Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind (13 page)

Lucinda had no trouble convincing her parents to join in the game. Mrs. Barrington had scurried off to find a slipper, one embroidered by Lucinda’s own hand, for the purpose, and the squire had gone to instruct the maids to close all the curtains, drapes, and blinds in the house. It was Mrs. Crandall who eventually did the hiding, and soon the six of them had gone their separate ways in the grand pursuit.

Ginny felt sure she had turned in the opposite direction of every man in the party only to throw herself into the pitch-black linen closet to begin a thorough investigation when she was accosted by a firm pair of arms. Next, she found herself being subjected to an unpleasantly moist, loudly smacking kiss.

When she was able to draw breath, Ginny let out a gasp and slapped her assailant on the cheek. “Unhand me, or I shall tell the squire of your villainy.”

“I-I beg your pardon, yes, indeed I do,” the squire’s voice quavered. “Forgive me for believing you to be Mrs. Barrington.”

Ginny went rigid with shock. “Squire Barrington!”

“Yes, well … yes. My lady wife and I always play Hunt the Slipper such. It ensures the young people of the prize. You mustn’t, no you mustn’t say a word to anyone. May I have your word of honor?”

“Why, yes, of course” There was certainly no soul living she chose to tell of this. Ginny groped her way to the door, unsure as to whether she should believe the squire’s story, until she encountered Mrs. Barrington coming in. Ginny wished she could sink through the floor. What would her hostess think? “The slipper isn’t here,” she called gaily, though her voice cracked with tension.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Mrs. Barrington snapped, cross as two sticks. She disappeared into the closet, her taffeta skirts rustling after her. Ginny thought she heard a tiny giggle once the door had closed but she really couldn’t be sure. All she could think about was how it wasn’t Sir Anthony who waited for her in that closet, wasn’t Sir Anthony who closed his arms around her and kissed her breathless.

It was just as well. At least, she thought so until the next pair of arms caught hold of her. She was just gaining the upper hallway after being most careful not to trip on her skirts on the darkened stairway, when a figure darted from the shadows and crushed her in a viselike grip.

For one brief moment her heart fluttered wildly in her breast. She could almost hear Sir Anthony’s voice saying, “Mere friendship is not enough for me, Lucinda.”

Lucinda? It was another moment before she realized the voice had been real and it had not been Sir Anthony’s. She peered into the darkness not realizing how close her captor was until her nose came in contact with something hard and sharp.

It was Lord Avery’s enormous diamond stickpin and his voice saying, “I can scarce believe you dared to meet me, my flower.”

Somehow Ginny was not surprised. No doubt Lucinda took after her parents in that respect. “If it is Lucinda you wait for, Lord Avery, I suggest you unhand me before she arrives. I do not think she will forgive you for starting without her.”

Lord Avery’s hands fell from her as if she were made of live coals. With a yowl he jumped back, colliding with a pedestal holding an urn. He made a noble effort to catch it before it hit the ground but, sadly, botched the job.

He had only time to replace what was left of the urn on the righted pedestal before Lucinda’s light step was heard on the stair. “Eustace, is that you?”

Instantly, Ginny moved into the shadows to the left of the stairs, while Lord Avery hid behind the broken statuary. “Eustace,” Lucinda whispered. “Where are you?”

For some reason Ginny could not fathom, Lord Avery made no response. She knew she ought to tiptoe down the hall to her room as fast as she silently could, but she did not like to be discovered hovering in the shadows a hair’s breadth away. She would wait until Lucinda found him, leaving her free to slip away with relative ease.

To Ginny’s horror, when Lucinda gained the top of the stairs, she turned left. “Eustace, what did you wish to talk to me about?” she implored, stretching forth her hands to steady herself. Before Lucinda made contact with Ginny’s non-Averylike form, she spun on her heel and moved down the hall as quietly and quickly as possible.

Just as Ginny was about to turn the handle of her room, a hand shot out of the darkness and closed tightly about her wrist. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a deep voice drawled.

