The Indomitable Miss Harris (7 page)

“But why? Surely that is no way to help him learn economy.”

“We may pity though not pardon him,” murmured Mrs. Periwinkle. Then, realizing the other two had both turned to look at her, she added hastily, “His highness, of course, not you, Landover. His upbringing—so needlessly harsh—his family, so … so …” She spread her hands helplessly.

“Just so, ma’am, though I for one would not compare Prinny to Richard III. But I don’t do what I do out of pity, you know.” He paused, then smiled. “Prinny has a great many faults, but he also has wonderful taste and judgment when it comes to
objets d’art.
’Tis my belief that the treasures he’s been gathering for the British crown will be loved and cherished long after his own reign has faded into history.”

They had reached the carriage, and Landover scarcely paused between phrases before he gave the coachman orders to take them to Bettencourt Hall. It was nearly midnight, but Gillian knew the ball would be in full swing. On evenings such as this one, when they moved from one entertainment to another, it was very often after three o’clock in the morning before she or her chaperone could lay their heads upon their pillows. The night was young.

Landover had changed the subject and was idly conversing with Mrs. Periwinkle. Gillian relaxed against the velvet squabs, listening to their voices—Mrs. Periwinkle’s like water rippling over stones in a brook, Landover’s slower, more solid, with a deep, melodious cadence that seemed to carry its vibrations to every corner of the carriage. It was a soothing voice, moving easily through the conversation with Mrs. Periwinkle’s higher tones skipping and weaving over and about it. Gillian watched the light from the carriage lamps as it flickered over his face, her thoughts turning to their earlier conversation.

Clearly, he had not wanted to discuss his royal financial dealings any further, but the discussion, however brief, had shown her another facet of his personality. It seemed there might be more to Landover than the tyrannical despot she had thought him to be. He was certainly handsome enough, she mused now, watching the glow of golden light on the chiseled features opposite. His gaze shifted, and she was glad her own features were shadowed, for she could feel warmth invading her cheeks.

“You’re very quiet, Miss Harris. Are you falling asleep?”

“Just relaxing, my lord. I find it easier to be gay if I rest between entertainments. I’m sorry if I seemed inattentive.”

“Not at all,” he replied politely. “But I think we have arrived.”

They had indeed. A pair of flunkies stepped briskly forward to open the carriage door and let down the steps before handing first Mrs. Periwinkle and then Gillian to the carpeted flagway.

“An hour and a half, Jason,” Landover ordered as he, too, descended.

“Very good, m’lord.” The coachman touched his hat, then gave his team the office, and the well-sprung carriage rolled off down the cobbled street as the trio ascended the steps and entered the warm rotunda of Bettencourt Hall.

They were greeted enthusiastically by their host and hostess and soon made their way to the ballroom, pausing now and again to greet acquaintances. But no sooner had they entered the magnificent, flower-bedecked ballroom itself than Landover, directly behind Gillian, was heard to give a low chuckle. She glanced back curiously to discover that his eyes were twinkling merrily as with a little gesture of his head he directed her attention ahead and to their right. Her gaze immediately encountered the elegant though patently bored figure of Mr. Brummell.

Landover’s hand on her elbow urged her toward him, and Gillian reached forward to tap Mrs. Periwinkle’s arm in order to warn her that they were changing direction. Mrs. Periwinkle responded immediately and, catching sight of him, hurried to greet the Beau.

“Why, Mr. Brummell, how nice to see you again,” she enthused. “But we quite thought we should be denied your further company tonight.”

“Indeed, George,” chuckled Landover. “What brings you here? And you, Alvanley—not a soul to call your own?”

Lord Alvanley cast his tormenter a speaking look, but the Beau was made of sterner stuff. “It seems Clarence promised her ladyship he’d look in for a moment or two,” he confided sweetly, referring to the Duke of Clarence, one of the Prince Regent’s five younger brothers. “He has promised not to remain longer than necessary, however, so we agreed to accompany him. Are you trapped for the duration?”

“Unlikely,” chuckled Landover. “’Tis too much of a crush to tempt us overlong. But I have been given to understand that my sister is somewhere in the midst of this rabble, and rather than submit to one of her scolds, I will attempt to pay my respects before taking departure. Ah,” he added, his eyes still atwinkle, “I believe I am about to have the honor of presenting my second charge to you, George.” He beckoned. “Sir Avery, may I claim your attention for a moment, if you please?”

Gillian, astonished to see her brother at such a party, watched wide-eyed as he approached with a rather weaving gait, accompanied by a beet-faced gentleman of his own age.

