Danse de la Folie (41 page)

What with that and the luncheon afterward, it was later in
the afternoon when St. Tarval at last was able to extricate himself and take a
hackney coach to Mount Street.

However, when he arrived there, it was to the surprising
discovery that the sisters had taken a party of friends to Richmond Park. He
thought nothing of that until he went on to Brook Street to call on Kitty, to
discover that she and Miss Harlowe were absent—that they, Eliza Harlowe
informed him, were gone with Lucretia and Lucasta.

Why had he not been invited? St. Tarval was walking back
down the steps to the street, wondering if Devereaux had been invited, when the
gentleman himself arrived.

The porter called one of the footmen out to walk the
beautifully matched bays as Mr. Devereaux touched his hat to the marquess. They
greeted one another politely as they passed on the stairs. St. Tarval heard the
butler saying “Miss Devereaux is in the parlor with Miss Matilda and Miss Eliza,”
before the door shut.

Obviously this expedition to the Park was not a ruse aimed
at Mr. Devereaux. What could possible lie behind it?

A glance skyward showed a distant line of cloud that
promised the usual late-afternoon storm. Surely the picnic would have been
finished by now. He determined to get the talk over with.

As Mount Street was not quite a mile away, he decided to
stretch his legs in a walk. The city was confining enough as it was; he needed
air, even city air, and to be moving. Perhaps it would clear his head. At least
he could rehearse what to say.

He was halfway to his destination when the storm broke. He
stepped into a public house and drank a tankard of cool ale while the violent
downpour got rid of the worst of the heat, then he set out again the moment it
began to break.

When he reached Mount Street, the children in the parish
workhouse were poking their heads out an upper window, watching the lightning as
the storm moved away. St. Tarval had almost reached the Bouldestons’ house when
the familiar barouche rolled up, disclosing a parcel of angry females. Lucasta
tumbled out, twitching her bonnet straight. “See if I ever go with you again,
Lucretia,” she declared, and ran up the stairs into the house.

Lucretia began to follow after, leading Cassandra Kittredge,
whom St. Tarval had not seen for several years. The cousins started up the
steps as the maid labored to unload the sodden barouche. He ran, catching up
before the two young ladies could vanish into the house.

When she heard his step, Lucretia whirled around, her mouth
popping open. Was she dismayed to see him? But she smiled and simpered, saying,
“Cassie, dear, I believe you have been introduced to my—”

He could not bear to hear the word spoken, and interrupted.
“I beg pardon, but I just came from Brook Street. I gather you left my sister
there?”

Lucretia’s gaze flickered, and once again St. Tarval
detected dismay. Then Lucretia said airily, “I believe she is there, yes. Come,
Cassie, let us shift our clothing. Carlisle, you will perceive that the rain
caught us. You would not wish us to catch our deaths, would you?” she asked
sweetly, and before he could answer, she whisked herself in and shut the door.

He was tempted to rap the knocker, except what would he say?
This was clearly the wrong time to demand a conversation.

So he made his way back to Brook Street, his pace far
quicker than previously. He ignored the intermittent rain, for the more he
considered Lucretia’s response, the more definite he was that something was
amiss.

When he reached Brook Street, it was to discover Mr.
Devereaux about to leave, his sister following with a mutinous expression. She
stood squarely in the doorway, hands on her hips, as she declared, “I think
Mama is horrid, not letting me attend the ball in my own grandmother’s house...”
she began.

St. Tarval interrupted a lady for the second time that day.
Touching his hat, he said, “I beg pardon, but if I could see my sister...”

Miss Bess stared at him, her complaint forgotten. “She has
been gone this age, to Richmond Park!” A glance upward, and her expression
changed. “I hope they are not caught in the downpour. Amelia and I were agreed
that we would not go out today for a million pounds... .”

Mr. Devereaux now interrupted his sister, coming quickly
into the light shining from the doorway, his expression one of concern. “They
might still be on the road.”

“Except that I have just come from Mount Street, and I was
told they were here.” St. Tarval took a few hasty steps toward the corner, his
intent to look for a hackney.