“Oh, really! I have simply had enough of this. Why shouldn’t I enter my own room?”

“Because I have already searched it for the slipper and it is not there”

Ginny gasped. “Do you mean to tell me, Sir Anthony, that you entered my room and searched it?”

“Hush-they mustn’t hear us! Best to let nature take its course”

Ginny forgot her former question for a new one. “Do you not care if Lucinda is compromised by Lord Avery in a game of Hunt the Slipper?”

“Avery is a romantic. I doubt he knows what a golden opportunity is his just now. And Lucinda, I daresay she has no inclination of what his purpose is. She is very innocent.”

“Innocent?” With that practiced lisp and plunging neckline? Ginny resisted the temptation to stamp on Sir Anthony’s foot. “So, it does matter to you? What happens to Lucinda, I mean”

“It shall all turn out in the end, Miss Delacourt, never you fear.”

“Fear? What have I to fear? It matters not to me how this all turns out!” she hissed.

“Doesn’t it?” With his hand still gripping her arm, she could feel him move closer so his breath fanned her cheek. “What you have to fear is losing.”

“Losing! To Lucinda?” How dared he!

“Naturally. If we don’t hurry, they will find the slipper ere do we, and I had it of the housekeeper the prize is an entire blancmange”

Ginny felt unaccountably relieved. She choked on the bubble of nervous laughter that welled up inside her. “In that case, we had best hurry and find it. I most especially love blancmange.”

In the end, it was the squire who found the slipper under his own bed when he had gone up to take a snooze after his tryst with his lady in the linen closet. It seemed Mrs. Crandall thought it a great joke to lay the slipper in place of the master’s own. To compensate for the difficulty of the task, she made a small blancmange for each participant.

“That was very well done of her,” Ginny commented to Sir Anthony. He was seated to her right at the dinner table yet failed to hear her. He appeared to be wholly consumed with every detail of Lucinda’s toilette. They were in silent communication, it seemed, for Lucinda had only to point to a certain aspect of her gown or jewelry for Sir Anthony to give a slight nod and the ghost of a smile in her direction.

It was positively disgusting and most shockingly rude, to say the least. And there was Lord Avery seeing all of it, looking as if he were about to water his blancmange with his tears.

“Lord Avery,” she said hastily, not wishing to see Mrs. Crandall’s efforts washed down the table. “Would you consider favoring us with some of your poetry tonight?” Even as she said it she wanted to bite her tongue. But what was done was done, and Lord Avery looked so pleased.

“Yes, my dear Miss Delacourt, it would be a pleasure beyond bearing.” Indeed his face shone with an almost insupportable joy.

“That is,” she amended, “if the others are of a like mind.”

Murmurs of assent went all around the table. It was difficult to tell the genuine smiles from the forced, but Ginny suspected there were some of each.

Lord Avery jumped up from his chair. “Then it’s settled! Let us forgo the port and have at it.” Taking Ginny by the arm, he propelled her to her feet. “I would be delighted to escort you to the front-row seat, Miss Delacourt.” He tucked her arm in his and hurried her out the door.

Ginny realized, with some trepidation, that Lord Avery was using her to make Lucinda jealous. If so, matters could only go from bad to worse.

The evening had taken a turn for the worse. Lord Avery’s enthusiasm was hard to stomach, but his souful expression as he stood before them at the front of the music room was enough to turn one off one’s food. Sir Anthony supposed the facial arrangement to be intentional but doubted the hangdog face of a professional mourner was the desired result.

“Oh, you look exactly like Lord Byron,” Mrs. Barrington exclaimed.

“Yes, indeed.” Lucinda clapped her hands. “You could be twins!”

Never mind that Lucinda had never laid eyes on Lord Byron, Sir Anthony thought, not to mention that Byron was dark of hair and eye.

Lord Avery seemed not to care for that little detail. “Ladies, you honor me” He bowed and drew a packet of papers from deep within his waistcoat and cleared his throat. “Light, if you please”

Mrs. Barrington twittered and hastened forth with a brace of candles. She placed them on the pianoforte next to where Lord Avery stood, his hand caressing the smooth cherry finish.

