Elizabeth Mansfield (20 page)

But nobody was listening.

TWENTY-FIVE

I
suppose,
Jane thought as she lay abed trying to discover a reason for the Viscount's rejection of her plan,
that I am a bran-faced bore to him.
His Constable of Finance. A bookish scold who carped and nagged and was little better than a nuisance. It didn't matter that she was a female. She would probably have been regarded as just as insipid, inconsequential, and annoying if she'd been a male.

Of course, if she'd been a man, he would not have kissed her. But the kiss was probably insignificant. After all, the man had been drunk.

She wished she could get up right this moment, pack her things, and leave. But she'd promised Adela a few days. How could she go back on her word? For Adela's sake, she would remain fixed here a bit longer. And in that time, perhaps she could manage to interest his lordship in her plan. If she could, then this disastrous fortnight might not have been passed completely in vain.

The Viscount himself was passing an equally miserable night. When morning came, he still lay tossing in his bed, berating himself for being an ass. His mind dwelt painfully on yesterday's events, reviewing every decision he'd made and judging each one as foolish in the extreme. Three were outstanding:

He'd agreed to participate in the too-high-stake stagecoach race with Poole after having already decided against it.

He'd ignored Taffy's advice about reneging when he learned that it was Monk who'd be racing him.

He'd told himself that he could recognize any dishonest trick Monk might try.

In each case, he'd sensed at the time that he was not making the wise decision. Why had he chosen the foolish one? Only to prove that he'd not changed... that he was still the bold, reckless, devil-may-care fellow he'd once been. A Corinthian—the model gentleman-sportsman for boys to envy and emulate. Was that his goal in life—to be admired by callow youths?

What was the matter with him? Why had he felt impelled to accept Monk's challenge? Did it matter that some other fools would take him for a coward? He was like a schoolboy, forcing himself to "step over that line" because another boy had dared him to. Good God, he was thirty-one years old! He could not act the reckless youth all his days. Wasn't it time to grow out of such childish behavior?

He'd declared to Miss Douglas that she was turning him into a spineless jellyfish, but that had been a ridiculous accusation. She was merely trying to help him reach his full majority... to teach him to handle his responsibilities like a sensible man. His accusation had evidently disturbed her; he remembered how troubled she'd looked last night when she'd stood at the bottom of the stairs holding out that paper—her plan to salvage his financial muddle "without," she'd said, "turning you into a spineless jellyfish." How lovely she'd looked, gazing up at him with those worried eyes! What would she have felt if she'd known that he'd
trebled
his debt? He knew—and dreaded—the answer. She would despise him.

The self-recriminations continued for hours, but when he realized the morning was half gone, he admitted Varney and forced himself to face the day. He was disconsolately eating a solitary breakfast when Parks came in to inform him that Miss Naismith was calling. The words had scarcely left the butler's tongue when Dolly flounced into the room. "I didn't believe Parks when he said you were at breakfast, you slug-a-bed," she greeted cheerily, waving a gloved hand at him. "It's almost noon!"

Luke pulled himself to his feet. "Well, Dolly," he said with a forced smile, "I've known
you
to breakfast at noon. Sit down and join me."

She did so as Luke signaled Parks to withdraw. Luke took his seat, watching as the shapely young woman slid out of her fur pelisse and let it drape elegantly over the back of her chair. 'To what do I owe the delight of this visit?" he asked.

"I don't suppose you remember, my love," she said archly, "but you are promised to me tonight for the Cyprians' Ball. I came by to remind you. Tonight Amor reigns supreme."

Luke winced. He would have said, a moment before, that his spirits could not have been lower, but they now dropped to a new bottom. The last place he wanted to be tonight was the Cyprians' Ball. The annual affair had never been pleasing to him. It was a night for the
de-mimond
to display itself. Every courtesan, every demirep, every one of the "Fashionable Impures" (identified by a silly sobriquet, like the White Doe or the Brazen Aphrodite) turned out in all her finery, with her plumes waving, her jewels (real or paste) sparkling in the light of a thousand candles, her best silver slippers gleaming, and her most luxurious gown slipping from her shoulders. And every gentleman in London—married or single, town-bred or rustic, youthful or doddering, sporting or bookish—panted to participate in the orgy.

