by Farr, Diane
"Gil! I say! Gil! What the devil are you doing here? Never thought I’d stumble across you at one of these dos."
Gil bent his ferocious gaze to his left and saw Jack Crawley at his elbow. Crawley’s jovial expression changed ludicrously to dismay, and he fell back a pace. "I say, are you all right?"
"Fine!" barked Gil.
"Good, good. Glad to hear it," said Jack hastily. He eyed his friend, doubt and concern in his face, and finally blurted: "You don’t look it."
Gil audibly ground his teeth. Jack stared at him. Then light dawned. "I see what it is, old chap. You’re in a temper."
"Well, what if I am?"
"Don’t bite my head off, dear boy! I’m sure it’s no concern of mine."
Gil growled something that sounded like rude agreement. His eyes were furiously scanning the crowd.
"Unless I might be of service," suggested Jack cautiously. "Happy to do anything in my power, of course."
Gil’s head swiveled back to face his friend. His frown altered slightly, to one of fierce concentration. "Is Barney with you?"
"Lord, no! Can’t get Furbush out to one of these ghastly affairs; he don’t need to marry an heiress. I’m here with m’mother and sisters. Been paying court to Miss Sowerberry." Jack shuddered eloquently. "Fellow needs something stronger than negus after dancing attendance on that antidote for the better part of an hour. I say, Gil, have you danced with the Beauty?"
"What beauty?"
"Chit Alverstoke’s bringing out. The cousin, or whatever she is. Daresay she hasn’t a penny to bless herself with, but—"
"I’ve danced only with Chloe." Gil returned his irascible scrutiny to the crowd of dancers.
Jack brightened. "Oh, is she here? Gel you don’t wish to marry? I’ve a fancy to meet her, if you wouldn’t mind doing the honors." He waited, but Gil seemed not to have heard him. He cleared his throat delicately. "Where is she, old man?"
"Who?"
"Miss Littlefield. You said she was here."
"She’s dancing with Lord Rival." The words were uttered in a voice of suppressed fury.
Jack looked shocked. "Rival! What’s his interest in her?"
"He has no interest in her! What the devil are you implying?"
"Nothing, nothing, dear boy! Don’t fly into a pelter. I only thought—that is, I daresay you might not know—"
"Know what? Out with it, man!"
"Well, I’ll tell you. But don’t shoot the messenger, Gil." Jack took a deep breath. "That fellow, Rival. You don’t know him. No reason why you should; he’s one of the Corinthian set. But, Gil—" Jack leaned forward impressively and tapped his friend earnestly on the chest to emphasize his words. "He’s devilish attractive to females."
"Oh, for God’s sake!" yelped Gil, swatting Jack’s hand away in a frenzy of impatience. "Tell me something I don’t know! Chloe’s off making sheep’s eyes at the fellow as we speak, and I don’t know where they’ve gone."
Jack clucked his tongue sympathetically. "That’s a bad business."
Gil gave a short, mirthless laugh. "So it is! But one can’t call a man out for waltzing with a girl."
"No. Pity." A thought occurred to Jack, and he turned to stare at Gil. "Is that why you asked me if Barney was here?"
Gil grinned sheepishly. "Looking for a pair of seconds. Lost my head for a moment."
"Good Lord! Never knew you to go off half-cocked. You feeling quite the thing, Gil?"
"Oh, I’m all right now," Gil assured him. "After all, I don’t suppose Chloe can get into too much mischief at a place like Alverstoke House. Trouble is, she’s such a babe in the woods—not up to snuff at all. Never know what a girl like that will do."
"No. But if she’s an innocent soul, I daresay there’s nothing to worry about," said Jack soothingly. "Rival don’t pursue fledglings. He prefers women who know their way about."
Gil’s mouth set grimly. "If Chloe throws herself at him, however, I expect he’ll be glad to catch her."
Jack wheezed with laughter. "Pshaw! Innocent girls don’t throw themselves at men. That’s why they’re innocent, what? Ha! Ha!"
"Aye, but Chloe is setting out to do so. My hope is, she won’t have the foggiest notion how to go about it."
