by Joan Smith
“Some relatives of Derwent’s are making a marriage visit this afternoon. Two dowager aunts—not your cup of tea, I shouldn’t think.”
“I have nothing against dowagers! My own mother is one.”
“This pair aren’t like your mama. They’re coming to see how the new Lady Derwent measures up to their strict standards of propriety. You must warn her not to serve wine, and if she has a gown with long sleeves, it would not go amiss.”
“I see what it is,” she told him pertly. “You fear my waywardness will disgust them. I thought I showed you at Ashford that I can be second to none when I wish to behave.”
“To save you from another such acting chore, I would like to take you driving with me, if you are at liberty. I am going out to a brood farm to look at a mare that is considered Derby material. Will you come?”
Sally was doubly distressed to have to miss such a pleasant diversion and to refuse Monstuart’s offer. It was not imagination, then, that he had been friendlier last night. “Unfortunately, I am busy this afternoon.”
His eyebrow quirked up with interest. “My ruse with Sir Giles was unsuccessful, was it?”
“No, Lord Monstuart. He frightens too easily. You succeeded in alienating him, with your solicitous mention of Peacock.”
The eyebrow rose higher, and his smile stiffened. “Is it Peacock you’re seeing this afternoon?”
“No, it is the florist,” she said petulantly. “A ball does not arrange itself, you know.”
His eyebrow fell immediately, and his smile thawed. “I am happy to hear you’re not seeing Peacock. Some very unsavory stories are beginning to surface regarding him. It seems his pockets aren’t so deep as he let on. What money he has he gets from sheering the young. He plays with them at some decent place the first night and lets them win a little something. They’re led to Mrs. Brody’s gaming parlor for the kill. He has an interest in a gaming establishment fronted by a Mrs. Brody. I fancy that’s his own name. He has an Irish charm about him.”
“Which is more than can be said for Sir Giles. He has a very English sangfroid.”
“As to Sir Giles, if he is so easily frightened, he’s not the man for you. What have you all got planned for this evening?”
Sally peered at him from the corner of her eyes. “Why, milord, Lady Dennison will be angry with you, neglecting her so shamelessly after bringing her to town.”
“I did not bring her to town! She comes every Season. We are friends, no more.”
The alacrity and vehemence of his rejoinder pleased her. It was beginning to seem that Monstuart was freeing himself of all encumbrances. One could not but wonder at it, even hope.
“We are attending the play at Drury Lane,” she replied.
“I think you will enjoy it. Kean did a fine job as Lear. I shan’t be attending, but you must by all means make use of that season’s ticket. Where will you go afterward?”
“We have cards for Engleworth’s ball.”
“Excellent. So have I.”
Miss Hermitage was in very good spirits when Monstuart took his leave. It wasn’t till Ronald took up the tiara to examine it that she fell into a pelter.
“It’s a pity I bought this thing, since you don’t care for it,” he said to Melanie. His mouth looked sulky. “A waste of blunt, and we haven’t any to spare.”
“Monstuart paid for it out of your own money, did he not?” Sally asked.
“No, I thought he meant to, but when it was time to pay up, he asked me if I had brought cash or meant to write a check. Said it right in front of the fellow at Sotheby’s, you know, so there was nothing for it but to give them a check. I daresay he thought I didn’t have the blunt, but I showed him.”
“You spent our money on this ugly thing!” she charged.
“I’m paying interest,” he retorted.
The blood rushed to Sally’s head, and her lungs felt suffocated. “He did it on purpose! The wretched sneak! He is trying to bankrupt us, so we will have to rusticate at Gravenhurst. That’s why he was in such a chirping mood, because he thought he had outwitted us. And he has. Oh, Ronald, I wish you had not bought it when you learned the truth. Why did you not refuse?”
“Wouldn’t satisfy him. Besides, everybody at Sotheby’s congratulated me. It’s a bargain,” he insisted, frowning at the gaudy ornament. “The only pity is that it looks so awful on Mellie.”
