Dair Devil

by Lucinda Brant

  “You never bore us, Rory, and Silla’s been just as enthusiastic. Though… I suspect it was for the spectacle rather than the play itself. She still hadn’t made up her mind on what gown to wear as late as yesterday…” He looked suddenly embarrassed. “But that’s no longer a dilemma for her. She says she is too humiliated to attend Drury Lane; and never again in my company… Rory? Rory, did you hear me? Silla’s staying home…”

  Rory reluctantly looked away from the view. She had just caught sight of her grandfather and Major Lord Fitzstuart. They had strolled out of the shadows into the sunshine on the terrace, drinking ale from silver tumblers. Ale consumed, a footman took away the tumblers and the two men stepped off the terrace onto the gravel path. They were side-by-side, but the Major being so much taller than her grandfather had respectfully dipped his right shoulder, hands clasped lightly behind his back, an ear to the old man’s conversation.

  Such was the insistence in her brother’s voice, Rory suppressed the desire to continue watching her grandfather and his companion and looked at Grasby.

  “What is it? What’s the matter, Harvel? You look so tired. Did you not sleep at all last night?”

  “Not a wink,” he confessed. “The chaise in my dressing room is lumpy, and the fire was let to die, so I froze.” He shrugged. “Not the servants’ fault. How were they to know I’d be in there all night? Still… Any lackey with half a brain could see how matters stood. I only had to poke my head into Silla’s dressing room, and she threw a Meissen dog at my head. Can you believe that? She assaulted me, her husband, with porcelain!”

  “Did it strike you?”

  “No. Missed. Nice figurine, too. Gift for her birthday… She’s got a good arm on her, Silla. Comes from being a keen archer. Thank God she didn’t have her bow and quiver handy.”

  “Oh, Harvel! You poor lamb. Silla will forgive you… But best not to show yourself at her rooms for the next little while… She’s had an upset.”

  “She’s had an upset?” Grasby puffed out his cheeks, indignant. “Tell me one person who hasn’t! I don’t mind saying that my self-esteem is in shreds. Never more embarrassed in all my days as I was last night, being pounced on by the militia as if I were a common criminal! Damned cheek.”

  Despite her brother looking miserable, Rory couldn’t help giggling. She put out her hand to him in sympathy. “But what were the soldiers to think when you ran across the studio without your clothes?”

  “I was supposed to make for a door, but with Dair taking on the entire militia, and blows being exchanged left and right, I was disorientated. Turned in the wrong direction. An easy mistake to make—”

  “Oh, yes. I agree.”

  “—so there was nothing for it but to high-tail it to the open window,” Grasby continued, relief at being able to finally tell his side of the story, and to such a sympathetic ear, outweighing his consideration for the fact his conversation was wholly unacceptable for the ears of his younger sister. “I had almost made it to freedom, too, when the constabulary was alerted to my escape, and two of ’em threw me to the ground! Bones could have been broken! Mine! As if it wasn’t galling enough to try and hide my-my vulnerabilities with one hand while making a dash across open space, a big brute sits on m’chest, leaving me no opportunity to cover anything at all! I tell you, Rory, if not for that brute, and me making a turnip of myself, Silla wouldn’t have recognized me at all!”

  “Oh?” Rory was all ears and wide-eyed attention. “I thought wives could easily distinguish their husbands without their clothes?”

  “Much you know! Wives don’t look. But I have this blasted birthmark, and when she saw it she fainted dead to the floor! I—”

  Suddenly, Grasby swallowed his words, realizing that not only were they discussing a topic grossly unsuitable for the fairer sex, his audience was his little sister. He was so used to confiding in her, and she had always listened to his troubles, that no topic, until that moment, had been off-limits between them.

  He had come to her rooms to apologize for his gauche conduct, and instead had merely confirmed that he was no gentleman. He was in every sense what Silla had branded him: An unmitigated, unfeeling ass! Yet, before he could construct a sentence of apology that would convey how deeply remorseful he was for his behavior, Rory further tied his tongue in knots with an acute observation that also set his ears aflame.

