Quiet Meg (15 page)

“Why should I spoil my evening, Louisa,” Sir Eustace
asked, “for a girl who has never troubled to put two words
together for me? In contrast, my Lucinda makes a great deal
of noise,” he paused to remark Lucy’s soft sniffling, “but she
has never lacked for wits.”

As though conscious that her father, in his way, had just
complimented her, Lucy fell quiet.

Meg noticed that Bertie and Candace d’Avigne had followed her in to take seats in the box. Cabot positioned
himself close to its front, to her side, and continued to
stand.

“You must pardon our inattention, Lady Candace,” Sir
Eustace turned to say to the girl. “We have had some excitement.”

“Oui,” Candace agreed. “Une fuite ..

“Eh?” Bertie asked.

“An elopement, Bertie,” Meg supplied. When she noticed Cabot was watching her too closely she worried her
lower lip, only to realize how unwise that was. “Father,”
she asked quickly, “why are you not surprised?”

“You young people, Margaret, must learn to give your
elders credit for greater skills in observation than you ever
warrant. ‘Twas apparent at this winter’s assemblies that
Miss Burke and Dymthorpe were partial to each other. All
the usual clues were there: silly smiles, arguments over
nothing, loss of appetite, standin’ too close-” His gaze
settled idly on Cabot, who moved two steps away from her.
“Lady Dymthorpe and the Burkes agreed it would be an acceptable match. They had the settlements drawn up and the
license ready before the Burkes even started for town. That
batty old vicar in Dymthorpe’s parish will do the honors
tomorrow. I would not choose the method for my own
daughters,” he added mildly, “but all were agreed this is
like to be the greatest thrill in Miss Burke’s young life. She
may never realize it wasn’t an elopement”

Bertie nevertheless popped down along the colonnade to
inform the Burkes that their dove had indeed flown; he returned with the news that Amanda’s parents were on the verge of an unruffled departure. The Burkes assured Lucy
they would have Amanda write immediately she was wed.

The warm night had presaged a fine drizzle. When the
fireworks were called off, Lucy, happy with the attentions
of Mr. Wembly and her new friend Candace, had no time
for disappointment.

Cabot, who had obviously determined to squire Candace
d’ Avigne no matter the tedium, continued to stand at the
side of the box. Though he did not speak to Meg, he managed to make clear that there was quite a bit to be said.
They had had an argument. He had nearly kissed her. There
were reasons for constraint. But, despite his polite responses to Bertie and the others, Meg thought he seemed
distracted, as though he awaited a summons.

She understood that alertness, and the alteration from
his usual ease, when the Earl of Sutcliffe appeared suddenly at the front of their box.

Their laughter ceased. Sutcliffe stood before them in all
his false civility, his mouth set in that characteristic, slanted
suggestion of a smile, the drizzle misting his hair and his
shoulders. His gaze, with its usual boldness, settled on Meg
at once; when he looked at her so she felt quite naked. She
sensed that Cabot shifted his weight away from the wall beside her, as though he would spring at him. Meg had to
glance down at her hands in her lap-to make certain they
did not reach out to restrain him.

“Sir Eustace-how are you?”

“As you see, Sutcliffe.” Her father tapped the arms of his
chair. “You do not lack for gall”

“You were a horseman” Sutcliffe shrugged. “You had an accident. Horses are unpredictable creatures” Mr. Wembly
started to rise in protest, but Sir Eustace pulled him back.

“May I join you?” Sutcliffe’s gaze again sought Meg. “It
is, after all, a public garden. And it is raining.” He smiled,
as though that alone were enough to explain his intrusion.

“This is a private box,” her father said, even as Sutcliffe
stepped closer. “We are a family party.”

Sutcliffe’s smile slipped into a sneer. He glanced at Candace d’ Avigne.

“Not all, I think,” he corrected sharply. “Bon soir mademoiselle. Comment allez-vous?”

“Tres bien, merci, monsieur le comte,” she said respectfully, but she cast an uncertain look about her.

Sutcliffe’s gaze measured Cabot before settling again
on Meg.

“Miss Lawrence, will you walk out with me? I shall find
us an umbrella.”

