Cupid's Dart (11 page)

His face white, Garth released her.

Head held high, blinking back tears, Georgie sailed from the room.

And people accused
him
of being clutch-brained. Lump dropped his muzzle on his paws.

Chapter Thirteen

As result of her expedition to Promenade Grove, Marigold had taken to her bed, a very pretty tent-like affair draped in cream-colored muslin, with the intention of remaining there for the remainder of her mortal life. Her refusal to allow Janie entrance was apparent in the chaotic condition of the small chamber. The wardrobe doors gaped open, as well as the drawers of the tallboy, and articles of feminine apparel were strewn everywhere.

A knock came at the door. Marigold burrowed deeper under the coverlet and pulled a pillow over her head. Again, the knock. "Go away! I do not care for company!" Marigold called out. Instead of blessed silence, she heard a key turn in the lock.

Who possessed a key to her bedchamber? Cautiously Marigold peered over from beneath her pillow. Georgie walked into the room, followed by her hound. Marigold was no more delighted than any other member of the household to set eyes on Lump. Her own troubles briefly forgotten, she sat up. "Where did
he
come
from?" Marigold asked.

Firmly, Georgie closed the door, and regarded her houseguest, who looked annoyingly lovely in a state of undress
.
"Lord Warwick brought him home. I think it time, Marigold, that you and I had a comfortable coze."

Marigold stared unhappily at Lump. The dog returned her regard. Lump recognized his partner in adventure, who had run off and abandoned him. He didn't hold this shabby treatment against the lady. To demonstrate his lack of hard feelings, Lump gave a great woof and leapt upon the bed.

Marigold shrieked and scrambled out from beneath the covers, struggled into a lacy peignoir. "How did Warwick come in possession of the, er, beast?" she asked.

"He stole him." Georgie settled into a stuffed, cabriole-legged chair. "Right from under Carlisle Sutton's nose. Mr. Sutton had been making inquiries about Lump's owner. Don't try and flimflam me, Marigold! You have been pretending and prevaricating ever since you set foot upon the threshold. I'll have the truth now, if you please."

Marigold did not please. Moreover, she thought Georgie was making a great fuss about a silly old dog. "I don't know why you should accuse
me
of contumacious behavior. Gracious, you can't think I know how your dog got lost."

Georgie was growing very weary with this dissembling. "I know that you lost him. Did we not agree that you were supposed to be hiding in the house?"

Marigold did not recall that she had agreed to anything. She picked up a fan of pierced horn leaves. "I
was
hiding!" she retorted. "It is not my fault that— um! Georgie, you must understand that it is not
healthy
for a person to be always being within-doors."

Holding a reasonable conversation with Marigold was like trying to push a very large stone along an uphill slope. Valiantly, Georgie persevered. "But you were not always within-doors, were you, Marigold? And what was not your fault, that Mr. Sutton saw and recognized his uncle's widow?"

Marigold was so startled that she dropped her fan and sat down on the bed. Lump gave her a great lick. She stood up again. "Is that his name? He is the most obnoxious man. But I do not understand. How do
you
know Mr. Sutton? Did he mention me?"

Her friend's self-absorption was remarkable. Georgie wondered what it must be like to think all things revolved around oneself. "Mr. Sutton did indeed mention you. He said that you were an avaricious little baggage, and that he would like to wring your neck. Now I wish very much to know what you made off with that you should not. No more taradiddles, Marigold! I am not in
a good mood."

That much was obvious. Georgie's hair stuck out about her head like a wild hayrick. Marigold picked up a ribbon that was draped across the cheval glass. "There is something queer about this ribbon," she remarked. "But I can't think what it is."

Of course there was something queer about the ribbon. The ribbon belonged to Georgie, who thought it might look very nice tied tightly around her old friend's throat. "Marigold!" she said.

Marigold put down the ribbon in favor of a birdcage bag beaded in blue and green with a floral border, which she clutched to her breast. "Why are you
so out of curl? I'm
the one who has been bullied and threatened within an inch of my life. That horrid man did not even render the observances of civility before he began accusing me of the most dreadful things. It was most unjust!" She looked at Lump, who had rolled over on his back and now lay dozing, all four paws stuck in the air. Unthinkable that Marigold should sleep again on those sheets. "It was very kind of Lord Warwick to return the dog to us," she remarked, with great insincerity. "I trust he did not also tell that horrid man where I was to be found."

