Dancing the Maypole (11 page)

Agnes broke the
uncomfortable silence. “My Uncle Louis has written.” Looking
through his fingers, Peter’s eyes focused intently on Agnes as he
listened for hope. “He writes that he’s brought my cousin Isabel to
Bath to cheer her up.” Peter’s stomach fluttered with pleasure at
the thought of Isabel only a few streets away. She’d call on Agnes.
She’d have to speak with him out of politeness. He might get to
kiss her hand and beg her for another chance… “Apparently, he’s
developed a keen dislike of Smirkes and has forbidden Isabel to
call. If we see her at the Pump Rooms or at a ball, we’re to
pretend she’s not there. He ends by stating Isabel desires to avoid
big beautiful idiots and hopes to dance with little ugly men who’ll
make her laugh.” Peter flinched on hearing his worst fears had
arrived in the post. His fingers closed back over his eyes. It was
hopeless.

James Smirke
snatched the letter from his wife. “Has Uncle Louis lost his mind?
What does he have against Smirkes?”

“Peter lost his
temper and slung my cousin over his shoulder like a giant
doll…”

“Must you
recount my shame at the breakfast table?” Peter’s attempt to
salvage his pride was ignored.

“Peter thought
she was a charlatan!” said James. “When Uncle Louis found that fat
countess stuffing what he thought was one his snuff boxes down the
crevice of her bosom, he kicked her in the backside and chased her
out of his house shouting French curses on her breasts. He then
refused to apologise when he found it belonged to the lady’s dead
husband. Uncle Louis has no right to judge Peter for having a bad
day. And Isabel should have known better than to answer that stupid
ad. If she wanted to meet Peter, why didn’t she write and ask for
an introduction? The woman has fainted and concussed her head one
too many times.”

“Uncle Louis is
just trying to protect Isabel,” said Agnes.

“Protect her
from what?” said James. “Peter made up for his lapse in judgement
with an honourable offer of marriage.”

“And Isabel
understandably declined.”

“She’s a fool,”
said James. “She’ll never find a better man. Once she puts herself
up for sale, she’ll be compressed in the midst of so many
fortune-hunters she won’t be able to breathe. If I were Uncle
Louis, I’d threaten to kill Peter if she didn’t agree to marry him.
There’s a slight possibility she’d be waiting at the altar at the
appointed hour.”

“Don’t mention
the idea to Uncle Louis. You know what happened to that French Duke
who broke Cousin Mignon’s heart. Uncle swears by the Virgin he was
aiming for the man’s leg…”

Feeling oddly
small, Peter abruptly stood up. “I should return to Adderbury.”

Agnes folded
the letter and shoved it down the front of her dress. “Only if you
want to die of embarrassment. Put on a lilac suit, stroll into town
to take the waters and tell anyone you meet that you’ll be in Bath
for several months…or I’ll tell your helpful brats the identity of
your dream mistress. There’s no telling what sort of help your
brats would concoct if they knew her name.”

“That’s
blackmail!”

James Smirke
laughed as he put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and loudly
kissed her on the cheek. “I think the new lavender coat, and
trousers with the white waistcoat embroidered with lilacs.”

“No,” said
Agnes. “I think he needs a more memorable appearance. Lend him your
yellow waistcoat, the one I embroidered with the large fighting
cock.”

Peter gasped in
horror. If Isabel saw him, she’d think he’d lost his mind. “I
refuse…”

“As you wish,”
said Agnes. “Your brats will enjoy helping you persuade…”

“James!”

“What?”

“Your wife is
b-b-blackmailing me into looking like a foolish fop-doodle.”

“How could you
think my Egg would do anything so cruel? She’s helping you out of
the kindness of her golden heart. Heaven knows you need it.”

Peter bit back
his opinion on his sister-in-law’s heart. “I don’t need help!
Looking like a f-f-fop-doodle won’t win the lady’s good opinion.
She’ll snub me!”

“Agnes snubbed
me numerous times. Look who lost the war of love!” James pursed his
lips in triumph as he admired his wife’s profile. Isn’t she
lovely?”

Peter’s eyed
his marble sister-in-law with revulsion, “Quite.”

“You’ll like
the waistcoat once you put it on. It’ll put you in a fighting
mood.” James crowed like a rooster as he lifted his left hand and
made a claw, making the five youngest Smirkes guffaw with
laughter.

