The Tenacious Miss Tamerlane (18 page)

So thinking, she again smiled up at her
cousin. Little knowing the tumult the sight of her laughing eyes
and moist, full lips set off in his solid chest, she laughingly
implored, “Do not rage at me, cousin. I would be honored to have
your company at the refreshment table.”

Once the pair had taken themselves off,
Lucinda and the dowager cheerfully put their heads together as they
perched happily on the over-stuffed cushions.

“‘The quarrels of lovers are the renewal of
love.’ Terence,” Lucinda assured the dowager brightly.

“If quarrels give birth to love, my dear
woman, those two are besotted beyond redemption,” her grace replied
in a weary voice. “At times I wish to knock their heads together
until they see what I saw clearly the moment the two of them began
spitting fire at each other that first morning. A marriage made in
heaven, I thought then, and I haven’t changed my mind. I vow to
you, Lucinda, if they haven’t murdered each other in the meantime,
I’ll have them safely bracketed before this year is out!”

The dowager then batted at the ostrich
feathers that had smacked her in the head.

“Lucinda, you flea-witted female, stop
bobbing your head up and down like the village idiot! Your plumes
are jabbing my eyes out. Mark my words, woman, once my two
grandchildren are settled I’m going to direct whatever energies I
have left to me into trying to make some sense out of you. Like
Tansy, I have a weakness for hopeless cases.”

The Duke somehow braved the crush around the
refreshment table, and emerged with two glasses of orgeat (which he
loathed) before steering Tansy to an alcove beside the dance floor
and commandeering a brocade love seat by directing his iciest stare
at the young sprig who was, until then, progressing quite famously
in his silken-tongued pursuit of Lord Chatsworth’s youngest and
least-homely offspring.

“Demmed Peep-O’Day boy,” the Duke swore under
his breath.

“How do you know?” Tansy asked, spreading her
skirts wide over the seat in an effort to keep her cousin at a less
heart-disturbing distance.

“My dear child,” the Duke imparted with an
air of world-weary wisdom, “anyone who chases after a Chatsworth
chit has got to be either blind, beetle-headed, a climbing-cit, or
a money hungry wastrel. Didn’t you get a good look at that horror?
And she’s the best of a bad lot. If my pockets were to let there
would be little I wouldn’t do to fill them again, but I draw the
line at wedding a Chatsworth. That blank stare she favored you with
was the most intelligent expression she’s ever worn.”

Tansy’s bell-like laugh rang out in pure
enjoyment. “I believe I should feel sorry for one of them, but for
the life of me I cannot decide who’s more to be pitied—the girl or
her ardent swain.”

Avanoll’s answering smile became arrested on
his face as he listened to the velvety peals of Tansy’s laughter.
“Do you know you have a most delightful laugh? M’sister squeals
like a pig caught in a gate. In fact, I can’t think of another
woman whose laughter I can stand for more than a few moments, as
they either giggle, or titter behind their fans, or cackle like
hens in a barnyard. Why is your laughter so pleasant?”

Tansy strove for lightness as she could feel
her none-too-recovered heart melting again toward this man. “The
answer to that is exceedingly simple. I studied chuckling in Vienna
under the great Professor Herbert Von Laughington, your grace,” she
replied, tongue-in-cheek.

Now Avanoll’s laughter burst forth, full and
rich and deep, and although Tansy was pleased with the sound she
withheld comment and quickly steered the subject to less intimate
areas.

“Who is that atrociously vulgar-looking man
standing beside the orchestra? He speaks so loudly his voice nearly
drowns out the music, and the words I’ve heard so far have been far
from fit for mixed company. And his dress!” she went on. “I do not
pretend to be all the crack, but that gentleman, fine though his
clothes might once have been, looks like he spent the afternoon
riding to hounds.”

Avanoll’s eyes quickly picked out the man
Tansy described. “That old roué, for your enlightenment, is Sir
John Lade. He and his wife are both horse-mad, and he has taken to
imitating groom in both language and dress. His wife is, if it is
possible, even more vulgar and crude than he, and I advise you to
cut a wide path around the pair of them. Two years ago Sir John was
locked up in the King’s Bench for debt, but his luck turned and he
was released. There is a rather amusing story about the man, if you
wish to hear it.”