“No, my lord. As you see, I am at home here.”

Sutcliffe threw a hand in Cabot’s direction.

“You just walked out with him. You waltzed with him.
Yet who is he?” When she stayed silent he turned a contemptuous look on Cabot. “Vous etes malotru. Sans honneur.

As Candace d’Avigne gasped, Lucy, who was seated
closest to Sutcliffe’s taunting face, jumped up to slap him.

Meg heard her heart beat. Sutcliffe touched his cheek as
Lucy turned wildly to Cabot.

“I’m … sorry, Charles.” Her face was ashen. “I remember … what you said to me last week, but it was too …
too much! I could not wait! I-”

“Lucy .. ” Sir Eustace cautioned as Mr. Wembly quickly
drew Lucy back down to her seat. “Please!”

Meg’s focus did not leave Sutcliffe’s face as he dismissed quaking Lucy and fixed his venomous attention on
Cabot’s still form.

“Yes, Charles,” he stressed. His tone froze. “For what
does eager Miss Lucy wait?” He did not expect an answer.
He did not receive one. With a last, long look at Meg, Sutcliffe turned into the damp and left them.

Hyde Park, blanketed by dawn-light fog, was curiously
welcoming. After several days refining the plans for Abbey
Clare, Chas appreciated being outdoors, the scent of the
moist morning air, the sound of his horse’s breathing.

He reached down to pat Incendio’s neck. The huge black
gelding was David’s. The horse had helped see his cousin
through many years on the Peninsula. A sturdier, less temperamental blueblood was probably not to be found, certainly not among the men who had celebrated David’s
return last night.

Chas had been spared a headache, but he knew so little
sleep would take its toll later in the day. Last night’s revelry
was not the sort of indulgence to which he should be yielding just now, not with the business with Sutcliffe brewing.
But for the duration of the evening it had been a relief not
to feel the strain, to laugh with Myles and David and a host
of friends, to know that Sutcliffe and Mulmgren and their minions could not, would not, invade the tavern and the
raucous masculine company.

A condemned man, Chas reflected grimly, was supposed
to be granted just such as that-a pleasure in the nature of
a last request.

As Incendio champed at the bit Chas let him out. The
ground was soft but firm, perfect for a run. The gelding
must have found the green English sod a surprisingly
springy surface after Spain’s stony soil. They raced along
higher ground above the lake before pulling up to the north
of Kensington gardens.

He thought of Sir Eustace Lawrence, and of the tragedy
for such a man never to ride again. Sir Eustace’s crippling
had to have been the last thing Sutcliffe would have wanted,
for with it, he had permanently earned Meg’s enmity. But
the earl still bore the responsibility for that infamous evening’s most lasting reminder. And his acts since had been
unforgivable.

Chas knew that he had been lucky at Vauxhall. He had
planned to attend only as a courtesy to Vanessa and her
charge, but once Sir Eustace had invited him to stop in, the
temptation had been irresistible. Candace d’Avigne had
been his excuse for venturing over to the Lawrences.
And then, as usual, he had been lost. Had Sutcliffe challenged him there, as Chas knew he very nearly had, Chas
would not have been ready. He needed a few more days-to
set his affairs in order, to finish the plans for Clare-rough
as they were-and to visit Wimbledon Common, the likeliest
venue.

Lucy’s bravery, if that was what it had been, had almost
forced him, where Sutcliffe had been unable to force him, to something he had been carefully avoiding. The contest
would have to be with pistols. With pistols Chas suspected
he had a chance. And Sutcliffe would only agree to pistols
if Chas chose them.

He had been shooting now every day for weeks. He had
been shooting at Clare’s. He had no fear for his accuracy,
only for the circumstances. There was so very little he
could plan. He thought he might survive the confrontation,
but Meg would never approve the method. She was like to
think him a murderer, given his dedication. Still, the line
would be crossed only when Sutcliffe challenged him.

He and Incendio trotted along under the plane trees. The
waltz was in his head again, not as he had danced to it at
Almack’s but as he had heard it that brief moment at her
aunt’s-in simple, haunting reminder, played by Meg at
the piano, with her lustrous hair streaming over her shoulders and down her back.

