Cupid's Dart (20 page)

So he did, and Georgie was chief among them. Soon enough his name would be again on every tongue. Garth had made up his mind that the devil might fly away with the gossips, so far as he was concerned. Georgie, however, was another matter. He did not wish that she should see her dirty linen aired in public, as his had been and was about to be again. But while he was trying to shield her from the consequences of their relationship, she had involved herself first with Carlisle Sutton, and now Magnus Eliot.

Magnus Eliot! Garth had no doubt why Mr. Eliot had refrained from having Georgie's brother dragged off to gaol, and it wasn't from the goodness of his heart. "If Mr. Eliot has something that belongs to Marigold," he reasoned, "why doesn't she just ask him to give it back?"

Georgie shook her head. "Now
you
are not thinking, Garth. Marigold and Magnus Eliot? Speak of a pigeon for the plucking! I have gone to great lengths to prevent that meeting taking place. And it is not that he has something that belongs to her, exactly."

If Mrs. Smith did not know Magnus Eliot, how came he to have something that was hers? Before Garth could ask, Andrew tossed and mumbled on the bed. Among other incoherent utterances, Garth could have sworn he heard, "Twenty-five thousand pounds."

Georgie had heard it also. She flinched, but Andrew said no more. "Is this whatever-it-is why Mrs. Smith has gone into hiding?" Garth asked.

If only Mrs. Smith had hidden herself better on previous occasion. "Indirectly," Georgie said. "She is avoiding Carlisle Sutton. You already know that it was Mr. Sutton's uncle to whom Marigold was wed. Thank God he has not discovered that she is staying here. Pray ask me no more questions! I have already said more than I should."

Garth did not consider that Georgie had said half enough. There remained, for instance, the matter of her feelings for himself. He would have liked to hear her say that she had missed him just a little bit.

Not that this was any fit moment to press her about such trifles. "You are very loyal to your friend
.
" Garth rose from the chair. "A great deal more loyal, I think, than she would be to you."

Georgie could not refute the truth of this statement. "Just because Marigold is faithful only to herself doesn't mean I have leave also to go back on my word."

Garth did not respond, but walked closer to the bed, and stood gazing down at Andrew. Lump raised his head and snuffled. The fire crackled in the hearth.

Georgie could not like Garth’s silence. She wished, unfairly, that he would tell her that her troubles were nothing in comparison with his own. Or alternately that he would take her by the shoulders and force her to confess precisely what those troubles were. Too, though she had taken the time to change out of her nightclothes, Georgie had not slept and was consequently very tired.

"Has the cat got your tongue?" she inquired. Then she had to persuade Lump that he must lie back down, because there was no feline intruder in the room with them. "Or is it that you have nothing to say if you cannot lecture me?"

There were a great many things Lord Warwick wished to say to Georgie, none of them appropriate in that moment, unless it was to comment that she was behaving like a fishwife. He refused to be drawn into a brangle so that she might vent her spleen. "I wish that you might confide in me," he said merely. "Since you cannot bring yourself to do so, I will impose myself upon you no longer. Clearly you have more urgent matters with which to contend. Should you change your mind, you know where you may find me." He paused at the doorway, hoping that she might ask him not to leave. Georgie said nothing, and he walked out of the room, to go downstairs and vent his own spleen by scolding the remaining members of her household for allowing their mistress to wear herself to the bone.

Georgie stared at the empty doorway. Why had she not confided in Garth when she had the chance? If anyone could untangle this coil, it was Lord Warwick, but pride had stopped her tongue.

Georgie could not forget that every time Garth kissed her, he then drew away. This time she had not let him kiss her—now that she thought on it, he had not seemed to
wish
to kiss her, which further deflated her spirits—and he had gone away all the same. The fact that she had
sent
him away was quite beside the point. A gentleman who cared about her even just a little bit would not have paid attention to her nonsense. Georgie stomped on a burning ember that had fallen on the rug.

