Amanda McCabe (6 page)

Their father’s conversation seldom required more of a response than a nod, or an “Oh, yes?” or a “You are quite right, sir.” So distraction was fairly easy. His gaze moved over the half-hidden footman standing in a shadowed corner to await the earl’s command, to the large stone coat of arms over the fireplace. It had the Bronston insignia of a hand holding a sword and a lion, with the motto
Semper Officiosus.

Duty Always.
Perhaps, Michael thought, it should have been
Dullness Always.
He almost wished he could trade places with that footman.

His musings were interrupted when he heard his name.

“Michael,” the earl barked, “is that a
pink
cravat you are wearing?”

Michael grinned. “Indeed. Though the correct name is ‘maiden’s blush.’ Quite evocative, wouldn’t you say? It is all the crack.

Violet made a suspicious choking sound, and bent her head down until her expression was entirely concealed by the brim of her bonnet.

The earl turned a deep red color, one that would never earn a moniker like “maiden’s blush.” “Miser’s apoplexy,” perhaps.

“Insolent!” the earl shouted, and banged the stick against the floor again. “I have put up with your deplorable behavior thus far, your ‘poetry,’ your ‘club,’ the tittle-tattle I hear from every quarter. Even your ridiculous notions about fashion! But I will not stand your disgraceful behavior any longer. You are a viscount, and one day you will be the earl…” He broke off, gasping for air. The footman hurried forward to pour out a glass of some clear liquid, which the earl gulped down.

“Father!” Violet cried, and started to rise from her chair.

“Sit back down, gel!” her father choked. “I am not finished with what I have to say.”

“But you are ill,” Violet dared to say.

“A mere shortness of breath. I am not dying, which is a very good thing, considering the disgraceful state of the next generation. The family will be ruined before I am cold in the ground.”

Violet’s face crumpled with hurt at those words. She sank back into her chair.

Michael’s hands tightened onto the arms of his own chair until his knuckles whitened. His father had always been cold, hateful, haughty to those not of his own station—and even to his own children. Ever since his wife died bringing Violet into the world, he had revealed no hint of human feeling. But age had brought a new venom to him, a deep anger.

Michael had never met a man more in need of a good thrashing. But his father was indeed an old man—it would not be at all honorable for Michael, with all the strength of his twenty-eight years, to beat him.

Really, he thought, all he would have to do now was steal the earl’s walking stick. Even
that
could not
be done, but one day Michael would tell him every last truth he had coming to him. Every last hateful thought that Michael harbored in his own heart.

Not now, though, with his sweet Violet looking on. Michael would never do anything that could possibly hurt his tenderhearted sister.

Before the earl could launch into another diatribe, Michael stood up and said, “I am sorry to cut short this cozy family moment, but I fear I have errands I must perform. I told Violet I would take her to Aunt Minnie’s house for supper, so you need not share your dried-out lamb cutlets and overcooked peas with us. Good day, sir.”

“I will just see you out, Michael,” Violet said hurriedly. Together they left the room as quickly as dignity would allow, their father’s sputterings chasing them out the door.

“How absolutely horrid,” said Violet, shuddering, once they stood safely on the front steps. “He becomes worse every time I see him!”

Michael kissed her cheek, and she curled her hands into the folds of his coat, holding onto him in defiance of her precious rules.

“It will be all right, Vi,” he said reassuringly. “Do not go back to the drawing room. Go up to your chamber, and send your maid for some tea. Father will settle down now that my infuriating presence has been removed. I will be back in only a couple of hours, and we will have a lovely supper with Aunt Minnie and her friends. Does that sound nice?”

“Very nice.” Violet nodded, and stepped back to give him a brave little smile.

“Now go inside. It is becoming chilly out here.” Michael tapped Violet on the tip of her nose, and climbed up into his phaeton.

At the corner of the street, he glanced back to be sure she had gone inside. She had not. She still stood there on the steps, her arms wrapped around herself.

She gave him a wave, and another smile—and Michael’s heart ached. He wanted so very much to go
back to her, to sweep her up and carry her away from that gloomy house.

