A Regency Match (23 page)

Meanwhile, the others were staring at Bertie in astonishment. “Do you
know
this fellow?” Marcus asked.

“Yes, of course I do. It's Lawrence Dillingham. Known him for years. Didn't know he was a Peeping Tom, of course,” Bertie explained.

“I ain't a Peeping Tom,” Dilly muttered.

“No, you're a blackguard and a
murderer
!” cried Fanny, bursting into the circle and staring down at the hang-dog villain.

“Ain't no murderer, either,” Dilly said, sitting up and staring at the overwrought girl.

“Oh, yes, you are!” Fanny insisted. “Just
look
at what you've done!” she pointed a trembling finger in Dennis's direction, then rounded on Dilly angrily. “See? You're a
monster
!” And she slapped him hard across the face. Dilly fell back, gaping at the girl in injured innocence.

Dennis, however, was far from dead. He sat up dazedly and felt his aching jaw. “Wha' happened?” he muttered in bewilderment.

Mr. Carrington, meanwhile, grasped his daughter's arm and pulled her away. “Stay out of this, you silly child,” he said in an angry whisper. “You're making a spectacle of yourself.”

Sir Walter looked down at his quarry. “Well, if you're not a Peeping Tom, what
were
you doing out there?”

“Ask your son,” Dilly answered brusquely, rubbing his cheek.

“Me? I don't know anything about this,” Bertie said in vehement denial.

Dillingham lifted himself on one elbow and looked lugubriously at Bertie. “Fine friend
you
are.”

“I'm no friend at
all
,” Bertie told him flatly. “Not yours, anyway. Not now. Not when you go peering into windows and breaking into people's homes like a common thief. What on earth
are
you doing here?”

“
You
know,” Dilly mumbled, his frightened eyes roving over the faces looking down at him.

“I
don't
know!” Bertie declared impatiently. “How would
I
know what lame-brained rig you're involved in?”

“That's the very question I'd like to ask, Mr.… er … Dillingham,” Marcus cut in. “Just what
is
your rig?”

“Bertie can tell you,” Dilly insisted. “I told
him
to do it, but he didn't want to.”

“You told
Bertie
to break into my house?” Marcus asked, confused.

“He's gone off his hinges!” Bertie declared.

“Are you denying,
Mr
. Edgerton,” Dilly said with sudden spirit, “that I asked you to keep an eye on her?”

Bertie's mouth dropped open. “Oh, my Lord! Is
that
…? I don't believe it! Is
that
what you've been doing?”

“What? What's the fellow talking about?” Sir Walter asked.

“I think m' jaw's broken,” Dennis said, feeling the side of his head gingerly.

“You
are
off your hinges!” Bertie was muttering to the miscreant on the floor. “You ought to be locked away!”

“That's what I think,” Dennis muttered. “Damned mushroom broke my jaw!”

Bertie shook his head incredulously. “Have you been skulking about
all this time
just to … just to …?”

Dilly shrugged glumly. “What else?”

Sir Walter was rapidly losing his patience. “I don't see how you've managed—even with those monosyllabic words you use—to make yourself clear to my son, Mr. Dillingham, but do you mind trying to explain yourself to the rest of us?”

Dilly sat up, looked around again at all the faces watching him, scratched his head and said cautiously, “I only wanted to … keep an eye on her, you see. To make sure she wouldn't go and get herself betrothed. They're bound to do it, these females, when they go away from home. My own sister—”

Julian broke into a loud guffaw. “Do you mean to say that you've done all this to keep a guard on your
sweetheart
?”

Dilly nodded embarrassedly.

“Who is she?” Mr. Carrington asked curiously. “One of the housemaids?”

“No, no,” Julian offered, suddenly recollecting the fellow's words when he first burst in. “He must mean—”

“That's right, sir,” Dilly said proudly, getting to his feet and pointing out past the circle of people surrounding him. “It's
she
!”