Lord Warwick would never do something so ignoble as to betray Marigold. The resultant scandal might rebound upon himself. Perhaps she was being a trifle unfair to his lordship, but Georgie was still out of sorts. "Never fear," she murmured. "Garth will stand buff."

Marigold tossed the beaded bag aside. "Do you know, I think I may have been a little hasty as regards Warwick. He and I have a great deal in common, don't you think? My Leo disappeared, and so did Warwick's wife. We are companions in misfortune. Warwick is very wealthy, is he not? He is certainly a
handsome
gentleman."

Georgie wondered how she might add her house-guest to the current rash of disappearances. All she needed was for Marigold to set her bonnet at Garth. "No! Lord Warwick was wealthy, but he uh, suffered reverses. The East India Company, you know."

Marigold knew nothing about India, nor did she wish to, unless it was that Mr. Sutton had returned to that distant land. "You are bamming me, I think! Warwick doesn't have the appearance of a gentleman who is in the basket, and believe me, I should know, because I have been there myself, and when one is under the hatches one does not go strolling about as if one had just come from Bond Street. Georgie, you are looking very queer. I know what it is! You are thinking that I said Warwick was disagreeable, and so he is a little bit, but it is nothing in comparison with Mr. Sutton, who I vow is the devil himself. You must see that Lord Warwick would be the perfect solution to all of my difficulties."

Georgie saw that a great many females would be eager for Lord Warwick's kisses, tarnished reputation or not. Marigold was probably very good at kissing, with all the practice that she'd had. Georgie contemplated the faded floral pattern that trailed across the cream-colored Brussels rug.

Marigold picked up a white muslin veil with an embroidered leaf border and draped it around her head, looking for all the world as if she fancied herself again a bride. She began to hum. Georgie protested, "Have you forgotten that Warwick is said to have murdered his wife?"

Marigold had
forgotten that minor detail. She frowned, then shrugged. "Pooh! I care nothing about that! It's not as though he will murder me,
you know!"

Georgie thought that perhaps
she
would murder Marigold, did this foolishness persist. "You will not torment Lord Warwick," she said sternly. "He already has quite enough on his plate. Do you understand me, Marigold?"

Marigold understood that a great many people were cross with her these days. Her blue eyes filled with tears, and she sank back on the bed. Lump snuggled closer. "Oh, get away, you—you
chawbacon!"
she snapped, and pushed him to the floor. Wounded, Lump slunk across the room to collapse at Georgie's feet. She gave him an absent pat. The dog wagged his tail and then began to investigate a white kid glove that lay upon the rug.

"I'm not leaving this room, Marigold," said Georgie with determination, "until you tell me exactly what transpired between you and Mr. Sutton. Without further confabulation, pray
.
"

Marigold fumbled in her pillows and withdrew a vinaigrette. "Oh, very well!" She recounted her adventure in the Promenade Grove.

If Marigold's conversation with Mr. Sutton was not repeated entirely verbatim, it was still disturbing enough to make Georgie turn pale. "I thought," Marigold concluded, dramatically, "that I should swoon from the shock!" She paused to gauge her friend's reaction to these disclosures.

Georgie was frowning. Lump was gnawing on a sodden mouthful of white leather. "My glove!" Marigold wailed.

"Your glove? What glove?" Georgie despaired of ever persuading Marigold to talk sense. Then she, too, gazed upon Lump's trophy. "I should leave you to your just deserts. This is all about the Norwood Emerald, I'll warrant. You still have not told me how the emerald came to be out of your possession, Marigold."

"That is because I did not want you to pinch at me!" Marigold had recourse to her vinaigrette. "And you will wish
to, but I think that you should spare your breath, because I
know
it was very wrong of me. The truth of it is, Georgie—" She took in a deep breath. "—I lost the emerald at play."

Marigold had succumbed to the lure of the tables. Georgie didn't know why she should be surprised. Marigold had already succumbed to the lure of everything else. "Oh, the devil!" she sighed.

Marigold unearthed her handkerchief from among the bed linen. "Why must everything be so difficult?" she wailed. "I wish that we were children again, before any of this happened, before I met poor Leo, and before you—" She peered over the handkerchief. "Well, before whatever it was happened to you, because something obviously did."