Luke himself had wanted to attend when he was young. He'd gone once, quite eagerly, the year after he'd finished school. He'd found it disappointing even then. The garish affair had seemed too noisy, too dissolute. The wild dancing, the loud music, and the shrieking laughter had not appealed to him. He'd not attended again until last year, when he'd escorted Dolly at her request. He had not enjoyed the affair any better in her company. "The deuced ball's tonight?" he asked, a piercing headache stabbing him just over his right eye.

"Yes, my dear, tonight. You must be the only gentleman in London who does not know. Absolutely everyone is speaking of it. Lord Edgeworth—who, by the way, always rides his bay alongside my carriage when I drive through the park, hoping for a smile from me, the dear boy—well, he's already begged me for the first gavotte."

"I don't remember promising to escort you," Luke said, pressing his fingers against his aching brow.

Dolly's cheerful expression did not change. "Of course you did, my love. And even if you didn't say it in so many words, your escort is something I took for granted."

He squared his shoulders and faced her. "I wish, Dolly, that you would excuse me. I am in no condition to attend any ball tonight, especially a squeeze like that one."

Her smile lost a small degree of its brightness. "Are you saying you wish me to release you from your duty tonight?"

"Yes, I am."

"Luke Hammond, you bounder," she cried in mock offense, "you don't expect me to go alone, I hope."

"No, I don't. I'm sure you have many gentlemen only too eager for the privilege. Lord Edgeworth, 'the dear boy,' for one."

Dolly, not smiling now, studied him carefully. "Is this your way, Luke, of informing me that matters are no longer
en rapport
between us?"

He eyed her uneasily. "You can't pretend they are, can you, Dolly? I haven't visited you for... for..."

"For almost a fortnight. Yes, I noticed. I admit I've been pretending to myself that things are not as they appear, but now I must recognize the sad truth."

"Come now, my dear," he said, "please don't play the tragic heroine. This is not the first time you've changed alliances. You've undoubtedly already chosen my replacement—someone in that entourage that follows your carriage when you drive out every afternoon. Lord Edge-worth, perhaps?"

She sighed and rose. "No, this is not the first time I've changed alliances," she admitted, reaching for her pelisse. "But that does not mean I am not put out with you."

Luke got up and went round the table. "Why be put out, when it's happened before?" he asked, draping the fur garment about her neck.

She frowned at him over her shoulder. "Because, my dear, it is I who usually initiates the change. I do not like to be the one who's rejected." With a sudden premonition that this rejection might not be the last, she shuddered and pulled the pelisse closely about her. "Perhaps it means I am losing my charm," she said with unaccustomed candor.

The tiny note of vulnerability touched him. "Nonsense," he assured her. "You are not known as the
Venus Perpetuum
for nothing. A Goddess Forever."

Her expression brightened at once. "Is
that
what I'm called, the
Venus Perpetuum?"

"So I hear. Better even than the notorious Garbon woman, wouldn't you say? She's called the
Venus Caritas,
Goddess of the High Price."

Dolly patted the coil of hair mat hung over one shoulder with satisfaction. "When Harriette Garbon hears my new name, she'll be livid," she crowed, preening like a peacock as she went to the door.

"Dolly," Luke called after her, "I hope you know that, if you are ever in need, you can come to me."

She dismissed the offer with a flippant wave. "You needn't concern yourself about that," she said as she started down the hall. "My protectors have all been generous. I'm very well situated in the funds."

Dolly's flippancy did not last long. By the time she was admitted into Sir Rodney Moncton's rooms a short while later, her mood had changed. The realization had burst on her that, for the first time in a dazzling career as a
demimondaine,
she was a woman scorned. She strode into Monk's drawing room and ordered his man to bring him to her at once. As soon as Monk appeared, pulling together the edges of a Chinese-silk robe over his massive frame, she wheeled on him. "I'd like to scratch his eyes out!" she snapped without preamble. "That cock-of-the-game discarded me!"

"You are speaking of Luke, no doubt," Monk said, shrugging. Dolly having been his paramour for two years and an intimate
confidante
ever since, he was quite accustomed to her outbursts. "Don't take personal offense, my dear. The fellow probably can no longer afford you."

