Cupid's Dart (2 page)

Lump had settled back on his haunches to observe these queer proceedings, which had exhausted the limits of his short attention span. Now that his mistress gave signs of returning to herself, he leapt to his feet. First she would give him a rare trimming for jauntering about, and then she would forgive him, and then all would be as it had been—which seemed to Lump a great fuss over nothing. But if his mistress was made happy kicking up a dust over trifles, it was all the same to him.

She was very quiet. Lump did not care to see her sunk in a fit of the blue devils. He butted her hip with his great, shaggy head and uttered a sympathetic woof.

Thus distracted from her musings, which did
not
concern the possible contents of Marigold's lost letter, Miss Halliday firmly grasped Lump's leash and set out toward home. "You are an incorrigible jingle-brain," she said sternly, although it was uncertain whether she addressed this comment to the dog or to herself.

Chapter Two

Along the Brighton road rattled an elegant travelling carriage, drawn by a beautifully matched team of grays. The horses were proper high-bred 'uns, beautiful steppers; the carriage was richly fitted out with copper springs and iron shafts and silver-plated fastenings, dark paneling, and huge wheels. "God's blood!" cursed the coachman, as one of the wheelers, for reasons altogether unknown, suddenly became very nervous and frightened and half-inclined to kick, with the apparent notion of getting rid of the carriage behind. The coachman swore again, as he wondered what had inspired so normally sweet a goer to take a head full of bees.

With that sentiment, had he but known it, the coachman's employer might have agreed. A somewhat corpulent gentleman dressed in sober fashion, Quentin Inchquist scowled at his companion and drummed his fingers irritably on one plump and pantalooned knee. Slumped beside him on the carriage seat was a sandy-haired and very freckled damsel of almost seventeen years. She wore a plain, high-waisted muslin dress and pelisse of lilac sarcenet, and a pretty hat trimmed with a lilac riband. Her head was bent, her attention fixed on the little reticule clasped on her lap.

Her refusal to meet his gaze further irritated Quentin. "You are a goose!" he said, not for the first time. "That a daughter of mine should tumble in amours with a mincing Jack-a-dandy who hasn't sixpence to scratch with—Good God, Sarah-Louise! The fellow fancies himself a
poet.
I think you must be all about in your head." The damsel paused in her fidgeting to glance at her parent. When she raised her head, she looked down on him, for Sarah-Louise was very tall, and her papa was not. Quentin derived further annoyance from that fact.

And then what must she do but quiver her lower lip at him? "Mr. Teasdale is a very fine p-poet," she whispered.

This from a damsel who, in the normal course of things, couldn't say boo to a mouse? Things, were in worse case than Quentin had realized. "Poppycock!" he said sternly. "I have had occasion to read some of Teasdale's poetry, if you will recall."

Sarah-Louise did indeed recall the occasion to which her papa referred, although she would have much rather not. She dropped her gaze again to her lap. It had been such a pretty poem, too, that certain sonnet which had been discovered under Sarah-Louise's mattress by an overzealous housemaid, and brought to her papa's attention by his horrified butler.

"Hiding sonnets in your bedclothes!" scolded Quentin, shrewdly following his daughter's thoughts. "It ain't like you to pull such a sly trick. Damned if it ain't that Byron fellow's fault for putting poetical notions into everybody's head. Corsairs, by God!" He paused to eye his offspring. A gentleman who wielded a great deal of power and influence in certain government circles, Quentin was long on neither patience nor tact, was in fact well known for his ability to mercilessly bully and badger his political opponents into submission. He saw no reason to deal differently with his daughter now. "In case you don't know it, and I do not know how you would
not
know it, it ain't the thing to encourage poets to dangle after you composing sonnets to your nose. You're not up to snuff, my girl, nor close to it! You may be grateful that I sent your precious poet about his business before you came to grief."

Did she look grateful? A peek at his daughter assured Quentin that she did not. Instead, she wore as stubborn an expression as he had ever seen. "Don't think to go against me in this!" snapped Quentin, and she flinched. Sarah-Louise had never responded well to raised voices, her papa recalled. Well, if he had raised his voice, she had only herself to blame, and Quentin would take advantage of the opportunity to ensure that she did not likewise err again.

