Miss Darby's Duenna

by Sheri Cobb South

  The dowager was in the process of selecting a seed cake from the tray, but at the duchess's unexpected question, this confection crumbled in her fingers, raining crumbs onto her plate. “Lady Thurston-Whyte?” she echoed. “You must know, your Grace, that I do not get about as much as I did in my younger days. But now that you mention it, I believe I have occasionally encountered Lady Thurston-Whyte in the Pump Room."

  "Indeed?” was the duchess's response.

  In the next instant, Lord Mannerly came to collect his aunt, and the subject was dropped as the pair bid their hostess farewell.

  Upon seeing Lord Mannerly vacate his post, Georgina claimed the marquess's place beside Olivia on the sofa, from which vantage point she observed through narrowed eyes as he exchanged pleasantries with the faux Lady Hawthorne.

  "Tell me, Olivia, what do you think of him?” Georgina asked.

  "Lord Mannerly? I think he is quite the most charming man I have ever met."

  "There are some,” said Georgina with a show of indifference, “who consider Harry charming."

  "Oh, Harry is not lacking in charm, when he chooses to exercise it. But,” added Olivia, her magnificent eyes sparkling with mischief, “Harry is the sort of gentleman one marries. Lord Mannerly is the sort with whom one enjoys a shocking flirtation."

  Georgina lost no time in reporting this remark to her brother, after which she requested permission to inform the Reverend Mr. Collier of the birth of Mrs. Darby's first grandchild. Permission being granted, Georgina tripped lightly from the room in search of writing paper, sent on her way with Sir Harry's rather grimly expressed hope that his sister's courtship would be more successful than his own.

  Alas, but such was not the case. Georgina had no sooner dipped quill to inkwell than she discovered the good vicar's face mysteriously erased from her memory. Oh, she well remembered his blue eyes, golden curls, and aristocratic brow. But when she tried to assemble these pleasing characteristics into a unified whole, the beloved countenance remained maddeningly elusive. Instead, the marquess's black eyes and mocking smile swam before her as if permanently engraved on the pressed vellum. Georgina stared at this image for a long moment, until a drop of ink dripped from her quill, marring the crisp white writing paper with a large black blot. Georgina crumpled the ruined sheet into a ball and threw it into the grate.

  * * * *

  "Well, Aunt Augusta?” prompted the marquess as soon as they had quit Curzon Street.

  "You are quite right, Selwyn,” pronounced the duchess. “I do not know who that woman is, but she is certainly not Lady Hawthorne—at least, not the Lady Hawthorne I knew."

  "Aha!"

  The duchess gave a derisive snort. “The woman told me she occasionally met Lady Thurston-Whyte in the Pump Room! Of all the taradiddles!"

  "I feel sure I shall regret asking, but what makes you so certain it was a taradiddle?"

  "Look up Lord Thurston-Whyte in Debrett's, my boy,” advised his aunt. “There is not, to my knowledge, any such peerage in all Britain."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Seven

  Oh, what a plague is love! How shall I bear it? She will inconstant prove, I greatly fear it.

  ANONYMOUS, Phillida Flouts Me

  To Sir Harry, it seemed as if his life had become a nightmare from which he could not awaken. His morning had been spent doing the pretty to an endless stream of morning callers, all the while watching out of the corner of his eye as Olivia flirted with his nemesis in a manner which could only be described as brazen. His evening promised to be no better, as he was committed to escort Olivia and Georgina to Vauxhall Gardens, where he would no doubt be forced to dance attendance on his sister while Lord Mannerly steered Olivia down various dark and secluded walks. For herein lay the fatal flaw in his ill-conceived plan: while he in his new persona could certainly keep Miss Darby under his watchful eye, the faux Lady Hawthorne could do nothing to further his own courtship. In assuming his disguise, Sir Harry had unwittingly given the marquess a clear field, having effectively removed himself as a rival.

  A rival ... Sir Harry stroked his jaw, disconcerted as always at finding it clean-shaven. A rival ... If someone else were to court Olivia, someone who could spike Mannerly's guns without being a threat to Olivia's heart....

  The idea, having lodged itself in his brain, took root and blossomed. Sir Harry cast about in his mind for a suitable swain for his intended, then penned a brief missive to the Honourable Felix Wrexham.

