Barbara Metzger (29 page)

“Lord Claibourne, how nice of you to join us.” Jacelyn managed to get anger, resentment, and nagging at his tardiness into the one sarcastic statement. She hadn’t gotten up from the Queen Anne desk where, Claibourne could see, she was writing a cheque. The cit had stood, though, so she introduced him.

“Lord Claibourne, I would like you to meet Mr. Godfrey Durbin. Mr. Durbin is the founder of a new group, the Benevolent Protectors of Innocent Creatures. Its goal is to provide food and shelter for all the homeless dogs and cats of London. Remember last month when Aunt’s people were having all those difficulties with strays? I’m to be a charter member. Oh, Mr. Durbin, this is Leigh Merrill, Earl of Claibourne.”

Durbin didn’t know whether to bow or put out his hand. Neither would have mattered, as his lordship pointed to the door.

“Get out, you charlatan,” he ordered, “and don’t ever let me see your ugly phiz in the neighbourhood.” Then Claibourne took the cheque from Jacey’s fingers and ripped it in two. “Still too green by half, my girl,” he drawled.

Jacelyn jumped up in furious indignation, hands on hips, and shouted the first hateful thing that came to mind: “How dare you! I’m not your girl and it’s not your money yet!”

All the colour left Leigh’s face, then returned in a quick bloom of red. He turned on his heel and left.

*

Percival Fenton was not your average fool, nor even your average drunk. He had to be the unluckiest inebriate idiot on earth. He was so stupid, he thought he was lucky to have missed his cousin Leigh earlier. He was so drunk, he didn’t even duck. Of all the times and places to be where he was, Percy’d picked the worst.

Claibourne had been wanting to talk to Percy for weeks, ever since the Roman scene outside Almack’s. That is, he felt he should, whether he wanted to see the muckworm or not, to find out what all the tomfoolery was about and put a stop to it. With one thing and another, he’d never run him to ground, until today. Leigh wasn’t a vicious, violent maniac, either, until today. Today, however, he didn’t want to talk, he wanted to murder anyone in his way—who just happened to be Percival Fenton.

Maybe being hit on the side of the head knocked some sense into the clunch, because he did the only intelligent thing possible: he stayed where he was, flat on the ground.

“Get up and fight, you bastard!”

“Oh, do you think so, too? M’father swears I’m none of his but I—”

“I don’t give a damn about your ancestry. I only wish you were no relative of mine.” Leigh had him up, willy-nilly, by the neckcloth, and was roaring at him. “What I want to know is what the bloody hell is going on?”

Percy dangled there, thinking, then he said, “I could be wrong about this, mind, but I think you’re going to beat me to a pulp. Knew it would happen, told the governor so.”

Claibourne shook him like a sandy rug. “Why, Percy? No, blast you, not why am I going to pop your cork. Why have you been bothering me and my friends?”

“It’s the governor. He don’t like you. I never had anything against you m’self.”

“Thanks,” Leigh said dryly. “Why did you do all those crazy things then?”

“He said he’d have his man Jensen kill me, else.”

“Well, I’ll kill you now if you don’t tell me the rest. I don’t like your father any more than he likes me, but I don’t go near him. What does he want?”

“It’s your marriage. He don’t want you leg-shackled and starting your nursery. He says I’m to be your heir.”

“You!” C
laibourne shook Percy so hard his previously loosened teeth rattled. “You cannot be my heir,” Leigh raged, “because you’re not going to outlive me.” And he hit him again. Picked him up and shook him again.

“Uh, Leigh?”

Claibourne paused, right arm way back.

“I never hurt that horse, that time. The one I left at Parkhurst’s stables. Found him that way at the knackers. I wouldn’t have done that to a horse, honest.”

So Leigh didn’t kill him.

*

Even if he didn’t love her, even if he only wanted her for her money, even if there really had been a Benevolent Protectors Society, which Mr. Sprague confirmed there wasn’t, she should not have said it. Even if he was high-handed, arrogant, and smelled of patchouli when her own scent was lavender, she should have bitten off her tongue before uttering those words. But she hadn’t, and he was gone, most likely back to La Fleur’s house, where he’d be welcomed with kind words and satin sheets. Fallen women always had satin sheets in the novels she read, and they never yelled like fishwives. He would stay there and help La Fleur count her diamonds, and never, ever know how sorry Jacelyn was.

In a pig’s eye, he would.

