by M C Beaton
He swung around, cursing under his breath. Roddy and Mary were hastening up to them, and Roddy’s large eyes were signaling warnings for all they were worth.
“I wouldn’t exert yourself, David,” yelled Roddy. “Remember your condition.”
“My condition,” repeated his lordship stupidly.
“Yes,” roared Roddy, above the noise of the rushing water. “After all, you have got tuberculosis.”
“But I thought he was cured,” said Molly, staring in amazement at the healthy, tanned face of Lord David.
“Not a bit of it,” said Roddy. “Doctors say he could pop off anytime.”
Lord David was about to howl that he was perfectly fit when he saw that Molly was looking up at him with a glowing, tender expression.
“We had better go back,” said Molly, this time taking Lord David’s arm in a comforting clasp. Lord David shut his mouth and allowed Molly to lead him slowly back along the path. At the picnic table she fussed over him like a mother hen, her beautiful eyes wide with sympathy. It was all very pleasant.
He felt a bit of a cad, but Molly’s sympathy for the dying man had brought out her feminine side. She had never looked more beautiful. Every line of her strong young body seemed to have grown soft and seductive. As she bent solicitously over him, pouring him a glass of wine, Lord David stared in fascination at her rounded bosom and thought how splendid it would be to put his head down on it and sleep, and hear that gentle American voice cooing in his ears.
On the road home Molly sat very close to him in the carriage. Little black curls escaped from under her frivolous hat. Her mouth was soft and her eyes wide. Lord David was conscious of a heady, exciting sensation. He could feel the response of her body to his, and although they did not even hold hands, he knew that they were making love.
When they reached the Holden home, Lord David sprang out of the carriage, despite Molly’s protests, and helped her down. He bent his head and kissed her gloved hand and then looked deep into her beautiful blue eyes. For a long moment, a strong thread of emotion seemed to join them and Lord David realized with a start that for the first time in his life, his heart was in danger. Reluctantly he released her hand and stood watching her while she walked into the house.
Jennifer Strange prized herself out of the shrubbery, her little freckled face screwed up in a rather nasty way. Molly Maguire was a beast! What right had this foreigner to go out driving with Lord David when she, Jennifer, had already told Molly her heart’s desire. Molly must be punished. Lord David must be punished, and Jennifer Strange would see to that! She tripped demurely home to write a letter to Lord David’s fiancée, Lady Cynthia Whitworth.
“Well, well, well,” Lord David was saying. “What was all that about?”
Roddy told him. “Mary told me that she only likes lame ducks so it seemed like a stroke of genius. Did you see how she looked at you when she thought you were a dying man?”
“Yes,” said Lord David, frowning. “And what is Miss Maguire going to do when she finds out we have tricked her?”
“Oh, she won’t,” said Roddy blithely. “Well just change the date of your recovery. But what about Cynthia? She knows you’re cured, doesn’t she? She’ll expect you to make the engagement official.”
“That won’t be for some time,” said Lord David, after some thought. “Cynthia never rushes into anything.”
“Well, be careful and don’t queer my pitch. I’m getting very fond of Mary. In fact,” said Roddy suddenly, “I think I’m in love with her.”
Lord David laughed indulgently. “When weren’t you in love, Roddy, my boy? You fall in love the way other people catch colds.”
“I think I’m serious this time,” said Roddy. “Lady Fanny is giving this ball for the girls. You know what? Think I’ll pop the question.”
“I’ll believe that when it happens,” said his friend cynically. “Don’t spring any surprises on me. Remember, I’m a dying man!”
Lady Cynthia Whitworth slowly put down the letter from Jennifer Strange and touched the bell at her side. “Ah, Bland,” she said when her butler answered the summons. “Do we know where to find a detective?”
The butler thought for a minute. “I think, my lady, that there was a certain person who was called in privately to solve the mystery of the Duchess of Earlston’s diamonds.”
“Oh, that one. Yes. Turned out her son had pinched them. Well, get on to him and ask him to find out all he can about a couple of American heiresses called Molly and Mary Maguire. And tell him I need the information urgently….”
Lady Fanny put down her coffee cup so that it rattled in the saucer. “Oh, dear,” she said faintly. “Toby, do listen.”