 "Let us be frank," he said. "You may be a considerable heiress, but you ain't going to be cried up as a great beauty, what with your freckles and your height. Be assured, that pup who was dangling after you was less wishful to drown in your eyes than dive into the depths of my purse. I had not wanted to mention it, but I had certain inquiries made, and young Teasdale is so deep in dun territory that he will have to contrive mightily to get clear. To give you the word with no bark on it, you have been soundly hoaxed! Teasdale must have a rich wife."

Sarah-Louise pressed her lips together. She was determined not to weep. Of course her papa meant the best for her; that she did not doubt. That her papa had the faintest notion of
what
was best for her, however, Sarah-Louise doubted very much indeed. Timidly, she plucked at her tasseled reticule. "I wish you would reconsider, Papa," she murmured. "I'm sure there is some mistake. Mr. Teasdale is all that's proper. You do him a great d-disservice—"

"Balderdash!" Quentin brought down his hand upon his knee with such force that Sarah-Louise shrank back. "Teasdale is on the dangle for a fortune, and
you
are such a ninnyhammer that you would give him mine. Not another word!" he added, as she parted her lips in protest. "I am very displeased with you, miss. How sharper than a serpent's tooth is an ungrateful child."

Not surprisingly, a profound and uncomfortable silence descended upon the interior of the carriage after this exchange. Despite her best intentions, Miss Inchquist sniffled, inspiring her parent with the dreadful notion that she might at any moment start blubbering. Like many another acerbic gentleman, Quentin had an aversion to feminine waterworks, particularly those waterworks which he inspired.

He was not truly an ogre, Quentin assured himself, but merely a fond parent doing what he must. As for packing Sarah-Louise off like this to Brighton—it was for the chit's own good, and someday she would be grateful to him for removing her from harm's way. If only his wife had not died so young, leaving him with a child to raise. Yes, and here the child was near seventeen already, and tumbled violently in love with a curst fortune hunter, and fancying her heart broke. It made a man feel old. However, if Quentin knew anything at all about the fairer sex, Sarah-Louise would get over her disappointment quick enough and be pestering him for pin money to buy new fripperies.

Having thus arranged matters to his satisfaction, if not that of his offspring, Quentin looked out the carriage window and allowed his thoughts to drift to less taxing topics, such as the ongoing hostilities with the French, the riots and machine-breakings in industrial areas, the question of Catholic relief, and the Corn Laws.

Sarah-Louise gazed out the opposite carriage window. Her thoughts were considerably more bleak. Sarah-Louise had long been aware that she was a bran-faced beanpole of a female who would inspire no gentleman to romantical transports. She was all too well acquainted with her reflection in the looking glass, and, as Quentin's daughter, none too naive about the world in which she lived. Her papa's influence and his wealth would secure for her a husband—but it would not be the husband of her choice. Better to wed a stranger, Sarah-Louise had supposed, than to be left on the shelf. At least she would have a home and family of her own.

But all that was before she had met Peregrine. Sarah-Louise had never dreamed to catch the eye of so handsome and agreeable a gentleman, to be the object of his compliments and smiles. Peregrine didn't seem to mind that she wasn't a nonpareil, had even assured Sarah-Louise that the beauty of her soul more than compensated for any physical lack. Perhaps Mr. Teasdale did not love her yet, but Sarah-Louise dared not hope to marry for love, and believed she and Peregrine might go on together very well. Had he not hinted at as much? Had he not confessed that he found in her presence a serenity that inspired him to take up his pen? Her papa could not be expected to understand the artistic spirit, and therefore he was determined to cut up all her hopes.

If only she had the strength of will to stand up for herself. Unfortunately, loud voices terrified Sarah-Louise—especially her papa's loud voice—as did so many things. Despite her best intentions, Sarah-Louise could not prevent a wayward tear from stealing down her cheek. Face firmly averted, she wiped at it with her glove.

Thus distracted from his contemplation of more important matters, Quentin bit back a sigh. Damned if Sarah-Louise didn't put him in mind of a rabbit he had once owned, which upon hearing him approach would cower all atremble in the corner of its cage. She even looked like that wretched beast, with her trembling lip and pink nose. Not that she had whiskers, for which he supposed he must be grateful, considering the chit's other shortcomings.

