A Banbury Tale (21 page)

Tilda glowered at her reflection, and pushed her curls off her forehead. In younger days, she had wondered if she might be a foundling, so little resemblance did she bear to the other members of her family. It was not only in appearance that she differed from that prim and proper group, but in inclination. Tilda had shown no aptitude for those pursuits commonly enjoyed by young ladies of gentle birth; she could not sew a seam, or accompany herself on the piano or harp as she sang romantic little songs in a sweet and soulful voice. Various young ladies had expressed amazement that Tilda, lacking as she was in feminine accomplishments, had caught herself a husband at all, let alone the extremely eligible Dominic Tyrewhitte-Wilson. Only Wilmington had been so uncharitable as to remark upon the tendency of those same young ladies to find themselves with a mortifying lack of dancing partners when Tilda chose to attend a ball.

“You’ll do fine, m’lady,” said Puggins, expertly adjusting an errant curl. It was another of Tilda’s eccentricities to prefer the ministrations of her housekeeper to those of a lady’s maid.

“I seriously doubt that, Puggins,” Tilda sighed. “Bevis could not have chosen a worse time for this visit. He will have us topsy-turvy, and drive me to distraction just when I need to have my wits about me.” It was not the thing to speak so frankly to one’s servants, perhaps, but Puggins in her youth had served as nursery maid and was consequently long familiar with the character of Bevis Abercromby, fourth Duke of Abercorn, whom she had been known to characterize as a right puddinghead.

“Don’t worry your head about Master Bevis,” Puggins soothed. She did not explain that the household staff had tacitly banded together to make that gentleman’s visit as uncomfortable as possible, in order to hasten his departure. Since no one had been sufficiently imprudent to approach her, Eunice Scattergood was not included in the conspiracy. “I’ve a spanking remedy for a fit of the gout—skinned root of henbane. We’ll have him happy as a grig in no time.”

“Puggins, that will never do! If you cure my brother’s complaint, he’ll decide that you’re indispensable to his comfort, and then what will I do?”

Encouraged by this show of spirit, Puggins gave her mistress a wide grin. “Get along with you, m’lady,” she chuckled, and nudged Tilda toward the door.

The Duke of Abercorn had arrived in style, well prepared to handle any hazards encountered on the road. Proceeded by his steward, butler, head groom, and several underlings, the Duke drove in his own coach, attended by liveried postilions and outriders. In the rear of this cavalcade, his haughty valet rode in a second coach that was piled high with luggage. One glance at the procession had sent Tilda flying to her room, in whoops, but Eunice had been greatly impressed by such a magnificent display of pomp and consequence. Knowing herself to be unworthy of so memorable an occasion, Tilda had callously delegated her awestricken chaperon to welcome the Duke to the Abbey, to see to his comfort, a singular honor that did much to alleviate the current domestic crisis, which flared up when Eunice trod on Intrepid’s tail.

Tilda had suffered no heartbreak when her brother had severed all connection with her upon the event of her marriage; she regretted that his principles had prompted him to remedy that happy state. In fairness, she could not refuse to see him now. The untimely demise of their parents had left Bevis with the responsibility of a younger sister, and he had undertaken the task of her proper upbringing with fervor. Tilda might have cared more for her brother had he not made it obvious that his efforts on her behalf were little to his taste.

Her vague hopes that the years might have altered his character were shattered on first sight. Bevis was enthroned in the drawing room’s most comfortable chair, his afflicted foot propped up before him. Eunice Scattergood was seated in a comer, ostentatiously busy with her embroidery. Tilda was unaware that Eunice had committed a terrible blunder of manners; so anxious had she been to secure his grace’s comfort that she had offered him a chair still warm from her own body. The fact that the Duke refrained from remarking on this breach of etiquette only elevated her opinion of him.

A thick silence had fallen upon the room. Tilda had no doubt she’d interrupted a conversation concerning herself. Since the Duke’s shirt points were so highly starched it was impossible for him to turn his head, and since Eunice had chosen a seat out of his line of vision, the thought of their discourse was a staggering one. Tilda suppressed a grin.

Bevis had not missed the brief twinkle in those brown eyes. He scowled. “You have not changed, I see,” he remarked in disapproving tones.

