Kasey Michaels (26 page)

Mention of his mistress had stopped Simon in his tracks, and he wheeled about to look down at Armand. “You’re right. Miss Johnston doesn’t need that complication. I’d forgotten all about the woman. Dammit, she will be expecting me tonight, and I’ll want to be running Filton to ground, start emptying his pockets.”

He thought for a moment, pleased that his head had begun to clear. “Sheila has always found you attractive, Armand,” he then said, his tone deliberately conversational. “I mean, there
is
our plan for Filton to consider?”

“
Our
plan, Simon?” Armand smiled. “When did my few lessons to you on the art of card sharping turn this adventure into
our
plan?”

“You taught Simon how to
cheat
?” Bartholomew exclaimed, clearly upset. “You really did? Oh, I don’t think that’s quite fair. Do you?”

“Not cheating, or at least not precisely. Only how to recognize how it is being done, and when,” Simon corrected, longing to be upstairs and soaking in a hot tub. “I have no doubts as to my ability to best Filton in a fair game, but Armand decided I needed a bit of an
edge
if I wanted to bring the man down while he was fuzzing the cards.”

“And
we
—as this is now
our
plan—want Filton fleeced, disgraced, and out of the city before our dear Miss Johnston’s advent into society, yes?” Armand asked, shooing Simon toward the door. “Now, let’s be on with it. The sooner Noel Kinsey is out of the way the sooner I can watch the real fun. And no amount of tutoring, my good friend, is going to save you in that coming contest.”

“Armand, I’m warning you—”

“Oh, and I’ll keep the estimable Lady Lloyd amused for you,” Armand interrupted, then looked to Bartholomew. “Next week, Bones can take his turn with the dear woman. Right, Bones?”

They both looked to Bartholomew—who was sitting in his chair, his mouth agape.

“Bones?” Simon asked facetiously. “Aren’t you going to say anything?

Bartholomew closed his jaws with a snap, opened his mouth again, held up a finger as if about to make a point, then just shook his head and swallowed down the last of his wine.

“Now,
that’s
refreshing,” Armand drawled as the last of Simon’s headache drained away.

Roberts handed the viscountess her fan just as she was saying, “You know, with that fire going, it’s deuced hot in here, and—” Clearly happy at having once more anticipated Her Ladyship’s needs before she could voice them, he bowed his head in Callie’s direction, acknowledging her silent applause at his quick thinking.

“He’s getting much too good at that, and entirely too pleased with himself because of it,” Imogene groused as Roberts, a sprightly spring in his step, exited the drawing room, leaving the viscountess, Callie, and Lester gathered intimately around the tea tray. Lester had opted out of remaining downstairs in the dining room with the viscount and his two male guests, who had spent the majority of the day in Portland Place.

Callie was still nervous. She’d been nervous all through dinner, especially as Armand Gauthier kept looking at her quizzically even as Bartholomew Boothe had simply
looked
at her—barely taking his eyes off her throughout the entire soup course. It was as if Bones either expected her to pick up the bowl and drink from it or if, between taking a last look at herself before leaving her chamber and coming down to dinner, unbeknownst to herself, she had somehow managed to grow a second head.

It was all very mysterious, but did serve to keep her occupied, so that she had little time to look down the table to where Simon sat at its head. He ate sparingly, sipped plain water, spoke seldom, and fairly well looked as if he had spent the last two days being just as confused and miserable as she had been herself.

Which thought, so far, had turned out to be the highlight of her day.

“His Lordship doesn’t look well, does he?” she asked as the viscountess handed her a teacup. “He barely touched his red mullet with Cardinal sauce, which was delicious. And he was very quiet during all of dinner which, although a welcome change from his pontificating, became almost disconcerting once it became noticeable. Perhaps a tonic is in order?”

