irrelevant information, which she cheerfully shared, and which Miss Riva Montmorency just as cheerfully called tomfoolery, piffle, and tommyrot. Soon the three women were happily using first names and making plans to meet again.

“Shall you be at Almack’s tomorrow night?” Jacelyn asked.

Riva answered: “Mary-Margaret’s too much of a bluestocking to enjoy the social chitchat, but I always attend. I love to dance.” Jacelyn was surprised. She would have thought the graceful and truly exquisite Mary-Margaret would be the party-goer, not the less-favoured, rough-tongued Riva. The world was a strange place.

“Drat! I must have left my gloves in the maze! Will you accompany me back there?” Jacelyn said.

As they walked, the conversation drifted into deeper waters: “I understand you’re to make a match with Claibourne,” Riva said.

“It’s…it’s not definite yet,” was all Jacey could think of to answer. She didn’t want to mention any of the circumstances around her problematic betrothal, nor did she want to sound evasive to such a straightforward individual.

“Good,” Mary-Margaret put in. “Take your time, make sure. It’s always a mistake, the way they rush young women into decisions, as if marriage were like a new bonnet.”

“Listen to her, Jacelyn. She’s had six years of offers to consider, and she hasn’t accepted any.”

“Don’t you want to get married, Mary-Margaret?”

Miss Kinbeck reflected on the question as though she’d never heard it before. Refusing eligibles for six years, she’d heard it aplenty. “I am not certain,” she finally admitted. “I have recently been considering Mr. Fabian Holmes’s kind offer. He is in orders, you know. I feel I could be of great service as a prelate’s wife. Alternatively, I have wondered if founding a school for indigent children wouldn’t be more worthwhile than having just one or two of my own.”

“Couldn’t you do both? Start a school and marry your cleric?”

“Capital!” Riva teased. “The best of both worlds.”

“And what about you, Miss Montmorency, Riva? Have you plans for matrimony? That is, if I am not being impertinent?”

“Impertinent? How could you be when I’ve just asked about you and Claibourne? It’s a question, incidentally, all London is itching to ask. My future doesn’t merit the tiniest scratch, I’ve been so long on the shelf. But yes, Ferddie Milbrooke and I have decided we might as well have the banns read next spring. The music’s good.”

Mary-Margaret snorted. “About time.” But Jacey asked about the music.

“Pianoforte, you know. We play together a great deal, even try composing some new material. We may not have stars and cymbals and the earth opening at our feet, but there are some very pretty duets.”

“I met Lord Milbrooke at the Ponsonby musicale, but he didn’t play. Why didn’t you attend if you—”

“Do you think Priscilla Ponsonby would invite anyone to her affair who could play better than she can? Not half likely. The only reason she saw that I was invited today—and Mary-Margaret too—was that she knew we wouldn’t steal any of her beaux. How you got invited is another matter.”

Jacey giggled. “Lord Farthingale and his mama wanted me. If Priscilla’s nose was any more out of joint, she’d be wearing it as an earmuff.”

There were so many pictures of matrimony in Jacey’s mind―and none of them a masterpiece. She had Claibourne’s description of the hunt for money and prestige, then her aunt’s ill-concealed hints that a wife might find it convenient to ignore a husband’s lapses in fidelity. Miss Chadwick and Captain Highet were engaged, inseparable, and insipid. Now Miss Montmorency would marry someone who shared her hobby, and Miss Kinbeck would wed to do good works! Whatever happened to true love?

When they were finally at the maze Jacelyn stopped her musings to concentrate on the proper pathways. This was no time to get lost, when the servants were starting to resaddle the horses. She’d been through last, even though she’d exited by instinct rather than memory, so the other women followed her lead, right to the little fountain.

“How foolish of me, but no matter. The centre is just two turns back. Here, through this gap and left. There! See, my gloves are right on the bench where I left them.”

And right on the other side of the sundial, on another bench, were Priscilla Ponsonby and Lord Anton-Fredricks. Springing apart. Red-faced. Mussed.

Miss Kinbeck
tsked
; Miss Montmorency muttered something about dirty dishes and demireps, but Jacelyn simply said: “How nice for you, my lord. You found what you were looking for also!”

She rode home in the coach with Lady Hockney.

* * *

The Earl of Claibourne was hoping Jacelyn’s day had gone better than his. He should have gone with her; he shouldn’t have left her among strangers while he chased his tail around London all day. He’d been in every gaming hall he could think of, most of the taverns a well-heeled man could walk into—and safely out of—and a few bawdy houses. The afternoon was wasted, he’d thrown a small fortune to boys to hold a dumb horse, and more to butlers, barkeeps, and abesses, all for nothing. He’d found neither hide or hair of his cousin Percy, nor anyone who’d seen him in days. Nothing. Two places he didn’t think to make enquiries: the house of his own one-time mistress La Fleur, nee Flora Cobb, and Josiah Fenton’s residence on Mount Street. His wildest imaginings couldn’t have made any connexions to the first. His worst nightmares wouldn’t have taken him one inch near the second, where, unfortunately, Percival was still retching from the horrid sights he’d encountered at the knackers, and all the Blue Ruin he’d drunk to erase them.

