Lady Fiasco, A Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt) (18 page)

The actress on Tyrell’s left laid a proprietary hand on his sleeve. She asked him to escort her to the drawing room, where she’d heard there was a snake charmer of amazing ability. When Tyrell glanced across the table, Fiona had already risen and was leaving the room. He could not possibly catch up to her without vaulting over the table, so he bowed to Maria and reluctantly escorted the actress to her destination.

He scanned the audience in the drawing room, but Fiona was not there. The woman at his side squealed with delight as the snake charmer allowed what appeared to be a live viper to crawl into his mouth. Just when it looked as if he had swallowed the creature, he opened his mouth, and the lethal snake slithered out.

“Jackass,” grumbled Tyrell.

“You cannot mean it?” The actress protested. “It’s the most fantastical feat I’ve ever seen!”

“Suppose the blasted snake bites him? What then? We have a dead snake charmer and a house crawling with vipers.”

“Eewh, how dreadful! Oh, what shall we do?” She squealed and clutched his arm, looking desperately about the floor as if the snakes were already loose. Tyrell rolled his eyes.

The Duke of Cumberland stepped forward. The Duke needed no introduction. Everyone knew him by the cruel scar that marred the side of his face. Tonight, it was partially concealed under a black velvet eye patch. His thick wiry side-whiskers did nothing to soften his harsh appearance. “Do not concern yourself, miss.”

Cumberland sneered at Wesmont before openly examining the shapely little actress’s assets. The dark duke puffed up his chest and said, “No viper will escape, but what I shan’t take great pleasure in blowing its ruddy head off.” He opened his coat to reveal a small pistol housed in the sash around his waist. “I never go anywhere unarmed.”

Wide-eyed, she sank into a deep curtsy. “Oh, Your Grace, how very brave you are.” She tilted her chin and fanned her eyelashes at the notorious duke.

Tyrell left them to it and stalked out of the room, mumbling that the house was indeed crawling with vipers, and the Duke of Cumberland was chief among them.
Lady Alameda is probably hosting bear-baiting in the next room. It’s a demmed asylum – that’s what it is.

Fiona and Maria Haversburg sat together on a sofa in a quiet part of the house, hoping to avoid the raucous company. Relaxed somewhat by all the rum punch and champagne, Fiona asked Maria a question that had been on her mind since the day they met. “Why does your mama not take you to a surgeon to fix your teeth?”

Maria sighed wearily. “I have begged her to do so several times since we came to London. But all my pleading is pointless. She swears by our family physician, Dr. Klimes. Honestly, the man must be a hundred years old, quite the most ancient fellow I’ve ever seen. Which only goes toward further convincing Mama that he is the best doctor alive.”

“Won’t he do something for your poor mouth?”

Maria put her hands up to cover her face in a struggle to hold back tears. “You cannot imagine the ghastly cures he puts me through. He forced me to drink boiled pike’s eyes. Can you imagine?”

Fiona grimaced and shook her head.

“On another occasion he smeared my gums with alum and lime and seared them with a hot iron. When that didn’t work, he applied leeches in my mouth. Leeches! I didn’t think I could bear it. No matter how I scream, or cry, Mama will not listen. She’s known that wretched old doctor since birth. His cures are sacred to her. I swear, she reveres him more than the King himself. I dare not think about when we return home, and what remedy he will try next.”

Fiona grabbed Maria’s hand. “But that’s barbaric.”

“The worst of it is, Fiona, I have been praying,
praying to God
, that Dr. Klimes will die before the Season ends. Do you think I shall go to hell for that?”

Fiona’s brows knit together. She looked at Maria and bit her lip. “I don’t know. It is a very bad thing to pray for someone’s death.”

Both girls sat in silent contemplation.

“Come.” Fiona decided they needed a diversion. “Take a turn with me in Aunt Honore’s garden. Her roses will look lovely in the moonlight. They might cheer us. Perhaps, Maria, we can think of a way to get you to a proper doctor. Then you wouldn’t have to be afraid of that wretched old Dr. Klimes, and you could stop praying for his death.”

They looped arms and headed out into the summer night.

A few moments later, Tyrell, still searching the house for Fiona, passed by the empty sofa they had just occupied.

* * *

Maria and Fiona wandered among Honore’s rosebushes. The cool crisp air smelled sweet with the rich perfume of new blooms and dying blossoms. Autumn would be here all too soon.