Mellie looked hard at him but decided the slur was on the bibelot, not her,
“Where does this leave us?” Sally said, speaking aloud but really talking to herself, for the others were obviously no accountants.
She got out a piece of paper and pen and began toting up figures. So many thousands had already miraculously melted away, a thousand for the ball, a thousand for that ugly crown. Derwent went and hung over her shoulder.
“Seven thousand left, and we have already spent eight in one month,” she sighed.
“Actually, six thousand left,” Derwent said. “There were a few incidentals—my dues at Tatt’s and Brook’s, you know.”
“It’s a pity you joined Brook’s. Don’t play too deep, Derwent, but at least it’s better than getting fleeced by the Captain Sharps. I ought to warn you away from that Peacock fellow. It’s a good thing we dropped him. Monstuart says he is a regular crook. Between shaved cards and loaded dice, I daresay he never loses. If he ever invites you to Mrs. Brody’s parlor, be sure you refuse.”
Derwent gulped, and his eyes stared. “Eh?”
“That is where he fleeces the flats. He lets them win a couple of hundred first, then the next night he takes them to Brody’s and picks them clean. Oh, and there is your annual allowance,” Sally continued. “We left that out.” With her eyes on her figures, she failed to notice Derwent’s reaction. “We must retrench severely,” she continued, all unaware of Derwent’s turmoil.
How much had he lost last night? He had to see Peacock at once. Dashed crook. He wouldn’t pay him a sou. Why should he? He had even felt the shaved edge of the cards but thought it must be the brandy making them fuzzy.
Across the room, Mrs. Hermitage said to her younger daughter, “Ronald looks a little peaky. I can’t think why, when we had such an early night.”
Melanie looked at the tiara and thought that explained her husband’s mood. “I won’t have to wear it at my ball, will I?” she asked.
“No, dear. We’ll just have Ronald put it in the vault with all the other great, unwearable lumps. Pity it hadn’t been a string of pearls or a small set of diamonds, but he meant well. What time are Ronald’s relatives coming?”
“At four.”
It was not necessary for Derwent to go looking for Peacock. He received a note, with a mention of five thousand in I.O.U.s, asking when Derwent would like to settle and suggesting a meeting that evening at midnight. There was an air of menace about the curt note. Peacock requested cash, not a check, and said he “was in urgent need of payment.” Peacock had seemed on very close terms with the rough-looking set at Brody’s Parlor. What would they do if he reneged? Someone had mentioned Peacock’s skill with dueling pistols.
A man with a brand-new bride couldn’t put himself in such jeopardy. He’d just have to pay up. Own up, pay up, shut up—it was the gentleman’s creed. Derwent was more than willing to comply with the last item. Naturally he wouldn’t say a word to the ladies. He looked again at the note. Mr. Peacock would be happy to call at Cavendish Square, a contingency to be avoided at all costs. His servant, a bruiser with a broken nose and an arm like a leg, waited for a reply.
With trembling hand, Lord Derwent wrote his reply, suggesting midnight outside of Brook’s. He had just time to nip down to the bank and get the five thousand in cash before lunch. How his new family was to hobble along on one thousand pounds was a matter to be worked out. With luck, his aunts might bring along a little something as a wedding gift.
Chapter Twelve
As Sally dressed for the evening, half her pleasure was stolen by worries. The stunning white silk g
own had cost too much, though it rustled beautifully when she walked and the twinkling of sequins through the chiffon overskirt gave exactly the effect she had hoped for, like stars peering from behind clouds. She pondered how she should repay Monstuart for his latest vile deception, for it went without saying that he must be repaid. He was exacting a hard revenge for her success in getting Derwent to marry Melanie. It was perfectly obvious his scheme was to get them all out of town as soon as possible, and at the rate they were spending, that would be within the week.
The best revenge would be to stay the Season and nab a prize parti herself. But with Monstuart whispering in all their ears that she was a solicitor’s dowerless daughter, how was she to accomplish it? What irked most of all was his duplicity in coming that same morning to flirt with her. How would he behave this evening, at Engleworth’s ball? Would he continue the charade of friendship, stand up with her, flirt? Was he foolish enough to think she didn’t see what he was up to?
