Maggie MacKeever (21 page)

Hastily he looked away. It was remarkably easy to envision the dowager presiding over a veritable chamber of horrors, and deriving malicious amusement from the workings of iron-maiden and thumbscrew.

As Arthur, pondering which of the various means of torture was most likely to be practiced on him by his ill-tempered benefactress, escorted Lady Easterling through the two hundred occupants of the ballroom, Lord Carlin paused in the doorway. Having never been refused a voucher of admission to anything in all his life, Kit failed to appreciate the exclusive tone of Almack’s, and personally considered evenings spent within the Assembly Rooms the dullest possible. However, he had not ventured forth this evening in search of enjoyment. Lord Carlin had not forgotten his father’s decree that he must wed, and had forced himself to come to Almack’s so that he might further observe the bevy of hopeful beauties who aspired to his hand, and perhaps discover one among them for whom he might learn to care a bit.

Deuced difficult was this choosing of a wife; yes, and damned dispiriting. Other fellows seemed to go about the business in much more cheerful states of mind, thought Lord Carlin, impressed by such sang-froid. Grimly determined, he glanced around the ballroom. Bearing down on him, in company with one of the Lady Patronesses, was Jaisy. Lord Carlin’s first impulse, upon glimpsing this appalling sight, was toward flight. Since no gentleman would behave in so cow-hearted a manner, Lord Carlin stood his ground, and therefore was commanded by the Lady Patroness to stand up with Jaisy for the waltz, that shocking excuse for hugging and squeezing first introduced by Countess Lieven and “Cupid” Palmerston.

This conversation, also, was interrupted by the movements of the dance and the proximity of the fellow dancers, but Lady Easterling was not one to allow minor hindrances to interfere with her grand plan. During her self-imposed exile in her bedchamber, Lady Easterling had begun to wonder if there might not be a teensy bit of truth in the horrid accusations leveled at her on all sides, and to think she had been a trifle pushing as regarded his lordship. Apparently Lord Carlin preferred demure and submissive damsels in whose mouths butter would not melt. Very well, Jaisy would be demure and submissive, even if her stomach turned at her own missishness. She peered up at Lord Carlin through her long eyelashes. “Sir, I owe you an apology.”

What was it he had decided during his visit to the Albany, over a bowl of steaming bishop? That ardor alone would persuade Lady Easterling to leave off making a dead-set at him? “No, Lady Easterling,” he responded gallantly, and pressed her hand. “It is I who must apologize to you.”

“No, no!” Jaisy protested, with a melting glance. “‘Twas I who provoked you to it. If truth be told, I no doubt deserved to be shook. But you did not deserve to have your ears boxed or your sleeve creased or to be kicked in the shin, or to be wished to the devil, and I most earnestly implore you to forgive me for doing such an unhandsome thing.”

Somewhat anxiously, Lord Carlin peered about, but none of the other dancers whirling about the floor appeared interested in his conversation with Lady Easterling. “Say no more of it, I beg. We will forget what has chanced.”

“I daresay you may do so easily enough.” Not without good effect had Lady Easterling practiced languishing in her room.
“I
cannot! I am a sad romp, I fear, and though you may be disposed to be kind about it, I’ll go bail anyone else here would pull a long face over it, did they know what has passed between us; would say that I should never have had a turn-up with you in the first place, and in the second that I didn’t give a very good accounting of myself, and third that you were perfectly correct to send me to the rightabout. So I’m sure
I
can’t blame you for serving me up home-brewed— oh! I mean for giving me a sharp set-down. Because I am resolved, sir, that I shall not talk to you about cross-and-jostle work, or bits of blood and bone!”

Were the world to learn of his
tête-à-tête
with Lady Easterling, and the appalling conduct of both parties therein engaged, Lord Carlin would be made a laughingstock. The realization was almost as unnerving as Lady Easterling’s current conduct, for she was uttering her highly unique observations in the most lachrymose of manners. Kit remembered that he had shaken her ladyship by the shoulders until the teeth had rattled in her head. He wondered if in so doing he had somehow damaged her brain.