When Arthur returned with the tale of Anton-Fredricks’s lechery, Claibourne wanted to rush to Jacelyn’s side and beg her forgiveness for not being there to protect her. It was dinner time, though, Arthur reminded him, and he’d not been invited to Parkhurst House until nine. He settled on pulling the libertine’s cork then, but Arthur didn’t think much of that idea, either. There was no need, he said, since Jacelyn had handled the loose screw like a trooper.

“Not much science, but plenty of pluck. Besides, if you call him out or anything, it’ll be all over Town. That would put paid to any hopes of keeping Jacey’s name clear.”

Claibourne sat down again. “I can’t just ignore it, you know.”

“Actually, since Miss Trevaine was in my care, it’s my obligation. I’m thinking of having a few words with the rum touch anyway. I think he’s trifling with m’sister too, though heaven knows she asks for it. Something else went on in that maze, but nobody’s talking. Jacey and her friends came out giggling like schoolgirls. Priss left, like a storm cloud. So het up she was, she didn’t watch her skirt. Tripped right into m’arms. Not like Priss. A few minutes later Anton-Fredricks came out. Going to talk to m’mother about it, if she’ll listen to me.”

“Very well, I won’t do anything rash until we see who gets to flatten him first. Now tell me, who are Jacelyn’s new friends? Do I have to worry they’ll lead her into more scrapes?”

“That girl doesn’t need
anyone
to find mischief! Do you remember a Miss Kinbeck? She’s been out for ages, devilish handsome woman, but a real bluestocking. Couldn’t understand three words in ten she said. The other’s Riva Montmorency. You know, the platter-faced female who talks like an artillery gunner and dances like an angel? Nothing to worry about there. But young Farthingale…”

*

Leigh was at Parkhurst House at the ninth chime, with a huge bouquet of flowers and a prayer that Lady Luck would be at the faro table later tonight. First, though, he and Jacelyn played piquet for bonbons, under the not-so-watchful eye of his great-aunt Simone. Mme. Aubonier had her book, but she’d much rather be abed and her throat clearing made her opinion plain: whatever damnfool
pas d’fous
he’d started now, he’d better end it soon.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t go with you today, Jacelyn, especially when Arthur told me about—”

“My point again. You’re not concentrating, my lord. I have all the bonbons.”

“You’ve been eating some of mine, Captain Sharp. Seriously, I feel badly, when I promised you and your father.”

“Was your business really urgent, or did you just not want to go?”

“Is that what you think? I wouldn’t have accepted in that case. You should know by now I almost never do what I don’t wish. Life is too short for that. I did think my business was important, although it turned out not to be.”

“It…it wasn’t to do with ‘certain freedoms,’ was it?”

“Freedoms? What maggot have you got in your head now?”

Jacelyn couldn’t meet his searching blue eyes. “A woman?”

Leigh leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Gads, sweetheart, neither Baron nor I could handle another woman!”

Assuming he meant the bareback ride that morning, Jacelyn was convinced as much by his smile as by his words. “And we’re friends?”

“Friends…” He turned the word over like a new taste. “Yes, I suppose we are. Good friends.” He popped a bonbon into her mouth and said good night.

“Where’s Baron? He wasn’t hurt by my ride yesterday, was he?”

“Quite the contrary. Ah, that is, he’s back at the livery. I’m exercising this new hack for Lawrence, as a return favour. I’m thinking of purchasing him.”

“Why would you? He has a surly disposition, and he doesn’t like dogs.”

“True. Shall we get down and walk? I’m enjoying this as little as the horse.”

They left both horses tied to a tree, in Lem’s care. Now the earl could relax, and Pen could race around without fear of being kicked if she came too near the bad-tempered gelding. Jacelyn was happy enough to dismount. What was tender yesterday was sore today, despite hot soaks. Not intending to gallop, she had worn the brown velvet habit again, only incidentally hoping for his lordship’s warm approval. She only had to fluff out the skirt once or twice with her crop, and adjust the blue veil on her hat before he noticed.

Grinning, he said, “Very becoming outfit, by the way. I meant to tell you at the mews, but I was so overcome I couldn’t get the words out.”

“Gammon! I suppose Spanish coin is my reward for fishing for compliments.”

“Pet, you don’t need to fish. Why, I’d be singing your praises right now, if I didn’t fear it would turn your head.” When she laughed he realized that one of her greatest charms lay in her not believing quite how beautiful she was. He doubted even the acclamations of the Polite World would turn her into a spoiled Diamond, thank goodness.

“Seriously,” he went on, “aside from what’s in it, the style is very attractive, and practical. Not all that ungainly yardage to be tossed over your arm like a dishcloth.”