If so, she’d put his apparent approval to good use and get introductions to as many of his friends as possible. Surely one of them would prove susceptible to black curls and green eyes. Her body occupied a seat at the theater for the first part of the evening, but her mind was already at the ball.
Sally was not the only member of the party whose mind was not on Kean’s performance. Derwent sat like a martyr, silent, morose, as he pondered his own problem. He hadn’t really expected much from his aunts Theodora and Rosalie. They meant well by giving him and Mellie the rose tea set, very likely, and at least Mellie liked it, but cash would have been more welcome. From time to time he patted the bulge of five thousand pounds in his inner pocket.
The thing to do was escort the ladies to the ball after the play, have a dance with Mellie, then nip quickly over to Brook’s and give Peacock the money. He’d be back within two shakes of the lamb’s tail, and no one would be any the wiser. This venture into the world of gambling and vice had taught him his lesson. From now on he’d walk the straight and narrow, but by Jove it was hard to do with the temptations of London. Should have gone to Gravenhurst as he wanted to in the first place. Mellie wouldn’t mind a bit. Of course, there was Sally to be considered.
Mrs. Hermitage had her problem, too, though it was such a pleasant problem that she could hardly keep from smiling, all through the tragedy of King Lear. Sir Darrow had asked her to marry him. Of course, she had accepted. The only question, really, was when to do it. Darrow said they had wasted enough time, and he wanted to marry her immediately. She thought it better to wait till the Season was over. A wedding to arrange on top of their ball was almost more excitement than she could envisage. Then, too, it would mean Sal had to leave Derwent’s house and come with her and Darrow, and she knew Sal had her heart set on making her bows from the home of a lord. One did not voluntarily put Sal in one of her pelters.
Only Melanie sat contentedly. She had no problem. She was married to the most handsome, generous man in London. As soon as the Season was over, she would be able to escape all the bustle of London and go with him to Gravenhurst and live happily ever after. Her fairytale had come true. Except that if Sally didn’t find a husband of her own, she might come to Gravenhurst with them. While Melanie loved her sister dearly, she admitted there were times when she would much rather be alone with Derwent. Her mind roamed over possible partis. Monstuart seemed to have some tendre for Sal. Perhaps she could help advance a match in that quarter.
When the group stood at the top of Lady Engleworth’s staircase, having their names announced, Sally peered to the crowd below. Her eyes narrowed when she saw Monstuart fast advancing to greet them. His eager expression might easily be mistaken for approval, but he had deceived her for the last time. She would be as sweet as honey, she would wrest any good his apparent approval could give her, but she would show this man a lesson yet.
Monstuart greeted the group but soon turned his attention to Sally. “How did you enjoy the play?” he asked.
She gave him a flirtatious glance and replied, “My heart was not in the mood for tragedy. I kept thinking of this lovely ball I was missing, and my only mood was impatience.”
“Then we shared an emotion, even if we were not together.”
This came dangerously close to sentiment. She knew Monstuart was about as sentimental as a dagger, and decided to goad him to further excesses of folly. “How could you be impatient for the ball? You were already here, Lord Monstuart.”
“But you weren’t.” He tucked her hand under his arm and led her off. “It was you I was waiting for. Now you have heard what you wished to. I promise I shan’t bethump with you any more maudlin compliments. Shall we dance?”
Sets were forming for a cotillion. “Let us wait for a waltz,” she suggested. “It is so much more ... personal, and once we have stood up together, we have nothing further to look forward to for the evening.”
“I think we might have two dances together without raising any eyebrows.”
She gave him a flirtatious smile. “You think wrong, Lord Monstuart. Every quiz in the room would whisper that you were showing a great deal of attention to Miss Hermitage.”
His dark gaze lingered on her, and his lips lifted
a fraction in an incipient smile. “Worse, they would
say you had caught me.”