“You have nothing to say to me,” Lady Easterling observed, even more morose. “I know how it is, and I am not surprised. I was bent on making a stir in the world, and you were very snugly placed, and very well-accustomed to wretched little nobodies who pretend to your hand. I was very pushing; I see that now. But I hope I know when I am beaten at the post, and how to concede, and I don’t bear you the least little grudge, sir. It is not your fault that I am in an enfeebled state of health. Indeed, I think you’re the best of good fellows, and I am sorry I have made you mad as fire, because I don’t wish we should stand on bad terms. Now, though I have liked our dance excessively, I am feeling a trifle worn down, so perhaps you would return me to my aunt.”

Bemused by so abrupt a
volte-face,
Lord Carlin obliged, and delivered Lady Easterling up to the dowager duchess with a polite bow, and did not notice that the dowager repaid his courtesy with a rabid scowl. His own countenance similarly marred, a fact that did not go unobserved by his fellow revelers, Lord Carlin made his way through the crowd. Not one of the bevy of hopeful beauties caught his eye, though each one certainly tried; nor did any acquaintance’s greeting smite his ear. Lord Carlin was fast in a fit of introspection. Lady Easterling’s bizarre behavior had caused him to reassess himself. In so doing, Kit was not sure he liked what he found.

A coxcomb, she had called him, a curst loose-screw; and Kit had taken what at the time seemed justifiable offense. Now he was not so certain that Lady Easterling’s judgment had been erroneous. Who but the most callous of blackguards could act toward a lady so cruelly as he had done, no matter if he did hold the lady in dislike?

Yes, and that was another instance in which his nature fell far short of the ideal, because Lord Carlin had far preferred the rag-mannered baggage to the simpering miss with whom he’d just dealt. Jevon had claimed his sister had never bored anyone in all her life, Lord Carlin recalled. Well, she had just bored him for half an hour. He had thought Jevon was hoaxing him with the tale of Lady Easterling fallen into a despondency. Appallingly clear, now, that Jevon had not been. And it was further evidence of the ignobility of Kit’s character that he should find young ladies who tried to please him a dead bore.

Because his steps had led him thither, Lord Carlin paused in one of the anterooms to refresh himself with tepid tea and stale cake, a vantage point from which he had an excellent view of Lady Easterling and her aunt. The dowager duchess was looking in better spirits, while Jaisy appeared both tragic and resigned. Poor thing! thought Lord Carlin, stricken to the core of his being by the result of his cruel and selfish thoughtlessness. Where was Lady Easterling’s dimpled grin, the merry twinkle in her eye? Both gone, and it was his fault. She had sought to please him, and had failed; his disapproval had led her to change herself into a pattern-card of respectability. Obviously, everything she had said of him was true. Carlin
was
a coxcomb and a curst loose-screw.

Matters could not be left in this highly unsatisfactory manner; somehow Lady Easterling must be persuaded to abandon her missish guise. Infinitely more appealing had been her harum-scarum ways. They would not do for Carlin, naturally, but the hoydenish Jaisy would suit some other gentleman very well—probably any number of other gentlemen. And it was further indication of his innate knavishness that this conclusion made Lord Carlin feel as sulky as a bear.

Fate, having tipped Lady Easterling a doubler, was in theprocess of similarly serving up home-brewed to her brother Jevon, who was strolling along Oxford Street on this particular day. The weather had turned from eternal fog and mist to impending torrential downpour, and few pedestrians were about. Rain would turn the dust and refuse accumulated in the gutters into mud that in some places would be ankle-deep. Had Mr. Rutherford realized the nature of the day, he might well have remained snugly within his chambers at the Albany.

Despite the imminent danger of a dunking, Mr. Rutherford was not displeased with his decision to take the air, for even this mild degree of exercise proved beneficial to the functioning of his intellect. Jevon had lain too long abed, he now realized. Important things were happening in the world. A gentleman of action should be out among his peers, gleaning the latest news and acting upon it, instead of shuffling like an invalid between his own lodgings and his aunt’s residence in Queen Anne Street.

Yes, and those forays had gained him precious little benefit. A frown creased Jevon’s handsome brow. He had not set eyes on his beloved since their last encounter in this very neighborhood, when she had with such tender solicitude bade him go in out of the cold. Tender solicitude? Jevon inquired of himself. The misbegotten Confucious received more solicitude from Miss Valentine than he. And moreover was much more often privileged to enjoy her company.

