Lady Fiasco, A Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt) (12 page)

“Never mind, I can never keep all those Greek heroes organized.” Honore waved at the air, swatting at bothersome Greek mythology as if it were an invisible fly.

Marcus shook his head. “For pity sake, Honore. They were not Greek—they were
Arabian
martyrs. Arabian brothers. The blighters were stoned, burned, and who knows what else. But in the end, they were beheaded.” He smirked at Honore and turned to Fiona. “It sounds as if Honore is promising you a delightful stay in London.”

Honore kicked her foot against Marcus’s calf. “You’re in a decidedly foul mood.”

“Yes!” he snapped. “You may credit it to the inhumane hour in which you chose to depart.”

“Oh fustian. Be happy. We are almost home.”

* * *

Hours later, the coach rolled up in front of Honore’s London town house. Fiona stared out of the window in wonder. The facade of her aunt’s townhouse resembled a Greek temple. Steps stretched across the entire face of the building and six sleek columns rose skyward, leading the eye up to the third-story dome.

Honore leapt out of the coach before the footman could let down the steps and rushed through the open door.

A woman’s voice boomed in greeting. “O’ me pet! Ye’re home!”

Fiona stepped timidly through the front door in time to observe Honore embracing a large Amazon-like woman whose square chunky features were framed by fire red hair tucked under a white cap. Apart from the green and blue tartan plaid draped over her husky shoulders, she was garbed entirely in crisp starched white.

“Let me have a look at ye,” cried the woman. She grasped Honore by the shoulders and turned her around. Clucking her tongue she asked, “What hae ye done to yer hair? It’s as purple as a plum.”

“It’s red, Mattie, deep red. I wanted a change.”

“Nae, child, that’s not red. Red be this color here on me old head.” She bent down and pointed at her hair. Then planting both hands on her hips, she frowned. “Tha’s purple hair, Luv. Purple as an old lady’s bruise. It ain’t natural fer hair.”

“Piffle. I don’t give a fig for natural. Don’t dust up over it. Come and see what I have brought us.”

“Ah. The Lass has come wi’ ye, hasn’t she? An’ this be her.” Mattie motioned for Fiona to draw nearer. Both women paced around her as if appraising a new piece of furniture.

“Did I not tell you, Mattie? She’s a rare one, isn’t she?” Honore clapped her hands together.

Mattie nodded. “Aye, but not so like ye as ye supposed. Nay, but she’s a fine looking gel. Aye, she’ll do.” Mattie opened her arms and gathered Fiona into a powerful embrace. “Welcome, child. Ye may call me Mattie.” The cook crushed Fiona against her bosom.

Such unabashed affection made Fiona smile. She’d never been hugged so enthusiastically. It was easy to understand Honore’s remarkable attachment to her cook.

Behind Fiona, boots clicked on the marble floor. Mattie dropped her arms from Fiona and stepped back. “What’s this? The black-hearted devil has returned?”

 “A pleasure to see you too, Mattie.” Marcus bowed.

“Fie!” She whipped around to Honore. “I thought ye packed this cur off tae Spain.”

“Portugal.” Honore examined something trapped under one of her fingernails and shrugged. “As you say, the rascal has returned.”

Marcus laughed and planted a loud sloppy kiss on Mattie’s cheek. “Don’t you know, my dear, the devil craves his own. I couldn’t bear to be parted from your delightful company. Nor your cooking.”

“Fah!” She brushed her cheek dry. “Ready with more lies than a selkie.” With that, she whirled around and marched imperiously out of the room.

Honore stamped her foot. “Now look what you’ve done, Marcus. You’ve upset her.”

He shrugged, donning a helpless expression. “What did I say?”

From the wall, a silent onlooker stepped forward, an ancient man, whose white hair contrasted his black attire. He did not wear a powdered wig. A wig would have been superfluous. His own white hair was far more impressive. He moved with deliberate poise. Fiona half expected to hear him creak as he bowed to Honore. “Welcome home, my lady.”

The very correct butler bowed so low Fiona could see his pink scalp underneath the waving white hairs.

 “Thank you, Cairn. This is my niece, Miss Hawthorn. You may have her things taken to the green apartments in the east wing next to mine.” Honore shook out her dusty carriage dress. “Lord Alameda will be returning to his rooms in the west wing.”

Honore placed her arm around Fiona’s waist and led her up the marble staircase. “Come my dear. Come see your new home.”