“Hah!” the viscountess snorted, touching a hand to her bright yellow tresses—she had balked at the last moment when Madame Yolanda had suggested a lovely soft brown more suited to Her Ladyship’s advancing years. “It’s not a tonic that boy needs, but a good clap upside his head. As if diving into a bottle ever did a man any good at all, and so I told his father the day after he learned that I’d discovered he’d been sending posies to a little dancer in Covent Garden. Cheeky little thing, with two of her front teeth still sticking out when she clamped her jaws shut. Never did understand the attraction, frankly. But you remember that, dear—a good boxing of the ears never fails to get their attention. Lester—would you be so good as to open a window? There’s a dear.”

The viscountess snapped open her fan and began waving it beneath her chin. “Of course, the little dancer was
before
I gave the dear man that good clap on his ear. We were married two weeks later and he never looked anywhere else until the day he died, rest his soul,” she ended, winking at Callie, who sensed another bit of matchmaking hints about to be headed in her direction.

But Lester, bless him, saved her. “How would one do that, my lady?” he inquired, obviously with genuine interest. “Close one’s mouth and still have her teeth showing? You mean like
fangs
? Callie, what has
fangs
? Lions? Tigers? My God—
snakes
! Is her ladyship funning again, Callie? She has to be funning, doesn’t she?”

The viscountess rolled her eyes at Callie, then looked at Lester in some affection as she retrieved a lace-edged handkerchief from between her prodigious breasts and began pressing it lightly to her temples. Her liking for Lester was obvious as well as understandable. After all, she and he were kindred spirits—at least gastronomically. Why, she had even gifted him with another new suit of clothes, to thank him for bringing Scarlet home to her.

“Don’t think about it, Lester, dear,” Imogene advised kindly, still fanning her flushed face. “Such deep thoughts will only hurt your head. Think instead to our upcoming battle of beggar my neighbor. I’ve won the past three nights, you know, so it should be your turn to have some luck with the cards. Either that, or it’s time for a new game. I do so love playing games.”

Mention of card-playing sent Callie’s mind winging back to Noel Kinsey—the still-absent Noel Kinsey—and her plans for the bounder, which had already been too long delayed.

“Will Mr. Pinabel be returning tomorrow, Imogene?” she asked, remembering the upcoming ball and the fact that she had yet to master the waltz. Not that she would be allowed to waltz in any case, until she had been to Almack’s and received permission from the patronesses. But they were rapidly running out of time, as her voucher to Almack’s had arrived this afternoon—a coup Imogene had pulled off somehow and had not been shy to crow about for nearly an hour, barely taking time out to breathe.

Not that the woman could take a single deep breath in those stays she continued to wear, even as she continued to eat and eat and eat. Callie bit her bottom lip as she looked at the viscountess, who was sitting very straight in her chair, unable to bend because of the whalebone that was sewn into the corset Kathleen had laced so tightly around her midsection.

At the moment, the viscountess was sitting with a prune pastry halfway to her lips, looking at it as if it might have worms and begin moving at any time She looked rather pale all of a sudden, a considerable change from her earlier, more robust color, so, that her rouge stood out vividly against her ashen cheeks. There was a thin sheen of perspiration beginning to appear across her forehead, along her upper lip.

“Imogene? Are you all right?” Callie asked nervously, fatalistically, and fairly sure she knew what was coming. She motioned for Lester to move over to the couch and sit close beside the older lady. It was probably the second prune pastry. Lord knew one was enough for anyone after the meal they’d just ingested. “Imogene?”

“Warmer and warmer,” the viscountess remarked in a singsong voice, blinking as she smiled at Callie. “And all the pretty colors...”

“Hard to port! Catch her Lester!” Callie ordered, hopping up from her own chair as Imogene’s smile faded and her eyes rolled up into her head. Picking up her skirts, she then ran to the hallway, and the head of the stairs, to see Simon and his friends climbing toward her. “Simon—Imogene’s fainted!” she called out, then turned on her heels and raced back into the drawing room to see Lester pinned between the raised arm of the couch and an unconscious viscountess.