“It seems unreasonable of you to expect it of me,” Tilda replied, lounging against the mantelpiece in a manner calculated to displease. She had no doubt that her brother’s unhappy frame of mind was in part inspired by the elegant surroundings in which he found himself. Bevis had never before set foot in the detested Dominic’s house; he would have hoped to find it such as must displease. Tilda had some idea of what her brother’s Scottish holdings entailed, and knew his disappointment. Even the ancestral home of the Dukes of Abercorn, which Bevis had allowed to go to rack and ruin, could not compare with Tyre’s Abbey.

“What do you mean by that?” growled the Duke.

“Why that you, too, have not changed.” Tilda’s smile might have betrayed great sweetness of character, an illusion that would have been speedily dispelled. “What brings you here, Bevis? It has me in a puzzle. I had thought you had nothing left to say to me. If memory serves, you even told me so at our last meeting.”

Bevis straightened in his chair, with an abruptness that caused great agony in that portion of his anatomy so sorely distressed by the gout. His scowl deepened. Eunice, who had entertained vague, and foolish, notions of a reconciliation, made noises of protest that earned her a sharp glance from her benefactress. “I am surprised to find you removed from the gaieties of the metropolis,” the Duke said bitterly, “since that is a life so obviously to your taste. It is a source of considerable chagrin to me that my sister must desport herself in a manner that brings her to the attention of the meanest scandal-monger. Word of your exploits has reached even Edinburgh!”

“I suspect,” interrupted Tilda, “that it is not so much my actions that agitate your sensibilities as the company I keep.”

“There are those,” glowered Bevis, “who will say I should not trouble myself further with your affairs.”

“How discerning of them,” agreed Tilda. “You had much better not.”

“I cannot,” snapped the Duke, “sit back and watch your downfall. Much as I deprecated your choice of husband, I must admit that Dominic did a creditable job of keeping you in hand.” Tilda reflected that Bevis had a convenient memory. More than one letter scrawled in her brother’s crabbed hand had been consigned to the flames by Lord Tyrewhitte-Wilson, who professed himself amused by the Duke’s disapproval of their way of life.

“Gammon!” said Tilda succinctly.

“Mathilda!” Eunice was not one to shirk her duty. “Slang is excessively vulgar—it lowers the tone of Society and the standard of thought. Nor can I believe that Dominic would approve of your attitude.”

This information was ignored by Bevis, whose jowls quivered with indignation. “I thought I’d nipped this matter in the bud, these many years past. Indeed, I am shocked by your injudiciousness. No more do you emerge from mourning than you hurl yourself into dissipation, your boon companion one of whom the kindest I can say is that he is a dissembler and a knave!”

“Were I to hazard a guess,” Tilda commented, “I would suppose that you speak of Wilmington. Really, Bevis, must you talk such rubbishing stuff? Micah may have the devil of a temper, but he’s hardly a knave.”

“Micah Marryat,” pronounced the Duke, “is a scoundrel! I forbid you to have anything further to say to him.” Eunice looked as if only the exercise of great restraint forbade her to applaud.

Tilda, however, was determined to remain calm. “Stuff and nonsense,” said she. “You have harbored an unreasonable dislike of Micah ever since your schooldays when he drew your cork.” Bevis winced, not so much at his sister’s language as at the memory of that ignoble bloodied nose. “Must I remind you,” Tilda continued, “that I am no longer of an age that I must abide by your dictates? You would do much better to return to your family, rather than attempting to reform such a shocking creature as I. Your advice must fall upon deaf ears, you know.”

“I hope I know my duty.” This exchange did nothing to alleviate the Duke’s discomfort; his foot throbbed mightily. “I will not leave here unless you accompany me.”

Tilda’s patience was nearing an end. “Understand this, Bevis,” she said quietly. “You are welcome in my home, and I will not court the scandal that must arise were I to have you forcibly thrown out, but I shall accompany you nowhere. Nor do I intend to give up one of my oldest friends because you cannot approve of him—and whatever you may believe, my relationship with Micah is no more than that.” Tilda firmly forced the thought of her last encounter with that gentleman from her mind. Micah found few outlets for his inclinations in so countrified a setting; what was more likely than that he had decided to enliven his boredom by a light flirtation with her? As for Tilda, she was not a green girl who knew no better than to fall in love with a rake.

“I knew how it would be,” Bevis sighed. “You’ve flown into a passion. This is as it has always been when someone tried to point out the error of your ways, I see no alternative: you must remarry.”