Mr. Devereaux caught up, and said, “Take mine.”

St. Tarval turned around. “I beg pardon?”

Mr. Devereaux had been thinking rapidly. If he went in
search of the missing ladies, it would cause exactly the sort of talk everyone
would wish to avoid. But a brother? “Take my curricle, St. Tarval. The horses
are ready for a run. You will have moonlight to drive by, I believe.” He
pointed. “There is a coat in the trunk, in case it rains again.”

The marquess did not know Devereaux except as the target of
Lucretia’s attentions, and as one of his sister’s many dancing partners. He had
once hazarded a guess that this was the one Kit preferred, not from anything
she said, it was more the way she smiled when they were dancing. But then Kit
was friendly to everybody.

This was not the time to sort out the intricacies of these
connections. Relief—gratitude—St. Tarval did not waste time on a protest, but
closed with the offer, and was soon off.

He was a good driver, but he was not used to this type of
sporting vehicle, nor the sort of high-bred, high-fed pair that only very
wealthy men could afford. For a time it was all he could do to hold them in
hand, especially as it was by then full dark. However, he soon attained the
road, and the moonlight was enough to give him light.

He dropped his hands, and the pair sprang into a gallop.

They had slowed to a more sedate pace as he scanned
continually; he was beginning to wonder if he had come on a fool’s errand when
he heard Kitty’s voice cry out his name.

And there they were, standing by the side of the road, both
soaked to the skin. Clarissa looked up at him with such mute appeal, and
gratitude, that for a time he could not look away.

“Here, you get in first,” Kitty said in a breathless voice,
breaking the spell. “I have the greatest dislike of being in the middle.”

“What happened?” he asked, when both had climbed into the
curricle.

He already suspected some mystery here, but he was sure of
it in the way Kitty stole a look at Clarissa, who said in her calmest voice,
“The storm struck, and it seemed we were missed in the haste of the departure.”

“We shall be back in a trice,” he said as he carefully
guided the pair in a turn. “I hope you will not catch a chill.”

“In summer?” Kitty scoffed. “We are not such poor creatures
as that!”

“Nevertheless, I do not believe Devereaux will object if you
two share this greatcoat,” he said, shrugging it off. “It is capacious, as you
see, and warm as well.”

Clarissa and Kitty had climbed in side by side. They shrugged
the coat around them, and the curricle began moving again.

Kitty was still struggling to come to terms with the long
glance she had seen between her brother and Clarissa. A blinding new idea came
to her, for it was clear even in the moonlight that Cupid’s darts had gone in
both directions, and furthermore, if she hazarded a guess, this was not Cupid’s
first visit.

What could she do?

Nothing. They were both proud, and private, and though
Clarissa had rid herself of her entanglement, her brother was still bound to
Lucretia.
Do not force him to choose
between you
, Clarissa had said. Kitty wondered if this statement was also
true for the both of
them
. She wanted
to speak—oh, how badly!—but she could see that it would be a mistake.

And so she gazed determinedly out at the countryside, over
which the moonlight cast a mysterious silvery glow.

Clarissa was, for once, too stunned to think. She clutched
at her side of the greatcoat, the fabric under her hand heavy and a little
rough. It was a thick garment, but not too thick to entirely mask the
sensations of the marquess wedged against her side. She had huddled into the
warmth that the marquess had made, and fancied that his own warmth, and not her
own, enveloped her still; she wished they might never reach London, that they
could travel like this, on and on, forever.

She was aware of the deep fremitus of his voice before she
heard the words, and when she recognized them, her nerves thrilled.

“…and I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with
joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense
sublime
Of something far more deeply
interfused,
Whose dwelling is in the light
of setting suns…”

He spoke so softly one might not have heard it over the
thunder of hooves, or the creak and swing of the curricle. But she did hear it,
and so she responded,

“...Therefore I am still
A Lover of the meadows and the
woods,
And mountains, and of all that
we behold
From this green earth…”

They traded verses, sometimes groping for words, for neither
had set out to memorize it, but each had read it so many times they remembered
most.