She put on her dark blue merino dress with the long sleeves, grabbed a shawl, told Marcus she was going to the stable, turned the corner, and kept going. The hackney driver took her to Islington, but baulked when she ordered him to find Miss La Fleur’s direction.

“I knows where the Flower lives, I does, ’n I knows it’s no place for the likes a’you, miss.”

“Don’t be impertinent, sir. We are having a meeting of the Benevolent Protectors of Innocent Creatures Society, and Miss La Fleur and I are charter members. She is a great champion of the downtrodden.”

“That right? ’N here I allays thought she were a rich man’s whore. Beggin’ your pardon, miss.”

He set her down at a pleasant little whitewashed house with a brick wall, and hedges all around. She paid the fare, the jarvey took off, and she wondered what on earth she was going to do now.

What if Claibourne wasn’t here? Worse, now that she considered it further, what if he was here?

She was standing in the roadway, debating with herself, when she heard terrible noises coming from the hedges. She ran to the moan’s direction, and found what had to be Percival Fenton, from Claibourne’s description of him: an elongated scarecrow, losing its stuffing. He was also losing a lot of blood from above his right eye, which was quickly swelling shut. His jaw was already empurpled, and he held one of his teeth in his hand. Jacelyn hurried to his side and started to mop at the blood with her handkerchief.

“Percy? Percy, it’s Jacelyn Trevaine. Can you understand me?”

He looked up and nodded. Then at the same time, they both asked, “Is Leigh still here?”

“Gads, I hope not,” swore Percy, and Jacelyn amened it, then asked, “Was it Leigh who did this to you, because of the pregnant women?”

“Yes’m, but I didn’t hurt the horse.”

“I should hope not. If you touched Baron he would kill you for sure.”

“He’s an earl, not a baron. You should know that, if you’re going to marry him. M’cousin’s a downy one. He won’t like a widgeon-wife.”

Jacelyn had Percy’s neckcloth off and was making a pad for the cut, while trying to make sense of his conversation. He must be concussed, she decided, leaning over to press the bandage in place. His breath nearly made her eyes water.

“You’re foxed!”

“Yes’m, usually am.”

“You mean you’re never sober?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Oh dear. I think you’d better get inside. Can you stand?”

He couldn’t, so she wadded up her woolen shawl and put it under his head. “Wait here,” she told him unnecessarily, and went to pull the door knocker. Miss La Fleur herself answered the door, in a pink satin negligee—in the daytime! Jacey didn’t have time to consider the implications as she tried to explain who she was, why she’d come, and what Percy was doing groaning in the grass.

“That bag of bones? I had my man warn him to stay away, but he wouldn’t listen. It’s Remington’s day off, or I’d have him put your friend in a hackney, like usual.”

“But he’s hurt badly, and Leigh said how kind you are. Couldn’t he come in? We could clean him up and—”

“What’s this
we
? Leigh would kill all of us if he found you here! I’m sorry, miss, about Percy, but I’ve got a, ah, gentleman caller due soon, and it would be awkward-like having the cawker bleeding in the parlour.”

“It can’t be any worse than having your guest trip over him in the walkway. He really needs someone to take care of him. Will you at least come look at him?”

The next time Percy opened his eyes, two thinly covered breasts dangled right above him. He thought Claibourne must have killed him after all. His horizon filled with satin tits, he must have gone to heaven. Wouldn’t the governor be surprised! It was better than heaven, by Jupiter; it was La Fleur herself, come to wipe his brow!

“I love you.”

“I know you do, you poor sod. Here, let’s have a look at you.”

“He loves you?” Jacey asked, incredulous. “Then you have to take him in.”

“He says he loves me, he writes me notes and sends flowers. I never met him before today, though. He sure don’t look like much.”

“Leigh did this to him!”

“He’s got no chin,” Flo pointed out, as if Percy were an inanimate statue—sculpted by a Bedlamite. “Leigh didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“True, his chin is a bit weak, but his nose is strong enough to compensate.”

“It’s a shame Leigh didn’t break it for him, could only be an improvement. He sure is skinny, too.”

“He only needs fattening up, some healthy food, regular meals, you know. If it’s a matter of money…” Jacelyn was fumbling to untie her reticule.

“It would be another mouth to feed, now that you mention it.”

Percy, who’d been lying on the grass worshipping, now put his hand to his waistcoat and pulled out a bulging wallet. “I’ve got plenty of blunt,” he said, handing it to Flora, his one good eye never leaving her face.