Chapter Twenty-five

As a result of Lord Warwick's scolding, Marigold was feeling guilty. She did not lack a conscience, merely needed periodic reminding of what was and was not right. Lord Warwick had reminded her of these things so forcefully that Marigold had decided, despite all they had in common, that she and his lordship wouldn't suit. It was a pity; Warwick was a handsome gentleman, and so very rich that he wouldn't miss a paltry few thousand pounds. He was also so damnably high in the instep that one would never ask him for a loan. At least Marigold would not. Perhaps Georgie—

No. Georgie would never ask to borrow money she had no hope of paying back. Perhaps Lord Warwick would just
give
Georgie the money if he knew she needed it. Marigold toyed with the idea, then cast it aside. Georgie was too frugal to fall so deeply under the hatches, and Lord Warwick was most unlikely to haul Marigold's own coals out of the fire. He had made it very clear that he thought this entire muddle was entirely her fault, which was most unfair of him, because it hadn't been Marigold's idea that Andrew rob Magnus Eliot. Although now that she thought on the notion, it had a certain appeal. If she could steal the accursed emerald, she could then give it to Carlisle Sutton without having to part with twenty-five thousand pounds. Or she could take the emerald and keep it for herself and make a speedy departure from town. An enterprising lady could live for quite some time on the proceeds of a bauble worth twenty-five thousand pounds.

As Marigold thus cudgeled her brain, she paced around Georgie's drawing room. She was not alone in the chamber. Andrew was ensconced on the uncomfortable striped couch, with a blanket over his legs, and an assortment of Agatha's medications—flea-wort mixed with rosewater and a little sugar candy, good to cool the thirst; sage tea with which to gargle; syrups of borage and endive—set out on a table nearby. Lump was stretched out on the rug in front of the sofa. Not trusting Magnus Eliot's sawbones, Lord Warwick had sent over his own man, and if that worthy didn't pronounce Andrew as fit as a fiddle, he assured them that the worst was past.

Marigold took leave to question that opinion. Andrew in his convalescence was as cross as crabs, driving everyone to distraction with his demands and his fidgets, with the exception of herself, because she wasn't listening to a word he said.

Of those words, there were plenty. Andrew had taken it upon himself to relate to his companion the entire history of the Peninsular War, not because he wished to elevate her mind, but because he hoped if he bored her to distraction, she might go away. Andrew was tired of being fussed over by well-meaning people, and although he could not help but be grateful to them for their efforts, he wished they would cease to try and coddle him. He was a grown man, was he not? Even if he had made a cake of himself as regarded Magnus Eliot. Now he would have to thank Mr. Eliot, as well as beg him not to encourage Georgie sitting on his lap.

Like Lord Warwick before him, Andrew had no doubt as to why Magnus Eliot had brought him home instead of before a magistrate. He paused in his explanation of how Napoleon had driven Queen Marie out of Portugal, thereby dominating the Peninsula himself. "I shall never understand females
,
" Andrew remarked.

Not unreasonably, Marigold thought Andrew still spoke of Queen Marie of Portugal, and so did not comment. She stepped over Lump, and sat down in a straight-backed chair. Marigold could not deny that her presence here had caused Georgie a great deal of trouble. Maybe she
should
just disappear.

Marigold was not listening to him. This circumstance irritated Andrew even more. "There's no point you being here if you're going to sit there air-dreaming
.
Because to say the truth, I'd just as lief be by myself."

So would Marigold rather be by herself, but Georgie had gone to fetch some medicine, and Marigold had promised in her absence to tend the invalid. Personally, she thought everyone was making a great fuss over nothing. No one enjoyed perfect health all the time.

"Yes, and so would I!" she retorted. "But neither one of us is going to get what we want in this instance, because I vowed to Georgie that I would not leave you alone. You know, it is no wonder you are in such low spirits if all you think about is such dreary stuff as piles of warm corpses and bloody lakes. I do not scruple to tell you that if you continue to go on like that I shall be sick of the mulligrubs myself."

Andrew was startled that anyone would remonstrate with him about his reminiscences. "You wasn't there!" he said.

"No," retorted Marigold, "but I have been a great many other places, and not all of them were nice!
And though I may not have seen my comrades fall in battle, I
have
lost
three husbands. And I was fond of them all, in my own way. Though I know you think I am a shatterbrain, it is not true that I don't
care.
I care about Georgie and about you, because you are her brother, even though I know you don't like me above half." She looked at Lump. "I even care about that confounded dog. It is very selfish to be always thinking of oneself, Andrew, and I should know, because I have been told it often enough. It is plain to me that between the two of us, we are worrying Georgie half to death, and though I do not know what to do about it, it still makes me feel very bad."