"There
,
there!" he said, and awkwardly took her hand. "I do not mean to be cruel, but you must trust your papa to know what's best. Of course you will marry— some nice, sensible fellow who will value you as he should. Mayhap this business is my fault; I have kept you too well-wrapped in lamb's wool. Little wonder, I suppose, that you should hold such a man as Teasdale in girlish fascination. 'Twas an unfortunate business, but now 'tis done, and we will say no more about it. You will like to stay with your Aunt Amice.
She
will know how you should go on."

Sarah-Louise was not looking forward to visiting her Aunt Amice. Nor did she want to marry some nice, sensible fellow; she wanted Peregrine. "As you wish, Papa," she whispered.

"We need not tell your Aunt Amice about this business; she would be prodigious shocked," Quentin continued. His sister was devilish high in the instep. He had no fear she'd tolerate any poetical nonsense, whether or not forewarned.
"If
I
have your word that you'll think no more on that twiddlepoop."

Expectantly, Mr. Inchquist paused. Sarah-Louise bit her lip. Peregrine was
not
a twiddlepoop. To dispute further with her papa was to gain nothing more than his increased ill humor, however. "You have my word, Papa," Sarah-Louise murmured, with crossed fingers and a fervent wish that she might be forgiven for the fib.

Chapter Three

Miss Halliday stood in the kitchen of her modest little house. Though not located in a fashionable part of town, this structure had a fine prospect of the sea, as well as curved window bays and low roof parapets. Georgie was not a summer visitor to the seaside, seldom drank tea at the Public Rooms, only rarely put in an appearance at card assembles and plays and concerts, and was not known to display herself on the Steine, although she did have a subscription at one of the libraries, and therefore was sometimes to be glimpsed. Miss Halliday was not enamored of Society, and liked Brighton best of all when Prinny and his raffish friends and all their hangers-on had gone back to London, and the fog had settled on the cliffs, and no one was left to marvel at the oddity of a lady who preferred to eschew polite company of an evening to stay home and read a book. Not that this luxury was often accorded her, due to the demands of the other members of her household.

Currently demanding Georgie's attention was her cousin Agatha, a plump and amiable soul of fifty-odd years with a passion for cooking and household matters, pursuits not suitable to her station in life perhaps but fortunate for all concerned, save the snub-nosed, brown-haired little housemaid who was responsible for a great deal of the work.

"Gooseberries," mused Agatha, who was this day swathed in yellow dotted muslin more suited to someone half her years, as was the flaming red hair arranged in the Grecian style with ringlets hanging down. "Currants, raspberries, and strawberries must be preserved, and jams and jellies made up. Mixed pickle should also now be made." She then explained, with enthusiasm, just
how
mixed pickle should be made, a procedure that involved ginger, mace, shallots, cayenne, mustard seed, turmeric, six quarts of vinegar, and a pound of salt. And then she launched into a discussion of fish—lobster, mackerel, mullet, pike, salmon, trout, turbot—and ended up with carp. "What do you think, Georgie dear?"

Guiltily, Georgie started, as did the little housemaid who sat at the large elm table turning and mending and darning sheets, which in her opinion was better than her previous task of cleaning marble with a paste of soap lees and pipe clay, bullock's gall and turpentine. Neither Georgie nor the housemaid—whose name was Janie—had been contemplating fish. Janie was wondering how best to strike up an acquaintance with a young footman who'd newly hired into an establishment further along the street. Georgie couldn't stop thinking of kissing, which was exceedingly odd in her, because kissing wasn't something that ordinarily exercised her mind, possibly because no one had ever kissed her as had Lord Warwick that morning, and she didn't know whether she should be cross—or grateful to him.

"I think," Georgie murmured, "that you know best about such matters. Agatha, the oddest thing happened. You will be surprised to hear who I met on the beach."

Agatha had scant interest in matters outside her own domain. "Fried cow heel," she murmured thoughtfully. "An asparagus pudding. Rhubarb jam. Liver and parsley sauce. Perhaps we might invite a few people for dinner, cousin. Seeing fresh faces would do Andrew a world of good." She did not wait for a response, but went on to discuss, with great enthusiasm, a receipt she had recently come upon for eels
à la tartare.