Carry her all the way back to the serenity of Mrs. Chase’s drawing room. Mrs. Chase would be able to comfort Violet. And what was even odder, he wished
he
could be there, as well. That he could sit in that small office again, and tell Mrs. Chase all the things that ached in his soul. Not the stern, stiff schoolmistress Mrs. Chase, but the one he had glimpsed so briefly. The one with rich depths to her sky-eyes, and soft hands and sunset hair. That Mrs. Chase had hints of gentleness and understanding in her.

Instead, all he could do was keep driving into the gathering London night.

The townhouse of Lady Minerva Fielding, better known as Aunt Minnie, was as different from Bronston House as day was from midnight. She was their father’s sister, but she had lived a very different life from his, as evidenced in the spacious, pastel airiness of her rooms, the fine paintings on her walls, the constant merry sparkle in her green eyes.

She was one of the last people Michael would ever have expected to follow
A Lady’s Rules
, but there the volume was, in a place of honor on the round table in the middle of her foyer.

As Violet hurried off to greet some of Aunt Minnie’s other guests, Michael picked up the book, riffling through its gilt-edged pages. Their aunt had marked certain “rules” with ticks of dark green ink.

“‘A gentleman must never seat himself on the settee beside his hostess…unless invited,’” he muttered.

“Michael!” Aunt Minnie cried. He looked up to find her sailing out of the drawing room doors toward him, the tall feathers in her rose pink turban waving jauntily. She went up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “My most handsome nephew.”

Michael laughed, and kissed her in return. “I am your only nephew.”

She waved this away with an airy gesture of her gloved hand. “If I had a hundred nephews, you would still be the most handsome. You are becoming quite the heartbreaker, so I hear.”

“Exaggerations, I assure you, aunt.”

“Hmm,” she murmured, clearly unconvinced. “Exaggerations, perhaps. But obviously it runs in the family, as Violet is also becoming a very pretty figure. It is obvious that Mrs. Chase’s Seminary agrees with her. She is blooming.”

Michael glanced over to where Violet was chatting with an elderly colonel and his wife. She was smiling, and as bright and pretty as her yellow muslin gown. It was reassuring that she had emerged unscathed from their meeting with their father—at least for now. “It was thanks to your persuasions that our father agreed to send her there.”

Aunt Minnie gave an inelegant snort. “Oh, my brother is terrible, and has been ever since we were children! But Violet seems to be weathering the storm, as do you, my dear.”

“Violet will
always
be fine, because she has inherited your beauty and good heart. As well as your literary taste, I believe?” He held up the copy of
A Lady’s Rules.

She laughed, and snatched the volume out of his hand. “It is all anyone is reading of late! I haven’t seen a craze to equal it in years, not since I was a girl and everyone had to wear heart-shaped patches. To be au courant now one must be
polite.
Such a bore, not at all like the great fun we had in my youth. Wigs a foot tall, high heels, card games that lasted a week, not to mention those patches. But the
Rules
are really quite amusing to peruse. I can loan you my copy.”

“No need, Aunt Minnie. I was recently given a copy of my very own.” Michael remembered the expression on Mrs. Chase’s face as she held the book out to him.
“You in particular are most in need of it, Lord Morley.”

Aunt Minnie gave him an arch glance. “Oh, yes? And may I venture a guess that it was a gift from a lady?”

Michael gave her a
look
of his own. “You may venture as many guesses as you like, Aunt Minnie. A gentleman never tells. Is that one of the rules?”

She laughed again. “If it is not, it should be! But come with me, young rascal. We have been standing here for too long, and there are guests I would like you to meet.”

As she took his arm to lead him into the fray of her company, Michael took another glance at the book before tossing it back onto the table.
A Lady’s Rules
—they were everywhere.

“T
 he morning post has come, ma’am,” Molly announced, putting a small silver tray down on Rosalind’s desk.

Rosalind glanced up from her writing, automatically sliding a blank sheet of vellum over her notebook. It was not that she didn’t trust Molly—it was simply instinct. She was working on the new edition of
A Lady’s Rules
, which her publisher had been trying for weeks to get her to begin. She had to preserve her anonymity as A Lady.