  Mr. Wrexham, upon receiving this epistle, could not fathom why the dowager Lady Hawthorne, whom he had never met, should suddenly require his presence; even less did he understand why she should insist that he come alone. Nevertheless, Mr. Wrexham had a healthy respect for his elders, and so he followed his instructions to the letter, presenting himself at the front door not more than an hour after receiving his summons.

  It being Coombes's half-day, Mr. Wrexham was ushered into her ladyship's presence by John, a wide-eyed footman who had heard the other servants gossiping about the dowager's “lady's maid,” and had not believed the half of it. In fact, he had suggested to the upstairs maid, with whom he was walking out, that Coombes was exaggerating to make a better tale, but now it appeared the butler had understated the case. It seemed the old girl had more than one lover on her string, this one Quality-born and less than half the old lady's age, beside! Flinging open the door to the front drawing room, John announced the visitor, then hurried back to the kitchen to regale the rest of the staff with this newest discovery.

  Meanwhile Mr. Wrexham, unaware of the stir he was causing belowstairs, bowed over the dowager's hand. ‘"Servant, my lady,” he said. “Happy to be of service any way I can."

  "You can be of service by giving my hand back, you gudgeon!” replied Sir Harry, jerking his hand free before Mr. Wrexham could press a kiss onto it.

  "Harry?" uttered Mr. Wrexham incredulously. “What the—"

  "Shhh! D'you want to inform the entire household?"

  "But the wig, the dress! Dash it. Harry, what's toward?"

  "It's a long story, I'm afraid. I shall tell you in a minute, but first I must know if I can trust you. Will you help me, Felix?"

  "Do anything I can,” promised Mr. Wrexham. “What do you want me to do?"

  "I want you to court Miss Darby."

  At this declaration, Mr. Wrexham's jaw dropped, and he gaped at his host in a manner unflatteringly reminiscent of a fish.

  "Close your mouth, Felix, before something flies into it,” recommended Sir Harry.

  Mr. Wrexham shut his mouth, swallowed hard, and found his tongue at last. “Now, look here, Harry, don't think you can palm your bride off on me, for I won't—"

  But he got no further. Sir Harry, despite his petticoats, launched himself from his chair and, seizing the unfortunate Mr. Wrexham by his cravat, hauled him to his feet. “Watch how you speak of Miss Darby, Felix, or I'll call you out!"

  "But you don't wish to marry her, do you?” rasped Mr. Wrexham through Sir Harry's viselike grip on his throat. “I mean, it ain't like you love the girl."

  Mr. Wrexham's words struck Sir Harry with all the force of a thunderbolt. Not love Livvy? Not love the girl whose fierce devotion had once prompted her to follow him all over the Home Wood on that blasted pony? Whose sweet femininity had once provided a welcome change from the all-male bastions of first Eton and then Oxford? Whose white shoulders and bosom were even now driving him insane with jealousy and unfulfilled longing?

  What a fool he had been! He had loved her all his life, and had not known it until now, when it appeared as if he might lose her.

  "What about Violetta?” Mr. Wrexham's voice seemed to come from far away. “Thought you loved her."

  With a snort of derision, Sir Harry released his grip on his friend's neck. “Violetta was nothing more than a schoolboy's fantasy. Olivia I shall love until the day I die—which might come sooner than expected, for if I lose her to that loose screw Mannerly, well, I shall be
forced to put a bullet through my brain."

  Mr. Wrexham, while acknowledging that Miss Darby was a deuced pretty girl, was at a loss to explain his friend's sudden preference for her slender beauty over Violetta's more robust charms. However, Sir Harry's sinister conclusion wrested his attention away from fond recollections of the actress's physical attributes and back to the business at hand.

  "Here now, Harry, no need to act rashly,” protested Mr. Wrexham.

  "Mannerly ain't won yet, you know. Miss Darby is still your fiancée, and all that. You'll come out all right. Do anything I can to help you."

  "Will you, indeed?"

  Mr. Wrexham, seeing his friend's kindling eye, knew a moment's uncertainty. Still, a gentleman never went back on his word. “Course I will. Just name it."

  Sir Harry leaned forward in his chair. “I have a plan,” he began.

  Mr. Wrexham's intelligence was not swift, but after Sir Harry had recited his tale two or three times, he had a commendable grasp of the plot and his role in it. To this he voiced only one objection.