Sara was avoiding Jevon, obviously, retiring to her garret the moment he set foot within the entry hall of Blackwood House, behaving very like a lady who had taken an aversion. That she had done no such thing, Jevon of all people should have known, due to his vast experience with feminine crotchets and megrims. Was he not the best-beloved gentleman in all of London, Jevon Rutherford of the disarming smile and great good humor and golden hair? Certainly he was, though Jevon’s handsome head was not so swelled that he dwelled upon the fact. His looking glass showed him the same reflection as always. He concluded that a man embarked upon the winning of his chosen lady derived no benefit whatsoever from myriad past
amours.
That Miss Valentine might fancy herself in the latter category instead of the former never occurred to Jevon, because he did not think of his Sara in that way—or not for more than moments, transgression for which he may surely be forgiven, gentlemen stricken by Cupid’s dart being prone to somewhat heated fantasies, especially gentlemen with backgrounds so enviable as Jevon’s. But that background availed him nothing now, was perhaps even a hindrance. Jevon could not rid himself of the appalling suspicion that his beloved preferred a country bumpkin. Determined as she was to avoid Jevon, Sara apparently enjoyed rattling around the metropolis with Arthur Kingscote in tow.

Love is a malady with frequent adverse effects. Jevon’s customary good humor had abandoned him, as had—in the case of Arthur Kingscote—his tolerance. He thought he would like to see Mr. Kingscote drawn and quartered, tarred and feathered, at the very least ridden out of the city on a rail, and at the best, trundled off to the infernal regions in a handcart.

Mr. Rutherford, as he indulged in these unhappy and uncharitable thoughts, proceeded in a leisurely manner along Oxford Street. This was a wide thoroughfare, its pavement inlaid with flagstones, its street lamps enclosed in crystal globes, its shops offering every manner of merchandise from stuffed birds to the finest English porcelain. Jevon passed by linen-drapers, silk mercers, dressmakers and milliners. His desultory glance moved over windows displaying jewels and silver, china and glassware, silks and muslins and calico. Mr. Rutherford’s manner was that of a man who has sampled a ruddy, luscious-looking apple, and has found it sour.

For this disillusionment, a lesser man might have held the apple to blame. Mr. Rutherford was more generous. It was he who had gazed upon the fruit and experienced hunger, who had plucked the apple from its bough and bitten into its red flesh. Therefore, any indigestion he suffered was his own fault. And furthermore, a mouthful of sour apple was infinitely preferable to having bitten into a worm. As may be deduced from the preceding example of his logic, Mr. Rutherford was an optimist. He was also a man on whom severe head colds had a disastrous effect, as if congested nasal passages also blocked the clear flow of thoughts to and from his brain.

Mr. Rutherford was not accustomed to coming in second-best in the game of hearts. Very well; this time he had been dealt a less-than-perfect hand, and he must determine his best strategy. Should he nobly step aside and allow his Sara to have the suitor of her choice? Arthur Kingscote would doubtless dote on her, shower her with affection and never cause her a moment’s unease.

Actually, Arthur Kingscote would probably make Sara a more comfortable husband than Jevon himself, because a gentleman with Jevon’s background could never be certain just who or what might appear unheralded on his doorstep, no matter how thoroughly he’d reformed. This realization did not noticeably alleviate the tension in Mr. Rutherford’s jaw. He had not hitherto realized just how unmixed a blessing would be marriage to himself.
Had
it occurred to him that Miss Valentine might have a not-unreasonable objection to the intrusion of diverse females into their connubial bliss, he might have long ago embarked upon the reform of his way of life.

Yes, and then again he might not have, because that way of life had suited very well until recently. Jevon had not thought about marriage with his Sara until she had hoaxed him with her declared intention of going upon the boards, and Kit had introduced the subject of wedlock. What an amazing thing was coincidence! Jevon shook his handsome head. If not for those two chance remarks, he might still not have realized that his customary pursuits no longer appealed. Or, Jevon amended, for he was honest with himself, that the notion of pursuits engaged upon with Sara appealed a great deal more. Quantity had too long diverted him. Quality was all.

His chosen lady of quality would not have him, Jevon reminded himself, not that so disheartening a fact was one he was likely to forget. What was to be done? Jevon was not certain. He did not think he possessed sufficient nobility of character to allow his Sara to bestow her hand upon a country bumpkin, even if Arthur Kingscote
was
the better man. Some resolution of this muddle would present itself to him, Jevon decided. Meanwhile, Sara could bestow her hand upon no one whilst in the employ of Lady Blackwood. For that matter, hadn’t the dowager duchess intended Arthur Kingscote for Jaisy? What a pretty bumblebath!