Barbara Metzger (25 page)

“Yes, dear, what is it? Um, what time is it?”

“That doesn’t matter. Aunt, you have to tell me something. Are all men unfaithful to their wives? And if a man is unfaithful
before
she’s his wife, does that mean he doesn’t care for her at all? Aunt Amabel? Aunt Amabel!”

Jacelyn rushed to the door, calling for Davis, milady’s dresser, to come quickly, with the smelling salts. The second footman Eugene, he of the easy morals and roving eye, was carrying the first of the day’s floral tributes upstairs, so he ran to help.

Jacelyn slammed her aunt’s door in his face. “Not you!”

Next Jacelyn approached Mme. Aubonier, who placed a finger, not a marker, in her book, to show the interruption would be brief. This was between Jacelyn and Leigh, she told the girl.

“You knew he was a man for the ladies; you know he is a man of his word. Take your anguish to him to resolve,
chère
, and stop bothering old ladies. Such romantic hobbles are for the young.”

*

Leigh returned to Portman Square at eleven, with his curricle and a small nosegay of violets. He was not best pleased to see all the other bouquets on the hall table, awaiting dispersal. Nor was he happy to be told by Marcus that miss was not receiving that morning.

“Damn it, man, this is me, not some jumped-up Johnny Raw. Where is she?”

“I’m sorry, milord. That was Miss Trevaine’s message.”

“Is she in bed? Is she ill?”

“I couldn’t say, milord.”

“Well, has the doctor been called?”

“Not to my knowledge, milord.”

“You’re being damned helpful, Marcus.”

“Yes, milord.”

Claibourne was undecided. His horses couldn’t be kept standing, yet if something was wrong, he had to know.

Marcus was undecided. His employers’ interests and the generous earl’s interests did not coincide, but where were his own best interests? “If I may suggest, milord, perhaps you would step into the yellow parlour. I believe Mme. Aubonier writes letters there….”

Claibourne strode down the hall, calling back over his shoulder, “Have Lem walk the horses, they’re fresh.” When he came back out to the hallway a few minutes later, his brow was lowered and his mouth was set in a firm line. “Will you please tell Miss Trevaine that I wish to see her, at once.”

“Yes, milord.”

Marcus turned to Eugene, rigid at attention next to him. Eugene went up the stairs at a suitably dignified pace and scratched on Jacelyn’s door. Pinkie answered, correctly, listened to the message, and shut the door behind Pen, who went downstairs to greet the visitor. The dog, at least, was happy to see Claibourne.

Pinkie repeated Claibourne’s request to her mistress.

“He does, does he? You can tell my Lord Claibourne that…”

Pinkie opened the door, quickly erased the grin from her face, and whispered to Eugene. He went down the stairs and spoke into Marcus’s ear.

Marcus gathered all of his butlerish dignity, as much as he could muster, considering his portly figure, less than adequate hair-covering, and reddish nose, from ensuring the quality of Lord Parkhurst’s private stock. Shoulders back, looking past the earl’s left ear, Marcus announced: “Miss Trevaine, my lord, says your lordship can go hang.”

“Does she? Why, that little—” Claibourne headed toward the stairs, Pen happily circling around him. Marcus blanched; Eugene stepped aside, smartly. Then the earl thought better of it, as his hand closed on the dog’s collar. “You may tell your mistress that I shall wait in the parlour for ten minutes while she puts on her bonnet. After that, her dog and I are going for a ride. I am not quite sure when we’ll return, possibly this evening, possibly tomorrow.”

He led the dog to another parlour, where his aunt was not, and proceeded to feed Pen macaroons from the claw-footed end table, so she would stay with him. “London’s no good for females,” Leigh told the big dog. “Your mistress is putting on airs, and you are getting fat as a flawn.”

The ormolu mantel clock with its silly amorettos didn’t seem to be working. Claibourne picked it up and gave it a good shake. It was ticking. Ten minutes to the second, he got up and herded Pen out the parlour door. Marcus silently handed over Claibourne’s beaver hat and just as silently opened the front door for his lordship, who marched out, to see Miss Trevaine prettily seated on his curricle’s bench, staring straight ahead. She, of course, had gone out the back door and walked around the side of the house, rather than give Claibourne the round.

“Witch,” was what Leigh said as he climbed up after Pen and took the reins, signalling for Lem to release the pair’s heads.

