Kate Noble (9 page)

“I, uh, I beg your pardon, sir,” the housekeeper said, stooping into a curtsy, “but might I have a word with Miss Alton?”

Evangeline nodded, and Max, receiving his signal, bowed to her and walked back along the narrow path toward the fountain.

“Mrs. Bibb, I know it seems strange, my being here alone with…”

That was all Max could hear. The housekeeper took over the conversation in a series of furtive whispers. Max tried not to eavesdrop, but he didn’t want Evangeline to be scolded or belittled in any way for her actions this evening, and so found himself straining to hear what was being said.

A few moments later, Evangeline burst through the thicket of branches that hid the path from the fountain.

“I have to go,” she stated, her manner completely changed. She was brisk, worried. “I’m very sorry, but there is a pressing matter I must see to.”

“Please tell me you’re not in trouble. I didn’t intend to cause you any difficulty,” Max whispered, his concern genuine.

Her expression softened. “Oh no, nothing of the sort. But I have to attend to something.”

He closed the gap between them and ventured so far as to take her free hand.

“May I claim a dance with you later?”

“I’m sorry, but I doubt I’ll be dancing anymore this evening.”

Max would have taken that as a setback, except that she squeezed his hand as she said it. She was truly worried about something, and just as truly sorry to have missed the chance to dance with him.

“Then may I call upon you and your father tomorrow?” Max asked, holding her hand firmly, afraid that if he lost the connection, it would be he himself who was lost.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Please do.”

Max took the delicate gloved hand to his mouth, kissed it with a reverence reserved for cherished objects. His sharp gaze never left her as she disappeared through the thicket of the path, like mist in the air.

Max didn’t remember leaving the conservatory. He didn’t remember strolling through the ballroom, thick with dancers and the merry spirit of wine and song. Didn’t remember retrieving Will, who was backed up against a wall like a startled fawn, forced to listen to the never tiring font of ignorance that was Mrs. Plimpton, while her daughter did a respectable imitation of a statue. What he did remember was a lovely mouth, a sweet smile, and a pair of brilliant golden…no, blue eyes.

“This is it, Holt!” Max said, slapping his friend on the shoulder once he had quickly and safely ushered them into his friend’s carriage.

“What is it? And where did you disappear to for a half hour?” Will said, crossing his arms, petulantly. “I had to listen to every word that old biddy had to say about how this Season’s neckline was indecent, especially for her ‘pure, virtuous daughter.’ It doesn’t take that long to save one girl from a young cad’s intentions.”

“Beg pardon?” Max said, not knowing for a moment of whom Will spoke, his mind was much otherwise engaged. “Oh, that. Yes, that took hardly any time at all—and it doesn’t matter now anyway. I’ve done it! I’ve found her! The hunt is over, I found one female in this town worth pursuing!”

Will looked at his friend, utter disbelief on his face. “Who?”

ROMILLA
burst through the doors of the newly butter-yellow bedroom Gail claimed as her own. There she saw quite the tableau. Sitting on the bed was a very green-faced Gail, holding a porcelain bowl in her arms, while Evangeline, still startling in her ivory dress, her sleeve torn, busied herself by smoothing back Gail’s fallen locks of hair and keeping a wet cloth to her sister’s forehead.

“What on earth is going on here? Girls, why aren’t you downstairs? The house full of guests—Evangeline, what happened to your dress? Your dance partners are asking after you.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, er, Mother,” Evangeline said, “but you see Gail has fallen quite ill.”

A wave of genuine motherly concern came over Romilla as she rushed to the bedside.

“Ill? My dear girl, what’s wrong? What has made you feel so poorly?”

“I don’t know,” Gail answered weakly. Romilla worried her lower lip, leaned in to feel Gail’s forehead, and caught a whiff of a suspicious aroma on Gail’s breath and dress. Romilla drew back quickly, frustration and annoyance replacing any concern in her voice.

“Ill,” she stated flatly. “Well of course you’re ill—you smell like the inside of a whiskey barrel.”