  “Do you mean wives don’t look because they choose not to and wish to be kept in ignorance? Or do you mean a wife merely pretends not to look at her husband unclothed because it is considered ill-mannered of her to do so? Because I cannot believe a wife would choose to be kept in ignorance, but as it is ill-mannered to stare in any social situation, I can readily believe the latter.” She wrinkled her nose in thought. “That would explain why, when this topic is raised in conversation by wives at social gatherings, the gentlemen present are well out of earshot. There is a good deal of giggling behind open fans, about dimensions and estimates. And Lady Hibbert-Baker keeps a little betting book.”

  Grasby sat bolt upright. His face reflected his feelings. He was appalled and flabbergasted in equal measure. His voice pitched higher than usual. “Estimates? Dimensions? A betting book? I don’t believe you! You’re fibbing!”

  “What reason have I to fib?” Rory argued, indignant. “Besides, I don’t understand the half of what they are giggling about.”

  “No. No, you wouldn’t,” Grasby readily agreed with a grumble.

  “I thought gentlemen were constantly making wagers about females?”

  “But not about one’s wife. Never about one’s wife, or sister, or mother, for that fact. A man is not a gentleman if he did. It’s bad form and not tolerated at the club to mention—”

  “—but perfectly acceptable to mention one’s mistress?”

  “That’s a different matter entirely!”

  “How so? They are females, too. And whatever Society cares to brand them, they remain females with hearts and minds, desires and dreams…”

  Grasby puffed out his cheeks, unable to construct an intelligent rebuttal to his sister’s acute observation, so burst out with frustration,

  “One visit to Romney’s studio and you’re suddenly an expert on fallen women!”

  Rory smiled, blue eyes full of mischief. “Oh? But I thought they were Opera dancers…”

  “They are Opera dancers but—”

  “Silly. Of course they are not only dancers. Particularly Signora Baccelli. Everyone knows she is the Duke of Dorset’s mistress, even gilded caged birds such as myself. I just never thought I would meet a nobleman’s mistress. It was such an enlivening experience… By the bye, when referring to females as “wagtails and canary birds,” are such ornithological terms euphemisms for whore?”

  “Hells bells, Rory! Silla is right. I am not only the most damnably bad husband, I am a wretchedly poor brother. You shouldn’t know about such things as wagtails and canary birds, or be listening to those hen-witted wives and their-their—tripe.”

  “Easier said than done when they loudly discuss a particular wager as if I am not there at all.”

  “Here was I, thinking you were safe at these tea parties. Silla has the gall to accuse me of being the worse sort of brother, and she’s taking my sister to dens of iniquity. I’ll have a word to her—”

  “You can’t. She isn’t talking to you, remember? Besides, I don’t believe she has any idea what these wives twitter on about behind their fans. She’s just not curious.”

  “Curious? That’s one word for it. Eaves-dropper is another.”

  Rory pouted. “How can I not be when I am practically the only one at these tea parties who is unmarried? I am four seasons too old to be herded about with girls enjoying their first season, and far too young to sit with the pompous spinsters sporting ear-trumpets. And because Silla is kind enough to take me with her when she goes calling, her friends and acquaintances forget I am unmarried.” She glanced at her brother and said with a shrug as she pulled the woolen
shawl closer about her, “And once I am seated, it is not a straightforward thing for me to remove myself from the hearing of such conversations. I don’t like to cause a fuss, and my stick—” She forced a smile. “Why is it that some people think that if you have a limp you must also be deaf? It is all so terribly embarrassing for the person shouting at me to be told by our hostess that just because I walk crookedly, it doesn’t mean I don’t have two perfectly working ears!”

  “Rory—forgive me. I didn’t think…”

  “Oh, don’t upset yourself on my account. They don’t mean to be rude, and I have grown accustomed to such assumptions.”

  “That’s magnanimous of you. Still, to be forced to listen to such distasteful conversations goes beyond the pale. And those wives call themselves respectable. Ha!”

