Imprudent Lady (17 page)

“In six languages—two of them dead, and the other four rapidly expiring at his hands.
I
speak six languages, too, and I don't see you showing me this great respect."

“Do you? What languages do you speak?"

“English, French, German, Spanish, Italian and Russian—a bit of Hindustani and Chinese—well, a dozen phrases in each. And I don't include the dead ones, you see."

“I didn't know that. How very stupid I am compared to you two."

“What—am I elevated to Ashington's stratosphere with my six languages? I should have told you sooner. And I have 10,000 books, more or less. That must give me a rung up, eh?"

“Uncle Clarence speaks of setting up another shelf,” she said with exaggerated modesty. “To hold the
Backwoods Review,
you know."

“He
didn't
call it that! I esteem your uncle. When will he paint me?"

“At the drop of a hint. You have only to name the three days you have available. With your patch gone, there will be nothing to it,” she laughed lightly. How very comfortable it was with Dammler. He might get angry and scold and rage, but in the end she could say anything to him without fear of giving offence, and he took the same liberty with her.

“Are you really an atheist?” she asked suddenly.

“I don't trot off to church every Sunday, but I certainly believe in God. Can't you tell when I'm being facetious? I only said it to get a rise out of Ashington."

“You shouldn't be facetious about God."

“Why, do you think He has no sense of humour? You're slipping into your friend's mistake of picturing Him in the image of Dr. Ashington."

“Why were you so angry at his party?"

“Initially because of that nasty piece he wrote about you, but it didn't improve my fit of pique to see you two so close. I think Clarence is right. The old devil would have you if he could."

“Well, you know Uncle Clarence. Any single gentleman is suspect on the first visit, and a confirmed adorer on the second."

“What must he make of me?"

“Oh it is all
my
fault. I am not giving you the sort of encouragement you want, being so shy and behindhand in your dealings with the fair sex."

“I'd better smarten up if I mean to have you,” he laughed, very much in the old joking way.

“You still haven't told me why you antagonized poor Ashington so. You didn't object to Mr. Seville's offering for me. You can't compare the two. If Ashington is interested in me, he is in every way superior to Mr. Seville, except in wealth, of course."

“I acknowledge nothing of the sort. Seville
liked
you. He would have treated you like a queen, and given you anything you wanted, asking in return only that you look pretty and say smart things to show a clever lady could tolerate him. Ashington is a different article altogether. He wants you to adore him, to spend your time helping him puff himself up, yes, and he'd make you his copy girl in the bargain."

“He likes a little praise to be sure, who does not? But he would never ask me to waste my time copying for him. He thinks I write well."

“For a
lady.
And speaking of praise, how did you like Shilla? Isn't she charming? I like her better all the time."

“Yes, once I got over the description of her wanton way of draping herself over an Ottoman, I took to her a good deal. The first part must be radically altered though. You have put so much of an English nature into her, I doubt you'll pass her off as an Easterner at all. Could she be an English orphan who somehow got marooned in Turkey?"

“Possibly. That might be an idea. Have I told you her latest spree?” Prudence shook her head. “She's through with her prince, fickle creature. I no sooner get a crown rammed on his head than she turns pious on me, and is at present making up to a fakir the caravan chanced upon in Constantinople. An older man, and a hypocrite to boot. Fills her head with religious mumbo-jumbo, but he's only after her tender body."

“The beast. If she is to be a
bonne bouche,
as she calls it, for anyone, she would do better to stick with her prince. Do you think if you relented and gave her the chicken coop..."

“We've been all through that,” he shook his head. “I even promised to throw in a couple of geese and a duck, but she took it for a canard.” The hands went up in derision at his own poor pun.

“What a fowl—that's
f-o-w-l
thing to do."

“You don't have to spell it out to
me,
Miss Mallow. You are falling into bad habits with your new suitor. But I had better withdraw that, before you have a few words to say on the subject of bad habits yourself. Reverting to Shilla, it was my letting her away from the harem in the first place that did the mischief. All your fault. I followed your intuition."