The circle broke as all heads turned in the direction he'd indicated. Sophy looked up to find every eye on her. She raised herself slowly, like a girl in a dream. “
M-Me
?” she stammered, her bewildered eyes travelling over the shocked faces gaping at her like a circle of accusers in a nightmare. Bertie's face, beet-red and unhappy … Lady Charlotte, too surprised to smile … Grandmama, white as a handkerchief … Marcus … Marcus with his eyebrows raised in enigmatic aloofness …

The floor tilted beneath her feet, and the faces and the walls behind them began to spin slowly around until all she could see clearly was Dilly's pointing finger. And their eyes … Marcus's eyes … all watching … waiting for her to speak …

“All this s-spying …” she heard herself say, “… all this con-confusion … the b-broken windows … D-Dennis's jaw … all this because of … because of …
m-me
?” And for the first time in her life, she dropped to the floor in a dead faint.

Chapter Seventeen

A
FTER THE DEBRIS
had been swept away, the broken windows mended, the tables righted and the bric-a-brac replaced; after the racing pulses had been slowed and the excitement calmed; after Fanny had been chastised, Dilly sent off to a back bedroom, Dennis's jaw found to be merely bruised and Sophy merely humiliated; after the mystery had been solved and the whole story told; after several brandies had been imbibed and a midnight supper eaten—after all that, a good number of the household were able to find the whole affair to have been very funny.

And of course, in a way it was. If one ignored the pathetic aspects, one had to see the amusing side. An innocent, impressionable, heartsick young man, so addled by infatuation that he couldn't bear to permit his lady-love out of his sight—such a character had often been the subject of farce. And the details of Dilly's tale
were
quite farcical. He had followed Sophy to Sussex, rented a room at the nearest inn (a full seven miles distant), and had ridden across the downs every night to spy on her. He had done it every evening for almost two weeks, rain, wind and darkness notwithstanding. He had endured much suffering (ludicrous though it was): he'd lost his way when there was no moon, he'd been soaked to the skin in a drenching downpour, he'd lost his hat, fallen off his horse and been scratched by brambles when he'd had to hide in a thicket. Yet he had not failed on a single evening to keep his self-imposed tryst.

The climax had occurred, of course, in true farcical style, when he'd looked into the drawing room window and seen Sophy struggling in the arms of a would-be seducer. The fact that the struggle was being placidly observed by a roomful of people did not penetrate his love-crazed mind. He'd burst into the room in a rage and a shower of broken glass to save her, but in reality the “seduction” had only been a waltz. (“If that was a dance,” he was heard to say later, “it is the most lascivious exercise ever invented!”) All the heroics had been for nothing—that alone was worthy of a hearty laugh.

But perhaps the most humorous part of the comedy was the ending—when Sophy was roused from her swoon. She had not a word to say to the
chevalier galant
who'd endured dangerous combat for her sake. Not only did she deny him a word of thanks, but she cast him a look of such disdain and loathing that he cringed. From then on, she did not turn her eyes in his direction, and she left the room as soon as she could politely make her exit.

So the comedy ended, with the “heroine” completely out of reach and the “hero” sitting glumly in the corner of the drawing room wondering why on earth he'd gotten himself into this coil. Lady Charlotte kindly insisted that he join the guests for a late supper, and Bertie tried to cheer him by assuring him that, besides making a great cake of himself, no real harm had been done. But nothing erased the hang-dog look from his face until Fanny, also feeling quite put-upon and humiliated, sat down beside him. “I'm very sorry I slapped you, Mr. Dillingham,” she whispered apologetically. “I didn't understand …”

“Oh, that's all right, ma'am. I deserved it,” he said with a quick glance at her face.

“No, you didn't. You were … very brave and honorable, even though you were mistaken about the necessity for your action. Cissy says so, too.”

“Cissy?”

“My sister.”

“Oh.” Dilly gave her an affecting smile of gratitude. “You are both very kind.” With a sudden surge of courage (brought about by the conviction that, having made such a complete ass of himself, he could fall no lower and had therefore nothing to lose) he added brazenly, “Your sister is as kind as you are. Is she as pretty, too?”

Fanny, taken by surprise, blushed and giggled. “Oh, Mr. Dillingham, you
are
a bold one!”

“Am I?” he asked in pleased surprise. “
Thank
you! Oh, I mean … that is, that doesn't mean that you think me rude, does it?”