Flora glanced through the wallet quickly. “He’s getting prettier by the minute.”

“You know, Miss La Fleur, Leigh says he is very wealthy, and he really seems quite fond of you. His name isn’t such that he has to worry over what connexions he makes, if you understand me. Who knows where it might lead?”

It led right upstairs to the bedroom, Jacelyn under one shoulder, Flora under the other, Percy grinning like a roast pig with an apple in its mouth.

“I’ll let him set a bit, I suppose, if only to keep an eye on him for Leigh’s sake.”

“I’m sure he won’t trouble Leigh anymore, will you, Percy?” Jacey asked, giving his arm a jerk.

“Oh no, ma’am, Miss La Fleur. I wouldn’t do anything you didn’t like, ever.”

“Pitiful. Sweet, but pitiful. All right, you stay. And it’s Flora, to my friends. Flora Cobb.”

They had him on the bed now, his boots off. “Flora…Flora Fenton,” he whispered before he passed out.

“He’ll keep till Remington gets back to help. You better leave, miss, before Mr. Unger gets here. This is going to be hard enough to explain as is.”

When they reached downstairs again, Flora couldn’t resist asking, “What were you doing here anyway, miss, if you don’t mind my prying? I mean, it’s not every day grand young ladies drop in to tea, if you ken my drift.”

“Well, I did want to meet you, but Leigh said I mustn’t—”

“So you did anyway.”

“I wouldn’t have, but he said he was coming here, after Percy, and…and I wanted to apologise to him for something terrible I said.”

“Here? You were going to apologise to him here, in my house? I don’t know who is more addlepated, you or the tosspot upstairs! I can see where you’ll lead Leigh a merry chase. Good. He needs that.”

“You’re not mad, then? And you’ll tell him I’m sorry, if you see him?”

“I won’t be seeing him, dearie, if that’s what’s on your mind, and no, I’m not mad. If that rummy sobers up decent, you may have done me a good turn. Now I’ll do you one and get you a hackney. And, miss, take my advice, don’t ever mention to Claibourne that you were here, or you’ll be sorrier still.”

“Thank you, Flora, and thank you for being kind to Leigh when he was ill, and for taking in Percy. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”

“And you, miss. You’re a real lady, and I don’t mean titles and such. Leigh’ll be proud. There’s no question either; he’ll make you real happy.”

* * *

“Ar…Ar…Ar-choo. Choo. Archoo.”

“Typical, you twit. Other men come home from two days of raking with the pox. You come home with a head cold!”

“Not a cold, Da, it’s snuff.” Percy was practicing opening the small enamelled box with one hand. So far there was a damp layer of brown powder all over him.

“
Snuff!
You’re shoving tobacco up your nose so you can sneeze? Only a simple-minded sop would get pleasure from that!”

“Gave it up, gov. No more Blue Ruin.”

“Gave up gin, did you? That only leaves brandy, wine, port—”

“All of it. Am doing snuff instead. It’s more manly.
Ar-choo.”

Fenton rolled his wheelchair away, out of range, and dabbed at his sleeve in repugnance. “Manly? Boy, you’re as manly as the sultan’s soprano. Just look at you!”

It took a strong stomach to do so: one totally shut blackened eye that shaded off to bilious yellow; a huge purple bruise on the jaw; swollen, split lip; missing tooth—and lace ruffles.

“That bastard Claibourne did this to you?”

“Told you he would. He didn’t like your idea about the pregnant women.”

“My idea?
My idea
, you paper-skulled popinjay, I told you to get a female who was increasing. One. What do you bring? Ten! If you can count to twenty-one with your pants on I’ll be amazed! Besides, I’m surprised Claibourne didn’t kill you, hanging around his mistress like that.”

“You were right: she ain’t his mistress anymore.” He grinned proudly. “She’s mine. I’ll be staying there. Just came ’round to tell you.”

“Gads, that woman will do
any
thing for money.”

“Not so. She likes me.”

Fenton shook his head. “You poor deluded dunderhead. Will she help us queer Claibourne’s marriage plans?”

“No, she likes him too. She doesn’t want me messing with him neither.”

Fenton slammed his fist into the armrest. “And you call yourself manly! Look what he’s done to you! Look what those bastards have done to me! You’d let him get away with it all; you’d throw rice at his demn wedding!”

“Doubt I’d be invited, gov. Leigh ain’t too keen on our branch of the—”