“I had an inkling it might be laid at my door. I wonder you still care for her. Her attachment to the fakir seems enough to turn off any sensible fellow."

“I am conspicuously lacking in sense where women are concerned. I am taking her away for a holiday to see if I can bring her to reason."

“Usually works, does it?"

“Shrew. Wills is anxious to get her on the boards for the fall Season, and she's a long way from finished. There are too many distractions in London."

“Are you going home then, to Longbourne Abbey?"

“No, the Malverns have asked me to Finefields. I finished the last batch of my cantos there earlier."

“I see.” It was pretty generally known that he had done more than write his cantos there. Even Prudence had heard of his affair with Lady Malvern. “Are you sure you won't find distraction there waiting for you?” she asked pertly.

“Yes, Mama, quite sure. And I shan't drink to excess or stay up too late either. You refer, I collect, to the Countess. The rumours of my indecent affairs are grossly exaggerated, Prudence. I am not quite the lecher I am made out.” He looked at her long and searchingly as he said this, as if to reinforce his meaning.

“It is none of my business. I had no right to infer..."

“No, and no right to look at me last night as though I were a ghost either. You looked—awful."

“I was merely surprised—coming on you so suddenly and unexpectedly. And I was very tired, too."

“So was I. In fact, I went straight home to bed. Alone,” he added the last word deliberately.

“Dammler!” she said impatiently, colouring quickly. “You know you should not say such things to me. It is quite improper.” Her eyes slid to the carefully closed door. Improper, too, for her to be here alone with him, cap or no.

“Surely my specifying I was alone saves it from any taint of depravity,” he said, following her eyes to the door and smiling.

“It is exactly what makes it wrong, and you know it well. The question ought not to have arisen."

“I thought it
had
arisen in your mind, however, and wished to remove the doubt. The statement, in short, was unexceptionable, and the fault lies in yourself.
'Honi soit qui mal y pense,'
as our polyglot friend the Doctor would say, if he had the wit. We have established by repeating two or three times with no foundation that you are a baggage, Prudence, and you have just confirmed it. If you were half the prude you let on you are, your mind would not have coloured my innocent statement red."

“I was a prude—a proper lady, I mean,” she corrected as his smile widened into a grin, “until I met you. It is you with your voluptuous harem girls and double-entendres
and so on
that has been the undoing of me."

“I wouldn't say you're quite undone yet,” he said rather seriously, but he was never serious for long, and was soon back teasing her. “Have I not a dozen times hinted you off from rakes and roués, and pointed out the danger of an excess of flowers and diamonds?"

"Yes,
and brought more mischief into my study than ever you kept out of it."

“I
do
apologize for Ashington. I ought not to have inflicted that bore on you."

“He is the least reprehensible person you have introduced me to."

“God knows he is reprehensible enough."

“If you pass me in the streets two years hence hanging on some Cit's arm, wearing the title Phyrne, I hope you will feel at least a pang of guilt."

“My sweet conscience, don't say such
appalling
things to me,” he laughed uncomfortably. “Emotional blackmail is the lowest form of trick. Still, I had rather see you in that title than Mrs. Ashington. I would not think you so utterly lost to any chance of temporal happiness."

“I suspect our ideas of happiness are as divergent as those of love."

“You are bringing me round to a more proper notion of love. You and Shilla between you. I remember what
you
said, and she might give me her views while I am at Finefields with her."

“And Lady Malvern."

“And
Lord
Malvern. Your baser nature obtrudes again, Prudence. I'll escape before you make me sign a pledge of chastity, like a priest or nun. May I see you once again before I leave? Tomorrow..."

“Yes, surely."

“Morning or afternoon—which is convenient for you?"

“Either one. Say morning."

“Morning. Don't I say it well? Obedient as a puppy, you see. Adieu, Prudence."