Andrew didn't know how to respond to this scolding from so unexpected a source. Since a great deal of what she said was true, he could hardly take offense. "I allow," he muttered, "that I've been in a bad skin."

Marigold didn't see why she should be the only one to feel guilty. Besides, it was time Andrew was served up some home truths. "You have been as surly as a bear," she informed him. "A crosspatch who has everyone tiptoeing about as if they trod on eggs. And all because some bad things happened to you in the past. Bad things happen to everyone, Andrew. It is as though your wagon is stuck in the mud, and you are sitting in it feeling sorry for yourself, instead of making an effort to get
out
of the mud and discover what lies further down the road." Herself, Marigold had always wished to discover what lay further down the road. Providing that those things didn't involve being clapped in gaol, or hanged.

Andrew, like everyone else, considered Marigold a goose-cap. Now it appeared that even goose-caps might possess a grain of common sense. What she had said about his experiences in the Peninsula rang painfully true.

Perhaps Marigold might shed some light for him on another matter. "Maybe you would explain something to me," Andrew said. "If you were a female—I mean, of course you are a female, but if you was very young—"

Andrew must still have a fever. Marigold rose from her chair to ungently slap a cool cloth on the invalid's brow and force lemon water down his throat. "I have not yet," she said in freezing tones, "grown long in the tooth."

"Beg pardon!" When he had done choking, Andrew pushed aside the cloth that Marigold had dropped over his eyes. "That ain't what I meant. If mean, if you was
really
young, say about sixteen."

Once she got past the suggestion that she was an old ewe dressed lamb-fashion in a confection of sea-green, Marigold was intrigued. She nudged Andrew's feet aside and perched on the edge of the couch. "I remember what it was like to be sixteen. I was already married. Proceed!"

She had been already married? Maybe sixteen wasn't so young as Andrew had thought. "What I wanted to know was, do you think you would be wishful of running off with someone who wrote sonnets to your nose?"

Marigold wondered whom they were discussing. She didn't think it was herself. Since Andrew was not well, Marigold didn't tell him that she
had
eloped, not that poor Leo had written sonnets to her nose. Leo had written her no sonnets at all, but he had done other things wondrously well.

At the thought of those other things, Marigold felt sad. Never again would someone make her feel like her poor Leo had. "I don't think I should wish to run off to Gretna Green," Marigold said kindly. "It sounds vastly uncomfortable, does it not?" She might have continued, had not a sound come from the open doorway. Marigold turned. Tibble stood there, and a very tall, very freckled young lady dressed in muslin striped with lilac, a white bonnet tied under the chin with a ribbon bow.

"I am so sorry to interrupt!" said the young lady, as Tibble cleared his throat. "We had heard that Lieutenant Halliday was ill, and wished to pay our respects."

In that same moment, Tibble found his voice. "Miss Inchquist and Mr. Sutton come to call," he announced.

Oh, heavens! Carlisle Sutton
here?
As
the gentleman appeared in the doorway, Marigold dived behind the couch. It was hardly an adequate hiding place. Her sea-green skirts clearly showed between the bottom of the sofa and the rug. Marigold crawled under the sofa, grabbed the hem of Andrew's blanket, and tugged it down closer to the floor.

Sarah-Louise deduced from the lady's strange behavior that their arrival had interrupted a lovers' tryst. Her cheeks flamed. "Pray forgive our intrusion. We have come at a bad time."

Miss Inchquist looked deuced uncomfortable. And Mr. Sutton about as pleasant as the pains of death. "Not at all!" Andrew said weakly. "As you say, I have been ill. But I'm feeling better now." Beneath him, he felt a thump on the couch. "That is, I am not yet plump currant. In point of fact, I'm feeling downright sickly! You won't wish to come closer for fear you might catch what I've got."

Carlisle Sutton was angrier in that moment than he could ever remember having been before. He was also well aware of who crouched behind the striped couch. No wonder Lady Georgiana had been so curious about the progress of his search for his uncle's widow. She and her brother had been hiding the fugitive all along. "You think you are feeling sickly
now,"
he said in menacing tones, as he advanced into the room.