She decided to take offense. “You aren’t the one who will look a fool when it all comes to nothing. We ladies have our pride to consider, you know.”
Monstuart gazed at her long-lashed eyes and the beautiful contrast of ebony hair against that ivory skin. His reply was delayed a moment. “You have decided it will come to nothing, have you?”
She peered coquettishly from the corner of her eyes. Her heart pounded in excitement and anger. “You must know a lady never reveals her feelings till she is certain they are reciprocated. Now that I am in London, I must leave off country manners.”
Monstuart inclined his head close to hers. His voice was softly intimate. “I think I preferred us in Ashford. Will it offend you if I choose your next partner?”
She followed the line of his eyes to see a middle-aged gentleman looking in their direction. “It will if old Gouty Sudderland is the gent you have in mind.”
“I don’t want to give myself too much competition.”
Her lashes flickered shamelessly. “You are too modest, Monstuart. You know there isn’t a gentleman in the room who provides real competition for you.”
A bark of laughter cracked out. “This sentiment is contagious. We must take care, or we’ll be out picking flowers in sun-dappled pastures. Very well, tell me who it is you have in your eye.”
She chose Lord Alton, one of Monstuart’s set, a handsome, wealthy nobleman. “You realize there is a price for the introduction,” he warned.
“I have already promised you the first set of waltzes, Lord Monstuart.”
“That has already been established. The bonus I refer to is that you stop calling me Lord Monstuart as though we were mere acquaintances. My friends call me Monty.”
“Very well, Monty.”
“And I shall ask your sister to stand up with me. She no longer hates me, I think. I have been at some pains to bring her around. You are observing, I trust, how far my guileless mind is from providing you any competition.”
“This seems an auspicious moment for you to assure me I am above competition.”
“Since you already know it, you save me the trouble.”
Lord Alton proved a charming partner. Sally was sure that if her mind had been on romance, she might have made some headway with him, for he was admiring. Her second partner, another of Monstuart’s friends, was equally suitable. But her mind was not on romance. Anger seethed in her breast at Monstuart’s duplicity. How he must be anticipating her disgrace! Why was he pretending to like her? The answer came slowly, but at length she had figured it out. He was only making up to her to ensure that she didn’t form any other attachment! It was exactly the sort of underhanded stunt she expect
ed from him. When bellowing her lack of dowry didn’t turn the trick, he pretended he loved her.
With so much on her mind, Sally didn’t notice that Derwent was missing for a set. Mrs. Hermitage, occupied with Sir Darrow in the card parlor, didn’t notice it either. Derwent told his bride he was stepping out to blow a cloud but would be back presently. She was not such a sleuth that she noticed the lack of tobacco reek when he returned from his rendezvous with Peacock half an hour later.
When the set of waltzes began, Monstuart appeared at Sally’s elbow. “At last,” he said, and drew her into his arms. His words called to mind Peacock, who had said the same thing. It seemed her fate to be surrounded by faithless scoundrels.
They floated around the room as lightly as feathers. Monstuart thought the febrile glitter in her eyes and her air of breathless excitement was due to pleasure. He felt unusually animated himself. The step he was anticipating was one he had avoided for years. Marriage was a large, irrevocable step, but one he must take eventually.
Sally Hermitage made the step not only possible but enjoyable. She was a woman whose charms would not pall after the first month. A gentleman must marry an innocent bride, but that was no reason she must be a Bath Miss. Sally was conversable, she was intelligent, and she was beautiful. In short, she represented the best of all possible brides: virtue robed in the alluring guise of a mistress.
He was done fighting the inevitable. She had bested him in rushing Derwent’s marriage forward. He had made some rallying and halfhearted efforts at repaying her, but the thing was done. It would be petty and fruitless to fight it further. Sally would have no trouble finding a husband, and to risk losing her was unthinkable. He must give Derwent at least some of his money. But they would speak of that later. For now he would let his body and head reel through this delicious waltz.
When it was over, he said, “If we go to the refreshment parlor, we can prolong this meeting.”