Jack frowned at Gil, his brows nearly meeting over his beaklike nose. "I can’t have heard you right," he said at last. "Could have sworn you said Miss Littlefield was going to throw herself at Lord Rival."
"That’s what I said."
Jack digested this information in silence. "Why?" he finally asked.
"Oh, she fancies she’s doing me a favor." Gil gave a crack of bitter laughter. "And just try telling her otherwise!"
"Doing you a —? Oh, I see." Jack cocked an eyebrow knowingly. "You must’ve told her you don’t wish to marry her."
"Yes, but if you’re thinking she’s gone off in a fit of pique because I injured her feelings, let me assure you that I didn’t! She was in a worse pucker than I was about that dashed notice."
"Then why—?"
"It’s to put a stop to the business, that’s why! She plans to throw dust in everyone’s eyes by pretending to be head over heels for Lord Rival. Believing I will then be able to jilt her with a clear conscience. Did you ever hear anything to beat it?"
Animation returned to Jack’s features. "Well, congratulations, Gil!" he said warmly. "You know, I wondered how you would get round this engagement thing. Miss Littlefield going to get you off the hook, eh? Very sporting of her."
Gil glared. "If you think I should be grateful to her, you’re fair and far off, my friend! If she succeeds in this crazy scheme of hers, how do you think it will make me look? Like a complete gudgeon, that’s how!"
"Yes, I suppose it might do that," Jack agreed. After a moment he added: "Make her look brummish, at any rate."
"I know it will! Of all the crazy, shatterbrained ideas—but that’s Clo all over! She gets a notion in her head and runs away with it. Never a thought for the consequences!"
Jack looked thoughtful. "On the other hand, of course, it should do the trick."
"Do what trick?"
"Why, scotch your engagement! You can’t expect to get out of it without some sort of dust being kicked up. May as well try this plan as any other. Rival willing to play along?"
"If you mean does he respond when she bats her eyes at him, yes, he does! Chloe’s a devilish pretty girl. Didn’t I say he’s waltzing with her even now? I’m sure he’ll be only too glad to ruin her reputation—and mine! Come with me, Jack. I’ve got to find them."
Jack shook his head, puzzled. "Seems to me that if Miss Littlefield is willing to sacrifice herself, the least you could do is stay out of her way while she does it."
Gil’s expression became mulish. "If you won’t come with me, I’m going without you. But I mean to put a stop to this if I can."
"Daresay you can’t," said Jack calmly. "Good thing, if you ask me. You’re being too chivalrous by half."
"I’m not being chivalrous!"
"Yes, you are. You say you don’t wish to look foolish. Well, you won’t. It’s Miss Littlefield who will suffer for her conduct, and you know it. You mean to save her from social ruin."
Gil’s chin began to jut alarmingly. "And what if I am?"
"Why, it’s chivalrous, that’s all. Acting against your own interests! You don’t want her. She don’t want you. What the devil are you meddling for?"
Gil fumed, searching for an answer to this home question. He found none. Jack was right. He should, in fact, be doing what he could to promote this plan of Chloe’s, not thwart it. It was a good plan, as far as it went. His reaction was nonsensical.
It didn’t matter. Every time he thought of Chloe throwing herself at Lord Rival, steam started coming out of his ears.
"Are you coming, or aren’t you?" he snapped. "You said you wanted to meet her. Well, let’s find her! I’ll be only too happy to introduce you. And, for God’s sake, Jack—ask her to dance!"
Jack, brightening
, linked arms with his crony. "I’ve no objection to dancing with her. In fact, I’ll be happy to pay court to her, if you think it would help."
Gil tore his eyes from the crowd of dancers to stare at Jack. "How the deuce would that help?"
Jack coughed vaguely. "Oh, I don’t know—divert her attention from Rival, if you really think she’s in danger. And you know, Gil, if I must marry an heiress, I’d as lief marry a pretty one. Besides: friend of yours! Daresay I shall like her."
"Haven’t I been telling you forever that Chloe don’t wish to be married?" Gil’s voice nearly cracked in exasperation.