"What?" The remark surprised her and caused her to suspend her display of temper. "Whatever are you saying? Luke Hammond, impoverished?"

'Temporarily, anyway. He just lost a double monkey. And to me, my dear, to me!"

"Did he really?" Dolly sat down on her host's divan and looked up at him through narrowed eyes. "By what chicanery did you manage to accomplish that?"

He slid down on the divan beside her. "There was no chicanery involved," he murmured, slipping her fur from her shoulders and kissing the nape of her neck. "It was a perfectly legitimate win."

She paid no heed to his advances. "Be that as it may," she said thoughtfully, "I don't think that his being temporarily in Dun Territory was the reason for his crying off. I think he's fixed his affections elsewhere."

"Balderdash! If he were paying his addresses to someone, we would have heard."

"Not if she were living in his own house," Dolly pointed out.

Monk sat up. "In his own house? Good God, you can't mean the chit his mother installed to help him with his finances?"

"That's exactly whom I mean. He's been a different man since the day she arrived."

Monk's eyes widened interestedly. "My, my. George said she was pretty, but she must be an out-and-outer to have superceded you."

"That's just what I find so irksome!" Dolly exclaimed, jumping to her feet and striding about the room. "She's nothing more than an insipid little bookworm!"

"I'll lay odds she is," Monk said with heavy sarcasm. "An insipid little bookworm is just the sort to capture a fellow of Luke's ilk."

Dolly raised her brows in offense. "Believe me or not, as you wish. But I don't know what that filly has that won him away from the
Venus Perpetuum."

"The
Venus Perpetuum?
Who's that?" Monk asked in sincere ignorance.

"You haven't heard that title applied to me?"

"No. Who told you? Luke?" He gave a loud snort of amusement. "Damned clever of the fellow."

Every muscle of Dolly's body tightened. "Are you saying he
made it up?
Confound it, I
will
scratch his eyes out!"

He pulled her down beside him. "Never mind," he said, taking her in his arms, "you'll always be the
Venus Perpetuum
to me."

TWENTY-SIX

Adela had also lain awake during the night. She needed to solve the most serious problem she'd ever faced: how to acquire a proper costume for her drive with Taffy. She didn't really need a new gown (she could wear her blue gown again, even though Taffy had seen it already), but her bonnet was dreadful, her cloak was shabby, and her only pair of gloves was rubbed badly at the knuckles. How was she to acquire these necessities without sufficient funds? She had a little pocket money, but even if she used all of it, that would hardly be enough. She could ask Jane, of course, but Jane would not understand. There seemed to be no way in which she could acquire all she needed with the resources available. It was indeed a vexing problem, and sleep overcame her before a solution presented itself.

The next morning she convinced Jane that a trip to the Pantheon Bazaar was her dearest wish. Jane, who had hopes of finding a second opportunity to accost his lordship sometime during the day and force him to look at the figures she'd drawn up, was only too happy to let her sister go out. Little Meggie would make an adequate escort. "You will surely wish to make a purchase of some kind," she said to Adela as the girl readied herself for her outing. "You have some pin money, don't you?"

"Not really," Adela lied, looking downcast. "Only a few shillings. I had
so
wished to buy a new bonnet."

Jane gave the girl five shillings from her precious hoard. 'That should be enough for a bonnet. Try not to choose one too frivolous to wear at church."

Adela was overjoyed. She confided to Meggie that she now had enough for a bonnet and gloves. Of course, there was still the problem of a new pelisse. "Don't worry about that," Meggie whispered as they eagerly left on their expedition. "You can borrow one of her ladyship's. Lady Martha's left all sorts of clothing lying about in the cupboards."

Jane, with her sister thus disposed of, turned her thoughts to her mission. She walked back and forth from the library to the foyer all morning, hoping to catch sight of the Viscount. It was past noon when she learned from Joseph that his lordship was finally downstairs and having his breakfast. She took up her notations and made for the morning room. She was just about to open the door when a shout from Mr. Parks stayed her hand. "Miss Jane, wait!" the butler called. "Don't go in there!" He hurried up to her, chins aquiver. "He's got company," he said in a hissing whisper.