“Ma’am?” Evangeline questioned. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Never fear, Evangeline. Abigail will survive. It’s a sickness she’ll soon get over. Your sister has gotten herself drunk. Quite in her cups. Oh, how could she? God forbid anyone hear about this—we’ll be the laughingstock of Society before you can say
scotch.
”

“Drunk?!” Evangeline exclaimed. “No! Gail has never had a drink of liquor in her life!”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Romilla replied. She went to the pale, hunched form of her incorrigible stepchild. “Abigail! What did you have to drink? And how much?”

She was answered by a horrible retching, followed by a splash in the porcelain bowl.

Gail lifted her head.

“I swear,” she said, her voice breaking miserably on each word, “I only had punch.”

“
THAT
girl is lying. There was absolutely nothing intoxicating in that punch. It’s from my own recipe!” Romilla exclaimed to her husband, indignant at the very thought of her punch being the cause of all the trouble. She was still seething the morning after the ball.

Following Romilla’s diagnosis of inebriation, Evangeline had staunchly refused her stepmother’s firm request that she go back down and join the merrymaking. She said she was quite sure there was no one left she cared to dance with in any case. Romilla had wheedled, cajoled, and outright demanded that Evangeline release Gail to the tender care of Mrs. Bibb, but Evangeline would not be persuaded to leave her sister’s side. Romilla had eventually thrown up her hands at this display of sisterly devotion, convinced in her own rightness that Evangeline should be as outraged as she, and Gail was to blame for every wrong thing in this world, from influenza to the French.

Of course, Romilla calmed herself quickly. It was extremely judgmental to blame the girl for all of society’s ills—besides, the French were their own problem. Taking herself back downstairs, Romilla rationalized her thoughts. Gail had been extremely nervous before the ball, this being her first outing in London Society; the parties in Portugal and Paris had been quite small and intimate compared to this grandest of events. Romilla could understand if she had had a nip or two of something to calm her nerves. But to claim she had only had punch! Romilla felt her ire work itself back up again. The least the child could do was be honest!

Which was exactly what she was saying to her husband in the library the following morning. She was supposed to be guiding the girls through their first morning of callers, but Gail was still abed, and Romilla was so upset she had abandoned Evangeline to Miss Nesbitt’s spinsterly chaperonage in the drawing room while taking calls from eager young gentlemen.

“Drunkenness is unpardonable! Abigail is unpardonable!” Romilla said in a huff. “It’s as if…are you even listening to me?”

Sir Geoffrey sat behind his desk, his thumb idly tapping the arm of his chair, his eyes straying to the paper in front of him. Romilla stopped mid-sentence, jostling her husband into looking at her. What he saw was a woman who could not be placated. Romilla was spitting mad, and she would be hanged if he thought he was going to read the paper today.

“Yes, dear,” he sighed. “I’m paying attention.”

MAX
was admitted to the foyer of the Alton household in high hopes. In his hand, he carried a bunch of white-belled flowers, as close to the trailing vines Miss Alton had shown him in the conservatory as he could find in London’s hothouses. He had barely slept a wink the night before in anticipation of meeting Evangeline again and presenting his rather hasty request to her father. He was about to do something he could hardly believe—asking a man permission to court his daughter. It was a day that had to arrive in any gentleman’s life. And Max liked Evangeline, he truly did. She was perfection incarnate. Surely this feeling he was stepping off a cliff would pass.

Max handed his overcoat to the butler, a very formal and disapproving-looking fellow, who placed it in a cupboard with several other gentlemen’s coats and hats. It suddenly struck Max that he must not be the only caller this morning. All the young gentlemen who’d had chance to dance with the Alton daughters were sure to be vying for their attention, and the rest of the day would be filled with visits to and from other ladies. Such was life in the world of the Ton. Absolutely no time to yourself to sneak out to the conservatory.

The butler turned imperiously and started toward the drawing room. Max followed, but was brought to a jolting stop by the sounds coming from behind a set of wide-paneled doors across the hall.

“Her behavior last night was absolutely scandalous!”

The heated female voice made Max wince. Obviously, the new Lady Alton was in a great temper about something.

“I’m not disagreeing with you, dear,” came Sir Geoffrey’s deep rumble, “but…”

“Could you believe a young lady could act so outrageously,
at her debut ball no less
?”

