Enchanting Pleasures (33 page)

L
UCIEN WAS IN HIS CARRIAGE
, heading with something less than enthusiasm to a champagne breakfast being given by the Duke and Duchess of Gisle, when he realized that it was a Tuesday morning. To be exact, it was Tuesday just after ten o’clock, and if he sent the carriage in the opposite direction, he might arrive on Emily’s doorstep at the same time as Bartholomew Hislop, thereby making it absolutely clear to Hislop that Emily was no straw damsel for his taking.

He rapped sharply on the carriage roof. But when they drew up before the small house, there was no sign of Hislop. Perhaps he should drive on. Emily had repeatedly refused to see him. Every time he presented himself at the house, Sally told him that Mrs. Ewing was not at home.

The memory steeled his backbone and Lucien almost motioned to his waiting footman to close the carriage door again. Undoubtedly Hislop was already in Emily’s study, breathing on her shoulder or committing some such other gross indelicacy.

Lucien gritted his teeth and stepped out of the carriage, drawing on his gloves. He’d be damned if Emily would deny him and be at home to Hislop.

Sure enough, when he rang the doorbell the little maid, Sally, once again stammered some nonsense about Mrs. Ewing not being at home. He gave her a look and a sovereign; she fled back down the hallway.

Lucien hesitated for a moment outside Emily’s study and then pushed open the door without knocking. Immediately he knew he had made a mistake. Emily and Hislop were standing just before her desk, with their backs to him. They looked cozily intimate, and Lucien saw distaste on Emily’s face when she looked around.

“Forgive me for disturbing you,” he said, his French accent particularly marked due to embarrassment. Clearly Emily did not mind Hislop’s company. Why, he had a hand on her wrist.

Hislop casually let go of Emily and bowed to Lucien. “Fancy seeing you again,” he said, not as genially as he had when they first met. “Odd coincidence, that.”

“I visit frequently,” Lucien said grimly. His black eyes were narrowed.

“So do I, so do I,” Hislop replied, seeming to have no sense of his personal danger.

Emily rustled forward. “Mr. Boch, how lovely to see you again.” She had a delicate flush in her cheeks that Lucien could only think was due to delight at Mr. Hislop’s touch.

He bowed formally. “I regret to have interrupted you,” he said mendaciously. “I am afraid that I quite forgot Mr. Hislop’s weekly appointments to discuss fashion.”

“Appointment is not the right word,” Hislop said. “It sounds too businesslike. I prefer to think of myself as Mrs. Ewing’s good
friend
. In fact, I have asked her to spend this evening at the theater with me.”

Lucien’s jaw tensed. Did Emily have any idea of the connotations of what Mr. Hislop had just said? He looked at her, but she seemed impervious to the insult. Moreover, he himself had asked Emily to the theater, and she had refused. “Perhaps I shall see you both there,” he said politely, and bowed again. “I will ask you to excuse me, Mrs. Ewing, Mr. Hislop. I have an engagement this morning.”

Hislop strolled forward, blocking Lucien’s view of Emily. “Going to the Duke of Gisle’s breakfast, are you? I was invited—I am sure of that, because I’m the best of friends with Gisle, you know—but my invitation must have gone astray. It happens, it happens.”

“Quite.” Lucien turned to go.

“Mr. Boch!” The words sounded torn from Emily’s throat.

He turned. “Yes?”

“I …” She faltered.

He waited.

“Once when you visited,” Emily said in a half whisper, “you offered me aid. I should like to take advantage of your expertise.”

Lucien paused. What the devil was she talking about? Then he suddenly remembered that he had told her he came to slay dragons.

“Mr. Hislop,” he said with a casual, thin-lipped smile, “since your invitation so unaccountably went astray, why don’t you accompany me to Gisle’s breakfast? I am certain that Patrick will be delighted to see you.”

Hislop didn’t hesitate for a moment. He turned to Emily and made a hasty bow. “I’m sure you will understand if I leave, Mrs. Ewing. Perhaps I can find time to return to you later.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed at the offense in Hislop’s farewell. But a look at Emily’s embarrassed eyes reassured him. Whatever Hislop thought was happening between them, she was not partner to it. In a way it was comforting: at least she hadn’t chosen Hislop over him.

