The Indomitable Miss Harris (9 page)

“Well, I know he was put out by your rudeness to Mr. Willoby—” she began cautiously.

“Put out! If that’s all it was, I can dashed well assure you I don’t want to meet the fellow when he’s angry!”

“Oh dear.” Gillian set down the hairbrush and began to remove her jewelry, reaching across him to put the pieces in her case. “Was he quite horrid?”

“I’d as lief forget the whole disagreeable scene, if it’s all the same to you,” replied Sir Avery with great dignity before taking another generous swig of the brandy. “Damned unpleasant fellow, that Landover.”

“You say he pitched you out of one of the clubs?”

He grimaced. “White’s. Stupid of me to go there, of course, but I thought it was safe enough since he seemed to be tied to your apronstrings for the evening. How was I to know he’d fight shy?”

“He got bored. I did, too, for that matter,” Gillian confessed with a tiny, reminiscent smile. “But it’s easier for a gentleman to slip away. Especially from his own sister’s house.”

“Like that, was it? What was the pitch?”

“Music. Amateur talent. They even asked me to exhibit my prowess on the pianoforte.”

“Good Lord! No wonder he skipped!” Sir Avery responded with brotherly scorn, blithely unaware that his words might seem a trifle insulting to his sister. She shook her head with a mocking smile.

“Not so bad as that, my dear. I refused—politely, of course, but a refusal all the same. Most of the talent was unexceptionable. Sybilla played her harp very skillfully.”

“By Jove, I must say I’d like to have seen that! She must have looked like an angel—all ethereal, doncha know.”

Gillian shot him a searching look, but she was not so tactless as to suggest that he had lost his senses. She did hint rather gently that she could see to his name finding a place on any such future invitation list.

“No, dash it, Gill, that’s carrying things too far! Didn’t say I wanted to listen to a lot of caterwauling. Didn’t even say I wanted to
listen
to Sybilla. Just said it ought to make a damned fine picture, that’s all. No need to go making something more of it. Probably the brandy talking anyway. Probably she was insipid. The pale blonde beauties often are.”

Gillian made no comment despite the fact that she could not think Sybilla Harmoncourt an insipid person. After a slight pause during which he seemed to be conferring silently with the dregs of his brandy, Sir Avery shifted his position and gazed at her more directly. “Thing is, Gill, we’ve got to do something. Can’t go on being preached at and held on a damned leash like a couple of blinkin’ puppies. It’s embarrassing, that’s what it is.”

“Well, it is annoying. I’ll give you that. But you did provoke him, Avery. Particularly if you went to White’s after he expressly forbade it. And you were very rude to poor Mr. Willoby, after all.”

He hunched a shoulder. “Said I didn’t want to talk about that. As to White’s, I wasn’t playing, just watching, having a drink with friends. No concern of Landover’s. What that man needs is an Object in Life.”

“He seems to have found one,” Gillian said, picking up her brush again. “Do move to the window seat, Avery. I want to sit there.” Obediently, he removed himself to sprawl inelegantly upon the French seat.

“If you mean us, I’d as lief he find another object. By Jove, Gill, the man ought to have a wife and a nursery to occupy his thoughts. He’s past thirty, after all.”

“But scarcely in his dotage. Nonetheless …” She paused, giving the seedling of an idea a moment to sprout if it was so inclined. “You know, Avery, Sybilla has mentioned any number of times that her mother wishes Landover would settle down with a proper wife. I think Lady Harmoncourt might even have dangled a few possibles under his nose. I doubt she’s put much effort into it, though. Before now, that is.” Her eyes began to twinkle suddenly, and her brother sat straighter, the few remaining drops in his glass temporarily forgotten.

“Dash it, Gillian, what maggot’s bouncing in your bonebox now?”

She gazed at him thoughtfully, her hairbrush suspended midstroke. “Well, it seems to me that if Landover were busy courting, he’d have little or no time left to bother his head about us.”

“By Jove!” Avery sat up even straighter. “You may have something there.” He scratched his head. “Dashed if I can see how we’d manage it, though. Can’t just thrust some poor chit into the man’s arms and order him to court her, y’ know.”

Gillian chuckled at the vision produced by these words. She began brushing steadily again. “Of course not. Don’t be silly. I really have no notion how we might manage it. But I daresay Lady Harmoncourt might know how to turn the trick if we approach her properly.”

