"Come, my sweet," Sir Malcolm was saying as he possessed himself of both of Celeste's hands. "You'll not convince me you didn't know— what the devil?" This, as Lord Ellerby grasped his shoulder from behind and spun him round.
"Charles!" gasped Celeste in obvious relief.
"I perceive you are annoying the lady," said Ellerby almost civilly, although his voice shook with anger. "You will offer her an apology and remove yourself from her presence."
Some men might enjoy a challenge, but Sir Malcolm was apparently not of their number. Nor, it seemed, had he any enthusiasm whatever for physical violence, which appeared to be in the offing if he refused Lord Ellerby's request.
"My pardon, Miss Wheaton," he therefore said obediently. With a mocking half salute to Lord Ellerby, he walked past him and back into the dining room, no doubt to pursue some other young lady who was not so well guarded.
Deirdre ducked back into the dining room when she saw Sir Malcolm coming towards her, and therefore missed the tender scene which followed out on the balcony. Suffice to say Celeste discovered that Charles could, when sufficiently provoked, behave in a delightfully improper manner.
"I... I see you found Lord Ellerby," said Deirdre to Lord Wrotham as she joined him at the table. He had filled plates for them both.
"It was not necessary," he replied. "He had already seen your foolish sister going out the door with that scoundrel, Digby. I saw no reason to impede his pursuit."
"No wonder he got there so quickly!" exclaimed Deirdre with a laugh. "And you must not call Celeste foolish, my lord."
"Oh? Is she not?" His eyebrows were raised alarmingly, but the deep brown eyes beneath them twinkled.
"Well," said Deirdre, trying not to smile, "perhaps she is, sometimes. But you should not say so!" Despite herself, she began to chuckle and Wrotham joined in.
"Most ungentlemanly of me, I agree. Now, shall we find a place to consume our repast in peace?" Deirdre followed him back to their seats, her spirits revived by his teasing, as he had perhaps intended.
The final two performers were noticeably inferior to the first, but Deirdre could not bring herself to be disappointed. Lord Wrotham continued to instruct her in the finer points of music, and as she listened, a ballad rose unbidden in her mind, which she promised herself to put down in writing before going to bed that night. She longed to recite it to Lord Wrotham, to hear his opinion, but she dared not. Not yet. First, she must find the courage to tell him the truth about herself, and to confess that she had deliberately misled him during their walk in the Park.
* * *
Myron Gates glanced up and down the street before knocking at Jonas Flinder's modest residence on the fringes of fashionable Mayfair. He hoped no one had noticed his increasingly frequent visits here, for when Flinder went through with the plan they were concocting he wanted no shadow of suspicion to fall on himself. It was possible Wrotham would call him out, if Flinder were beyond his reach.
"Bid you good day, Myron!" Jonas greeted him when he was shown into the study that also served as a parlour in the small house. Lord Mallencroft actually provided his sons a very generous allowance, but Jonas proudly claimed he had never felt the need for luxurious accommodations, preferring to live in the near-squalor which seemed to inspire so many of the artists he admired.
He kept a very respectable cellar, however, which was a large part of the attraction for Myron Gates.
As usual, the two men spoke of trivialities until they were well into their second bottle. Although heavy drinking was a fairly new pastime for Jonas Flinder, it was one to which he had taken with enthusiasm.
"Never mind the race," said Jonas suddenly, interrupting a lengthy recital wherein Myron had received an erroneous tip on which horse was likely to win. "Let me tell you what Miss Hoity-toity Didi Wheaton had to say to me t'other night."
"You spoke to her?" asked Myron in alarm. "What did you say?"
"Nothin' of cons'quence. It's what she said I was goin' to tell you. Now what was it?" He paused for a long moment, deep in thought. "Ah! Asked me to spread the word about her poem, that's what she did. Said she wanted to be my friend." He snorted. "She knows full well that's not what I want. Know what I think, Myron?" He leant confidentially towards the other man.
Myron bent as far as his girth would allow and was rewarded by a belch in his ear. Drawing back in distaste, he said, "Well, what is it? I can't stay much longer, I'm expected at my club."