Max froze in his tracks. Evangeline had assured him that she would be perfectly all right, that she wouldn’t be in trouble for being alone with him in the garden. But now, having heard those snippets of conversation, Max knew she had been wrong. Her parents, her stepmother in particular, were in a froth over it.

Max looked from the drawing room door, where the butler stood waiting to show him in, to the other door across the hall where the emanating sounds had been quelled to murmurs. He made his decision.

“Do you have a pencil?”

The butler looked at him curiously before reaching into his pocket and producing a short nubbed pencil. Max took a calling card out of his own pocket and scribbled a quick note on the back. He handed the trailing white flowers and the card to the butler.

“Please see that Miss Alton receives these immediately. I’ll wait right here for a reply.”

The butler took the bundle, barely sniffing at his peculiar behavior.

“Yes sir.”

And with one quick glance over his shoulder the butler disappeared into the drawing room. Max caught a glimpse of a light blue room filled with flowers, morning sunlight, and too many gentlemen for his peace of mind. But he couldn’t worry about that right now. It would only be a few moments before the butler returned, and he would rather not have to explain himself to the formidable family retainer.

Max quickly crossed the hall, and knocked on the wide paneled doors.

GAIL
lay very, very still. The bed curtains were drawn. The window curtains were drawn. The covers were drawn up over her head. Sunlight was the enemy. As was noise, food, and any movement whatsoever. But she was awake. She had woken up just after dawn and tried to fall back asleep, but it was no use. Her body wouldn’t allow herself the luxury. But she couldn’t get out of bed—not now, not ever. Her head was pounding with such force that she was certain any sudden movement would dislodge her brain. She wasn’t going to be riding QueenBee today, that was certain.

At the thought of QueenBee, her mind automatically followed a course from her horse, to the black horse that had nearly run her over, to its rider. Gail cringed—which hurt.

At least she knew his name now: Maximillian Something Something Fontaine, future Earl of Longsbowe. Oh, how could she have acted so damned stupidly? She had been doing so well, she had dressed appropriately, and she had spoken and danced with at least three gentlemen. But then her natural tendency for disaster had to strike. Getting drunk was bad enough, but to be rescued by
him
?

And he’s a peer of the realm, a Viscount, an Earl-to-be! Doubtless Max took no small pleasure in telling any and all of the guests last night that the young lady who was so abominably rude to him a few weeks earlier had gotten completely in her cups, nearly assaulted, and then cast up accounts all over his shoes.

A tear leaked out of the corner of her eye. One day,
one day
out in London society, and she ruined it all.

She lay like that for hours, unable to think beyond her own misery. And rightly so, too! How much damage had she done to her own reputation? How much had she embarrassed her father, Evangeline, even Romilla…

Gail cringed, and then cringed again at the pain the first cringe caused in her forehead. Movement was tricky.

Romilla. Gail certainly remembered that her stepmother had been on an awful tear the night before about the punch. Hindsight was always annoyingly clear, and Gail could now see that young Ommersley was certainly no gentleman, and had likely tampered with the refreshments he was so diligent in procuring for her. Gail fumed. She dearly wanted to give that overentitled, unscrupulous little twit his comeuppance, but would have to think of exactly how later. The bloody nose Lord Fontaine had delivered would certainly not suffice.

As Gail’s brain threatened to loop back onto Max again, suddenly, the deafening squeak of door hinges exploded in her brain, followed by the positively earsplitting noise of someone bustling about the hearth.

“Please…not so loud,” she croaked out, her voice muffled to a whisper by all the cotton taking up residence in her mouth.

Sunlight burned a path into Gail’s tortured eyes when Mrs. Bibb unceremoniously pulled the bed curtains back.

“Ah! Good mornin’, Miss Gail!” Mrs. Bibb proclaimed cheerily, as Gail turned her frail head away from the light. “Glad to see yer awake. Quite a night you had, I’m surprised you dinna sleep till nightfall.”

“Please…” Gail whispered, “just let me die.”

Mrs. Bibb clucked her tongue. “Miss Gail, you always did have a knack for dramatics.”