Lord Toby looked at her rather wearily, wondering which facet of his life was about to be disciplined.
“I’ve a letter here from Lady Cynthia Whitworth. Remember there were rumors that she was to marry Lord David, and then it all petered out?”
“No,” said Toby, picking up the morning paper.
“Put that rag down,” snapped his wife in her best parade-ground voice. “Pay attention! Lady Cynthia now more or less says that the engagement is still on and that she is coming here for the gels’ ball. Oh, dear! And I shall have to invite her to the dinner beforehand. And Molly has been making sheep’s eyes at Lord David. I don’t know what has got into her. She seemed to be such a sensible girl. And what does Lord David mean, pray, if his intentions are not honorable?”
“Don’t know,” muttered her spouse in a voice that clearly meant “Don’t care.”
“Toby! Come to attention! You are to go ’round there this morning and ask Lord David what he thinks he’s playing at.”
But for once her husband stood firm. “No, I won’t. He’s done nothing wrong. He hasn’t courted Molly. Only taken her out driving now and then. Not the thing at all, Fanny,” he added severely. “You should know better.”
“I suppose you’re right,” conceded Lady Fanny sulkily and then said, “I’ve got it!”
“Got what?”
“Giles.”
“Giles? Your nephew? That’s the last person we need,” said Lord Toby, stirred into rare animation. “Sent down from Oxford because of some barmaid. Tomcat around the casinos. What on earth has got into you, Fanny?”
“I’m sure he has reformed,” said Lady Fanny in a grim voice that clearly meant that if he hadn’t, he was going to. “And don’t you see, he is very attractive. I’ll get him here for the night of the ball and get him to pay court to Molly. That way she won’t have time to notice David’s engagement.”
Lord Toby gave up. Life had a way of coming between him and the sports pages of his morning paper. He was fond of Molly, but the report of yesterday’s racing at Sandown came first.
“Do what you want,” he said. Dammit, if there hadn’t been a horse called Broken Heart—a rank outsider that had galloped home—Now, if he had put a fiver on that, he could have won…. He lost himself in pleasant meditation, unaware that his wife had left the room.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lord David Manley and the Marquess of Leamouth were getting ready for the ball. Both men had also been invited to the preball dinner. “Do you think,” said Lord David, wrestling with a recalcitrant collar stud, “that the ladies realize what we have to go through? Do they for one minute consider the hell and discomfort of a collar stud?”
“Shouldn’t think so,” said Roddy, lounging elegantly in a chair. As usual, his evening clothes looked as if they had been molded to his form. “Think of what the girls have to go through themselves, what with stays and all that.”
Lord David suddenly thought of Molly and undergarments, and the thought seemed to be doing something to his breath. “I hope I don’t have to go around punching anyone in the head tonight,” he said. “How did you manage with young Bingham, by the way?”
“I did what you told me,” said his friend simply. “I appealed to his better nature.”
“Well, I couldn’t appeal to Cu
thbert’s better nature,” said Lord David, pulling on his white gloves. “He hasn’t got one. Don’t worry. That was a master stroke of yours… about me having tuberculosis, I mean. I don’t anticipate any difficulties this evening.”
But as he and Roddy walked up the long drive toward the Holden mansion, he was once more aware of that feeling of heady excitement. What would she be wearing? Would she look at him so? Feathery pink clouds were spread across the heavens, and the formal gardens of Lady Fanny’s estate blazed with color behind their rigid borders of shells.
The band could be heard rehearsing in the ballroom. There came the sweet, lilting strains of a waltz, and Lord David’s nostrils were filled with all the evening scents of the garden mixed with the exotic smells of French cooking from the kitchen: wine and roses, sweet-smelling stock and garlic, herbs and dew-laden grass, and damp leaves. Lord David experienced a sudden feeling of tremulous anticipation. He wanted suddenly to stay where he was, in the driveway, experiencing this novel feeling, being aware of every scent and sound of the summer’s evening. “I never realized before,” he said quietly, “that England was so beautiful.”