Tansy did. Anything to keep Ashley at her
side for a few more precious minutes.

“Well, it seems Sir John, a betting man,
wagered the rather portly Lord Chalmondely he could carry him
around the Steine twice on his back—no mean feat, as it is quite a
distance. As Sir John is of a much smaller build, his lordship was
more than willing to make a large wager against him.”

“What an odd wager. Although I will say that
my father once wagered his own valet that he wouldn’t nick him with
the razor. Needless to say, my father lost that bet, not to mention
a few drops of blood.”

Ashley smiled his appreciation. “I can see it
will be hard to best that, but let me try. At last the day for the
test came, and everyone and their Uncle William crowded about the
Steine to watch the fun. The participants were there, the crowd was
there, but Sir John just stood quietly inspecting his nails until
Chalmondely asked him the reason for the delay.”

“And what reason did Sir John give?” Tansy
asked, thoroughly intrigued.

“‘I am waiting,’ said Sir John, ‘for you to
strip. I said I’d carry you, but I’ll not carry an ounce of
clothes. Come now, do not disappoint the ladies.’”

Avanoll was rewarded for his tale with
Tansy’s unaffected laughter. “And how did it all end, cousin?”

“Chalmondely forfeited, of course, and Sir
John was the toast of Brighton for many a day afterwards, though of
his lordship little was seen for some time,” he informed her. He
then frowned as Lord Dartly—who was fifty if he was a day, even if
he was well-preserved—interrupted to lay claim to Tansy for the
next dance.

For the next two hours Avanoll propped up the
wall with one broad shoulder and looked like a thundercloud
whenever Tansy took the floor with another partner. He hadn’t
thought to ask her to pencil in his name on her card, as it did not
occur to him that she would be such a huge success.

When later he espied her at supper,
surrounded by no less than three fawning admirers, he could not
resist the temptation of approaching her table and reminding her in
a strident whisper that she had a job to do and was not free to
fritter away the hours with a bunch of flea-witted greenheads.

Tansy was brought up short by this lightning
change of mood, and was prompted to snap back testily, “And how can
I serve you, your grace?”

“I should not think you could serve me at
all, madam, but if you could possibly find the time to locate your
charge before she lands us all in the basket I am sure my
grandmother would be most grateful.”

With that, the Duke bowed shortly to the
three gape-mouthed gentlemen who were clearly astonished by his
cavalier treatment of Miss Tamerlane, and withdrew to the cardroom.
Here he remained for the balance of the evening, to the delight of
his opponents, who departed the ball quite a deal richer than when
they had arrived. Avanoll did not even notice the extent of his
losses. He was much too busy making serious inroads on the wine
decanter Dunstan was ordered to keep full at his elbow.

Tansy spent her time chasing Emily out of
dark corners and keeping an eye on the girl as she skipped about
the dance floor with a seemingly unending supply of eager
partners.

Finally Emily lodged a protest. “I have a
good mind—” she began heatedly, before an overwrought Tansy cut her
off.

“That is an extremely debatable point, young
lady, and precisely why I shall remain as watchdog until the last
guest departs.”

And she did.

If a ball is judged enjoyable by the amount
of food and spirits the guests consume and the lightness of the
early morning sky as it looks down on the carriages bearing off the
revelers, then Emily’s Come-Out Ball was a resounding success.

As Dunstan closed the door on the last
straggling couples, Lucinda leaned on the banister before she
turned and wearily mounted the stairs—for once, too fatigued to cap
an event with a maxim.

Emily, still chattering and showing no signs
of fatigue, thoughtfully helped the dowager up the steps, careful
to keep clear of Lucinda’s dragging flounces.

Only Dunstan and a few other sleepy servants
were around to accept Tansy’s thanks and to be reminded of the ball
to be held in the servants’ hall later this same day.

“I hope you set aside enough food from the
Ball to make your evening enjoyable,” Tansy said with a weary
smile. “From the way everybody was eating you would have thought
they’d been starving themselves for weeks to get ready for a Roman
feast.”