  “Oh, but they are. It’s a harmless piece of funning, in its own way.” She smiled cheekily. “As harmless, perhaps, as pretending to be an American savage for a bunch of dancing girls.” When her brother covered his face with his hands, shame-faced, she added seriously, “I am unharmed and uncorrupted by the incident, so no hurt was done. And it helped clear up one matter that has been puzzling me…”

  “Puzzling you?”

  “Yes. The silly wagers written up in Lady Hibbert-Baker’s betting book… I had an exceptionally limited knowledge of what a gentleman looked like without his clothes; all guesswork. But after last night I no longer—”

  “Oh. My. God. I have corrupted my own sister.” Grasby groaned, a hand to his forehead, as if shielding his eyes and himself from any further frank confessions. “Hang me now!”

  “To tell a truth,” she said quietly, leaning into him and ignoring his melodramatic outburst, “I was more shocked to discover men have hair here.” She placed a hand to her décolletage. “I was not prepared for that at all.”

  “Please, Rory! No more,” Grasby begged, and dropped his head into the tapestry cushion. After a few seconds, he sat up again. Setting his turban to rights, he let out a great sigh. “It is times such as these that I do sincerely wish we had not been orphaned. Only a mother is equipped to answer her daughter’s questions.”

  “Silla confided that Mrs. Watkins told her absolutely nothing about anything.”

  “Well that’s at least something.” He peered keenly at his sister. “Is that all Silla told you?”

  “Most decidedly. Silla told me in a moment of weakness. I think she did so to warn me off, should I try to take her into my confidence, to seek answers to intimate questions she was not prepared to answer.”

  He sighed his relief. But no sooner did he allow his shoulders to ease than he had a sudden thought. “I don’t—Rory… I don’t have a hairy chest…”

  “No. No, you do not…”

  Grasby took a moment to digest this. In that moment, his sister’s face blushed scarlet. He knew instantly whom she had been describing. It turned his frown of puzzlement into one of suppressed anger, and he gritted his teeth. When he could master his emotions he said flatly,

  “Watkins said he found you unconscious behind the stage. He intimated you were back there with Fitzstuart for some time—alone. I threatened to knock his teeth out if he ever mentioned that circumstance again. Tell me the truth, Aurora. Were you alone backstage with Dair Fitzstuart?”

  Her brother had only ever called her by her full name once, many years ago, and she could not recall there and then why he had done so, only that he had been furious with her—as furious as he was now. Oh dear, she was about to lie for a second time in as many hours, and she felt tears behind her eyes. But she would not give up the memory of the kiss exchanged with the Major. If she did, the kiss would be construed by others as something sordid and undignified, something of which to be ashamed. She was not ashamed, and regardless of how the Major and others viewed that brief intimate moment, she was intent on preserving the whimsy that he had enjoyed their kiss just as much as she.

  “There is nothing to tell, Harvel. I said the same to Grand. I fainted at the first drop of blood. I have no stomach for men hitting each other. I am grateful to Mr. Watkins for carrying me to safety. It was truly frightening.”

  “Frightening? I don’t doubt it! You should never have been subjected to such a God-awful sight. Never.” Still furious, Grasby hit the painted sill with the side of his fist. “Bloody Dair, always playing the hero! Always getting himself into some scrape that has him beaten up at best, and almost killed at worse! Sometimes I wonder why I tolerate his damned heroics. Bloody idiot… Rory, he’s my best friend, but you are my sister, and if I thought he had taken advantage of you—touched as much as a hair on your head—that would be an end to our friendship. I’d defend your honor, the consequences be damned.”

  “I know that, Harvel,” Rory replied quietly. “I also know the consequences of such an encounter would be one-sided. He is a soldier; you are not. He has been trained to kill; you could not. And he would kill you…”

  As if to underscore the truth of her statement, there was a burst of harsh laughter from the garden. Rory pressed her forehead to the window pane and saw the subject of their discussion. The Major had a firm buttock propped on a low stone wall, long booted leg swinging as he leaned into a lighted taper, held out to him by a footman, to bring his cheroot to life. Her grandfather was standing next to him holding a small porcelain basket. She knew the container. It held crumbs for the school of carp that lived in the pond surrounding a central fountain of leaping dolphins. The water to the fountain had been turned off to allow for routine cleaning, which was why their conversation, if not their words, was audible. The Major exhaled a stream of smoke into the blue sky and said something which made her grandfather laugh and shake his head.

