Maggie MacKeever (19 page)

If only she could! “You speak disparagingly of your cousin, sir!”

“And so would you, had you been responsible for him these past ten years.” She did not comment. “Very well, then consider what must be the result to Percy of association with yourself! Apparently you must have some fondness for him or you would not persist in this wrong-headedness. Percy has a great deal more hair than sense, and he is like to be totally ruined by association with gamblers and loose-screws. There isn’t an ounce of vice in the boy at present, for all his foolishness—but a month in the company that you and your brother keep will cure
that.”

“Sir!” gasped Adorée, outraged. “I think that you had better leave.”

“Not until I’ve accomplished what I’ve come for.” His fingers on her wrist were as inescapable as Tomkin’s dread handcuffs. “You don’t want Percy and you know it and you shan’t convince me otherwise.”

Since her heart would not be in her protest, Adorée refrained. She had dreaded this moment ever since Lady Peverell’s mention of her cousin Dominic, though for all the wrong reasons; and now she wished that she had never set eyes on a single member of the Peverell clan. Bad enough to have become embroiled with Cristin’s ill-fated romance; infinitely worse to be forced to lie to this discerning gentleman.

“That’s better,” said he. “Had you pitched me any more gammon, or prattled on to me about the anguish of separation and such bosh, you would have lowered yourself inestimably in my opinion.”

Adorée regarded the strong brown fingers that were clamped around her wrist. “I don’t see how you can have any opinion of me at all!”

“Have I said other than the truth?” Lord Erland looked surprised. “Lord,
I
don’t censure you! Your foolishness is to be laid directly at the door of your brothers and Courtenay Blissington. Too,” and he smiled again, “I have a weakness for beautiful nitwits.”

Never had Adorée met a man so deft at turning insult into praise, or vice versa. “You knew my husband?” she inquired, seeking respite.

“Knew him? Who did not?” Dominic’s tone was absent, and his eyes were fixed on her face. “Everyone knew Courtenay, to their cost.”

Adorée abandoned the struggle. “Just what,” she inquired, staring up at him, “is Courtenay supposed to have done to me?”

“Married you,” replied the earl. She gasped. “Introduced you into a circle where frivolity was a way of life, then told you he cared nothing for your conduct, and that you could flirt and go about with whom you pleased. As a result of which you are sitting here with me, and I am persuading you to give up my cousin, and you are wondering how, if you let Percy off the hook, you are to contrive that your bills may be paid.”

Adorée had heard out this explanation with, in order, gratification at Lord Erland’s understanding, pleasure in the beauty of his rough voice, and amazement at his abrupt
volte-face.
“I do not,” she said sincerely, “expect Percy to pay my bills.”

“You need not.” Without the least evidence of compunction, Dominic attempted to steal a march on his cousin. “Give up this nonsense and I’ll see you provided for.”

“You?”
cried Adorée. The earl wasted no further time in explanations, but drew her abruptly into his arms. Lady Bliss exhibited no dismay at this further presumption. Indeed, she returned the embrace to the best of her ability.

That ability not being inconsiderable, as neither was his, some several moments elapsed before the conversation resumed. “There is no conceivable reason,” remarked Lord Erland, “why a woman of your caliber should waste herself on a handsome moonling like my cousin. Tell me, what do you know about the Irish question?”

So odd a
non sequitur
was this that it caused Lady Bliss to blink rapidly. However, not for nothing had she waded through
The Absentee
and endured the oratories of her more serious-minded swains. “Catholic emancipation,” she replied, with an expression that clearly indicated her surprise. “Many fear the consequences of allowing political privileges to the Roman Catholics, either in Ireland or England.”

“Hah!” uttered the Earl. “Sir Humphrey Davy?”

“A chemist knighted last year by the regent.”

“And your opinion of Castlereagh?”

“Foreign secretary and leader of the House of Commons? Some say he has devoted himself intensely to the wrong side in almost every great issue. Others claim his diplomacy is brilliant, for he is holding together the European princes who have allied themselves against Napoleon.” Adorée remarked his contemplative look. “Heavens! I may be a pea-brain, but I
do
know what goes on in the world!”

“So it would seem.” Dominic ran a lazy finger up her arm. “We will do well together, you and I.”