“How d’ye do?” he replied offhandedly when the introductions were made. “This is m’ friend Willoby, Jasper Willoby, one of the Bettencourt cousins,” he added, explaining their presence. “At least, he was m’ friend till a moment ago.” He lifted an owlish gaze to Brummell. “Wish y’d explain the rules of snuff-taking to ’im, sir. Tried to dip his fingers into my sort, doncha know, then went all huffy when I told ’im I’d have to cast the rest onto the fire if he contaminated it. Tell ’im.”

A sudden, rather awful silence descended upon the group, Mrs. Periwinkle actually gasping with shock, while Lord Alvanley cast his eyes accusingly heavenward. Landover recovered first.

“You are foxed, sir,” he said sternly to Sir Avery, “therefore, I shall not attempt to correct your atrocious manners here and now. However, I will require your presence—your clearheaded presence, if possible—in my study at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I trust you will remember.”

Sir Avery’s wits seemed to sharpen momentarily, although he glanced at the others in some bewilderment. “Beg pardon, all. Your servant, my lord.” And with a quick bow and an anxious tug at Mr. Willoby’s elbow, he faded into the crowd.

“My apologies, George,” Landover said brusquely. “It won’t happen again.”

Brummell’s eyes had narrowed angrily at Sir Avery’s comment about the snuff, and now he turned that dagger look upon Landover. “Your little hen is deuced pretty, Landover, but yon cock has more bottom than wit. I trust you’ll drub some manners into his head.”

“Your wish is my command, sir,” Landover responded promptly, and Gillian was amazed to detect a note of ironic amusement in his voice. “Perhaps you would be so good as to suggest a word or two I might drop in his ear—just to get the point across, mind you.”

The sardonic tone was not lost on the Beau, whose gaze glittered even more. But something in Landover’s expression brought a reluctant smile to his lips. “Have a care, my lord. My day is not yet done. I could indeed supply you with a telling phrase or two; yet, methinks you’ll do well enough on that score unaided. I’ve no doubt the lad’s ears will ring ere you have done with him.”

They parted company soon afterward, and Gillian’s curiosity was well and truly piqued. At first opportunity, she drew Mrs. Periwinkle aside.

“Pray, ma’am, what was all that?”

Mrs. Periwinkle shook her head. “That dreadful boy! Surely, Mr. Brummell thinks it was a calculated insult.”

“Because Avery refused his snuff to Mr. Willoby? But how on earth could such an action have anything to do with Mr. Brummell?”

“Well may you ask, child. But you are not conversant as I am with the babbling gossip of court circles. Not long since did Mr. Brummell make that same comment when the Bishop of Winchester helped himself to a pinch of his snuff. Indeed, Mr. Brummell actually called his servant and ordered him to pitch the rest on the fire, since it had been contaminated.”

“A bishop! How rude of him!” Gillian was horrified.

“Hung himself in his own straps, too, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Periwinkle added, “since Prinny himself was present at the time. It is said that he gave the Beau a royal wigging for his rudeness. Which is no doubt what Landover, naughty fellow, was referring to when he asked the Beau what he should say to Sir Avery.”

“But I’m quite sure Avery never meant to insult Mr. Brummell!” Gillian exclaimed. “Why, the man is very nearly his hero. You know he is! Avery strives to dress, speak, even act like him. Oh!”

“Indeed,” smiled Mrs. Periwinkle. “He has succeeded only too well in acting like him. But even Mr. Brummell was not allowed to behave so rudely with impunity.” She frowned thoughtfully. “You know, my dear, Sir Avery could do no better than to match Mr. Brummell’s elegance of attire, but to copy his social manner would be a grave mistake, to my way of thinking.”

“Yes, indeed,” Gillian agreed. “Why, Mr. Brummell makes a habit of rudeness.”

Mrs. Periwinkle seemed perfectly ready to launch into a nice gossip on the subject, but Gillian’s attention was claimed for the Scottish reel that was just beginning. Her partner was one of the young men whose acquaintance she had made within the past three weeks, and he was slightly intoxicated, which fact she thought might be partially to blame for his rather forward manner with her. He flirted; indeed, he leered. His grip on her arm when the pattern of the dance brought them together was familiar, even lingering. And when the moment came for them to whirl their way down the corridor made by the other couples, he literally lifted her from the floor.

“Oh, Mr. Wakely!” she gasped when she could catch her breath again. “You really are too physical, sir! Nothing but minuets for you after this!”