She shook her head at his foolishness and they parted, restored to perfect amity and only an empty feeling of sadness clinging with Prudence at the prospect of her study being deprived of mischief in the near future. Looking around at it, she remembered their different visits— strange how it shrank to a prison when Ashington was there with the door wide open, and expanded to a universe when Dammler came in and closed the door behind him. She hardly knew what to make of this last visit. His anger was still not explained to her complete satisfaction. He obviously hated Ashington—she had not known that when the matter of the articles had arisen, but was coming to understand it after her evening at the drama lecture. She was beginning to dread the sight of Ashington herself, and his learning was impressing her less than formerly. Why was his company so dull, when he knew so much? But then, whose company would not be dull after Dammler? A vision of his laughing face floated before her eyes. She would always picture Dammler laughing. So happy, joking, even swearing when he shouldn't before her, and saying outrageous things. But with a serious side, too—his charity girls, his talk now of politics, and leaving ... He wouldn't ask her to Longbourne, of course. Once he got away he'd forget her, find new friends. She was merely a part of one episode of his life—of this one spring. She'd never forget or regret it, never be the same person after knowing him and all the different aspects of life he had exposed her to. Well, she was the better for the experience, but how she dreaded the future.

Dammler had every intention of calling on Miss Mallow before leaving for Finefields. To amuse her, he even drew up a ridiculous charter of behaviour, promising not to drink, gamble or
so on
during his visit, and intended to extract a similar document from her. He had it in his pocket when he went to see Murray to consult with him on business before leaving, and became involved in a longer meeting than he hoped for. It was suddenly lunch time, and too late to call on Prudence before afternoon. She had not seemed particular when he came, so he went to a club with Murray without a worry of missing her.

Back at Grosvenor Square, Prudence sat waiting impatiently, pretending to work while looking at the clock every ten minutes. What a fool I am, she thought. He will not come at all. It won't be the first time he has broken an appointment. He had lied to me before too—she recalled his pretending to have read her book when she knew well he had given it to Hettie unread. As to saying he meant only to work at Finefields, that surely had not even been intended to be taken seriously. Why should he go to Finefields to work, when his own place would be more private, surely more agreeable for
work.
She felt her anger to be unfair. If a famous celebrity, a bachelor and a lord, chose to conduct his life in the same manner as his peers, who was
she
to take offence? It was impertinent of her to take such an officious interest in his private life, and impossible not to.

She was called to lunch, and before she left the table a note was given into her hands. Her heart hurried at receiving it, and settled back to a dull thud when she discovered the spiderly scrawl of Dr. Ashington.

“Which of your beaux is sending you a billet-doux?” Clarence asked.

“It is not a love letter, Uncle. It is from Dr. Ashington."

“Wants to do another piece on you, does he?"

“No. It is a curious note. He wants me to meet him at Hatchard's. What can it be, I wonder? It sounds quite urgent—'as soon as possible'—he ‘would not impose on my good nature but for knowing my interest in his work.’ It must be someone he wants me to meet—some writer, I suppose, or something of the sort."

“Lord Dammler has not come yet,” Mrs. Mallow reminded her.

“No, he was to drop by this morning. Odd he did not come, but this sounds quite urgent. I think I must go. Perhaps—I hope I shall be back before Dammler comes."

“We'll ask him to stay,” Clarence assured her. “It will be a chance for him to see around my studio."

Prudence dashed off without even finishing her lunch to Hatchard's in her uncle's carriage—always available to her when her errand involved a well-known person. Dr. Ashington awaited her at the door of the shop and asked her carriage to wait.

“Miss Mallow, how kind of you to come!” Ashington took her arm and led her inside.

“What is it you want, Doctor? Why did you ask me to come? I am agog with curiosity."

“I should not have asked you. I feel guilty about it but I hoped you might help me out of a difficulty."

“I shall be happy to if I can.” She was more curious by the minute. What could it be?

“The fact is, I brought Mama out to select some books, and she has taken a weak spell. She seldom leaves the house, and it was too much for her."

“Oh, is she ill? I hope she has not fallen."

“No, no, it is not that bad. Just a fainting spell, but the matter is, I have an appointment, and am unable to take her home. Her falling ill has detained us and upset our schedule."