“The mood to
court or k-k-kill?” snapped Peter.

Agnes ignored
Peter’s sarcastic question. “Don’t worry about being seen. Bath
society is still thin, but if you happen to meet my cousin Isabel
out shopping do invite her to tea tomorrow. If she wishes to visit,
she will.”

“Papa?” Peter
sighed in defeat and turned to glare at his fourth son. “May I have
an advance of next year’s Christmas money?”

“What for?”

“I want to buy
Mademoiselle de Bourbon a lovely fan,” said Cosmo.

Peter’s coal
black eyes nearly burst into flames. “Avoid Mademoiselle d-de
Bourbon!”

“Why?”

“Because…her
father said so.”

“He’s hardly
going to shoot me because you insulted his daughter. Aunt Agnes
says Mademoiselle has several lovely silly nieces in need of
sensible husbands. The investment of a fan might help me find a
wife.”

The prospect of
seeing brown eyes caused Peter’s body to hum with pleasure. “I’ll
c-c-call on her and give her your regard. If her father starts
shooting, you’ll be able to attend my funeral relieved I went in
your place.”

“She won’t see
you,” said Cosmo. “Why would she want to?”

“Mind your own
b-business.” Scowling, Peter abruptly left the table ignoring his
brother’s teasing wink.

“What’s wrong
with Papa? He hasn’t had a pleasant word to say all week.”

“Your Papa’s
been celibate too long.” Peter cringed as his brother reply floated
after him. “He needs to wake up and find a real woman in his
bed.”

“James.”

“Yes Egg?”

“They’re his
children.”

“They’re
men…”

*

Peter entered
his bedchamber and leaned against the closed door. Safely alone, he
carefully extracted the fan from his sleeve. Unfurling the now
familiar image, he stared at the gory scene willing his brain to
remember being introduced to Isabel for the forgotten dance. “Have
you finished moping and feeling sorry for yourself Peter Augustus?”
Peter’s heart threatened to burst as he started in fright. Looking
up he found his romantic agent sitting on the bed looking
exasperated.

“What the
d-devil? Are you trying to frighten me to d-death? Go away!”

“Hmm…still
moping.” The agent sighed as if bored by the prospect of waiting
another two weeks.

“I’m not
moping,” said Peter.

“You’re hiding
in your room like a friendless hermit staring at a lady’s fan
because it’s easier than singing love songs outside Isabel
Désirée’s window. You’re moping.”

“I c-can’t
sing. I sound like a bullock lamenting his missing parts. I won’t
give her excuse to hate me.”

“Are you going
to put on your romantic rags and battle for Isabel Désirée’s heart
or sit here growing mould?”

Peter moaned in
horror. “She’ll take one look at me dressed in lilac and that
c-c-cock-a-horror waistcoat and think I’m a lunatic.”

“The whole of
England thinks you a lunatic, an ugly waistcoat won’t make much
difference. Use your French tongue and say, ‘The first time we met
I looked into your eyes and knew perfection…I hated myself for
betraying my wife, but I couldn’t erase you from my heart. I’ve
been making passionate love to you in my dreams every night for
eighteen years’…”

“I c-can’t say
that!”

“Why not? It’s
the truth.”

“I’d sound like
a leering cad.”

“So? It’s
romantic. By that I mean it would make her swoon with delight.”

“It’s pathetic!
How could I make love to a woman in my dreams for eighteen years
without remembering her name? I feel so stupid.”

“I was lucky,”
said the agent. “My mistress had the same name as my wife.”

“Is that’s your
idea of help?”

“If you’re
lacking courage…”

“I’m not
afraid!”

“Of making a
fool of yourself to win happiness? What would you do for love Peter
Augustus?”

“I don’t
know.”

“That attitude
won’t win you anything but constipation. If you think falling in
love is a trial you should try three weeks without a…”

“I don’t want
to hear stories of your chamber pot.”

“Then what will
you do for love?” The agent cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.
“Well?”

“I don’t
know…whatever…”

“What sort of
answer is that? A man doesn’t whatever for love. Do you want Isabel
Désirée in your life?”

Peter gulped
down intense longing, “Yes.”

“Do you want to
hold her in your arms?”

“Of
course.”

“Do you want to
hear her laughing with pleasure as you cover her with kisses?”