"P'raps I'll join you," said Jonas, unaware of his crony's dismay. "Anyway, I think she was hinting that she's regretting her decision now. She wants me, Myron, I'm sure of it!" He gave his companion a bleary wink.
Myron personally thought Jonas's theory most unlikely, especially considering the fact that Wrotham was all but in her pocket, but forbore saying so. "That should make your plan all the easier then, don't you think?"
Jonas nodded sagely. "My very thought, Myron! We do think alike, do we not? At any rate, given her obviously tender feelings for me, I 'spect I can do without any ropes or gags. Wouldn't contribute to our marital bliss later, I shouldn't think. Once she's in the coach, she'll understand it's for the best, and there'll be no trouble, no trouble at all. Thought I might bring along some wine— champagne, perhaps!— instead."
Myron decided his appointment at the club could wait. "Is that quite... prudent, Jonas, do you think? Suppose you've misjudged her? It's a long way to the border, and she might contrive to escape if she's not bound."
"Escape me? I tell you, man, she loves me! She as much as told me so! Wrotham ain't her sort at all. She left him quick enough to talk to me. You should have seen how eager she was to send him on his way!"
Myron was beginning to wish heartily he had never met Jonas Flinder, but as he had, and as he had started this scheme, it was obviously up to him to see that it was carried out correctly.
"Very well, Jonas," he said cautiously. "Tell me, how do you plan to lure her into your coach? The ball for her and her sister is less than a week away, you know, and it is high time your preparations were made. Where will you spend your first night on the road?" Even if they never achieved the border, Myron thought, if it became known they spent a night together, Miss Wheaton would be effectively ruined, and no longer a threat to his inheritance. Wrotham would never marry her after that!
* * *
"So you see, Beata, I believe I may have been wrong about Lord Wrotham detesting all poetry." It was two days after the musicale, and Deirdre had joined her sister for breakfast and advice. "The question is, how am I to tell him the truth now?"
"It will appear odd, I admit," said Beata. "If only you had not made a point of telling him that you were not literary. You can hardly say, 'Surprise! I am not only literary, I am the mysterious D that everyone is talking of.' I think you will have to build up to it gradually— throw out hints, as it were."
Deirdre thought hard for a moment, then said decisively, "I had best tell you everything, Beata. Not even Mama knows this, but Jonas Flinder made me an offer last week."
"Flinder? Oh, the poetic one you mentioned. Gracious, Didi, you did not accept him?"
"No, no, I refused him. But he did not take it well, I fear." Deirdre still felt somewhat guilty over that, though she did not know what she could have done differently.
"No doubt he'll recover," said Beata lightly. "And I can't imagine Mama would be upset, now that Wrotham is showing you such marked attention. Where is the difficulty?"
"Jonas knows that the sonnet in the Examiner is mine. He had already read it before it was published. He has not told anyone yet, because he thinks that is what I desire. But if he finds I am keeping it a secret, I fear he may bruit it about simply out of spite!" He had not left her on a spiteful note at Lady Heatherton's, but he had obviously been drinking heavily and Deirdre placed no reliance on anything he had said.
Beata became thoughtful in her turn. "In that case," she said at last, "I think it would be best if you told Wrotham the truth at once. He strikes
me as the sort who would find it impossible to forgive deception, particularly from one he has trusted. If he discovers the truth from someone else, Lord Wrotham may very well wish to have nothing further to do with you!"
* * *
At the same moment that Deirdre was receiving this excellent advice from her sister, Lord Wrotham was striding purposefully towards Penrose House. He had stayed home last night for the sole purpose of deciding what to do about Miss Deirdre Wheaton, and had come to the conclusion that she was essential to his happiness.
Charles's news that he had been accepted by Celeste the previous night strengthened his resolve to offer for Deirdre. Celeste and Charles planned to announce their engagement at the Wheaton sisters' come-out ball the following week, and Wrotham realized that there was no particular reason he and Deirdre could not do likewise. Observing his friend's euphoria could not help but encourage such thoughts.