  "But what if she—er—"

  "Yes, Felix? What is it?"

  The tips of Mr. Wrexham's ears turned a delicate rose hue. “What if Miss Darby conceives a tendre for me? Shouldn't like to toy with a lady's affections. Not at all the thing."

  But Sir Harry's estimation of his friend's charms was not so high. “Don't be a gudgeon, Felix,” he advised. “Do you honestly think any female would favor your attentions over the marquess of Mannerly's?"

  "No. At least, Violetta don't."

  "Quite right,” said Sir Harry.

  * * * *

  While Sir Harry plotted with Mr. Wrexham, Olivia, accompanied by Georgina and the maid who served both young ladies, perused the shops of Bond Street in search of a ribbon in just the right shade to match her best carriage dress. Her diligence was rewarded at Grafton House, where she found the elusive hue at such a bargain price that she was also able to purchase a modish new reticule in the shape of an Etruscan vase.

  In point of fact, Olivia was looking forward to her drive with the marquess far more than was seemly for a young lady who was pledged to wed another. By the time Lord Mannerly called in Curzon Street, she had spent an inordinate amount of time before her looking glass, indulging in an activity which in a vainer female would have been called preening. Nor were her efforts in vain, for Lord Mannerly, handing her up into his curricle, was moved to declare that he had never seen her in better looks.

  "How unhandsome of you, my lord,” scolded Olivia, giving his sleeve a playful tweak. “For if you have never seen me look better, I can only assume that I normally look worse."

  "Your assumption is incorrect, Miss Darby,” responded the marquess, guiding his cattle into the flow of traffic. “Your appearance never fails to please, and this consistency is a great part of your charm."

  "I shall strive to maintain the precedent I have set, my lord,” vowed Olivia solemnly, then laughed aloud in the pure pleasure of being young and female and admired by a man.

  Lord Mannerly joined in her laughter, and it was a merry pair which entered the gates of St. James Park. Mannerly, it seemed, knew everyone, and they frequently paused in their circuit about the park so that the marquess might greet some acquaintance, many of whom begged to be introduced to his fair companion.

  But of Sir Harry there was no sign, and Olivia's pleasure in her newfound popularity soon palled. Lord Mannerly, sensing her sudden change of mood, surmised the reason, and judged it time to make his first move. He suggested that they stroll about the Mall for awhile, and, receiving a reply in the affirmative, tossed the reins to his tiger and descended from the vehicle. Then, taking Olivia firmly by the waist, he lifted her down from the curricle and set her on her feet, allowing his hands to remain at her waist the merest fraction of a second longer than necessary before taking her hand and drawing it through the crook of his arm.

  Olivia, startled by this sustained contact, was not sure which she found most disturbing: the contact itself, or the little shudder of pleasure which coursed through her body at the marquess's touch. Hoping to cover her confusion, she fixed the marquess with a bright, false smile which, had she but known it, informed him of her feelings quite as plainly as if she had spoken them aloud.

  "I vow, my lord,” she said with forced cheerfulness as they set out on foot across the grass, “it appears all the world is in the park today."

  "It certainly appears that way,” agreed Lord Mannerly, leading her slowly but inexorably in the direction of a stone bench screened from public view by a high hedge. “And yet, I can think of at least one member of the ton who is missing."

  A delicate blush stained Olivia's cheeks. “If you refer to Harry, my lord, he has many interests in Town. I am sure he cannot wish to dance attendance on his fiancée every minute."

  "The more fool he,” replied the marquess promptly. “If his other interests command so much of his time, perhaps he would do better not to embark upon the sea of holy matrimony just yet."

  Olivia looked up, her pride stung by Mannerly's insinuation. “You think he should not have asked me to marry him?"

  "On the contrary, Miss Darby, I think you deserve better.” Having reached his destination, he drew her down to sit beside him on the bench. “Beauty such as yours, my dear, deserves to be admired, to be cherished by a man. By the right man,” he amended, snaking his arm about her waist.

  "I hardly think this c-conversation is p-proper, my lord,” stammered Olivia, all too aware of the nearness of the marquess and the telltale pounding of her own heart.

  "Not ‘my lord,’ Miss Darby. My name is Selwyn."

  "I am sure H-Harry would not l-like—"

  "Harry is not here,” Mannerly reminded her. “Try it: Selwyn. Selwyn."