“Kidnapper,” was what Jacelyn said, pulling the dog closer to her side, without turning her face a whit.

Jumping up behind, Lem grinned. Nothing more was said until they reached the park and Lem had charge of the horses again. Jacelyn scrambled down from the high seat as best she was able in her gown’s narrow skirt, rather than wait for the earl to lift her down. He ran a hand through his already windblown curls. Where to start?

“Jacelyn, listen. I’m sorry if you were disturbed about my visit with Miss La—deuce take it, her name is Flora Cobb. She is one of my oldest friends, just as I said last night. It would have been discourteous not to answer her invitation, even if she didn’t—that’s beside the point. She has been very kind to me. She even helped me get my army commission.”

“So I heard, my lord, and how she helped you.”

“That old story, eh? Let me tell you, my girl, sarcasm and snide remarks aren’t becoming.”

“How about bare bosoms and dampened skirts and arms that wrapped around you like ivy creepers? You seemed to find that becoming! How did you think I felt, when my…my escort was fondling some…”

“Don’t say it.”

“Woman.”

“I told you she was a friend, Jacelyn. I shouldn’t have to listen to this.”

“What about Lady Tina? Another
friend
? You slobbered over her a good half hour!”

“Lady Endicott too? Good grief, Jacelyn, if I seem familiar with these females, it’s just out of habit. I’m used to holding a lovely woman, that’s all. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s only among the debutante set where men and women can’t touch except to dance. A man’s used to these easy affections.”

“You’re what? You…you lecher!”

This was too much for the earl, who’d been valiantly trying to maintain his composure. He felt badly about Flora, but wouldn’t have acted any differently. As for Tina Endicott, he’d thought her obvious lures amusing; Jacelyn obviously hadn’t. But to be called a lecher when he’d been living like a monk for two months—and not enjoying the experience—was past his limit.

“Listen, you little shrew, I won’t be subject to the Inquisition every time a woman smiles at me, nor vice versa. I told you I would honour you, and that had dashed well better be the end of it! I won’t live my life as a Cheltenham tragedy, and I won’t answer to you!”

He was really angry now, surprising even himself with his raised voice. Unlike the mercurial Jacelyn, who was always in the boughs over something, then just as quickly all sunshine and smiles, it took a great deal to upset the earl enough to lose his temper. Like that whole table filled with bouquets from Jacelyn’s admirers. He wanted to shake her!

“While we’re at it, Miss Trevaine, what about your own behaviour? How do you think I feel watching every fribble in Town fawn at your feet?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that herd of wet-eared calves you don’t wean away. For a girl who didn’t know how to flirt just last month, you’ve done admirably, and I don’t like it above half.”

“How dare you!” She was rigid, hands clenched at her sides. With the fist, Arthur’d said, not the open palm. Claibourne stomped out of her reach.

“Poor Tayson’s bad enough; that Bartholomew Babe won’t go beyond the line, though, nor that Broome speechifier. And de Silva knows it’s a game, but that Farthingale fop! It’s disgusting how you encourage the man-milliner to dangle on your chain when you are just leading him on.”

Words dripping ice, Jacelyn said, “Perhaps I’m not.”

“What in hell is that supposed to mean?” he shouted. “Perhaps you’re not what?”

“Perhaps I’m not leading him on, you bone-head,” she yelled back. “You always said I might find a better man than you.”

“Well, you haven’t, damn you!”

Well, she hadn’t. She took a step back and took a look at him. Even with his arms folded across his chest, his jaw outthrust, his hair all mussed, and his blue eyes glaring at her, he was still devastatingly handsome, even if he reminded her of a terrier picking a fight with the kitchen cat. She supposed she must be the angry feline then, hackles up and hissing. What a pair! She had to laugh at them.

It took a moment before the earl could laugh too, but soon they were smiling sheepishly at each other and what gudgeons they’d been. Leigh gathered her in his arms for a quick hug, and kissed the top of her head before he stepped back.

“Come, precious,” he told her, tucking her arm in his and starting to amble about the pathways. It wasn’t a fashionable hour to be in the park, thank goodness, he thought, though they did receive one or two curious glances. Had they been shouting that loudly? He laughed again at two of London’s luminaries putting on a Punch and Judy show for passersby. “We can do better than this, rosebud. Let’s start over, shall we?”