“Shall I wed someone like yourself?” Tilda inquired. Her eyes flashed. “I tell you, Bevis, I would be better suited leading apes in hell.”

The Duke appeared nonplussed by this apparent embracing of the unenviable state of spinsterhood. “It is a great mistake,” said Eunice reprovingly, “to suppose that vulgarity is in any way a substitute for wit.” With a curse so unladylike that it shocked both her auditors into momentary speechlessness, Tilda turned on her heel and left the room.

* * * *

“What a hobble!” said Agatha, drumming her fingers upon the arm of her chair. Maddy, who had pondered long upon her most advantageous role, sniffled dolefully, an act that earned her a sharp-eyed look. “You look burnt to the socket, child, and I’ll warrant it’s over this business.”

Maddy was not cheered by the Duchess’s sympathy, for it was true that dark shadows circled her eyes. These were due to neither guilt nor remorse, but to sleepless nights passed wondering how best to achieve her ends. “I do not know what I can say to you,” she replied. “It was unforgivable of me to entangle you in my affairs.”

The Duchess, who was wondering what she was to do with the two willful young ladies with whom she found herself encumbered, snorted. “Poppycock! My godson will say it serves me right for meddling.”

“The Earl?” Maddy demurely lowered her gaze. “I suppose he must be extremely cross with me for involving you in this imbroglio.”

“Has he said so?” Agatha inquired. Maddy had severely underestimated the Duchess, for that redoubtable lady knew full well that she was audience to a well-rehearsed scene. Vastly diverted, Agatha reflected that the wrong one of her two
protégées
had chosen to tread the boards. Miss de Villiers could have out-acted even Sarah Siddons. But she was curious to learn the reason for this face of woe. “Answer me, girl.”

“I beg your pardon.” The Duchess glared at this intruder. Her grandnephew’s tone was not one of repentance but of barely constrained wrath. “I came as soon as I received your summons.”

Maddy goggled at the Marquess, but the Duchess, with every sign of aged infirmity, rose. “It took you an unconscionable long time,” she observed. From his expression, it appeared that Lionel had suffered a violent revulsion of feeling concerning the object of his infatuation. Maddy shrank from that icy gaze, but Agatha was intrigued.

“Ah, but I did not come alone,” Lionel remarked. “Rather, as part of a grand parade. If you continue to issue invitations at this rate, Micah will soon have half of London under his roof.”

“Invitations?” repeated the Duchess, with a presentiment of doom. An unmistakable voice reached her ears, and she scowled. “Letty Jellicoe! Whatever possessed the creature to come baring down here?”

“A combination of factors, I believe.” Lionel did not seem to find the matter of particular interest. “Concern for her niece.” The cold eyes brushed Maddy with contempt. “Though I believe she suffers greater worry that her son will contract a
mésalliance.
And, of course, she did not wish to face the scandal occasioned by her daughter’s misconduct.”

“Surely,” said Maddy, rising, “my aunt will wish to see me. I will go to her at once.”

“On the contrary,” the Marquess remarked. “I believe she has little desire to see you at all.” He glanced at his great-aunt. “Whatever possessed you, Agatha, to take up with such a shabby lot?”

“You may have leave to criticize me,” retorted the Duchess, with every evidence of enjoyment, “when you are quite dry behind the ears!” She sailed with dignity from the room, although she would have given a great deal to overhear what might be said during her absence.

Maddy wondered how best to regain her former standing. “What must you think of us?” she murmured. “Believe me, had I any notion of our imminent departure, I would have sent you word.”

“You need make no apologies.” Chesterfield possessed sufficient hauteur for one of royal blood. “It is quite fortunate, for me, though not perhaps for you, that matters turned out as they did, else I might have made a grave mistake.”

“I do not understand.” There was no need for pretense. “Are you angry with me?”

“Angry?” Lionel savored the word. “Not at all. I am, instead, relieved that I learned your true character in time.”

“In time for what, sir?” Maddy was cautious; nothing in Lionel’s demeanor led her to think that he was stricken by admiration of her character. She suffered a curious disappointment.

“In time to prevent a marriage that could only be disastrous!” Chesterfield’s proud features were cold. “Come, my dear, I know you to be a consummate actress, but let us have done with games.” Maddy stared, wide-eyed; never had anyone dared use her so callously. “It is of no use to dissemble; I know the whole.”