"Yes, you’ve said that. Thing is, I don’t believe it," explained Jack. "Now, don’t fly out at me! Never saw you so testy in m’life. You been in the sun, dear boy?"
But the music had ended and Gil, distracted, was scanning the crowd again as groups of dancers, laughing and chattering, left the floor. He suddenly spotted Chloe not far from where he and Crawley were standing, fanning herself beside a marble pillar. The pillar supported an enormous stand of flowers, and she made a lovely picture in her ivory ballgown against the background of riotous color. Lord Rival was still beside her, and seemed to be saying something terribly amusing. Chloe was laughing up at him in a way that made Gil feel suddenly, irrationally, murderous.
Well, damn it all, why shouldn’t he feel murderous? Chloe was his, confound it! That was the long and the short of it: Chloe was his. He must have been mad to think he didn’t want to marry her. Of course he wanted to marry her.
The revelation turned Gil to stone. He froze, staring at Chloe and Lord Rival, heedless of Jack Crawley tugging at his arm. He felt hot and cold and sick with rage. What a prime idiot he had been, thinking he wanted to weasel out of his engagement. Why, that was the last thing on earth he wanted to do! Where was he going to find another girl he liked as well as Chloe? Where would he find a girl he liked half as well? Nowhere! There wasn’t another girl to equal her. There never would be. Not for him.
But there she stood, his own precious Chloe, the most important person in the world to him, all aglow from the attentions of another man.
And there wasn’t a blasted thing he could do about it.
Chapter 9
Lord Rival wearily let himself into his flat. It was very late, and he was dog tired. Unfortunately, sleep did not lie in his immediate future. A lamp was burning in his sitting room and the sprawling figure of a lanky young man occupied his favorite chair. This individual straightened somewhat as the chair’s owner entered the room, and gave a prodigious yawn.
"Heigh-ho, George, is that you at last? Thought you was never coming home. Done with another night’s raking, eh? Good God, the sun’s rising! Time for breakfast. And a good thing, too. I’m famished."
"I wonder why I gave you a key to this flat?" mused Lord Rival, closing the door behind him and advancing to the fire. He stretched his chilled hands toward the blaze. "It is not time for breakfast, brat. It is time for bed. And you are invited to neither."
The young man grinned, unaffected by this chilly reception. "I daresay you’ll relent, at least as far as breakfast goes. I’m devilish hard to snub."
"So I have noticed. What brings you here, Sid? Outrunning the constable again?"
"In a manner of speaking. Landlady shut the door in m’face, if you can believe that."
"Easily! I find myself in sympathy with the woman."
"Yes, but you wouldn’t change the locks on a fellow, would you? Shabby treatment! The wonder is that she dared. Why, all my things are in that room!"
"You failed to pay the rent, I suppose."
A shadow flitted across Sid’s habitually smiling face, and he hunched a shoulder. "Luck’s bound to turn sometime," he muttered defensively. "I’ll pay her rubbishing rent eventually, and so I told her. Why can’t she give a chap a chance to come about?"
"Why not, indeed?" said George with mock compassion. "Landlords are such a distrustful lot."
He seated himself in the chair opposite his uninvited guest and regarded him cynically. Sidney Cheyne was a well-born, charming ne’er-do-well, too handsome for his own good. He was, in fact, exactly what George Carstairs had been ten years ago. They resembled each other neither in appearance nor in manner; Sidney’s slightly-too-calculated boyishness differed from his own urbane suavity as day from night. Yet, somehow, looking at Sid was almost like looking in a mirror. George felt for Sid as much contempt as he felt for himself, and nearly as much affection.
"I hope you don’t mean to touch me for a loan. Surely you know me too well for that."
Sid gave a short laugh. "Yes, I do! Besides, you never have a feather to fly with."
A slight smile briefly lit George’s saturnine features. "Oh, I have a feather, these days. I am even occasionally airborne. Still, finding myself aloft is such a pleasant and novel experience, I am loath to relinquish any portion of my small store to a wastrel like you."
Sid opened his eyes in startled chagrin. "I say, coz, that’s rather a case of the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think?"
"Yes," agreed George blandly. "Which is why I have no hesitation in saying it. The pot and the kettle share a certain affinity, after all. But you really must give up this notion that we are cousins. We most decidedly are not."