So now she was grown hagged? Despite her exasperation, Georgie could not help but sympathize with her friend. Marigold's life would have been much simpler if not for her tendency to land herself in the suds.

As for Georgie's own life—"This is getting us no nearer the emerald," she said.

'That shows all you
know!" retorted Marigold, somewhat unfairly, because she had done her utmost to keep Georgie in the dark. "We
are
close to the emerald, I think. That is why I came to Brighton, Georgie. Besides my wish to see you,
that is! I have it on very good authority that the person who won the emerald from me lost it in turn to Magnus Eliot."

Chapter Fourteen

Lady Denham's household was not kept smoothly running by a mere cook-housekeeper, butler, and maid-of-all-work. Lady Denham would have been appalled at the notion of attempting to function without a full complement of kitchen and scullery maids, laundry maids, upper and under housemaids, footmen and grooms and coachmen, not to mention her abigail and her French chef, all of whom she kept extremely busy, because everyone knew that idle hands did the devil's work, and Lady Denham would tolerate no such nonsense in her household. Nor were Lady Denham's own hands idle at this moment. In them she held a list.

Lady Denham's busy hands, and the list they held, were ensconced in her drawing room, upon a painted chair with cross-front legs, a carved Sphinx on each arm-post, and rosettes at the base, crowned with twining honeysuckle and yet another rosette. The rest of the furnishings had also fallen under the Egyptian influence, as witnessed by additional Sphinx-head bodies and ornaments, models of mummies, athenaeum friezes and, most notably, a crocodile sofa. Tables, chairs, and sofas were studiously disarranged around the fireplace and in the middle of the elegantly proportioned chamber, in the modern fashion of placing furniture. Arranged in and about that furniture this afternoon were Lady Denham, her niece, and a number of their guests. Mr. Sutton was in attendance, and Lieutenant Halliday. Most splendid of all present, outshining crocodile and Sphinx and mummy case, Miss Inchquist's cherry-striped dress and even Lady Denham's puce muslin gown, was Lieutenant Halliday's companion—
My great good friend! Came upon him quite by accident! Didn't think you'd mind if I brought him along!
—Peregrine Teasdale. Mr. Teasdale was a sartorial wonderment in canary-yellow breeches and polished top boots, a waistcoat broadly striped in salmon and cramoisi, and a long-tailed coat of pea-green. His starched cravat was tied in the Oriental, a very stiff and rigid arrangement with not a visible indenture or crease. Exceedingly high shirt points made it very difficult for him to turn his head. His dark hair tumbled dramatically over his pale brow.

Mr. Teasdale's poetic nature demanded expression in flamboyance. Moreover, he very much hoped to set a style. Truth be told, Peregrine would have preferred to dress in black, but Byron had already been before him, and Peregrine above all wished to be considered an original. Or almost above all. Most immediately, he must catch himself a rich wife, preferably before his tailors' bills came due. Miss Inchquist was just the ticket. Young, malleable—Peregrine had no idea what he might wish to mold her into,
but malleable seemed like a good thing.

"'But true love is a durable fire,'"
he murmured, for her ear alone.
"'Into the mind ever burning/ Never sick, never old, never dread/From itself never turning.'"

Sarah-Louise blushed. If she knew those pretty words had actually been written by Sir Walter Raleigh, she kept that knowledge to herself. "You should not say such things to me," she murmured insincerely, and wished he would not stop.

"'Fair, fair and twice so fair/ As fair as any may be,'"
Peregrine responded promptly, this time borrowing from George Peele. Blissfully, Sarah-Louise sighed. She caught her aunt's eye upon her. "Lieutenant Halliday knows a great deal about Brighton!" she said hastily.

Lieutenant Halliday, who had been brooding upon his part in this dashed irregular liaison—had he been privileged to know Sarah-Louise's papa, Andrew might well have agreed with that acerbic gentleman that Peregrine was a twiddlepoop—responded to his cue. "At the time of the Norman Conquest, Brighton was not entirely without importance. It was one of the Sussex Manors of Harold II, who raised forces here to augment his troops at Sentac," he offered, while reflecting that Mr. Teasdale possessed an imagination as fanciful as his flamboyant attire. Were Andrew called upon to compose a sonnet to Miss Inchquist, he could only compare her to an amiable giraffe. Not that he meant the young lady any disrespect.