  "S-Sel-w-wyn,” echoed Olivia shakily.

  "Very good. Now try it again,” said the marquess, lowering his head to hers. “Sel-wyn."

  "S-Sel—” Lord Mannerly's movement caused Olivia to look up, and once her eyes fixed with his, she found it impossible to look away. Like a rabbit confronted by a cobra, she stared transfixed as his lips, still forming his name, descended to meet hers.

  But whether Olivia would have surrendered to the marquess's embrace would never be known, for in the same instant that his lips reached hers, he was hailed by a newcomer.

  "Well met, Mannerly,” cried this worthy, a young man whose saffron yellow pantaloons and inordinately high shirt-points proclaimed him a budding Tulip. “Heard you was returned from the Continent. That is—” Mr. Wrexham broke off abruptly, recalling too late his friend's account of the reason for Mannerly's exile. “—What I mean is, fine time to see Paris and all that, now that Boney's no longer running tame."

  Lord Mannerly raised his quizzing glass and inspected the unfortunate Mr. Wrexham with an expression which gave the younger man to understand that his presence was unwelcome. “Good day, Mr.—Wickham, isn't it?"

  "Wrexham—Felix Wrexham, don't you know,” replied that worthy, undaunted. “I say, Mannerly, won't you introduce me to your fair companion?"

  "But of course,” drawled the marquess, suddenly enlightened as to the artless Mr. Wrexham's intentions. “Miss Darby, may I present Mr. Wrexham, who is, I believe, the boon companion of your fiancé. Mr. Wrexham, Miss Darby."

  ’”Servant, Miss Darby,” said Mr. Wrexham, making his bow to the red-faced young lady without whose affection his friend would consider life a burden. “Tell me, how d'you find Harry?"

  Olivia had been understandably chagrined at having been discovered in a compromising position, particularly by an intimate of her betrothed, but Mr. Wrexham's seemingly innocuous question had the effect of recalling that young lady's grievances to her mind, and suddenly her own sins seemed the lesser by comparison.

  "I find Harry quite well, sir, when I can find him at all,” she replied with some asperity. “I daresay I shall see him at Almack's on Wednesday, however. Tell me, Mr. Wrexham, do you go often to
the Assembly Rooms?"

  Mr. Wrexham shook his head, indicating the negative. Like most young blades, he felt nothing but revulsion for the King Street establishment which was as notorious for its exclusivity as it was for the stale cake and tepid lemonade which it habitually foisted upon its select clientele. “Can't abide the place, myself,” he said, then, recalling his mission, added hastily, “that is, never cared for it until now. Should be honored, though, if you would stand up with me for the waltz, Miss Darby."

  "I am sure the pleasure will be mine, sir,” said Olivia with perhaps more civility than truthfulness.

  * * * *

  It was a melancholy Mr. Wrexham who presented himself in Curzon Street later that afternoon. Although not a student of philosophy, he was well aware of mankind's innate tendency to kill the messenger when one disliked the message. And he was quite certain that Sir Harry would dislike this message very much, indeed. Upon being shown into her ladyship's presence by the goggle-eyed John, he accepted a glass of sherry and sat down in the chair nearest to the door, in case he should find it necessary to beat a hasty retreat. He then proceeded to recount the afternoon's events to an enthralled audience of one.

  "And then,” concluded Mr. Wrexham, setting down his wineglass and mentally measuring the distance to the door, “Mannerly leaned forward, like he was going to kiss her."

  "Did she let him?” demanded Sir Harry, edging forward in his chair in anticipation of the answer. “More to the point, did she kiss him back?"

  Mr. Wrexham shrugged. “Can't say. Thought it time to break up the tête-à-tête."

  Sir Harry collapsed back in his chair, torn between disappointment at not knowing and relief at being spared the agony of hearing what he had not wanted to know. Unsure whether to berate his friend or thank him, he contented himself with cursing Lord Mannerly under his breath.

  "There's only one thing for it, then,” he declared at last. “I shall have to put in an appearance at Vauxhall tonight."

  But Mr. Wrexham had no very high opinion of this plan. “Can't have thought, Harry,” he said, shaking his head. “Be ruined if you're discovered. Blackballed from White's, and all that. And what of Miss Darby? Ruin her reputation, if the ton knew you and she'd been living under the same roof. No chaperone, you know, unmarried and all. Won't do."