The forgotten words caused laughter, for there was no
competition, no striving to impress. Kitty sat silently, smiling at the
pleasure she heard in their two voices, so dear.
Why did I not see it?
she thought. And with less satisfaction,
What can be done?

The conversation might have been taking place during a
spring day’s picnic, so full of hilarity and pleasure it was. Kitty took part
enough so that the other two might not feel self-conscious, but by the time
they reached Brook Street at last, she was troubled indeed. She had desired
justice before, but now she had added reason.

The door opened as they drove up, and Mr. Devereaux leaped
down the steps to help the ladies descend. Clarissa he let go with only a
polite word, but Kitty, who hesitated without being aware, her smile a little
shy, her gaze full of question, he detained long enough to say, “Are you much
chilled?”

“I am fine. It is only rain,” she said a little
breathlessly, blushing as she gazed up into his face. She was only aware of her
sodden hat and her hair straggling down, and not of the fine glow in her
cheeks, or the sweet expression of her eyes; she looked into his face, and did
not see handsomeness, but the concern in his gaze, the softened mouth. Her nerves
tingled.

“Then I will wish you good night,” he said, breaking the
spell. “And I will also, if I may, request the honor of a dance at the
masquerade ball in Cavendish Square?”

Kitty curtseyed, oblivious to the gown plastered to her
form, then she sped inside, her soft “Good night,” floating behind.

As St. Tarval held out the reins to Mr. Devereaux, he said
only, “I found them a mile or so from the Gate.”

“I will drop you in Grosvenor Street,” Mr. Devereaux
offered, as St. Tarval moved over, and laid the damp driving cape over the
trunk.

As soon as they reached the end of the street, Mr. Devereaux
said, “By rights I should wait upon you in form, but if you will permit me a
liberty—”

“By all means,” the marquess said, tipping his hat, and
ignoring the water that dripped off the brim.

“My request is simple: that you honor me with your
permission to court your sister.”

St. Tarval had not had much experience, but he had seen that
exchange on the doorstep. Remembering the happiness he had seen so plainly in
his sister’s face, he said everything that was proper, adding only, “If I am
not mistaken, you will not have long to wait for your answer.”

Mr. Devereaux smiled and thanked him, and there the
conversation ended. The marquess’s own situation was too vexatious to permit
him as much joy as he wished to be feeling; he found himself hoping that Kit’s
path would be less torturous than his own.

They turned into Grosvenor Street, and Mr. Devereaux let the
marquess down before his house. He then drove around to the stable,
appreciating the fact that his horses were no worse for wear. The marquess was
indeed an excellent driver.

Mr. Devereaux had, in the course of waiting, gleaned some
odd details from his sister’s chatter, determining him upon a course of action
by the time the marquess returned with the missing ladies.

He was methodical in his actions, and he had had plenty of
time to reflect. He was invited to most events in town, few of which he chose
to attend. But that night he surprised his hostess by arriving at a soiree at
which poetry was read.

Almost immediately he spotted a familiar blond head framed
by absurdly high shirt-points. Mr. Devereaux took a seat, and gave every
evidence of enjoying the poetic offerings, clapping idly after each. When all
had taken their turn, the party broke up for refreshments. Mr. Devereaux
contrived to fall into conversation with Mr. Aston, guiding the conversation
through the storm to the day’s outing.

He discovered two things: that Mr. Aston had indeed been at
the picnic, but he and his friend Mr. Nolan had driven away when the rain hit,
there only being room for two in his curricle. As they were first to depart, he
had not seen the others, but he drew a vivid picture of a mass exodus as the
storm struck.

“Redding only had a gig, though anyone could have told him
we’d run into weather,” Mr. Aston said.

“Redding,” Mr. Devereaux repeated.

“Old friend of Sir Henry’s, I understand. ’t any rate, Miss
Bouldeston had invited him especially.”

“I trust the gentleman did not take a chill,” Mr. Devereaux
said only, departing soon after.

The next morning, Mr. Devereaux strolled around to visit his
old friend Sir George Buckley, whose breakfasts were justly famed. There he
found a number of old friends, for people had the habit of dropping in to share
pastry and gossip.