“Undo her stays,” Simon ordered as he ran into the room, obviously taking in the problem at a glance but unwilling to do the deed himself as long as there was a female present who could manage such a personal chore for him.

“With all of you standing here?” Callie sniped, glaring at him. “Oh, she’d like that, I’m sure. For pity’s sake, Simon, rescue Lester and then send everyone away. And have someone fetch Kathleen.”

Things happened very quickly after that. Imogene was hauled back into a sitting position by her loving son while Armand and Bartholomew rescued a gasping Lester from being crushed under the woman’s deadweight, which was considerable. The three men then left the room, or escaped it—that depended, Callie supposed, on who was doing the describing of their actions. Simon knelt on the floor in front of his mother, balancing her bulk against him so that Callie could reach over the back of the couch and begin undoing buttons and laces.

“This is the second time in two days, as I heard how she fainted in your rooms yesterday,” Simon complained, as one of the viscountess’s headdress feathers poked him in the eye. “Why in God’s name she persists with this nonsense—”

“We both know why she’s doing it,” Callie interrupted, grumbling under her breath as her fingers encountered a large knot in the corset strings. Then, realizing she couldn’t tell the truth, revealing Imogene’s rather earthy reasons for the stays—how could she possibly tell the son that the mother longed to be bedded?—she took refuge in some quick half-truths. “She doesn’t want to be a dowager and thinks she needs to look young and lovely to catch herself a husband. For a while, she thought she’d be happy enough with the title if you married me—she likes me, you understand, and believes I wouldn’t banish her to the dower house—and the stays came off. But they’re back now, and with a vengeance.”

She stopped to glare at him for a moment. “Can’t you at least hold her steady? I’m having the devil’s own trouble with these laces.”

“We can always exchange places,” Simon offered from between clenched teeth as his mother’s considerable upper body, clad in its yolk yellow satin gown, folded over him like a viscount omelet. “So then you’re saying she isn’t still dreaming her dreams about making a match between the two of us? I don’t believe that,” he ended flatly.

“Neither do I,” Callie bit out as she returned her attention to the laces. “She still sees the two of us as fated for each other. And, much as I adore her, I can’t seem to shake her from the notion. However,” she said, remembering to tell embarrassing lies Simon would easily believe in order to protect Imogene, “with the two of us being so silly as to not yet see what she finds to he so clear, she says she’ll once again settle for nothing less than a marriage of her own that saves her from being labeled an old woman. Not that I believe that, either. I think she wants to
shame
us into marrying, saving her from a life spent swooning face first into the pudding or fainting dead away while taking the air in the park.”

“Can you both talk
and
work?” Simon asked tightly, trying his best to keep his mother from sliding to the floor. “This satin is slippery, and the very devil to work with, trying to keep her from falling.”

“Certainly,” Callie bit out as she felt an unreasonable anger growing inside her, digging her index finger underneath yet another taut ribbon. They hadn’t spoken in two days, and now they were talking about Imogene? How dare he! Men! They were totally without feeling! “Besides, I’m almost finished with both. Now, as I was saying—
and
, while all of that aforementioned silliness does everything to explain her hair... and her corsets... and her ridiculous feathers... and her
slippery
gowns,” Callie said, breathing heavily as she worked the long row of tight laces free one by one, “it does less than nothing to explain her prodigious consumption of red mullet... and oyster paté... and green goose... and sugared fruit... and mounds and mounds of Scarlet’s chocolate—
there
! I’ve got them all! You can lay her back now.”

Callie, now nearly breathless herself, leaned heavily over the back of the couch, her forearms resting on the carved wooden back, looking down at the viscountess as she lay propped on the pillows, a faint hint of color appearing in the older woman’s cheeks once more as she slowly came back to consciousness.

Imogene began moving her head from side to side, moaning softly. Then her eyelids fluttered open.