With strange reluctance he followed Roddy into the house. And there she was. He reflected briefly that Lady Fanny was a genius when it came to choosing clothes for the Maguire sisters. Instead of dressing Molly in debutante white, Lady Fanny had chosen a dress for her in deepest crimson chiffon. It was cut low at the bosom, emphasizing the whiteness of her neck and shoulders. It was swept up at the back into a saucy sort of bustle reminiscent of the 1870s, and her glossy curls were dressed high on her head without any of the fashionable frizzing to spoil them. One deep-scarlet rose was placed behind her ear. Her eyes were like sapphires and just, he noticed with a start, as hard.
A devastatingly good-looking young man appeared at her elbow and led her away. He was about to follow when a well-remembered voice said, “Darling!”
One little word and the enchantment fled, leaving him standing in an overfurnished house, wondering how soon he could escape.
He turned around, and Lady Cynthia Whitworth stood smiling into his eyes. She was nearly as tall as he and built on Junoesque lines. Her blonde hair was worn fashionably low on her brow, her skin was like an enameled rose leaf, and her gown screamed Paris with every stitch. She was all his—and he was suddenly miserable.
He became aware that she was speaking. He had forgotten how ugly her voice was. She had a high, affected drawl.
“Glad to see you back from the land of the dead, darling,” she was saying. “I sent the notice of our engagement to the papers. Now, aren’t you thrilled?”
“Devastated,” he said politely, kissing her porcelain cheek. “There goes the dinner gong.”
“You must tell me all about the Maguire sisters,” drawled Cynthia as they walked toward the table. “Quite characters, I imagine. Is that them? How very dark, to be sure, but I’ve heard it said that a lot of those American girls have Negro blood in them.”
“Nonsense,” said his lordship with a cutting edge to his voice. “Whitest skins I’ve seen in years. Anyway, the latest rage of Paris has Negro blood in her. Skin like honey. All the fellows are mad about her.”
“Dear me,” said Lady Cynthia, raising her penciled eyebrows. “How democratic you have become. It must be the American influence.”
Roddy moved behind Lord David to find his own seat. “Her with her painted nails and Paris gowns,” he murmured in Lord David’s ear. Lord David let out a sudden unmanly giggle and Cynthia looked at him with narrowed eyes and then focussed her attention on Molly, who was seated across the table from her, next to Giles.
“You won’t object to me speaking across the table, will you, Miss Maguire?” she said sweetly. “My fiancé informs me that you Americans do not believe in our stuffy English conventions.”
The word “fiancé” pierced Molly’s heart like a knife but no trace of what she felt showed on her face.
“You make me nervous,” said Molly equally sweetly. “You see, Lady Cynthia, I have learned that in English society, if anyone begins by referring to the free and easy ways of the Americans, it usually means they are about to take some terrible liberty.”
Lady Cynthia’s mouth curled up in a thin line. That explains the mystery of the Mona Lisa, thought Molly suddenly. Leonardo da Vinci had probably just fallen on his palette knife or tripped over his easel.
“But I know a lot about you, you see,” said Lady Cynthia. “And I do admire you so—working away like slaves in that little shop in Brooklyn. And to make your family fortunes by inventing a cough syrup with that hilarious name ‘Maguires’ Leprechaun Dew.’” She gave the sort of laugh that is usually described as tinkling.
From the head of the table Lady Fanny emitted a low groan.
“I say,” said Giles suddenly. “Did you really? By Jove, I think that’s marvelous. Takes brains and guts. Tell us about it.”
And to Lady Cynthia’s chagrin that is exactly what Molly did. She mimicked the accents of Dolores and Jimmy perfectly. The whole table rocked with appreciative laughter. How English society loves a character, and if that character is very rich and very beautiful, then near adoration sets in.
Lady Cynthia realized bitterly that instead of ruining the Maguire sisters as she had, of course, planned, she had set their little footsteps well on the path to the most successful London Season two young ladies were ever likely to experience.
Lord David watched Molly’s usually mobile face for some signs of shock or hurt at the news that he was engaged. But Giles’s handsome head was bent over her in an irritatingly possessive way and Molly was laughing appreciatively at something he was saying.
At least Cynthia had done her no social damage. He found himself wanting to explain something about his relationship with Cynthia to Molly, but the conventions forbade it and he did not quite realize why he wanted to do any explaining anyway.