So they would, if only they could, which they could not. Adorée took a deep breath and thrust all thought of such unimportant things as rapture and ecstasy from her mind. “You misunderstand.”

Lord Erland scowled, dreadfully. “Do I, by God?” he thundered. “You mean to say that you will
not
give up Percy?” Adorée did not trust herself to speak. Mutely, she shook her head. “I make you my compliments, madam! I have no high opinion of your sex, and had thought you might be the exception, but it seems you are no better than the others—in short, an unprincipled minx!”

“But I am not unprincipled!” wailed Lady Bliss, as he rose. “Pray, do not be any more out of temper with me! I cannot give up your cousin, because—”She could hardly tell Lord Erland that Percy was not hers to give up. “Well, there it is. I can tell you no differently.”

The earl had reached the doorway. There he turned and paused. “I’ve the strangest notion, little jade, that you could, but you will not. This idiocy puts me all out of patience with you.”

Adorée had no difficulty in comprehending why it should, nor did she mind that he spoke to her so disrespectfully. In truth, she reflected somberly, it mattered not
how
he spoke to her, so long as speak to her he did. “I don’t suppose,” she ventured, “that you have a little place in the country?”

Lord Erland quirked a brow. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

“It fits,” Lady Bliss uttered, in tones of the utmost despondency.

“The devil! Is
that
what you hanker after? Percy can’t give it to you, you know!” He waited, but she said nothing, a feat accomplished by clamping her teeth down on her tongue. “Let me know if you change your mind. I like all that is new and rare for a moment—but little more.”

Adorée thought that she wouldn’t mind being the favorite of the moment only, if only favored she might be. “Goodbye, Lord Erland,” she said, woefully. “I don’t imagine we shall meet again.”

“Rot!” retorted the unsentimental earl. “Of course we will. I have not forgotten, as it seems you have, the matter of Percy.” Having fired that shot of no small caliber, which did not fail to hit its mark, he bowed and took his leave.

Tomkin emerged from his pantry at last and went in search of his mistress. He found her in the drawing room, wrapped in Lord Erland’s forgotten opera cloak, staring at the doorway through which had vanished precisely the sort of gentlemen that she most preferred.

‘Ten thousand pounds!” wailed Adorée, as her butler goggled. “A little place in the country! I tell you, I am tempted to put a period to my life!” And then she yanked the folds of the cloak over her head, and drummed her heels against the floor, and sobbed hysterically.

Chapter Fifteen

In the meantime, the viscount was taken in hand by Mr. Brummell and Lord Alvanley. The trio retired once more to the Beau’s quarters in Chapel Street, where Lord Alvanley prescribed his own remedy of frequent bottles of champagne, which he shook vigorously in both hands before pouring. Since Mr. Brummell had no objection to this remedy—indeed, he confessed to having drunk four bottles of that brew in company with Harriette Wilson during a period of stress— and Lord Roxbury being sunk in a morbid silence, the debauch was underway. It ended some hours later, after the Beau had conducted his companions to his dressing room, and had seated himself before the mahogany-faced cheval glass with two brass candle-arms, and had demonstrated for them his particular method of dealing with the yards of white starched muslin that were with great patience and careful lowering of the chin induced into the exquisite folds of his cravat.

Lord Roxbury, despite these efforts, could not be roused from gloom. He refused an offer to partake of Mr. Brummell’s personal snuff—Martinique, from Fribourg and Freyer’s; he ventured not the smallest smile when Mr. Brummell remarked that garden produce was fit only for common people, and admitted that once he had eaten a pea; he did not even laugh when Lord Alvanley mocked the Beau’s profound bow, which held the duchesses of Devonshire and Rutland and York entranced, and in so doing came perilously close to shattering a fine piece of Sèvres porcelain. At that point, the gentlemen gave up their efforts at diversion and allowed the viscount to drink himself under the table, and then carried him to his carriage and ordered him driven home.

Consequently, Lord Roxbury rose the next morning with the devil of a head, and an imperfect memory. A bit of effort recalled to him, in all its gruesome detail, the previous evening. He supposed he should be grateful, as he peered into a looking glass, that Miss Lennox had raised on his jaw no bruise. It made little difference, since by now the entire town must know that Lord Roxbury’s fiancée had seen fit to slap his face, and to throw his ring at him.