The moment the carriage door closed, Lucien lunged forward and twisted Hislop’s neckcloth in his hand, jerking him forward and out of his seat.

“What are you doing?” Hislop shouted, but the rest of his sentence was unintelligible. Lucien kicked his boots out from under him, and he fell heavily into the well between the seats as Lucien let go of his neckcloth.

He sat on the carriage floor, staring at Lucien in horror. “What the devil did you do that for? You’ve wrecked my neckcloth, damned if you haven’t!” He felt the folds of cloth with trembling fingers. “Wrecked!” he half shrieked. “The arrangement cost me three cloths this morning. And what will the duke and duchess think of me now?”

Lucien noted with amusement that Hislop seemed to take irrational violence in stride. Perhaps his acquaintances were often driven to commit such outrages.

“You will stay away from Mrs. Ewing,” he said in a gentle voice. “If I ever hear that you have been seen near her or her house, I will personally make certain that you are never again invited to an event given by the
haut ton
.”

Hislop pushed himself up and sat down on the opposite seat, looking at Lucien as if he were a rabid dog. “I don’t know what you’re so excited about. It isn’t as if I’ve done anything the woman disliked! I’ve been the perfect gentleman, if you want to know.”

“I don’t give a damn,” Lucien said through his clenched teeth. “As long as you understand that your ‘friendship’ with Mrs. Ewing is over.”

Hislop’s full lips formed a pout. “I’ve been working on this for months,” he complained. “And you only showed up the last few weeks. Wouldn’t it be more of a gentlemanly thing to allow that I have a prior claim?

“All right!” he shrieked, as Lucien made a sudden violent movement. “For God’s sake, I’m not that interested anyway. She’s a beauty, but a bit somber for my tastes. I was thinking of trying the sister—but I won’t,” he exclaimed, meeting Lucien’s wrath-filled eyes. “Won’t go anywhere near the house, since that’s what you wish.”

Lucien leaned back on his seat, which seemed to give Hislop courage.

“Don’t see why you’d mind if I made a play for the sister,” he complained. “You can take Emily, and I’ll back out like a gentleman, even though I do have the prior claim. So why not let me have the sister? I can set her up, you know,” he said generously. “I’ve got a little house out in Chelsea that’s perfect for this sort of thing, and it’s been empty for all of two months now.”

Lucien knocked on the roof so hard that the carriage shook. It swayed to a halt.

“What’re you doing?” Hislop asked in some alarm. “You said you’d take me to Gisle’s breakfast! And I want to go!”

“Get out,” Lucien said as the door swung open.

“Well, I’m not going to,” Hislop said indignantly. “You promised to take me. And you’ve gone and stolen my ladybird from me, without so much as a by-your-leave,
and
with a good deal of unnecessary personal violence. The least you can do is keep your promise.”

To his own surprise, Lucien heard himself break into a snort of laughter.

Hislop stared at him.

“You’d better straighten your neckcloth,” Lucien said.

P
ERHAPS AN HOUR LATER
, Patrick Foakes, the Duke of Gisle, poked his friend in the ribs. “Who’s that little mushroom you brought to our breakfast?” he said, nodding toward Hislop, who was happily chatting with the duchess.

“Bartholomew Hislop,” Lucien said lazily. “Lovely, isn’t he? He’s been trying to turn my future wife into his
chérie amie”

“What!”

Lucien hadn’t known until the sentence left his lips. But he liked the sound of it. “I’m planning to marry Mrs. Emily Ewing,” he explained. “But I had to slay her dragon first.”

Patrick blinked, looking at Hislop and his crumpled neckcloth. “That’s a dragon?”

Lucien grinned. “We dragon slayers have to take our work as it comes.”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “Why did you bring him here? Hoping that my cook will poison his meal? He looks perfectly healthy to me.”

“Hislop and I came to terms about Mrs. Ewing,” Lucien remarked. “But I had promised to bring him to your breakfast and he felt that, as a gentleman, I should keep my promise.”