Then, the loving housekeeper flung back the feathered quilts on the bed, forcing Gail to curl into a ball to keep warm.

“Now,” she began blithely while opening the windows, letting in a mild spring breeze. “All you need is some fresh air. Lord, you think yer the first person to feel their head after a night of too many? Stuff and nonsense, missy. Now, as I was sayin’, you just need some fresh air, a hot bath”—Gail looked bleary-eyed to the hearth where two maids were filling a copper tub with steaming water—“and, of course,
this
.”

Mrs. Bibb brought forth a tray, upon which sat a glass full of the vilest looking liquid Gail had ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on.

“What on earth is that?” Gail blurted out, eyeing the glass with clear distain and rising nausea. “Blood?” she ventured cautiously.

“Lord, you are a silly girl some days!” Mrs. Bibb proclaimed. “It’s none but tomatoes, an egg, some other kitchen things, and a bit o’ hair of the dog.”

“There’s dog hair in it?!” Gail looked aghast.

“Miss Gail, no!” Mrs. Bibb sighed, exasperated. “By that I mean a bit of the liquor you took upon yourself to guzzle last evenin’! It’s a time-tested true cure for your complaints this morning. No dog hair, no blood. I swear on the grave of my dear Mr. Bibb.”

Whenever Mrs. Bibb’s late husband’s grave was brought into the picture, her word was solid as scripture. But still, the drink looked absolutely evil.

“Now,” Mrs. Bibb was saying, “drink up, hop into that tub, and you’ll feel right as rain in no time.”

Oh, she couldn’t. She nearly lost her stomach just looking at it.

“Please,” Gail begged, “may I just stay in bed today? Papa will understand.”

Mrs. Bibb’s eyes narrowed. “Your papa might let you lay about”—her voice had the steeled edge that Gail knew not to ignore—“but I guarantee her ladyship would’na stand for it. She told me if yer not downstairs in a half hour’s time, she’s comin’ to get you herself. And she won’t be as nice as me, miss. If you think she was displeased last night, you donna want to see her this mornin’.”

Gail didn’t have to be told twice.

Nothing could have induced her to move faster than avoidance of the scolding she was bound to receive from her stepmother. Gail would do anything if it meant she could feel well and presentable enough to leave this room before Romilla entered it.

She took the glass, and with a murmured toast of “cheers” to Mrs. Bibb, Gail mustered her courage, and swallowed the contents in one long gulp.

“
IT
will be impossible to get the girls vouchers for Almack’s now—”

Romilla’s fevered rant was interrupted by a knock on the library doors.

“Oh, what now?” she cried. “I told Morrison not to disturb us unless it was particularly important!”

“Well, if I knew there was a ‘do not disturb’ order in place, I would have found a way to use our time to better advantage,” Sir Geoffrey replied, giving his wife a distinctly lusty look as he crossed to the door. As peeved as she was by her husband’s flippancy while she was trying to discuss something of great import, Romilla could not help but flush.

“Morrison, I hope this is urg…” Sir Geoffrey’s voice died as he opened the door. Lord Fontaine stood, his back straight, hands at his sides, his face a picture of noble surrender.

“Uh, Lord Fontaine, isn’t it? Lost your way to the drawing room, have you?” Sir Geoffrey inquired.

“No, Sir Geoffrey. I do apologize for interrupting your private conversation,” he said as he made a sharp bow to Sir Geoffrey and then Romilla, as she joined her husband at the door. “But I’m afraid what I have to say will bear weight on your discourse.”

Lord Fontaine paused, but since neither of his audience made a sound (beyond some raised eyebrows—which don’t make much noise in the first place) he took a breath and said, “I am the man who compromised your daughter last evening.”

THERE
were so many flowers, the maids were having trouble finding enough vases to hold them. Evangeline had never seen such a quantity in her life—it was like a sea of color. She sat on a marvelously sculpted sofa in the blue drawing room, papered and furnished to match her eyes and complement her complexion. Surrounding her were fields of peonies, daisies, daffodils, tulips, day lilies, but most of all roses and roses and roses. All in complex arrangements, all from the best hothouses. The blooms were as showy as the gentlemen that surrounded them tried to be.