Shannon grimaced and turned away from his reflection which, with its red-rimmed eyes and stubbled jaw, was not the loveliest of sights. He felt simultaneously indignant and contrite. Jynx’s assault on himself had not been without provocation, but he still found it difficult to believe that she would act so vulgarly. Then, as if that were not sufficient offense, she had apprised the world of his association with Adorée Blissington. He groaned.

Not that the world had hitherto been in ignorance, for there had been nothing in the association that Shannon sought to hide; but Miss Lennox should have been in ignorance. It was nothing remarkable for a gentleman to have a flirt or even a ladylove; to frequent fashionable courtesans was as much of the social round as race meetings and the opera in the Haymarket and the summer showing at the Royal Academy. The fact remained that Miss Lennox should not have been aware of such things. And who had led her to the erroneous conclusion that Adorée Bliss was
his
ladylove? Eulalia Wimple, of course. And Jynx had made no explanation of how Innis Ashley had come into possession of her betrothal ring. Lord Roxbury eyed that item, which rested on his dressing table. If the bauble could speak to him, he thought, an interesting tale it would have to tell.

The viscount had not yet achieved perfect sobriety. Sober gentlemen, after all, do not spend long moments in contemplation of the excesses of depravity that may have been witnessed by betrothal rings, nor compromise themselves by strongly worded vows to have the truth by whatever fell means were necessary, up to and including application of thumbscrews. Lord Roxbury’s valet, who was privy to this lunatic display, considered his master’s behavior and decided that the Viscount was not only under the weather but also sulky as a bear, and he trod warily.

After some time had elapsed, during which Lord Roxbury was bathed and shaved and garbed in the manner appropriate to a gentleman whose daily round consisted of making calls and visiting his clubs, the valet proffered for his master’s perusal a note that had recently arrived. Lord Roxbury’s expression, which had lightened somewhat during his valet’s deft ministrations, darkened once more. The valet prudently withdrew.

Much as he would have liked to have, Shannon could not ignore an order to call in Lennox Square. He wondered if Miss Lennox had been induced to offer him apology, and if he would accept it, or hurl her words back into her teeth. Thus ruminating, he set out. Nothing had power to distract him, not beadles and town criers in cocked hats and flaxen wigs; nor postmen in scarlet and red uniforms; nor even the judges in scarlet in ermine who were setting out for the country assizes, accompanied by outriders, while all the church bells tolled. In the same state of indecision as Shannon had departed his own home, he arrived in Lennox Square.

Sir Malcolm was in the dining room, seated at the table of semicircular design. With him was Eulalia. Shannon could not decide whether he was relieved or disappointed by Jynx’s absence. “Roxbury!” uttered Sir Malcolm. “You took your sweet time getting here.”

The viscount winced as these unfond words assaulted his abused head. Sir Malcolm, who suffered a similar malaise, grunted, “Sit down!” Shannon sat. “I think you must admit that your temper has caused everyone great misery.”

“My temper!” echoed Shannon. According to his recollection of the appalling events of the previous evening, it was Miss Lennox’s temper that had brought them to grief. He had merely presented his objections to her behavior in a cool and reasonable manner;
she
had been the one to take offense, to turn a private disagreement into a free-for-all. Granted, his objections may have been a little strongly worded, may have risen from misapprehension, but the fact remained that he had not turned the matter into a public quarrel. And so he explained.

“Be damned to your impudence!” bellowed Sir Malcolm, in tones so strident that they caused his own brow to ache. He ignored the discomfort. Sir Malcolm was mighty desirous of finding an object on which to vent his spleen. “The girl never caused me a moment’s trouble until last night, and I mean to get to the bottom of it! What the devil did you do to my daughter, Roxbury?”

So all was to be on
his
head? Shannon was so enraged that he dared not speak.

“It’s my opinion,” offered Eulalia, whose eyes rested on Lord Roxbury with triumphant malice, “that the entire imbroglio is your fault, young man! I have always deprecated this alliance, and so I have said, and now my forebodings are proven correct.”

Shannon had noted her expression, and thought it boded no good for himself. All the same, Sir Malcolm was not in the habit of humoring his sister-in-law. Shannon waited for her inevitable set-down.