Dunstan assured her that there was more than
enough for the staff, and thanked Tansy again for arranging the
servants’ ball. “It made a big hit belowstairs, if I may say so,
Miss Tansy. Everyone speaks highly of your kindness.”

“That’s our Miss Tansy, all right, kind and
thoughtful to everyone, everyone but the poor fool who puts a roof
over her sainted head.”

Tansy and the servants turned to look,
open-mouthed, at Avanoll, who was at the moment swinging back and
forth precariously as he gripped the drawing room doorknob with one
hand and tipped wine into his mouth (and down onto his crumpled,
twisted cravat) from the decanter held in his other hand.

“You’re castaway!” Tansy accused hotly.

“You’re damned right I am, cousin, and never
did a man have more right to the solace only a good bottle like
this can provide. Don’t think I didn’t see you tonight, hopping
from man to man like a common strumpet. But do you spare a kind
word for the simpleminded dolt who took you in, who feeds you, who
puts the clothes on your back?”

The Duke’s voice dropped and he whispered
harshly, “That back—that lovely, snowy-white kissable, soft back.
No!” his voice rose again, “you do not think of that man! God,” he
groaned, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Tansy stood straight as a poker throughout
the Duke’s verbal assault, although her eyes were suspiciously
bright.

“Good!” she shouted at his last words. “Good,
good, good!” She advanced on him, fumbling with the catch on her
necklace. “Here,” she cried, flinging it into his face so that he
dropped the decanter in reaction.

As he stood in the archway with the necklace
clutched against his chest and his fine, clocked silk stockings
dripping all over with wine, Tansy gave him a piece of advice.

“Make up your mind, Ashley, for I cannot
stand this constant shifting of moods. Either you want me under
your roof or you don’t. In either case, in the future I would
appreciate it if you would stay away from me.”

Her full bottom lip trembled for a moment
before she pointed her index finger into his chest and jabbed him
ruthlessly to punctuate every word she spat out between her gritted
teeth. “Just stay away, cousin, or I’ll, er, I’ll— oh, curse your
stupid hide!—I’ll break your bloody nose!”

Ashley Benedict stared in stunned silence (as
did the servants) as Tansy whirled on her heel and catapulted up
the stairs, hand pressed to her mouth, as if all the hounds of hell
were after her. He turned to meet his butler’s condemning
countenance and tried feebly at a joke.

“I’ll lay a monkey to a turnip I’ve got to
call you Dunstan again, old friend.”

The long-term servant was not called upon to
answer, but just to pull open the front door hastily to allow his
grace the dubious pleasure of casting up his accounts on the
flagway adjoining Grosvenor Square.

“Good,” Dunstan echoed Tansy’s opinion
softly. “Very, very good.”

A
shley Benedict
roused himself most reluctantly the morning following the ball,
tried to raise his head, and was rewarded for this effort by the
appearance of a stabbing pain that shot across his broad forehead.
It faded to a dull, sickening throb only after he prudently buried
his face in the scratchy bedspread beneath him. The discomfort of
lying sideways atop his bed, his long legs dangling almost to the
floor, combined with the distinct chill that pervaded the room,
convinced him that a further attempt to rearrange his limbs into an
upright position was worth the agony such a move entailed.

Slowly, and, oh, so carefully—he prized
himself up and away from the dubious comfort of his massive bed,
staggered over to lean heavily against his tall dresser, and
contemplated his bleary-eyed visage in the tilt-mirror.

“Egad, can that drunken sot be me?” he
groaned incredulously. He raised one hand and stroked his
beard-shadowed chin. It was he, all right, but the memory of what
horrendous happening had driven him to so abuse his constitution he
was unable, for the moment, to recall.

Just then Farnley burst into the chamber from
the dressing room, without preamble starting in to harangue his
master with a complaint about “that she-devil” Miss Tamerlane, who
refused to heed signs that were as plain as the nose on his grace’s
face, begging his pardon.

Tansy! Of course! Who else but that
infuriating menace of a cousin had ever gotten so firmly under his
skin that he was forced to resort to take refuge in the bottom of a
bottle—or two or three.

“Drat you, Farnley, stow it! Can’t you see I
am in excruciating pain? Have you so little pity for a fellow human
being that you would so callously add to my burdens by bringing me
your petty problems?”