Suddenly Cynthia gave that terrible little tinkling laugh and raised her glass. “I think we should all drink a toast,” she said, “to David’s complete recovery.”
Molly’s face showed nothing but genuine delight. “When did you get the news?” she cried. Mary was smiling at him as well and something seemed to have happened to his voice.
“Oh, David knew ages ago, didn’t you, darling?” said Cynthia.
Why couldn’t he say anything? For one second both the Maguire sisters were expressionless as if they had been wiped with a sponge. Then Molly turned and began to chatter to Giles, and Mary turned her shoulder on Roddy and gave her full attention to her other neighbor.
What a bloody rotten country England was, reflected Lord David. He knew instinctively that the Maguire sisters would never forgive the deceit unless he did something very dramatic. Soon the ballroom stretched before him like a piece of polished eternity. Cynthia was always at his side, one gloved hand securely grasping his arm, basking in compliments on her beauty and congratulations on her engagement. And Molly was dancing and dancing with Giles, always on some other part of the floor.
He finally escaped into the garden and communed moodily with the night flowers. He heard the murmur of voices behind a low hedge and was about to retreat. He was then stopped in his tracks by the unmistakable sound of Roddy’s voice: “Oh, Mary! I am most awfully in love with you.”
“Oh, yeah?” said the unmistakable voice of Miss Mary Maguire. “Well, now you’ve said your party piece, can we go back in?”
“But Mary! I’m asking you to marry me.”
“No, you’re not,” came Mary’s transatlantic twang, very pronounced. “You’re playing at proposing to me in the way that that friend of yours pretended to be a dying man to trick my sister. Bet you both had a good laugh about it.”
“But we didn’t—”
There was the quick swish of a dress. Lord David tried to retreat but it was too late. In the pale light of the moon, he could see Mary’s eyes glistening with contempt.
“Eavesdropping, my lord?” she s
aid coldly. He put out a restraining arm only to find that Mary had whisked off and that he was clutching Roddy.
Both friends glared at each other. Both said in unison, “It’s all your fault.”
“We won’t get very far by quarreling,” said Lord David. “We’re really making asses of ourselves over a couple of quite ordinary girls. Come, now, Roddy! How many times have you been in love before and got over it?”
“It was never like this before,” said Roddy, shaking his head.
“Yes, it was, because that is exactly what you say each time,” said Lord David. “The Maguire sisters are, after all, just like any other girls. Well… they are… aren’t they…?”
Mary went in search of her sister and eventually found her standing in the shadow of the curtains at one of the long windows overlooking the garden. Her large eyes were bright with unshed tears. Mary put an arm around her waist and both girls stood silently, listening to the music and watching the moving patterns of the leaves on the moonlit lawns.
“They’re all so cruel,” said Molly in a hard, flat voice. “I wish we were back in Brooklyn.”
“We’ll leave then,” said Mary eagerly. “Right now.”
Molly looked at her sadly. “That’s just what I want to do. But I can’t. I’m stubborn and I’m human enough to want revenge. Lord David Manley is going to wish that he never set eyes on me by the time I’m finished with him.”
“Oh, well,” sighed Mary. “I’ll stick it out. I’ve just refused the marquess, so that’s a bit of revenge.”
“Why?” asked Molly. “I thought you were sweet on him.”
Mary wrinkled her brow. “I dunno,” she said at last. “I felt he was playing a game just like Lord David. I thought that by the morning he would be laughing and saying he had never said a word.” She turned her face away to hide the look of hurt in her large eyes from her sister.
“You did the right thing, Mary,” said Molly, giving her a hug. “Some of them here can be pretty nasty about Americans. One woman asked me my real Christian name and I said, ‘Molly.’ ‘Oh, that’s a nickname,’ she giggled. ‘You Americans are so weird. Frightfully so, don’t you think? There was a chappie from New York called Harry and he had been christened Harry. He didn’t even know his real name was Henry.’ ‘So what?’ I asked. ‘I can see it is of not the slightest use trying to talk to you,’ she said, giggling. ‘You speak a different language. My God, the French are easier to understand.’ Then she told me that Molly was only a nickname for Mary and that we were both called Mary.”