“I love the fragrance of summer roses. Don’t you, Fiona?”

“Yes,” Fiona agreed absently and pulled Maria’s arm tighter to her. “But listen, I’ve devised a plan. Let us suppose that I were to pose as your older sister, I am much taller than you are, you see, so it would be quite believable. Then I could escort you to a surgeon for a consultation about your teeth. We might escape Lady Haversburg by telling her we are going to visit Hatchard’s together.”

“Oh, I don’t know if Mama can be persuaded to let me out alone in your company. It is not you, I’m never allowed to go anywhere without a maid.”

“Of course.” Fiona studied the stones on the pathway and looked up suddenly. “I have it! I’ll call on you with my aunt’s maid in tow. She owes me a small debt, so I’m certain I can obtain her promise of silence. We’ll have a maid with us and that will satisfy your mother.”

“Yes, it just might work.”

They stopped to admire a huge white rose. The spray from a nearby fountain adorned the rose with minuscule drops of moisture, so that the petals glistened in the moonlight.

Behind them, a shout went up. “There she is!”

Three young bucks stumbled and staggered up the path to Fiona and Maria. Mr. Rupert, the amorous poet who had sat next to her during supper, pointed at Fiona.

“That’s her! My enchantress. Look at her, ye mere mortals. Be ye captivated, as I am, by her wild…” He paused and hiccupped, groping for his next words. “Her wild
engulfing
spirit. That’s it—engulfing spirit. I am swallowed up!” Rupert swung around, nearly knocking down his fellows. “There is no escape for me. I am consumed by the—by the liquid fire in her eyes. She calls to me like a siren song. Behold, I am drowned in the elixir of her mouth.”

“Kissed her, have you?” jibed one of his companions, slapping Rupert on the back.

The poet stumbled forward, almost falling at Fiona’s feet. He turned back to his companions and placed his hands on his heart. “I have not.” He shook his head. “Though her lips beckon me like ripe plums… no, wait, that’s not right. I have it! Her lips beckon to me like ripe pomegranates.” He pointed up at the night sky. “I have not yet tasted, nor yet partook… partaken…” He hiccupped.

Fiona squeezed Maria’s arm and whispered, “We’d best leave quickly.” She edged away down a side path.

“Hold!” cried the young man. He reached out with surprising speed and snared Fiona’s arm. “Would you leave me to suffer the endless torment of unrequited love? Can beauty be so cruel?”

“Mr. Rupert, you are foxed,” Fiona said while trying to pry his fingers loose. “The only thing you will suffer from is a violent headache in the morning. Now, please let go of me.”

“Nay,” he said. “I will not release you until you have freed me from your spell.”

“Ho, now,” said one of his less-inebriated companions. “You’d do well to remember the chit is the countess’s niece. This is la Hawthorn, the Dangerous Duchess. Come away, Rupert. Think, man, Lady Alameda will have your guts for garters.”

“I don’t care. Go away you
spineless sheep
. Better yet take away this other charmer and leave me alone to worship at the feet of my goddess.”

“Nah! You’re balmy. You’ll have hell to pay.” The dissenter waved his hand at the group and staggered away. “I’ll have no part in this.”

The third young man stepped forward and waved his hand in the air as if answering his teacher’s summons. “I’ll oblige you, Rupert.” He eagerly snatched Maria by the waist. “Come, my beauty, let’s away in the moonlight.”

Maria shrieked as he put his other hand on her bottom and hurried her along.

“Kick him! Maria, run!” Fiona called after her. Maria only answered with a squawk before disappearing into the darkness.

Fiona stomped down on Lord Rupert’s boot, but her slippered foot did little to penetrate his inebriated senses. He pulled her close, and his rummy breath turned Fiona’s stomach. “Mr. Rupert, I insist you stop this nonsense immediately.”

“I cannot help myself,
my siren
. It is you who must release me from this exquisite bondage.” He dropped to his knees, still gripping her arms, and buried his face against her abdomen. “I worship you.”

“Sir, I beg you to stop this nonsense.”

On the pathway behind them, Fiona heard scuffling noises and rustling bushes. Mr. Rupert’s friend bellowed, “Gad! What an odor!
Foul
, don’t do it justice. Fah!” The man spit noisily and cursed again. “I’ve been cheated. Thought I was kissing a woman, turned out to be a chamber pot.”

Fiona heard Maria’s wounded exclamation and a resounding slap as the man must have received his fair reward.