Patrick snorted. “Sounds more like a mouse than a dragon.” But at that moment, Sophie sent him an unmistakable look of appeal over Hislop’s head.

“I’ll have his gizzard,” the duke said between clenched teeth as he lunged across the room.

S
ADLY ENOUGH
, Bartholomew Hislop’s unexpected invitation to the Duke of Gisle’s breakfast did not go as smoothly as he could have hoped. For, as he told his close friends the following evening, he did nothing more than accidentally drop an apricot tart near the duchess. “Not on her bodice,” he painstakingly explained.
“Near
it.” And when he bent over to make absolutely certain that her gown was not stained, why, the duke went into a frenzy.

His friends’ eyes widened and they leaned closer.

“Naturally,” Bartholomew reported, “this small
contretemps
will not affect our friendship, and I have no doubt but that I shall be invited to many future events at the Gisle house. But I must warn you all to avoid the duchess. Frankly, Gisle is just a trifle
bourgeois
with regard to his wife. After all, Her Grace displayed her bosom to the whole of the Fester ballroom, didn’t she? So why would he mind if I happened to catch a glimpse?”

His friends entirely agreed with him, which mitigated the pain of a darkish purple bruise that had unaccountably appeared under his right eye.

“G
ABBY
! What on earth are you doing in Abchurch Lane?” Sophie exclaimed. “I’ve never met another soul I knew here.”

Gabby smiled a bit shyly. “I came to visit an apothecary. How are you, Sophie?”

Sophie turned about and tucked Gabby’s arm into hers. “Bored, dearest. I am yawning with tedium. I visited Mr. Spooner’s bookstore in hopes of finding a Norwegian grammar book, for nothing more than curiosity. And he failed me. But I must apologize: I have been horribly remiss. I meant to call last week to congratulate you on your marriage.”

Gabby opened her mouth, but Sophie kept right on chattering. “You married the right brother, you know. Peter is a dear, but Quill…well, if I hadn’t already met Patrick by the time Quill emerged from his sickroom, I might have thrown my hat into the ring.” Sophie gave her a twinkling smile.

“In that case, I am glad that my husband’s illness lasted so long,” Gabby said. “I wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

“Pooh! My Patrick says that Quill is besotted.”

Gabby laughed, but she felt a secret gleam of delight. “That sounds like foolishness. How could your husband possibly know whether Quill is besotted or not?”

“Oh, men.” Sophie gave her delicate French shrug. “Who knows how they understand each other? Sometimes I think Patrick must speak in code to his brother, Alex, because they rarely converse, yet Patrick always knows if something is wrong. They’re twins, you know.”

“I didn’t know that,” Gabby said with some curiosity. “Do they look alike?”

“People seem to think so. But I have never agreed,” Sophie replied. “I would love to introduce you, but Alex and his wife, Charlotte, are still in the country because Charlotte is expecting a child.”

“I see,” Gabby said, not seeing at all. Since they were in mourning, she and Quill had not attended many public events. But she had seen women everywhere who were large with child.

“Charlotte had some bother giving birth to her first child,” Sophie explained, “and Alex is simply rabid with worry and won’t let my poor friend rise from the couch. Patrick keeps complaining that he’s getting ulcers due to Alex’s nervous spates.”

“So each knows what the other is feeling?”

“Yes, I believe that’s the way of twins. Is this your apothecary, Gabby? I must say, it looks undistinguished.” They stood in front of a tiny shop with square projecting windows and small panes of filthy glass.

Gabby pulled from her reticule the advertisement she had clipped from
The Times
. “Yes, this is it.”

“I think we had better leave our maids here. We won’t all fit inside,” Sophie said dubiously. “Lift up your skirts!” she called as Gabby pushed open the dingy door, causing a bell to ring.

The shop of Mr. J. Moore, Apothecary, was crowded with oddly shaped bottles, each adorned with a scribbled label. There was no one behind the counter.

Sophie bent over one of the bottles. “Just look at this! Worm powder. Do you think it’s made of worms?”

Gabby shook her head. “I doubt it.” Where was the proprietor? She clutched the advertisement in a gloved hand.

