Lady Fiasco, A Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt) (10 page)

“Ha! They tolerated it well enough coming from you.”

“I’m not a deb.”

“No, but you’re a foreigner.”

“I
am not
a foreigner!” He thumped his glass down on the side table. “You know perfectly well my mother was English. For pity sake, I was raised in England.
You
raised me. I do wish you would stop using that tired old quip when you run out of arguments. We both know Fiona has over-extended her credit. Nothing for it, but to send her back to the country where she belongs.”

“Nonsense. Can’t you see? She’s wasted in the country. Let Prinny decide the matter. Apart from that, I have no doubt that her credit can stand today’s adventure and tenfold more.” Honore stood up and shook out her skirts. “After all, she’s not just any debutante, she’s
my
protégée.”

“So, she is.” Marcus seethed. “I nearly forgot.”

* * *

“Will she recover?” Fiona leaned next to the doctor while he fussed with a listening cone at Lorraine’s back.

“Yes, as nearly as I can tell through this wet dress,” he answered sourly. “Provided she doesn’t get pneumonia, or lung fever, or consumption. I’ll need to observe her closely.”

A commotion sounded in the hallway and her aunt burst into the room with Lord Wesmont standing behind her.

“There you are my dear!” Honore swished across the floor and laid her gloved hand against Fiona’s cheek. “I’ve been worried half out of my mind. Marcus told me the most alarming story-and now I see it is all too true. How dreadful for you. Come dear, I’ll take you back to the palace. My carriage is just outside the door.”

The physician cleared his throat. “I’d advise against it m’lady. They’ve suffered a terrible trauma and I must watch them both for lung fever. Especially your maid, here.”

Honore’s laughter trilled through the room. “La, sir. I’m certain they are both quite fit.” She dug into her reticule and produced a gold coin. “Here you are. Now, come along, my dear.” She motioned for Fiona.

The doctor waved his hand in Lorraine’s direction. “But your maid, take a look at her, she should not be moved.”

Honore glanced back over her shoulder. “Come along Lorraine.”

The bedraggled woman obediently heaved herself off the cot and shuffled after Lady Alameda.

Tyrell leaned against the doorframe, his jaw flexing, and an unreadable expression on his face. Honore breezed past him without so much as a nod and Lorraine slogged after her.

Fiona stopped beside him, lifted her chin and whispered tight tones, “Consider your debt paid, my lord.”

Tyrell took no pains to guard his volume. “Listen carefully, my little seaweed princess, I’ll decide when my debts are paid. Not you.”

“Once again, how very presumptuous of you.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“And irritating.”

“As you say.” He brushed sand from his stained coat sleeve.

“Overbearing and detestable.” She huffed in an unladylike fashion.

“So I’ve been told.” The corners of his mouth curled up in an evil smirk. He was obviously pleased with himself.

Her hands knotted into fists. “You are truly the most arrogant, ungracious—” She couldn’t lay her tongue on a suitably degrading word. The one epitaph she finally found rang out sounding childish and weak. “Ogre!”

“What?” His eyebrows shot up in mock alarm. “You mean one of those big ugly hairy creatures with the bumpy noses?” He wriggled his fingers by his face and then slid one finger down his smooth straight patrician nose. “I think not.”

“Oh yes!” She stepped away from him. “A great loathsome ogre. And I never want to see you again.”

She mustered up as much dignity as she could while dripping seaweed and salt-water across the floor, and flounced away to her aunt’s carriage.

Chapter 10
Treason Is a Hanging Offense

T
he next evening Fiona stood mesmerized in the Pavilion. A hundred candelabras created a brilliant light in the Prince Regent’s huge ballroom. His band, from the Tenth Light Dragoons, played one of the Prince’s favorite Italian rococo melodies. Guests mingled in small clusters along the gilded walls and in the ornate vestibules as if they were brightly painted birds clustered in golden nests. Ladies wore purple and pink plumes, colorful shimmering silks, and on their arms and necks sparkled jewels of every kind.

His Royal Highness moved around the room greeting his guests and amusing each group with
on-dits
and witticisms.

Honore nudged Marcus. “See how he does not limp so heavily. His gout must not be bothering him this evening. How fortunate for Fiona that His Highness is in a good humor. Would you care to wager on her success?”

Fiona frowned at them, annoyed that they spoke of her as if she weren’t standing beside them.