He began with Flora. Yes, she was his lover once, his friend still. When he was sent home to convalesce, she was the one who had taken him in. She’d taken him out of the hotel where he’d lain feverish for days, without anyone having sense enough to send for a physician, and no one else in all of London caring enough to investigate. When the man who was then paying Flora’s bills objected, she showed him the door. It was her house, after all. She’d worked hard enough for such independence, for just such occasions. She did not have to “entertain” anyone she didn’t wish. As for buying his colours, the rumour was totally unfounded. He’d managed the funds by selling off a hunting box he couldn’t afford to maintain anyway. Flo’s protector at
that
time, however, was an Austrian baron, an officer with the Allied Forces, and a comrade of then General Wellesley. As a favour to Flo, he put in word enough to get the new officer appointed to the general’s own staff. “He was a fine gentleman. I named my horse after him, in appreciation.

“As for Tina Endicott,” he went on, “the woman is a born flirt. She’ll never be any different. If I once accepted what she was offering…” He shrugged. “I cannot apologise. I can only repeat that it was before I met you. I shall never disgrace you, and you’ll have to trust me for that. I can see where it will take time to convince you, with all the gabblemongers, but we can see our way clear, I know.”

It was Jacey’s turn. “I really did think Farthingale was just paying me court because I’m the fashion this week. You know how he likes to keep up with the styles. If you think he is really forming a tendre for me, though, I’ll discourage him from the notion as soon as possible. He’s a nice boy; I wouldn’t want to see his feelings hurt.”

“Boy? The jackanapes is three years older than you, Miss Maturity. Besides, how are you going to dislodge him without wounding his pride? You make it sound so easy.”

“It is, with people who only care about outward appearances, like Farthingale. You’ll see.”

“Looking forward to it, my dear. There is, ah, one other thing, just to clear the air.” He pulled her behind a row of bushes and held her close. “I do love to have a woman in my arms, and that will never change!”

“Just any old woman?” she asked, turning her face up for his kiss.

“Only ones about so high”—kissing the top of her head—“with freckles here…and here…and here. And lips that taste like…”

A short, but not too short, while later the two headed back to the carriage, holding hands.

“You know, puss, how we’ve had to cancel the trip to Vauxhall Gardens twice because of the rain? What would you think of going tonight? There won’t be many more evenings warm enough.”

“But we’re promised to Lady Manderby’s rout tonight.”

“There will be five hundred people there, in room enough for fifty. Lady Manderby won’t miss us. Wouldn’t you rather see Vauxhall’s famous Dark Walks, hm, sweetings?”

“Aunt Amabel says I mustn’t. Dire things happen to girls who stray down just such primrose paths. What time shall you call?”

*

The Dark Walks, with their lovers’ bowers, the shaved ham and arrack punch, the stupendous fireworks displays, the fairy lights strung from the trees. These were some of the reasons Vauxhall was called London’s Pleasure Gardens, and why so many people came. Another reason many of the
beau monde
attended Vauxhall that evening was to escape the crush at Lady Manderby’s.

The box Claibourne had rented for their small party was filling up. Lady Parkhurst thought it would be impolite to the Manderbys to renege on her acceptance, so she and her deputised escort, the ever-agreeable Mr. Sprague, waited in the carriage row for half an hour outside the party, inched up the stairwell for another twenty minutes, and shook four hands on the receiving line. When Arthur asked who was on the line besides Lord and Lady Manderby, Aunt Amabel asked back, “Who cared?” It took another hour to get back down the stairs, have their carriage brought around, and navigate the traffic on Curzon Street. Aunt Amabel was wilted, but had energy enough to describe her travails to all the callers at the box, Jacelyn’s usual retinue. An equally exhausted Lady Parkhurst was thankful when Arthur offered her a seat and some punch. Priscilla and her friends would be up shortly, she announced, after they greeted everyone on the esplanade.

It was as good an excuse as any for Claibourne, eyes twinkling as much as the hanging lanterns, to suggest that he and Jacelyn, Arthur and Rhodine, take a stroll around, before the fireworks. Mme. Aubonier, deep in conversation with Monsieur Blanc, waved them on. Sprague declined playing dogsberry to the two couples, with a laugh, and with Claibourne’s permission ordered another supper.

“I didn’t think this place would be so large, this close to the city,” Jacelyn said, looking around.