“No, it’s not made of worms,” Sophie was saying. “It brings away worms of all sorts of lengths and shapes and leaves the body in perfect health.” She snorted. “Gabby, what
are
we doing in this place?”

Just then an old man entered through the curtained back door. Gabby almost stepped back in dismay. His eyes were covered with a milky-white film, and he felt his way along the counter to stand before them. “Hello! Hello! I’m Mr. James Moore,” he said cheerfully. “Purveyor of real and effectual medicines, fit for the use of old and young. How may I help you?”

“I’ve come in response to your advertisement,” Gabby said, wishing she’d never opened
The Times
that morning.

“Ah, my lady, so you suffer from gip in the guts? Windy belches? Or perhaps …” He paused. “Wind in the bowels?”

Sophie took Gabby’s arm. “I don’t believe we are in the right shop,” she murmured.

“So there are
two
lovely ladies,” Mr. Moore exclaimed. “All the better! Now, a trifling anxiety is natural in these circumstances. But is it better to be a bit mortified here or to suffer true mortification when an eruption occurs in a crowded place?”

Gabby felt purple with embarrassment. “I’ve come because you apparently cured a woman who had violent headaches,” she said.

“Quite right! Quite right,” Mr. Moore said, rubbing his extremely filthy hands together. “That would be my lovely niece, Miss Rachel Morbury of Church Lane. She insisted—positively insisted—that I allow her to place that testimonial in the paper, my dear madam. Suffered for two years, she did. The headaches had become so bad that she was like to lose her place. She has a good place with Mrs. Huffy, who lives in Church Lane. Finally, Miss Rachel allowed me to give her a dose of my effectual medicine.

“And she hasn’t suffered a bit since!” he said triumphantly, beaming at the wall just over Gabby’s shoulder. “Miss Rachel placed that advertisement of her own free will, ladies. For the benefit of mankind, she said. She’s a good niece to me.”

Sophie’s hand had been tightening on Gabby’s arm during Mr. Moore’s little speech. “Gabby,” she hissed, “the medicine is quite likely unsafe.”

Gabby cleared her throat. “How do you make your headache medicine, Mr. Moore?”

“I can hear that you are delicate ladies,” he said jovially. “So I won’t tell you the ingredients. Because I’d hate to turn a ladylike stomach and possibly stop you from taking one of my real and effectual medicines!”

Sophie was positively tugging on her arm, but Gabby stood firm. “I won’t buy the medicine unless you tell me the ingredients.”

“Very well, very well. I use rare ingredients, madam. Very rare. That’s why the headache cure is a trifle more expensive than many of my other medicines, to tell the truth.”

“Yes?”

“Well,” Mr. Moore said reluctantly. “It’s a mercurial powder, madam. The same as the noted Emperick Charles Hues ordinarily took. And by mercurial powder, I mean that it has a tincture of quicksilver in it.”

“What else?”

“Tartar emetic and just a drop or two of opium—”

“There’s nothing very unusual about that remedy,” Gabby said bluntly.

“It’s a mystery ingredient that does the trick, madam. But I can’t tell you the last.” Mr. Moore put on a regal air. “A doctor has to keep his mysteries, madam. Or else every ruffian in the street will be selling my real and effectual medicine.”

“In that case, thank you very much for speaking to us.” Gabby turned to go.

“Wait!”

“My husband will not try any medicine without a full understanding of its ingredients,” Gabby replied. “I bid you good day, Mr. Moore.”

“For the good of mankind,” the apothecary gabbled. “For the good of mankind and, more especially, to relieve your good husband, madam, I will tell you. But I must have your solemn word that you will breathe a word to no one. My secret ingredient is a tincture of Indian hemp, madam. The medicine is to be repeated every two or three hours.”

“Indian hemp? Where did you get that idea, Mr. Moore?”

Mr. Moore clearly felt that since he was in for a penny, he might as well be in for a pound. “I bought the remedy off a traveling Indian, some sort of a doctor, he called himself. It has worked miracles, madam, miracles!”

Gabby paused. “All right. I’ll take one bottle.”

Mr. Moore beamed. “That will be five sovereigns, madam.”