  Brother and sister observed the two men in silence, Grasby sitting back once his grandfather handed off the porcelain basket to a lackey to resume his stroll with Dair amongst the topiary.

  “Forgive me, sugar plum,” he said quietly, calling Rory by an old nursery nickname. “I have shamed myself doubly. Last night I acted the complete lunatic and today I’m swearing my head off. I am a disgrace, and have no excuse.”

  Rory slid down the window seat to embrace him.

  “You are the best brother in the whole known world and I would not trade you for anyone. Yesterday I would not have thought you capable of swearing, least of all of running about an artist’s studio naked, and you surprised me by doing both! Of course, such behavior behooves me to remove your halo and replace it with little horns and a forked tail. But I shan’t love you any the less.”

  He shook his head with a smile, realizing she was trying to make light of his gross transgressions for his benefit, but he saw no humor in his ungentlemanly conduct. He pulled back to look in her blue eyes.

  “Thank you. I deserve to have my halo confiscated. My brother-in-law now thinks me a lascivious freak. My grandfather shakes his head with disappointment, and my wife… Silla is so disgusted by my behavior she wants nothing more to do with me. She blames Dair and demands I cut the connection. That’s her stipulation for a reconciliation between us.”

  “But… Surely she can see that the three of you were merely having a lark. There was no real harm done. And if we—Silla, Mr. Watkins, and myself—had not happened upon your mischief, then she would have been none the wiser to it.”

  “She is not as charitable with her forgiveness as you. She has never approved of Dair, though she cannot give me a reasonable explanation for her dislike. I had no idea just how much, until his return from the fighting in the Americas. This last six months she has taken every opportunity to revile him, and now her attitude has become something of an embarrassment. You’re right. It was just a lark. And there was never any danger of me being unfaithful. So I told Silla. But will she listen to reason? No. She merely becomes hysterical and throws things at me! I told her she must accept my friends as they are. I will not give them up. Dair Fitzstuart is my best friend.”

  “But Silla is your wife, Harvel.”

&
nbsp; “So you see my dilemma. She must be made to understand. I will not be swayed. Until she does, we will remain estranged.”

  “Then we had best put our heads together to find a resolution acceptable to you both,” Rory replied, glad the focus of their conversation had shifted away from her involvement in the Romney studio raid, yet disturbed that her brother’s marriage was in such strife.

  “And what better way to do so, than over a cup of tea?” she added in a much brighter tone, for the benefit of her maid who had made her presence felt with a slight clearing of her throat. “I’ll pour, Edith. Thank you.”

  Edith had gently parted the curtains, and was flanked by two upstairs maids, one with the tray of tea things, the other with the silver teapot and its warming stand.

  Grasby continued to brood, staring out the window while his sister fussed with the tea things. He watched his grandfather and his best friend stop at an intersection of paths. Here the old man counted off using his forefinger and fingertips, Dair nodding in response as he smoked his cheroot. He remembered Dair telling him once that soldiers smoked; officers dipped. He knew Dair was not partial to snuff, and had little time for those of his fellow officers who stayed well out of the line of fire, taking snuff in a striped marquee, while soldiers were being blown to bits on the battlefield. So he smoked in their company to annoy them. And he could annoy them. He, heir to an earldom, socially outranked most of them, who were the second and younger sons of noblemen and had no title to look forward to, other than the rank bought on commission in the army.

  But what annoyed these officers more than Dair’s disregard for social rank, and his care-for-nobody attitude, was that the ordinary foot soldier would follow the Major headlong into battle, no questions asked. And so his fellow officers called him arrogant and foolhardy, and had no time for him or his heroics because it showed them up for what they truly were—painted papier-mâché fighters. One spark from Dair’s cheroot and up in flames they would go.

  Grasby smiled and found himself sipping hot milky tea before he realized he was holding a porcelain cup and saucer. He pulled himself out of his abstraction enough to say grimly,