He once again peered at his papers and in a moment of great transparency moved the candles ever closer to his side. Lord Avery’s pale locks flared into glorious gold tresses in this new proximity to the flickering flames. The poetry had not even begun and Sir Anthony could feel his stomach churning.

He stole a glance at Ginny, seated near the front of the room, from his preferred chair at the back where the light was dim and he could slip into slumber undetected. It also had the added advantage of providing him with an excellent view of Ginny’s reaction. At the moment she was giving every indication of being eager to hear Lord Avery’s drivel.

“Cornflower eyes, like dawn arise,” Lord Avery intoned.

Sir Anthony had no trouble determining for whom this poem was written. Certainly there was no doubt as to who the author was though he wouldn’t be surprised if Lord Avery had fallen prey to the temptation of plagiarism. Lord knows he would under such circumstances. The poem continued at agonizing length, delineating each and every charm Miss Barrington possessed. After listening to them described in Lord Avery’s words, Sir Anthony was inclined to view even “dimpled cheeks, as well as elbows,” in a bad light.

At length the poem ended. “Bravo!” Ginny cried, clapping her hands a la Lucinda.

The squire and Mrs. Barrington were equally impressed. “Can’t think, no, can’t think why we haven’t had you read for us before now,” the squire pronounced. His lady merely smiled and turned a coy look on her daughter, who sat blushing down at her hands in her lap.

Thank goodness it was over, at least. “Very fine, Avery.” Sir Anthony began to rise from his chair but was stopped cold by the sound of Ginny’s voice.

“Pray, do another,” she begged.

Avery had the arrogance to look gratified and pulled a second sheaf of papers from his pocket. “The subject of this poem is quite a different one, as I am sure you will discover for yourself ere long” With a lingering glance at Ginny he took a deep breath and plunged into passionate recitation.

“Gray-eyed lady in the dark, can you hear my pounding heart? Still it, still it, with a kiss. Turn my fever to my bliss.”

Sir Anthony had no wish to hear the words that followed and was mercifully spared from doing so by the incessant pounding of blood in his ears. How dared that dog write a poem about Ginny! What right did he have? What claim? If anyone were to write an ode to her gray eyes, it should be himself. The thought had certainly crossed his mind more than once.

In horrified fascination, Sir Anthony watched Lord Avery sway to and fro in the grips of poetic passion. The pounding in his ears increased, and he felt almost as if he were in a world far removed from the scene he watched: Lucinda pouting; the squire and Mrs. Barrington, puzzled smiles glued to their faces; Ginny, smiling through her tears; Lord Avery swaying, ever swaying, exposing his golden locks to the flicker of the candles.

Sir Anthony exploded from his chair just as Lord Avery’s hair burst into flames. “Avery, watch out!” he cried. As he sprinted across the room, he heard a crash and a scream, but he hadn’t time to reflect on its cause.

Ginny arrived at Lord Avery’s side before him, a bowl of roses in her hands. Together they hefted the large bowl over Lord Avery’s head and dumped the contents.

Lord Avery no longer swayed. With an acute disregard for his near disaster or the state of his clothing that Sir Anthony could only wonder at, Lord Avery fell to his knees at Ginny’s feet. “My Goddess. My Benefactress. My Protectress. I am your servant, now and forever!”

Sir Anthony could not abide the fact that the blush rising in Ginny’s cheeks was caused by someone other than himself. Since when could anyone but he cause her cheeks to turn so delightfully pink? Since Lord Avery, his hair scorched, dripping wet, and strewn with roses knelt at her feet, it would seem.

“There is no need, my lord” Ginny plucked at the roses cascading like water down Avery’s length. “I did very little, really. It was Sir Anthony who first alerted us to what was happening, and besides, I could never have lifted that water over your head without his aid.”

Sir Anthony turned his head from the sight of the blubbering Avery with distaste. Lucinda swooning on the floor was hardly a more cheerful prospect, but it restored his good humor to have something useful to which to apply himself.