“Nonsense, Miss Harris,” he breathed close to her face, brandy fumes wafting gently under her nose. “A brisk trot clears the head and exercises the heart. And, oh, my heart, Miss Harris!” He leered again.

“Will you introduce your friend, my dear?”

Gillian jumped at the sound of the harsh voice. Turning, she discovered Landover looming over her, his gimlet gaze impaling young Wakely.

“This is Mr. Wakely, Landover,” she said, oddly breathless. “And this is the Marquis of Landover, sir.”

“A marquis, eh?” Mr. Wakely beamed vacuously. “You in the running, too, my lord?”

“I beg your pardon.” Landover spoke blightingly, but he might have spared himself the trouble. Wakely was far too insulated to notice his tone.

“The running,” he explained carefully. “Y’ know—the Harris Heiress stakes! Bein’ a marquis gives you an edge, I daresay, but win, place, or show makes no never-mind to me. Don’t need the guineas m’self. Well heeled. But the little filly’s worth the race, whatever, doncha know.”

Gillian stiffened with dismay and opened her mouth to correct Mr. Wakely’s mistaken notions. But Landover spoke first.

“There are no stakes to be won, sir. Miss Harris is under my protection.”

“What! Already? Quick work, my lord. And just to show there’s no hard feelings, here’s my hand on it.” And to Gillian’s outraged astonishment, he actually seemed to expect Landover to accept a congratulatory fist. Suddenly, the whole incident seemed ludicrous. She stifled a giggle.

“It is not as you seem to think, you young cur,” Landover said angrily. “I am Miss Harris’s trustee, not her … her …”

“He is not my lover, Mr. Wakely,” Gillian put in helpfully. “Nor my betrothed. He has merely taken it into his head that I need looking after.”

“That will do, Miss Harris.” The tone was such that she subsided obediently. “Good evening, Wakely. I trust Miss Harris will not be annoyed by any further attentions from you.”

This time his tone sliced through even the brandy. Young Mr. Wakely reddened perceptibly. “No, my lord. As you say, my lord. Not me, sir.” He turned rather too abruptly upon his heel and stumbled against a corpulent gentleman following in the wake of a regal dame. “Beg pardon,” muttered Mr. Wakely wretchedly. Then, bethinking himself of another detail, he turned back to Landover. “Want I should pass the word, my lord?”

“By all means,” was the damping reply.

Gillian, her eye upon Mr. Wakely’s careful progress, let a tiny chuckle escape as she turned back to Landover. The sound froze in her throat, however, when she encountered blazing fury in those hazel eyes.

“My lord?”

Her voice was tiny. She tried to clear her throat, but he took her hand, clamped it down upon his forearm, and drew her inexorably from the dance floor toward a group of chairs, temporarily vacant, against the nearest wall.

“Sit.” She sat. At first he seemed about to deliver his lecture standing, but with a quick glance around the crowded ballroom, he thought better of it and took the chair to her left, growling, “That is exactly the sort of behavior I had hoped my presence would deter, Miss Harris.”

“But how was I to know? He seemed all right when he asked me to dance, and I’ve danced with him often since I came to London. He’s perfectly harmless, my lord.”

“That remains to be seen,” he retorted grimly. “As to how you should have known, that is the precise reason for having a chaperone. And don’t try to flim-flam me by pretending Amelia Periwinkle approved Mr. Wakely for a partner. She would have noticed his condition straightaway.”

“But she was right beside—” Belatedly, Gillian realized she had not so much as glanced at her companion before accepting Mr. Wakely’s invitation. Her cheeks flamed, and she found it difficult to meet Landover’s steady look.

“Just so. At least you do not prevaricate, Miss Harris. That must always be accounted in your favor. Nevertheless, henceforward, you shall dance with no one who has not been formally approved by Amelia Periwinkle or myself. Is that absolutely understood?”

“I am not a child, Landover,” she grated between clenched teeth. “I can look after myself. I can even handle the Mr. Wakelys of this world, and I should vastly prefer to do so by myself. I cannot like having my every step overlooked.”

“And the ‘Harris Heiress stakes’? Can you handle those as well, my dear?” There had been a touch of sarcasm in the first few words, but at her stricken look, his tone gentled. Now he laid his hand comfortingly upon hers. “Do not look so distressed, child. And don’t glare at me for calling you so. You may be of an age to become a matron lady, and you may have done a great many things in the past three weeks or even before that in Sussex, but you are still a child in experience. And it is my duty, whether either of us likes it or not, to protect you from yourself as well as from others who might do you harm.”