“Fah. Look at the way he’s lurching. He’s not feeling the gout because he’s foxed. He’s one hiccup away from passing out. If he makes the connection, he’ll censor her, see if he doesn’t. Whoever heard of a lady diving off a pier. And to rescue a servant?” Marcus sniffed as if the air carried a foul scent. “Demmed peculiar, that’s what it is. He can’t like it.”

“We shall see.” Honore smiled.

Fiona did not share her aunt’s optimism. Marcus was probably right. Still, she hoped that the highest personage in the land would not send her packing in shame. Her only hope was that the incident had escaped his notice.

Prince George, decorated like an ornate red-and-white ship, drifted ever closer to their party. Beaded with sweat, he dabbed at his florid brow with a handkerchief and then stuffed it into the lace at his sleeve. Clearly, it cost him a great deal of discomfort just to travel from guest to guest. Yet, Fiona observed, he remained animated and jolly. Everyone smiled and laughed at his anecdotes and seemed genuinely amused.

When at last he came and stood before them flushed and beaming, Marcus bowed low. Fiona’s knees shook so badly they nearly collapsed as she and Honore sank into deep curtsies. With a tut-tut the Prince commanded them to rise. “Lady Alameda, a story has reached our ears. A story about this niece of yours.” He waggled his ringed fingers at Fiona.

Here it comes
. Fiona swallowed hard and struggled to keep her breathing regular as the Prince of England prepared to give her a set-down.

“We must know. Is it true? Did the gel jump off a pier to rescue a maidservant?”

“Oh yes, your Highness,” Honore gushed. “It is true. The maid who fell into the sea was my own personal dressier. My niece, knowing how much I rely upon the woman, did not hesitate. She dove into the crashing waves and pulled my maid all the way to shore, saving her from certain death. I don’t have to tell Your Highness how much it would have distressed me to think of my poor devoted servant being eaten by fish in a watery grave.”

The Regent, who obviously enjoyed a good story, nodded sympathetically. Then he lit up as if struck by a brilliant flash of inspiration. “What!” He declared, “What. What. The chit is a hero!”

He glanced around with delight. Other guests clustered around them. Assured of an audience, he launched into a loudly broadcast speech. “We do not think many men in our acquaintance would have attempted so daring a rescue.”

He beamed at the crowd, then turned and reached for Fiona’s hand. His corset creaked as he leaned forward and Fiona feared he would topple over onto her. But he grasped her hand and had lifted it up into the air. “Gentlemen, this young gel rescued Lady Alameda’s maid from the sea and in so doing has set us all a brave example.”

He put his hand over his heart and turned to her dramatically. “Oh, that We had been there. We would have leapt into the ocean and saved the woman m’self.”

Fiona, recognizing the climax to the Prince’s dramatic moment, lowered herself into a curtsy. Thus, she honored him and simultaneously left him to bask in the center stage glow.

Guests, as if on cue, began to murmur and exclaim over the Prince’s bravery, his amazing courage, and his equanimity in any situation.

Marcus did not comment, other than he release an exasperated puff of air. Fiona noted the corners of Honore’s mouth twitching up and down, obviously stifling a loud guffaw. Rather than laugh, her aunt blurted, “A more heroic monarch never lived!”

To which, other guests shouted, “Huzzah!” The Prince Regent basked in the praise of his guests. Beaming, he gestured for Fiona to rise. “We would be pleased to dance the first dance with our brave Miss Hawthorn.”

“I am profoundly honored, Your Highness.” In truth, she was not honored. She was mortified. Something dreadful was bound to happen. She wanted to throw herself at his feet and beg him not to dance with her.

However, Fiona had the good sense not to make a cake of herself and blubber all over His Majesty’s royal feet. The Prince Regent waved aside the crowd, and with regal pomp and a great many huffs and puffs, he escorted her to the middle of the ballroom floor. The guests all fell silent as the Prince raised his hand to signal the conductor of the Tenth Light Dragoons’ band.

“A waltz.” he shouted. “We shall have a waltz.”

“Oh, dear,” Fiona murmured.

The music started to play and the Prince Regent, with surprising agility, whirled her across the polished floor. Rivulets of sweat rolled down his jowls. Fiona tried her best to produce a smile that didn’t betray her teetering nerves. Glancing with feigned casualness over the Prince’s shoulder and out at the guests, her attention snapped sharply into focus when she caught sight of a familiar face with ice blue eyes staring back at her.