“That’s right, dearie, run away. Does me a favor, it does.” He, too, fled the scene, but in the opposite direction.

Poor Maria, to be doubly insulted in such a way. Fiona wanted to console her friend. Her patience with the poet who had clamped himself about her waist ran out. She grabbed a sizeable chunk of his hair and applied a painful twist.

Maria scampered down the dark path toward the lights of the house. She burst through the first open doorway, like a frenzied lunatic. Fortunately, she collided with Lord Wesmont, who was just on his way outside, having exhausted all the interior rooms in his search for Fiona.

He grasped her by the arms. “Miss Haversburg, you’re overset. What’s happened?”

“Oh, my lord, it was horrible!” she cried. Maria sniffled and tried to stop sobbing. “Those wretched poets—they accosted us. I escaped. It was awful—truly awful. Oh!” She looked up in alarm. “My lord, you must come quickly! Lord Rupert still has Fiona. I can’t say what he is doing to her. It’s all too dreadful—”

“Where?” demanded Tyrell. “Where is she?”

“Out there.” She pointed at the dark garden. “Near the fountain.”

“Stay here,” commanded Tyrell. “Better yet, your mother is in the next room, tell her what’s happened. She’ll undoubtedly want to take you home.”

She nodded obediently. He marched out with his fists doubled, planning to knock the randy poet all the way to perdition. He would have, too, if he hadn’t arrived at the fountain just in time to see Fiona thrust her knee into Rupert’s private parts and shove the blighter backwards into the fountain pool.

Fiona planted her hands on her hips and watched the poet sloshing in the fountain pond. Tyrell strode up beside her. She turned and glanced up at him as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to be standing at her side. “Do you think I’ve killed him?”

“No. He’ll live. Which is more than I can say if I had reached him before you politely pushed him into the drink.”

“He became annoying.”

“Yes, so I heard. Miss Haversburg bolted into the ballroom looking like the devil was after her.”

“Is she all right?” Fiona put her hand on his arm.

“Yes.” Tyrell covered her hand with his. “She appears to have come to no serious harm.”

“Thank heavens.”

Just then, the poet sat up in the fountain. He shook his head, sending a spray of water over Fiona and Tyrell, and beamed up at them like an idiot. “I will be famous!” he shouted. “Famous! I have been vanquished—nay, nearly drowned, by the Duchess of Disaster. I’ll be the talk of London by morning. Help me out, sir.” He held out a hand to Tyrell. “I must compose a verse to send the
Post
.”

Tyrell’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He approached the enthusiastic young buck, placed a firm hand on the fellow’s forehead, and pushed him back under the water. Fiona’s laughter bubbled out behind him. He let go, and the bewildered young man popped his head up out of the water, coughing, gasping, and spitting.

Tyrell gave him a moment to recover before speaking to him like a tutor to an erring pupil. “I suggest you go home, Rupert. Sleep off the excesses of this night, and forget you ever met Miss Hawthorn. ‘Else you’ll find yourself in a very uncomfortable state. Nay, a painful state. For I’ve not thrashed anyone in several days. I must admit I am fairly itching to do so. If you were not too drunk to be of any sport, I’d beat you to a bloody pulp right now.”

“What?” cried the young man. “Not tell a soul that I, Rupert, have fallen prey to London’s latest enigma? Why, it’s the perfect showcase for my poetry. How can you expect—”

Tyrell grabbed the poet’s head and thrust it back under the water. He thrashed about until Tyrell let him rise, gulping for air. “Not a soul. That is
precisely
what I expect. You will carry the burden of this night to your grave. Think of it as poetic torture, artistic suffering. Whatever you like. However, you will not tell anyone. Do we understand one another?”

Rupert nodded his head reluctantly. Strands of dripping hair flopped over his forlorn face. “Nary a soul. You have my word.”

“Just so,” said Tyrell, shaking the water from his cuff. He inclined his head at the soaking poet, turned and took Fiona by the arm, guiding her down a side path.

She smiled and shook her head. “You needn’t have nearly drowned the poor wretch.”

“Needn’t I?” His voice rose. “Forgive me, Miss Hawthorn, I forget that you don’t mind being the subject of the latest gossip. If you prefer I can go back and invite him to ridicule you in any manner he—”

She yanked her arm away from him and stopped walking. “Do you truly think there is anything I can do to escape my reputation? No matter where I go, no matter how quiet and unobtrusive I try to be, something extraordinary always happens.”