Honore’s house was the antithesis of the Brighton Pavilion or Fiona’s home at Thorncourt. There were no heavy tapestries, or conflicting patterns. The walls were oyster white, except for a life-size frieze of Greek water bearers in the foyer. Light reflected everywhere. The walls of the circular foyer rose to high domed ceiling, containing six oval windows, each adorned with stained glass images of naked cherubim. The balustrades on the great winding stairway were carved of white marble with large mock Grecian urns atop each post.

Honore smiled at her niece’s wide eyes. “As you can see, my dear, Alison Hall is very comfortable.”

“Comfortable understates the fact, Aunt. It is breathtaking.”

Honore lifted her chin and made a smug noise that indicated she agreed. “After Francisco died I was restless. I commissioned Alison Hall to distract myself from the grief. I believe it turned out rather well.”

Honore ushered her into the most handsome apartment Fiona had ever seen. A huge Turkish carpet covered the floor. It was forest green, with cream and rose in the design. Everything else in the room had simple clean lines. The windows ran from the floor to the ceiling, and filled the room with sunshine. Fiona turned to her aunt and hugged her.

Honore sputtered. “Come now, must you always turn into a watering pot? I declare, you’ll smother me.” Her smile belied her words as she patted Fiona’s shoulders. “Tomorrow, when you are rested we’ll send for the dressmaker, and we shall see about turning you out in a style that becomes you.”

Chapter 12
Ghosts in London

T
yrell chose not to hail a hack. Instead, he walked down the streets of London like a man possessed. He’d spent a restless night, waking up from nightmares in a fevered sweat, and then unable to get back to sleep, because her confounded face kept dancing up in front of him like a relentless specter. A good walk was what he needed, and a drink at White’s.

By the time he reached the corner of Piccadilly and Fleet, his vehement strides relaxed into a more rational pace. He glanced occasionally into the windows, and perused a few of the entertaining caricatures.

Fleet Street was home to scores of printers whose shop windows displayed half a dozen new caricatures for sale each week. These lampoons provided the browsing masses with political and social commentaries and a lively dose of humor. They also furnished the printers with a handsome source of additional income. Patrons purchased the cartoons to amuse their friends and acquaintances. At two pence apiece, they were a bargain. The more scandalous the lampoon, the better.

Lord Wesmont strolled from window to window. While he didn’t actually laugh, a wry grin formed on his face as he perused a caricature of the Prince Regent drawn as a big whale spouting water from his mouth. The whale was eyeing the buxom Lady B___. Portrayed as a fish with enormous breasts, she was floating alongside the Prince George whale. Her husband, Lord B___, sketched as a skinny little fish with cuckold’s antlers on his head, swam precariously underneath the whale’s upraised tail.

Tyrell noticed a large crowd gathering in front of Laurie and Whittle’s print shop. He overheard loud guffaws as someone read out a verse in a mocking singsong voice. Shoppers chuckled and pointed at a caricature set prominently in the window, he strained to see what drew so much attention. When, at last, he caught a glimpse of the cartoon he felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach.

“It can’t be.” He muttered. He pushed and shoved through the crowd to get closer to the drawing. Planting both hands on the glass, he blocked everyone else’s view. He didn’t care about the complaints from the crowd behind him. He stared at the caricature of an all-too-familiar face.

It could not be.

It should not be.

Nevertheless, it most assuredly was Fiona Hawthorn. It had to be, because in one corner stood the Dowager Countess Alameda with a lecherous jackanapes crawling under her skirt. Tyrell closed his eyes and then reopened them, but the cartoon remained.

It featured Fiona center stage with Prince George, who had obviously been dancing with her. The Regent was drawn comically flipping through the air in one direction, while Miss Hawthorn was flying backward in the opposite direction. Count A___, clearly identifiable as Count Alameda, held out his arms in anticipation of catching her. Tyrell hated the way the cartoonist depicted Lord Alameda leering at Fiona’s bosom while waiting for the young lady to come flying into his arms.

“Blast his eyes,” he snarled out loud.

The woman next to him giggled. He glowered down at her and she clamped her mouth shut. Then Tyrell read the limerick captioning the drawing.

Beware the Duchess of Disaster

She ought to have a dancing master.

She wounds our soldiers on the ballroom floor,

And if that’s not enough, there’s more.