Tyrell
. Her feet faltered.

Prince George sputtered. “What? What? Just follow me, m’dear. Nothing to it. All be over soon enough.”

Fiona tried to compose herself. Where was the bravery the Prince had admired in her?
Gone
. Her knees turned to jelly and her wits to mincemeat. What was she doing on a dance floor with the Prince of England? And why,
WHY
, must the most aggravating man in all England stand on the sidelines watching her?

The Prince wobbled precariously as Fiona endeavored to correct her graceless footing.

“Here now.” He wheezed. “All this attention is unnerving you. We can’t have that.” He waved his hand at his guests along the wall, signaling them to join in the waltz.

As he waved his hand, his silken handkerchief slipped out of its hiding place in his sleeve and dropped to the polished floor beneath his feet. Time seemed to slow down to an unnatural crawl. Fiona watched, helplessly frozen, as the silky white kerchief fluttered down, and gracefully slid underneath the toe of Prince George’s shoe just as he stepped down.

The Prince’s foot skidded out from under him. His rotund body struck her with such force that it knocked Fiona off her feet and hurtled her backward, where she landed in a gentleman’s arms. The Prince Regent finished his spectacular somersault with frantically waving arms and flailing feet. He crashed, with a great thud, on his back in the middle of the ballroom floor.

Fiona caught her breath and looked up into Marcus’s astonished face. “Thank you for catching me.”

“I had nothing to do with it, I assure you. Not every day a young lady comes flying into your arms.” He pulled her to a standing position, patted her shoulder sympathetically. “Well, my girl, I’d say you’ve done it now. If diving off the pier didn’t put you in disgrace, nearly killing our monarch on the dance floor ought to do the trick. You’ll be deuced lucky if they don’t hang you.”

Fiona dashed out of the ballroom. She found her way to a small anteroom where she huddled in the corner to have a good cry. If only she could crawl under the Turkish carpet to hide. Everything had gone wrong.

Everything
.

Tears streamed down her face so hard she could scarcely catch her breath. At least, if the Prince hung her for attempted murder, her wretched life would come to an end.

After what seemed like only a handful of minutes, Aunt Honore stormed into the room with Marcus close behind. “Fiona! What is the meaning of this? How dare you run away like a sniveling coward?”

“I am a coward!” Fiona wiped angrily at her tears. “Perhaps you didn’t notice, but just now” —she pointed in the direction of the ballroom—“I nearly killed the Prince Regent. I have it on good authority, my lady, that murdering heads of state is a hanging offense. Naturally, no one would dream of chopping off your head, but I am not immune to charges of treason or—”

“Stop!” Honore stomped her foot and planted her hands firmly on her hips. “Don’t be ridiculous. Prinny is fine. He said so himself, not a moment ago, after he had enough of everyone gushing over him. When Lady Bessbourgh offered to make a mustard and garlic poultice for his bruises, he recovered with miraculous speed. Popped up and promptly took over conducting the musicians. He has all of his guests trying to keep pace with that dreadful German dance he’s chosen. Dukes and duchesses, one and all, are hopping and leaping around the room like a gaggle of mad rabbits”

Marcus shook his head. “My dear Honore,
gaggles
are
geese
, not rabbits. It’s a
warren
of rabbits. Or a
down
of hares.”

Honore stamped her foot again. “What are you prattling on about, Marcus? He has them jumping up, not down. Bouncing around like a pack of antelopes.”

“A herd of antelope—” Marcus shrugged and rolled his eyes. “Oh, never mind.”

Honore flicked open her fan and cooled her face. “In any event, by morning Prinny won’t even remember falling down.”

“Care to wager on that?” Marcus studied his fingernails and smiled archly at Honore.

Tears recommenced running down Fiona’s cheeks. “Marcus is right. I’ll catch the next mail-coach back to Timtree Corners. I should never have come.”

Honore’s grasped Fiona’s chin and forced her to look up. “No, you won’t. Dry up, child. I will not tolerate this missish behavior. I insist you reappear in that ballroom with your head held high and your eyes dry. I’ll not have you skulking in this room like an ordinary criminal. If you’re determined to be a criminal, at least put some backbone into it.”