The Earl's Invention

by Diana Campbell

  “I returned early from my club.” As so often happened, he had altogether ignored her protest. “Expecting to find you literally bedridden and sorely in need of companionship. I found, instead, that you and Francis were disporting yourselves gaily about the town.”

  “I shan’t argue that point either.” Bonnie snatched her wrist from his grasp. “Nor shall I listen to any more of your baseless accusations. If you will excuse me—”

  “No, I will not excuse you.” His voice was as brittle and chill as ice. “And you will listen to one thing more. A question. I should like to know how Judith’s other project is progressing.”

  Bonnie was briefly at a loss to conceive what other project he meant, but at length, it came to her. “It has not progressed at all,” she said. “Lady Hellier has yet to present me to a duke or marquis either one.”

  “Spare me your innocence, Bonnie." Even in the dim glow of the lamplight, the earl’s eyes glittered like great blue

  jewels. “I did initially suppose that Judith would contrive to wed you to some such exalted person, but I was wrong, was I not? She has no duke or marquis in mind for her wealthy niece. She is plotting to wed you to Francis."

  Bonnie began to grow dizzy again. Not with shock this time—she recognized at once that he was right—but with astonishment that she had failed to perceive the situation herself. Of course Lady Hellicr would attempt to wed her to Francis. It was the perfect solution to her ladyship’s dilemma: with one stroke, she could ensure that her son would inherit David’s estate and lay her greedy hands on Thomas Carlisle’s mythical fortune as well. Indeed, Bonnie now recalled, Francis had hinted as much just before he stammered out his proposal. Yes, he had said that were it not for her fervent greeting, he would have “sought to” postpone his offer—the offer Lady Hellier was obviously urging him to tender.

  “And evidently the project has your enthusiastic endorsement,” David continued. “Or so I collect from the shameless manner in which you are throwing yourself at Francis' head.”

  Throwing herself at Francis? The earl’s charge was so abrupt, so absurd, that Bonnie was struck quite speechless.

  “You went to Lady Cunningham’s assembly with the specific objective of chatting cozily with him all evening.” David went relentlessly on. “Thinking to claim your ankle was still too weak to permit you to dance with anyone else. But I insisted you leave, and while I was summoning Kimball, you told Francis you would decline to go to Almack’s tonight. Leaving you free to dine with him."

  He had distorted the facts so grotesquely that Bonnie couldn’t decide which of his allegations to counter first. Should she remind him that when he was summoning the carriage, she had assumed he would be home this evening? That he had not announced his intention of playing macao at Brooks’s till they were halfway back to Grosvenor Street? Remind him, again, that it was he who had proposed they wait until next week to go to Almack’s?

  She parted her lips, still not certain what she planned to

  say, and in the event, no words came. In the event, the tears which had been lurking in her throat, hiding just behind her eyelids, burst forth, and she dissolved in a fit of weeping. She would not let him watch her cry, she thought fiercely, would not give him that satisfaction, and she spun around and began to run down the corridor.

  “Bonnie!”

  She shook her head and stumbled on, and he caught her as she reached the staircase, seizing her elbow with such force that she fell against him.

  “Good God, I didn’t mean to make you cry. Hush now; there’s a good girl. Please, Bonnie, I can’t bear it.”

  His arms were around her, her face buried in his chest, and her sobs subsided first to little gasps and then to sniffles, and eventually the sniffles died away. And it was then, when they stood in silence, that she became suddenly, intensely aware of his nearness. She could feel the beat of his heart against her, the stir of his breath in her hair, and she experienced a sensation she had never known before. Not the warm wellbeing she had felt when he carried her up the stairs— though there was some of that as well—but a peculiar weakness in her knees and a sweet, throbbing ache in her midsection.

  His arms tightened, pulled her so close she could scarcely breathe, and she raised her head and found his eyes upon her, eyes that seemed blue-black in the shadows of the corridor. He stared at her for an endless moment, then released her and hurriedly stepped away.