“D’accord!”

“Then take
action. You have a lady’s bruised heart to conquer. Start by
stating your goal. Let me hear you say it.”

“Say what?”
said Peter.

The transparent
man sighed loudly in despair as he put his hands on his hips, “I
will do anything to win Isabel Désirée. Now, you say it.”

“Why?”

“Just say
it.”

“I’ll do
anything to win her.”

“Her? Who is
her? Say it again only this time with feeling. Are you a man or a
machine?”

“I’ll do
anything to win Isabel Désirée.”

“You don’t
sound convincing, but it’ll do for now. Put on that ugly lavender
suit and let’s go shopping. You need to buy a walking stick; one
which you can attach several ribbons. In my day, a fashionable man
wouldn’t be caught dead without a few silk ribbons fluttering about
his person. Women find them sensually pleasing…” Peter groaned in
horror as the dead man smiled. “And while we’re out shopping I
think you should practice doing anything.”

“Like
what?”

“Like
anything…put on those romantic clothes before you die of old age.
Scrape the mould off your purse. I’m going to stretch some life
into your nerves.”

“There’s
nothing wrong with my nerves.”

“They’re
practically unstrung. You’re as limp as an eel. You’re more lump
than hero. We need to put some life in your limbs.”

“There’s
nothing wrong with my limbs.”

“Are they
wrapped around Isabel Désirée? Are they carrying her to your bed?
Are they running to rescue Isabel Désirée from a drunken Lord who
thinks she’s the statue he ordered for his garden? No, your legs
carry you between a table and a lonely bed. Are those two giant
sausages holding you up or two legs flowing with vigour?”

“I didn’t know
she was in Bath! I couldn’t run back to London and throw stones at
her house. There are so many blasted windows I wouldn’t know which
one was hers. Her father would have shot me…”

“Yes, but then
he’d have had you carried bleeding into the house and on hearing of
your injured state Isabel Désirée would have come running and wept
on you…”

“I don’t want
her to weep on my coffin. I don’t want to kiss her with my last
breath.”

“Why not? It
would be better than living like this…”

“Forgive me for
being melancholy and not wanting to make pleasant small talk with
smiley happy people.”

“You almost
sounded like there was blood in your veins. What is the state of
your heart?”

“Je n’sais
pas.”

“How can you
not know what’s in your heart?”

“How can I
know?” asked Peter. “I can’t even remember meeting the woman. What
is the point of trying? She’s probably sworn by the Virgin Mary
that she’ll marry anyone except me.”

“Even the King
crosses one bridge at a time. Do you want Isabel Désirée or
not?”

“Oui.”

“Then be
prepared to do anything to win her and stop bleating about
imaginary rivals. There’s only one man Isabel Désirée desires, but
if you don’t develop some ingenuity she may marry a young handsome
fortune-hunter to spite you.”

“I’ll call on
her.”

“No, battles
aren’t won by cannon fodder. We need subtle tactics. We need Isabel
Désirée to hear about you. We need to make some gossip.”

“I hate
gossip!”

“Do you want
her thinking of you every day or not?”

“Has she been
thinking about me?”

“I thought you
didn’t like gossip.”

“Do I have to
supplicate on my knees?”

“Gossip is very
wicked. The hearer must take the word of the teller. Would you
believe me if I told you that Isabel Désirée names all her heroes
Pierre?”

“Does she?”

“You have to
take my word that this Pierre with more lives than a cat also
happens to share your face and form. Would you believe me if I said
I recently overheard her telling her maid that if she were forced
to marry you and she gave birth to a son she’d raise it to be a
Frenchman so he’d hate you?”

Peter sighed in
despair, “That sounds plausible…”

“What if I said
that one of her favourite fantasies is being found bathing naked in
the moonlight by her heroic Pierre? You wade in, then carry her
back to shore and make love to her on a bed of bracken…though
sometimes you’re pulling her out of her bath and making love to her
in front of a fire…it depends on the story.”

Peter’s voice
cracked with longing, “Vraiment?”

“Sort of…two of
those three statements are correct. Would you care to hazard a
guess which one is false?”

“Swine! Are you
here to help or torment me?”

The agent
chuckled in amusement. “That was rather wicked…almost as wicked as
the fact I’m not going to tell you which one is false. Did I
mention I love being a romantic agent?”