"Oh, as to that—! I consider you quite one of the family." Sid grinned and stretched out his long legs. "Wouldn’t presume like this on a stranger, George! Wouldn’t dare! But since our great-grandmothers were cousins —"
"By marriage only!"
"— I know I may rely on you in any crisis."
George held out his hand peremptorily. "Give me back that key at once! I was mad to give it you."
Sid winked. "Not on your life! A man never knows when he may need a safe haven."
"You won’t find it here, brat. If the water’s too hot for you in London, why the devil don’t you go home?"
"Because I don’t wish to hand my head to my father for washing, that’s why!"
"Nonsense. You’re the prodigal son. He’ll kill the fatted calf the instant you appear on the horizon."
Sid snorted. "I’m not the prodigal son. I’m the black sheep! They’ll skin me alive if I show my face at Cheyne. You don’t know how lucky you are to have no family."
"No family? I thought you had decided we were cousins," mocked George.
Another grin split Sid’s features. "You’re my cousin when I want something from you," he explained. "Otherwise, our connection is really too remote. I generally don’t think of you as family at all."
"I would take offense, of course, if I didn’t realize you meant that for a compliment," remarked George. He reached a languid hand for the brandy decanter resting on a nearby table and held it up to the light. "Oh, did you leave me a dram? You are the soul of courtesy."
"I even left you a clean glass."
"A model guest," murmured George, pouring himself the drop that remained in his decanter. He regarded Sid over the brim of the glass as he rolled the amber liquid meditatively back and forth. "If you won’t go home, will you take some advice? I am older, and presumably wiser, than yourself."
Sid looked wary. "You may give your advice, if you must. Whether I take it or not is another matter. What is it?"
"I can tell you how to change your luck at the gaming tables. At least, I can tell you how I changed mine."
Sid’s jaw dropped. He leaned forward eagerly. "Now, that’s something like!" he exclaimed. "I thought you seemed a trifle plumper in the pocket than you were a year ago. I wondered how you had managed it, but I didn’t care to ask."
Sardonic amusement lit George’s eyes. "You thought I was fuzzing the cards or some such thing."
"No—no, of course not!"
"Good," said George, his voice as soft as silk.
Sid flushed. "I—I only thought you might have stumbled upon something, you know. Some trick you wouldn’t like to share."
"I have. And I will tell you my secret. But you won’t like i
t." George tilted the brandy down his throat, swallowed, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. An enigmatic smile lit his features as he regarded Sid’s avid expression. "I stopped drinking."
Sid’s eyes slid, in doubt and surprise, to the brandy decanter. George’s smile widened. "At the table. I never touch a drop at dinner, nor when gaming. In fact, I never drink at all until the evening’s end. And that, my friend, is why my luck changed. I told you you wouldn’t like it."
Sid’s face had indeed fallen; he looked almost ludicrously disappointed. He laughed uneasily. "You’re right. I don’t. Hang it all, a man must drink when his companions do so! I always keep a clear head."
George shrugged, bored. "By all means, delude yourself. It’s not my concern. Unsolicited advice is never welcome; I don’t know why I offered it in the first place. I ought to know better. But it’s late, and I’m tired."
As he set down his glass, preparing to rise from the chair, Sid leaned forward and laid an urgent hand upon his sleeve. "George—you know I hate to ask, but—really, I am utterly rolled up! Might I pay you a visit?"
George frowned. "Here? Good God, man, I’ve only two rooms."
"No, I know that. I meant your place in Sussex. If I could stay there until next quarter-day—"
"No."
The terse monosyllable caused an angry flush to mount Sid’s cheek. "It’s—it’s not like I’d steal anything!" he exclaimed, mortified.
George uttered a short bark of laughter. "There’s nothing there to steal. I only wish there were! Over the years, everything of value has been either stripped away or mortgaged. Don’t look so cast-down, lad! I’d send you there, but the place is all in holland covers and there’s only a caretaker on the premises. No staff at all. I can’t afford one." His mouth twisted in bitter humor. "Being a baron isn’t what it used to be."