  “Go to bed now,” he said hoarsely. “We shall discuss the matter tomorrow.”

  He turned and strode back down the hall, and Bonnie retrieved her hat from the newel post and walked unsteadily in the opposite direction.

  11

  Bonnie woke with a vague, indefinable sense of apprehension, but even as she lowered her feet to the carpet, she remembered the cause. Causes, she amended grimly: David and Francis by name. Both had declared an intention to “discuss” matters with her today, and the prospect filled her with dread. She glanced at the bellpull beside the bed, then shook her head. She needed an interval to think, and she would be unable to do so with Nell bustling about the room and reporting the latest neighborhood on-dits. She rose and trudged to the dressing table, sat down and began idly to brush her hair.

  Her discussion with David would be much the more unpleasant of the two, Bonnie judged. Infinitely more unpleasant, for at some juncture, she must advise him of Francis’ proposal, and she could scarcely bear to contemplate the earl’s reaction. In his present frame of mind, he would surely conclude that she had somehow enticed Francis to offer for her hand. And when—if—she succeeded in persuading him otherwise, how was she to explain her failure to render an immediate answer? He would never believe she had been struck literally dumb with shock; he would assume, as Francis had, that she had wanted to deliberate the matter.

  Yes, the conversation would be unpleasant in the extreme, and Bonnie fancied she would do almost anything to avoid it. Might well sell her soul if she didn’t have to tell him . . .

  But she did not have to tell him. The realization came so suddenly that Bonnie dropped her hairbrush and gazed wide- eyed at her reflection in the glass. Not this morning at any rate. The time to inform David of Francis' proposal was after she’d refused it; he need never know she had waited four-and- twenty hours to do so. And a postponement of the discussion would resolve yet another problem: once she declined to wed Francis, he would cease his attentions. The earl would consequently forget his ludicrous charge that she had thrown herself at his nephew’s head, and within a few days—a week perhaps—he would receive the news of Francis' offer with perfect equanimity.

  Bonnie's mirrored image nodded its approval of this reasoning, and she reluctantly turned her attention to Francis. Their conversation could not be delayed beyond this evening, but as she thought on it, her dread began to subside. She was inclined to believe that Francis was genuinely fond of her; she doubted even the formidable Lady Hellier could persuade her son to marry a woman he did not care for at all. But Bonnie equally doubted that Francis had fallen over head and ears in love with the alleged cousin he scarcely knew, and she suspected he would be more relieved than disappointed when she rejected his proposal. She would take care not to wound his pride, of course . . . Her reflection bobbed its head in eager agreement to this plan as well, and she jumped up, sped to the wardrobe, and donned her peach-colored morning dress.

  Bonnie had entertained a distant hope that David might already have left for the day, but he was still seated in the breakfast parlor when she reached it. Though he had apparently finished eating, she observed: he had pushed his plate aside and was leafing through a copy of The Times. She paused in the entry to watch him, her cheeks warming with the memory of their embrace.

  Embrace, she chided herself. What an absurd notion. Papa had held her just that way a hundred times, permitting

  her to sob out her childhood agonies against the buttons of his waistcoat. Well, not quite that way, she corrected. She had never been aware of Papa’s heartbeat or
his breathing, had never felt that strange, delicious ache—

  “You may come in,” the earl growled, raising his eyes from the paper. “I shan’t bite you.”

  He had caught her unawares again, and Bonnie started and hurried to the sideboard. Since she had eaten virtually no dinner, she fancied she should be ravenous, but the mere sight of the eggs and bacon and simmering kidneys set her stomach to churning. After some deliberation, she took a single muffin and one pat of butter and sank into the chair across from David’s.

  “Shall I order you a cup of chocolate?” he asked gruffly. “You can hardly survive on that.” He frowned at her plate.

  “No, thank you. I am not very hungry.” She broke the muffin in two and began to apply butter to the smaller half.