So now he was on his way to offer for Miss Wheaton. He had come to believe, quite apart from the physical attraction he felt for her, that they would deal very well together. In fact, he could not imagine going through life without her. She had been very attentive to his musical instruction at Lady Heatherton's the other night, and no doubt would be equally eager to learn the intricacies of the literature and poetry so dear to Lord Wrotham's heart.
His enthusiasm received a set-back when he was informed by Celeste a few moments later that her sister was from home.
"I'm sorry, my lord, but she has gone to spend the morning with Mrs. Jameson, our sister. Would you care to leave a message for her?"
"Yes. Yes, I believe I would. I'll write her a brief note if you have any writing-paper about you." He intended to ask her to walk with him in the Park early that afternoon, before the fashionable hour. The tranquil paths would be the perfect setting for a proposal, he thought.
Celeste glanced about. "There is no paper here, my lord, but Didi always keeps a prodigious amount in her desk. I'll run up and fetch some, if you'll but wait a moment." She darted up to the second floor to rummage briefly in Deirdre's writing-desk before returning with a handful of paper.
"Here you are, my lord. Will this do?"
"More than adequate, I assure you," he replied with a smile at Charles's flighty fiancée. "I did say a brief note, you know. But what is this?" Among the blank sheets he had been handed were two or three covered with writing. Looking closer, he discovered it to be a lengthy —and remarkably good —ode, tragic in nature, in which the love of poetry and the love of a man (unnamed) seemed somehow in conflict. He had only time to glance over it before Celeste reached across to take it from him.
"Oh, I'm sorry, my lord. Didi's desk is always in such disarray. I suppose this is one of her little poems. She is forever writing them."
"Is she?" asked Wrotham, an arrested look on his face.
Celeste did not notice, but prattled on, oblivious. "Oh, yes! Didi fairly lives for her poetry. Did she not tell you?"
Wrotham's expression now became extremely thoughtful. "No. I am afraid she did not."
* * *
CHAPTER 14
"Oh, Didi, is it not the sweetest thing?" Celeste exclaimed in greeting a short time later. "Charles says he wishes me to wear this sapphire necklace to mark our betrothal until he can have a ring specially made up for me. He says the stones match my eyes." She fluttered those eyes at Lord Ellerby as she spoke, fingering a necklace which was remarkably similar to one Althea had worn a week earlier. "And how did you find Beata and little Geoffrey?"
"Quite well," answered Deirdre, setting aside her pelisse. "She sends her heartfelt congratulations to you both. I must say, being betrothed seems to agree with you," she added with a smile. The lovers gazed rapturously into each other's faces in response.
Lady Penrose bustled in at that moment. "I have sent off a letter to your father and we can look to see his reply in a day or two, Celeste, so I see no reason why we may not announce your betrothal at your ball," she said, regarding the pair with satisfaction. This Season was going far more smoothly than she had hoped. Why, if Deirdre could bring Wrotham up to scratch within the week, both of her daughters would be safely engaged less than a month into the Season!
"I don't suppose there is any chance that Father will disapprove?" asked Celeste with sudden anxiety.
The Baroness gave out with what might have been called a snort in a lesser woman. "Disapprove?" If he bothered to read Lord Ellerby's name she would be surprised. "No, your father trusts my judgement in such matters implicitly. We merely need his approval so that the formalities will have been observed."
Celeste relaxed. "Oh, I nearly forgot, Didi! Lord Wrotham called while you were out."
"Oh?" Deirdre's heart beat faster, as it always seemed to do when the Marquis's name was mentioned.
"Yes, and he behaved most strangely. He said he wanted to leave a message for you, so I got him some paper from your desk. I'm afraid I accidentally caught up one of your poems along with it, and when he asked about it I said it was yours."
"Celeste!" broke in Lady Penrose severely. "You knew that we had agreed not to speak of that outside the family."
"Well, I forgot. Besides, it looks as though Lord Wrotham will soon be family anyway, does it not?"
Deirdre felt the blood leaving her face. "Which... which poem was it, Celeste?" she asked faintly.