Britain is in jeopardy, Ladies and Gents,

For now Lady Fiasco trips our Prince!

A lovely young girl, as Count A___ observes,

A succulent beauty, with pleasing curves
—

He’d read enough. Tyrell growled again and followed it up with several colorful oaths, abusing the ears of the other shoppers at the window. He elbowed his way through the crowd and flung open the door of printer’s establishment.

People outside the shop watched through Laurie and Whittle’s window with interest as his lordship waved his arms emphatically toward the window display. Muffled shouting seeped out of the shop as he argued with the proprietor. Groans of protest issued from the crowd as Mr. Laurie walked to the window display and removed the entire stack of amusing cartoons about the Duchess of Disaster. He plopped them on the counter in front of the complainant, who slapped down a handful of coins, stuffed the caricatures under his arm, and tromped out of the shop seething.

Tyrell felt like a bear on a rampage as he marched down the street in a fury. If King George and the entire royal family stood naked in the street singing and waving red ribbons, he would not have noticed or cared. Therefore, it must have been divine intervention when he stumbled across Robert Anbel, and actually took notice.

At first, the two men merely grunted when they collided. Tyrell still couldn’t see anything but the red angry cloud enveloping him. The man he bumped into shifted to the side and passed by. When he did, an empty coat sleeve flapped against Tyrell’s arm. That empty coat sleeve riveted his attention.

He stopped abruptly. As quick as lightning, he felt as if he were back at Badajoz. He could almost smell the gunpowder, see the flashes of gunfire, his hands felt slick with blood.

He turned. At the same moment, the other man glanced back over his shoulder and froze. Both men squinted as if straining to see through a dense fog.

“Ty?” Robert Anbel turned slowly around.

“As I live and breathe. Anbel, is that you?”

“Most of me.”

They stood silent, studying each other for a moment. Then Tyrell shot out a hand toward Robert, who immediately clasped it. Tyrell’s heart suddenly remembered how to function. The unpredictable organ erupted with gladness. It bubbled up and spilled over like a dam bursting apart. He was excessively pleased to see this man.

“This is the
confounded-est
day of my life. Robert, you must surely be an apparition because nothing this good could possibly happen today.”

Robert laughed. “Well, I don’t mean to disappoint you, but I haven’t stuck my spoon in the wall yet. My arm, mind you, may be in heaven or hell, don’t know which, but I remain here, in the world of the living—if you can call it living. Leastwise, I ain’t no ghost.”

No, but Tyrell had thought him one.

Robert chuckled. “Shall we stand out here on the street shaking each other’s hand like a couple of lovesick monkeys? Or shall we retire to a quiet table and have a glass of Madeira like civilized gentlemen?”

 “Lead on.” Tyrell smiled and murmured, “I’d forgotten how you do prose on.”

Robert shot him a quelling look.

Tyrell raised his hand to signal peace. “More welcome prose there never was.”

In a private corner at White’s they raised their glasses to one another. “I must confess, Robert, I thought you were dead.”

“Oh, I suppose I was dead once or twice.” Robert stared into the red liquid of his cup. “There were times, Ty, when I certainly wished I were dead. Ah, but that is past.
Mainly
.” He lifted his glass again. “You, Captain—excuse me, I mean
Lord
Wesmont—I’m deuced sorry about your father—you are just as great a surprise to me. When I left you at Badajoz more than two years ago, I thought your chances for survival were considerably less than mine. I was safely ensconced in the surgeon’s tent. Apparently, some foolhardy hero hauled my worthless carcass off that wretched battlefield.” Robert raised a sardonic eyebrow in mock disapproval of his companion. “Or don’t you remember?”

Tyrell lifted his glass, but said nothing. As if in a waking nightmare, Ty could still feel Robert’s warm blood drenching his uniform, gushing over his hands as he slung his friend over his shoulder and fought his way back through the ranks to find a surgeon.

Robert shook his head. “Never fear. I know I ought to thank you,
you damn fool
, but I won’t.”

“Don’t.” The image vanished and Tyrell felt the tension ebb.

“No, of course not. Well then, tell me, why the Earl of Wesmont is sulking around London with a stack of cartoons under his arm. For that matter, what are you doing in London? Shouldn’t you be cloistered in that country manor of yours with a fertile young wife, begetting heirs? I believe that is what it’s called,
begetting
. A delightful pastime, or so I’m told.”