“We are
leaving,”
Sophie said, her voice fierce. “Don’t you pay this mountebank a penny, Gabby!”

“I’ll give you one sovereign.” Gabby laid the shining coin on the filthy counter.

Mr. Moore grabbed it, placing a grubby brown bottle in its place. “There you are, madam. A better bargain you never made. One large spoonful to be repeated every two or three hours while in the throes of an attack. And”—he bowed—“may I say how very pleased I would be to serve you again, madam? As I may have said, my real and effectual medicine for wind is esteemed throughout the country.”

“Thank you,” Gabby replied. “Good day, Mr. Moore.” She followed Sophie from the shop.

“If you weren’t my friend, I would begin to worry about your wits,” Sophie said. “You just gave that sovereign away.”

“Very likely,” Gabby said, feeling dispirited.

“And I would be very surprised to learn that Quill agreed to take that medicine.”

Gabby didn’t want to say that she could guarantee he
wouldn’t
take it. It was too humiliating; the whole business was so humiliating. Tears pricked her eyes.

Sophie took one look, tucked her arm under Gabby’s, and began walking back down the lane to where their carriages were waiting. “We shall have to discuss this, Gabby,” she said firmly. “I take it that Quill’s headaches are quite severe?”

“Yes, they are,” Gabby mumbled.

“All the same, who knows what Indian hemp might do to him? I find it hard to believe that Quill would take such a medicine—even a
real and effectual one,”
she said, mimicking Mr. Moore’s voice, “without knowing the consequences. What if it caused him further injury, Gabby?”

“I know,” she said miserably. “It’s just that when I saw the advertisement in the paper …” Her voice trailed off.

“His niece, ha! Moore placed that advertisement himself, the old quack.”

“You’re probably right.” Gabby couldn’t keep the bleak tone out of her voice.

“We need tea,” Sophie said suddenly. “Here. I’ll tell your carriage to follow, shall I?”

Gabby allowed herself to be handed into Sophie’s carriage by a footman. They went to Madam Clara’s Teashop for Ladies.

“This is my favorite place to drink tea in all London,” Sophie said cozily. “All the gossips watch one another while pretending not to, and since the tables aren’t close enough for eavesdropping, they suffer agonies of curiosity.”

Despite herself, Gabby started to cheer up at Sophie’s irreverent chatter. And then, over a cup of steaming tea—and after ascertaining that Sophie was indeed right, and no one could hear them over the chatter—Gabby blurted out the whole story.

“But you have to promise not to tell your husband,” she said at the end. “Please, Sophie!”

“Of course I won’t tell Patrick,” Sophie replied absently. “This story is nothing for a man to hear. Make him nervous and he’d start giving himself headaches out of sympathy.”

Gabby chuckled, but Sophie was still thinking out loud. “Quill’s old injury obviously triggers the migraines. How?”

“He has a large scar along his hip,” Gabby said dubiously.

“Too far from his head,” Sophie said.

“Well, perhaps not,” Gabby exclaimed, feeling a twinge of excitement. “What if the headaches are caused by using that hip?”

“Using? Oh, I see what you mean! Does it pain him to move that leg normally?”

“No, he’s never said that,” Gabby said. “But he does limp. And I have noticed that the limp is more pronounced when he’s tired.”

“Then let’s assume that it hurts most of the time,” Sophie said. “Men are positively idiotic about admitting pain.”

“Well, then, what if the migraines are caused by straining his leg?” Gabby frowned. “It wouldn’t be a question of the leg, in that case. More likely his hip.” She could feel that her face was a rosy pink.

“It could be either,” Sophie pointed out. “I mean”—she paused and then plunged ahead—“he likely supports himself on his knees and moves his hips.” Her eyes took on a mischievous gleam. “So tonight you must refuse to allow him to move his hip or put weight on his leg.”

Gabby’s heart bounded and then thudded back to earth. “I can’t, Sophie. I told him that I didn’t like…didn’t enjoy…so that I wouldn’t be responsible for any more migraines. He’s not angry. But now, it’s been several weeks, and he doesn’t even kiss me good night.” To her shame, her eyes filled with tears again.