"Oh, this one here," said Celeste, picking up the sheets from the side table where she had left them. "He only looked at it for a moment," she added defensively.
Deirdre thought that she would swoon, something she had never done in her life. "Did... did you tell him everything?"
"Of course not!" exclaimed Celeste indignantly. "Besides, he did not give me a chance. He just walked out, not even leaving the message he wanted the paper for! Now I ask you, is that not odd?"
"Deuced odd," agreed Charles, as both Deirdre and Lady Penrose seemed bereft of speech. "Never known a poem to affect Ed like that, and by Jove he reads enough of 'em!"
"He... he does?" Deirdre couldn't help asking.
"Lord, yes! Always has his nose buried in Milton or Spenser or some such thing. Quite the scholar. I know he thinks I've no culture at all, but I say, there's time enough for that sort of stuff when I'm in my declining years!"
Celeste nodded, apparently agreeing heartily with this philosophy, but Deirdre sat back, stunned. How could she have been so utterly wrong about Lord Wrotham? And what had she lost by not telling him the truth sooner? His trust, certainly. And his love? Had she ever had that? It seemed unlikely now that she would ever know.
"Oh, well, in that case, there is probably no harm done," Lady Penrose was saying complacently. "If he is a poetry lover like yourself, Didi, then he will probably be pleased rather than vexed at your having had that piece published."
"Published?" asked Charles in surprise.
"Oh, yes!" said Celeste, since obviously her mother could have no objection now to her speaking, as she herself had said it first. "Didi is quite famous. But anonymous."
Charles was looking understandably confused, so Celeste related the entire story of Deirdre's sonnet being published in the Examiner under the alias D, as well as Mr. Hunt's visit earlier in the week to procure more poems.
"So you are the mysterious D." Charles shook his head in smiling disbelief. "Won't Ed be flummoxed! He's been asking questions all over Town, trying to discover who the new talent is!"
Deirdre didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Lord Wrotham had liked her sonnet, he really had! She was beginning to realize that his comments, which had led her to believe that he detested all poetry, had really been indicative of his very love of its purity; his distaste (which she shared) was for seeing inept attempts at the art. His praise was high praise, indeed! But would she ever hear it from him?
* * *
Lord Wrotham was riding faster than was generally permitted in the Park, but it was yet uncrowded and he felt that the speed might help to clear his brain. He had not yet fully absorbed t
he amazing discovery he had made less than an hour ago.
Miss Deirdre Wheaton wrote poetry —and exceptionally good poetry at that! This was more than he had ever dared hope. As that fact finally sank in, however, two questions rose to plague him. Why had she deliberately led him to believe she knew nothing of poetry, and who the devil had that ode been written about?
Wrotham thought over every conversation he had ever had with Miss Wheaton. She had been charming, intelligent, witty; they had laughed at the same things. She had evinced qualities he would not have expected in someone with an inferior education. Yet, she had said none of the family, save her father, were literary. When had that been? Oh, yes, when he had asked whether she had seen that sonnet in the Examiner. He remembered now that she had acted strangely, appearing almost alarmed at his question.
A sudden suspicion flared in his mind, crystallizing quickly into certainty. "Didi fairly lives for her poetry," her sister had said. Didi ... D
Of course! Why had he not seen it sooner? The answer came immediately: because she had deliberately misled him. But why? He was almost certain she cared for him. The evidence was there in her eyes, in the way she spoke, in the unconscious brightening of her face when she saw him. Why, then, would she deceive him about something so important to her?
Thinking hard, he slowed his mount to a walk. He was remembering again his recent conversation with her sister, Celeste. She had seemed to regard Deirdre's poetry as something of a family joke. "One of her little poems," she had said. What torture such an attitude must be to a serious poet, as Deirdre so obviously was. For all he knew, Lady Penrose had forbidden her to mention it to anyone —and perhaps her own family was yet unaware who D was. Surely, then, he should not be hurt by her reluctance to confide in him, a comparative stranger, no matter how much he loved her.
Cygnet Page 13