A light of respect dawned in his eyes. “By Jove, it might work at that! But mind, puss,” he warned, “I won’t appreciate it if this little scheme of yours lands us in the briars again. Just how do we approach her ladyship?”

She set the hairbrush down and leaned forward to examine her neatly arched brows in the looking glass. “I don’t know. I think I shall discuss the matter with Sybilla.”

Sir Avery seemed to find nothing amiss in the notion of discussing their personal affairs with Lady Sybilla Harmoncourt and soon took himself off to bed, leaving his sister to ponder several interesting notions of her own. Accordingly, when MacElroy showed the Lady Sybilla into the morning room a half hour or so after Gillian had finished her breakfast the following morning, the visitor was greeted enthusiastically.

“Sybilla! I was just about to send you a message!”

“Did you want to see me?” The blonde girl moved to a chair near the window and sat gracefully, disposing a beaded reticule upon the parquetry table beside her. Her voice was light with a crystalline flavor. “Mama was going on and on about last evening, about how Mrs. Erskine-Smythe always screeches her high notes and how nice it would have been to have got Catalani, even if she is a bit past her prime, and I got sick of it, so I decided to pay you a call.” She grinned. “Is Uncle driving you mad? Is that why you were going to send for me?”

Gillian chuckled. “It really isn’t fair, Sybilla. You look like such a fleabrain, yet you’re as sharp as can hold together.”

“Then he
is
driving you mad.” Lady Sybilla paid no attention to Gillian’s comment on her mental agility. “I told Mama how it would be as soon as we heard he’d packed you up and moved you to Berkeley Square. And she agreed with me. Mama can be a slowtop about some matters, but where Uncle Benjamin is concerned, she’s as quick as Mercury. I think myself that it will wear off eventually. He’s bound to become bored with dancing attendance on you long before the Season ends. Particularly in view of the fact that the Allied Sovereigns are due to arrive next week. He will no doubt be involved in activities with which you will have nothing to do.”

It was true. The whole city of London was gearing up for the forthcoming visit of Alexander of Russia and King Frederick of Prussia. There would be parades and parties, banquets and balls, all culminating in a grand masquerade at Burlington House, and Landover would no doubt be in the thick of things. But it would not be enough. Gillian shook her head as she said so.

“I wouldn’t put it past the man to lock me up for the duration of their stay just to keep me out of his hair,” she added bitterly.

Sybilla giggled. “I doubt he would go to such lengths. Think of the scandal!” She paused, wrinkling her pretty nose. “That is not to say, however, that he won’t take it into his head to pack you off to the country instead.”

“Then he will pack Avery off with me,” Gillian stated roundly. “I’m not the only one suffering from an overabundance of his attentions.” She saw Sybilla’s eyes widen in dismay and felt a sense of satisfaction at the sight. “I may have a notion how to mend matters before that happens,” she suggested gently, “but I shall need your help.”

“Oh! Anything, Gillian. You know I shall be glad to do whatever I can. Provided, of course, that Mama does not get wind of it. I should no doubt be in for one of her more dreadful scolds if she knew I was plotting against Uncle Benjamin. She would not approve.”

Gillian felt her spirits sinking, but she rallied valiantly. “She’s got to know some of it,” she said frankly. “We need her assistance.”

“Oh, no! Gillian, she wouldn’t! She hardly ever does—interfere with him, I mean. And only then if he makes her truly angry. But she wouldn’t think it proper to take him to task over the way he treats you and Sir Avery. Why, she said herself that Avery—that is, Sir Avery—has been sailing too near the wind of late and needed taking down a peg or two.” Lady Sybilla stopped speaking rather suddenly and looked self-consciously at her hands.

“And me?” Gillian asked softly. “What did she say about me, Sybby?”

Sybilla bit her lower lip, avoiding the gathering storm warnings in Gillian’s eyes. “Just … just that you need a firm hand and that she was glad Landover seemed to be taking his responsibilities seriously for once.” She did not add Lady Harmoncourt’s expressed hope that Landover would introduce Miss Harris to the business end of a birch rod, but Gillian, being rather well acquainted with her ladyship by this time, had no doubt that the sentiment or one much like it had been vouchsafed at one point or another. Nonetheless, it would be unkind, not to mention counterproductive, to press Sybilla for further information on the subject. Therefore, firmly suppressing her resentment, she forced a tiny smile.