“Oh, no, not at all. To call a girl pretty cannot be considered rude. At least, I don't
think
so …” She considered the matter carefully. “A bit
forward
, perhaps …”

“I've never thought of myself as forward, Miss … Miss … I don't believe I know your name.”

“I'm Fanny Carrington. Oh, dear, I see my mother looking for me. I suppose I ought to …”

Her disappointment in having to end their
tête-à-tête
was so obvious that Dilly was flattered. And when they rose, and she offered him her hand, his depressed spirits lifted hopefully. “Will I see you tomorrow?” he asked eagerly, grasping her hand awkwardly.

“Won't you be gone by then?”

“Lady Wynwood has offered me a room for the night.”

Her face brightened. “Oh, how lovely! I mean, then I suppose I shall see you … at breakfast?”

“At breakfast,” he promised. He watched after her as she ran off to join her mother. There was an open-mouthed expression of awe on his face and renewed hope in his eyes. Thus is the ease with which farce can sometimes transpose itself into romance!

The one person who could find nothing at all funny in the events of the evening was Sophia Edgerton. For her, the world had collapsed in tragic calamity. “
We need these days
,” Marcus had said, “
to prove to ourselves and each other that we can be sensible and normal
.” And she had tried so hard to do just that. Even when she'd seen him sitting hand-in-hand with Miss Bethune, and her heart had ached with jealousy and longing, she'd smiled brightly and behaved like the perfect guest. She had felt, with a deep, instinctive awareness, that he was proud of her. It had really seemed possible that, when the fortnight came to an end, they
would
be able to part as friends. If friendship was not the relationship she dreamed of in her secret thoughts, it was at least something salutary. But now, even
that
small comfort was denied her.

The events of the evening replayed in her memory with the distortions of a nightmare. To her mind, the room had been a shambles, Dilly had seemed a vulgar, clownish baboon, the faces of the guests had looked at her with obvious revulsion, Dennis had been irreparably mauled, and Marcus's eyes had filled with disgust. And she had fainted.
Fainted
! The very thing that Marcus (when he'd considered her a hysteric) had predicted she would be likely to do. Just two days after he'd told her that he no longer believed it (she could still hear his voice saying those beautiful words: “
My feelings have passed far beyond
…”), she had proved the worst to be true. Only a shatterbrained hysteric would have climaxed the cataclysmic evening with a swoon.

For many hours she paced her bedroom, trying to find a hint, a speck, a
crumb
of evidence to sustain her disintegrating self-esteem. But there was nothing in the debris but disgrace and shame. Marcus had suspected, during her earlier debacles, that she was shamming. This time, however, it must have been evident to him that the lurid melodrama was no counterfeit. It was real, and she, he would have to believe, had inspired it. All the witnesses would have to believe that she'd encouraged Dilly's affection. They would have to believe that only an overwrought and demented girl could encourage the affections of so overwrought and demented a beau. (Imagine anyone believing that she would ever consider a fool like Dilly as a suitor!) But she had no doubt at all that after this wretched night's work, Marcus would be convinced that she and Dilly would make a perfect match!

When these agonizing reflections had been repeated in her mind so often that she became numb to the pain of them, she began to think of the morrow. Unfortunately, humiliation was not fatal. She would not die in the night. She would have to go on with her life somehow. But not here. No matter what other confusions beset her brain, this fact was brilliantly clear—when morning came,
she could not be here
.

At first light, Sophy scratched at Bertie's bedroom door. There was not a soul stirring, not even the servants. But she was already fully dressed, wearing her travelling cloak and bonnet, and carrying an over-stuffed bandbox. She had packed only the most necessary clothing and a book in which was pressed a single pink rose.

When there was no answer to her repeated tapping, she turned the knob stealthily and crept inside. Bertie was sprawled on his bed, deeply asleep. His bedcovers were rumpled, his hair matted and his face appealingly flushed and innocent. She hated to disturb his peaceful slumber, but time was pressing. In a half-hour's time, the servants would begin to bustle about. She must be gone by then. She shook his shoulder firmly. He shuddered, puffed out his breath and turned over. “Not yet, Mincher,” he muttered.