“Thank you, Molly,” she said, and reached for the sheaf of letters.

“Would you like your luncheon in here, ma’am, or in the dining room?” the maid asked.

Rosalind did not need very long to make
that
decision. It was much too gloomy to eat all alone in the spacious dining room. During the term, it was full of people, students practicing their table manners under the watchful gaze of the teachers, their talk and laughter ringing out. During the holiday, it was silent.

“In here, please, Molly. I am going to try to work through the afternoon.”

“Very good, ma’am.” Molly bobbed a curtsy and left the office, closing the door behind her.

Rosalind sorted through the post. There were a
couple of missives from her teachers, on their holidays in Bath and Lyme Regis. A few notes from parents inquiring about future places at the school for their daughters. A scribbled, blotted note from Uncle Silas at his country home.

And one frighteningly official-looking letter from the bank in London. The one Allen had borrowed money from.

Rosalind stared down at the green blob of wax on the heavy white vellum. As she stared, the wax shifted, twisted, until it looked like a yawning, gaping,
biting
tiger’s jaw. Poised to swallow her, and her comfortable world, whole.

She slid a letter opener under the wax wafer, popping it open, and unfolded the sheet.

It was short, polite, and to the point. Mr. Richards, one of the managers of the bank, would very much appreciate an appointment with her and Mr. Silas Lucas, to discuss recent loans made to Mr. Allen Lucas. Sincerely hers, etc….

Rosalind dropped the letter to her desk. The skin around her eyes tightened painfully at the thought of having to meet with some
bank manager.
It sounded, well, less than respectable. Not something a lady should have to face. It reeked of financial ruin. She took off her wire-framed spectacles and rubbed at the bridge of her nose.

Blast Allen anyway. He had no right to put her through this. This was the fault of Lord Morley, and others of his reprehensible ilk. If not for their influence, Allen would be quietly studying, not running up debts.

What was she going to do about this mess?

The Thoth Club was crowded on this Wednesday night, thronged with gentlemen freed at this late hour from their duties of escorting wives, sisters, and sweethearts to the dreaded Almack’s. Brandy was liberal, the billiards room full, the card tables surrounded by players and observers.

Michael sat in one of the comfortable wingback chairs by the fireplace, a glass of port cradled in his hands, watching the hum of activity. He himself had just passed an evening in respectable society, escorting Violet and Aunt Minnie to a small musicale. Not, thankfully, to Almack’s—Vi was still too young for its hallowed portals—but still heavy with propriety. Now Violet was left with Aunt Minnie and her cronies in Minnie’s drawing room, and Michael was here, in this masculine sanctuary.

Sanctuary? Strangely, it felt like a mere extension of the outside world.

Michael sipped at his port, and tried to decipher why this place, which had always been a place of enjoyment and escape for him ever since he helped to found it, should feel so cold tonight. He had always enjoyed the Thoth Club. It was full of members with an artistic or literary bent, not like politically minded Whites and Brooks, or sporting-mad Boodle’s. There was always discussion of Byron’s latest volume or Turner’s newest canvas to go along with the cards and drink. Even the food was not half bad.

Tonight, though, he felt oddly—restless. He did not want to play cards, or talk about poetry, or do any of the things that usually sufficed to while away a pleasant evening. Ordinarily it was all amusing enough, even if not profoundly satisfying. Tonight, though, it was just not enough. He briefly considered visiting the home of a most obliging golden-haired courtesan, but not even that appealed to him.

He should leave, go back to his lodgings and write. In his own world of words and fantasies, time could often fly past on silvery wings. That was sometimes the only thing that could satisfy him, the ephemeral zone of art. It was far, far beyond the shallow pastimes of gaming, horse races, balls—even blond courtesans. Tonight, though, he felt that even poetry could not fill the hollowness at the very center of his being.

So he just sat there, sipping at the glass of port, watching the activity of the club swirl past him.

The front doors opened, letting in a burst of cool evening air and a flurry of new arrivals. They were laughing brightly, talking too loudly—obviously, they had begun their carousing long before coming to the club.