He noticed Lawrence’s horse first, the gray with a
crooked blaze and a tendency to drop his head. Then he
distinguished Bertie himself and the neighbor, Mr. Wembly. Meg was behind them, accompanied by an unknown
Wembly-but clearly a Wembly.

Chas abruptly halted his horse.

“Cabot!” Bertram called as the group neared him. “Well
met!”

“Good morning, Mr. Cabot,” Mr. Wembly said. “Who’ve
you got there?”

Chas patted Incendio’s neck as he turned the horse about
to join their party.

“This is a Spanish boy, Mr. Wembly. Incendio. He’s
been with my cousin, Lor-that is, Major Trent, on the Peninsula the past few years. Now, I fear, he finds the park
tame.”

“Oh, no doubt!” Mr. Wembly agreed. “Where is your
cousin?”

“He just returned yesterday. He is … recovering.”

“Not injured, I hope?”

“Thankfully, not at all. Though we have had”-he glanced
at Meg-“a celebration.”

Bertie laughed.

“I can imagine!” He turned to the stranger. “Walter, this
is Charles Cabot. Cabot, Walter Wembly-Harry’s brother.”

The two of them nodded to one another. Walter was
older than Harry, broader and sterner, but just as darkly
handsome-curse him.

“Walter’s just become a Fellow of the Royal College of
Physicians,” Malcolm Wembly said proudly. Chas thought
Meg’s sister, Louisa, had attracted a particular kind of ambitious gentleman. And it struck him as sufficient that the
Wemblys should now have the inside running with Lucy.
They did not need any more rein.

He neatly drew Incendio behind and to Meg’s side.

“Did you take the colors yourself, Mr. Cabot?” Walter
Wembly asked across her. Chas was distractingly aware of
Meg’s tidy blue velvet riding habit.

“No, Dr. Wembly. Though as a boy it was my dearest
wish. I believed myself destined to be a master of artillery.
But I was precluded.”

“Precluded?” Meg asked, her gaze meeting his for the
first time. He was so struck by the perfection of her face,
framed by the feather in her pert little black hat, that he
could not at first respond.

“I promised two elderly ladies that I would not do so
while they lived, Miss Lawrence. They have demonstrated
extraordinary longevity. Unfortunately,” and he frowned as
he again patted Incendio’s neck, “so did General Bonaparte”

“Have you horses of your own, Mr. Cabot?”

This time Chas decided Walter Wembly’s question had
not been entirely friendly.

“I do, Doctor. But not here in town. They are out at
Brookslea.”

“Brookslea? In Hampshire?” his father asked.
“Braughton’s Brookslea?”

“‘Tis Cabot’s Brookslea now, Uncle Malcolm,” Bertie
supplied.

Chas did not much care for the friendly term `uncle’.

“Is it, b’gad!” Mr. Wembly enthused. “‘Tis a superior
property.”

Chas could imagine Hayden’s drawling remark on the
gentry’s preoccupation with realty. But with Meg Lawrence’s
gaze reading his own he was very much aware that he had
just played the game himself. He could not now make a
show of flaunting conventions.

“I thank you,” he said politely, and glanced at Meg
again. “How is Miss Lucy?” he asked. “After the other
night..

“I believe she was in shock, Cabot,” Bertie volunteered.
“But after you left with Miss d’Avigne, we hurried her
home to Aunt Pru, who has been most solicitous with her
`little lamb’.” Bertie snorted. “‘Little lamb’ ! Perhaps we
should have let Lucy fly at Bonaparte!”

Chas smiled.

“Lucy thanks you for the chocolates,” Meg told him.
“They were consumed with much enthusiasm.”

Chas nodded and kept the smile, though he was not at
ease. He thought Meg Lawrence’s gaze concerned; she
may simply have noticed that he looked peaked-that his
smile was forced. But he did not want pity from her, not
when Walter Wembly was looking so very smug. It amazed
Chas that he could manage to deal rationally and purposefully with a danger like Sutcliffe, but find the inestimable
Dr. Wembly insufferable.

“Where will you set up your practice, Doctor?” he asked.
“Here in town?”