“His responsibilities? Perhaps she is right. But it does seem to me that he is overplaying the role. Does it not occur to her that he owes a greater responsibility to his own name than he does to us?”

Sybilla cocked her head. “What are you trying to say, Gillian?”

“He has a duty to secure the title. That’s what I mean.”

Blonde eyebrows arched a little higher. Then Sybilla smiled. “I see how it is. You’d like to divert his attention.”

Gillian grinned. “I must say, you rarely have to have things explained down to the nits and grits. Do you think the notion has potential?”

There was a pause during which Lady Sybilla quite clearly subjected the matter to serious consideration. Gillian managed to keep still despite a nearly overwhelming desire to speak more forcibly to the question. At last Sybilla smiled.

“It is possible,” she said. “I would have said no if you had just put the thing baldly, but your mentioning the succession has given me an idea. Landover’s heir is a cousin of his, a sweet, limp-wristed fellow named Sylvan Darracott who spends most of his time fishing in Yorkshire. His title is actually Viscount Orison, but Uncle always calls him ‘Sylvia’ when he refers to him at all. And Mama cannot tolerate him upon any account.”

“I think I can visualize the gentleman,” Gillian said, grinning. “Was he not at Lady Jersey’s ball the first week I was in London?”

“That’s the fellow,” Sybilla replied, her eyes atwinkle.

“Wearing a gold satin waistcoat and a watchchain clanking with fobs?”

“And the earring. I do hope you didn’t miss the earring!”

“A pendant ruby in his right ear,” responded Gillian promptly. “Good heavens, Sybby. You cannot mean to say that fellow’s a Darracott! I know no one mentioned the fact to me.”

“Well, he is, though I am not surprised no one thought to tell you. Thank heaven he only spends a week or so in town each year. He embarrasses Mama and annoys Uncle Benjamin. I mean, really, Gill, can you imagine him taking Uncle Ben’s place as Landover? Why, Uncle rarely wears more than a signet ring!”

Gillian stared at her for a moment before the absurdity struck them both, and they dissolved in giggles.

“Is this a private joke, or may one share the merriment?”

They had not heard him come in, but it was clear from Landover’s smile that he had heard nothing incriminating. Sybilla’s giggles ceased abruptly, and she glanced from Landover to Gillian and back again in pretty confusion. Gillian could not stifle her mirth so easily, and her eyes were still twinkling when she answered him.

“Sybilla was just informing me that I have had the honor of meeting your heir, sir.”

“I see. Well, if you have been discussing Orison’s deficiencies, I can understand your laughter, though it borders on impertinence, miss.”

Her eyes twinkled wickedly. “Orison, my lord? I was given to understand that you generally call him—”

“Gillian!” Sybilla protested in dismay.

Landover shot his niece a look that boded ill for her future, and Sybilla flushed, looking away uncomfortably. But Gillian was having none of that.

“How unfair of you, my lord, to blame Sybby! If it was something she should not have repeated to me, then it was something you ought never to have said yourself in the first place. For shame, sir, to try to frighten her like that!”

Sybilla stared at her in shock, but Gillian ignored her, forcing herself to meet Landover’s stern look instead. His grim expression softened suddenly, and a rueful smile touched his lips. “Perhaps you are right, Miss Harris. The blame is mine.” He glanced around the room, and his gaze came to light upon a pile of notes resting haphazardly at her elbow. He seemed glad to change the subject and gestured toward them. “Today’s post?”

“Yes, sir.” Then, as she recalled one note among the others, Gillian reached out a guilty, protective hand to cover them only to snatch it back as soon as she realized how the action would look. “Nothing of grave importance, my lord,” she said calmly.

But Landover missed nothing. “Let me see them.”

His steady gaze caught hers, and she could not look away, though she was very conscious of Sybilla’s presence. Hoping he would remember that they were not alone, she reached out blindly for the stack of invitations and handed them up to him. One fluttered from the pack and drifted to the floor, but Landover ignored it as the elegant crest atop one invitation caught his attention. He laid the others absentmindedly upon a table while he perused this interesting item. In the ensuing silence, Gillian could feel the warmth invading her cheeks. She scarcely dared to breathe normally lest she recall his attention to herself. But he finished reading the elaborate script soon enough and looked up at her over the top. His eyebrows lifted slightly.