  “I wasn’t hungry either.”

  David gestured toward his own plate, and Bonnie saw that it was, in fact, still heaped with food. The earl was silent a moment, but at length, he laid his newspaper on the table and cleared his throat.

  “I daresay we both remain somewhat overset about the . . . ah . . events which occurred last night.”

  Bonnie’s knife slipped through her muffin and came to rest on her palm. Fortunately, the knife was not sharp, and the only casualty was the muffin, which had disintegrated to a pile of crumbs.

  “I now own ...” David emitted another cough. “I now own that certain of my remarks were unjust. As I reviewed the circumstances, I came to recognize that you did not arrange to dine with Francis before you left Lady Cunningham’s ball. I am sorry to have . . . have distressed you by suggesting you had.”

  Bonnie hadn’t dared to dream he would actually apologize, and her bones fairly dissolved with relief. “That is ail right,” she murmured.

  “However,” he continued, “I count it only fair to remind you that you did deceive me.”

  “Deceived you?” she said sharply, her relief evaporating.

  “Perhaps ‘misled’ would be a better word; call it what you will. You created the impression that you were too unwell to leave the house, and I altered my schedule accordingly. Whereupon I learned that you were not too unwell to go out with Francis.”

  “But I explained last night—"

  “I don’t wish to discuss it any further.” The earl waved her to silence. “I simply wish you to know that I shall be prodigious overset indeed if you deceive me again in future. Deceive or mislead me either one. I trust you will not.”

  He had, as usual, twisted the facts to his own advantage, but Bonnie bit back an angry retort. They were at relative peace, and it would be excessively foolish to rekindle his wrath. “No,” she muttered. “No, I shall not.”

  “Excellent. Now what was the dreadful thing you alluded to last evening?”

  Dreadful thing? Bonnie knit her brows in puzzlement, then recollected that she had started to tell him of Francis’ offer. Which was now out of the question, of course, and she groped for a credible reply.

  “It ... it was more embarrassing than dreadful,” she stammered at last. “Briscoe was so jug-bitten he had taken to his bed, and Sir Robert was scarcely better off. Indeed, he fell asleep at table—Sir Robert, that is—and it was most . . . most disconcerting.”

  Her words rang false even in her own ears, but David nodded.

  “It is hardly the First time,” he said sardonically. “But I well understand that it might appear dreadful to one unfamiliar with their conduct.” He tossed his napkin next to the newspaper and stood up. “I assume you are sufficiently recovered to attend Viscount Peyton's assembly tonight?”

  “Yes,” Bonnie mumbled.

  “Then pray be ready to depart at half past eight. I should

  guess, based on prior experience, that it will be the largest rout of the Season.”

  He bowed and strode out of the room, and Bonnie gazed miserably in his wake. She had deceived him now, deceived him quite deliberately, and she shuddered to ponder the consequences if he discovered her lie. But how was he to discover it? Francis wouldn’t mention his unsuccessful suit to David or anyone else. Whatever the degree of his affection, Francis’ male conceit alone would impel him to keep the rejected proposal a secret.

  Bonnie buttered the undamaged half of her muffin, but she could not quell a nagging inkling that there was some flaw in her logic. Her stomach began to chum again, and she returned the muffin to her plate and crept back to her bedchamber.

  It was not until she was dressing for the ball that Bonnie perceived the elusive error in her reasoning. Lady Hellier. Eager as she was to wed her son to his fictional cousin, her ladyship would naturally have demanded an accounting of his conversation with Bonnie the instant he returned to Orchard Street. She would have collected, as Francis had, that Bonnie was considering the offer; and so long as she was laboring under this misapprehension, she might well remark on the proposal in David’s hearing. Therefore, Bonnie concluded, it was imperative for her to speak with Francis at the earliest opportunity, and she rushed to the vestibule at twenty-five past eight and impatiently waited for the earl to appear.

  David arrived at half past eight precisely, but he brought with him the grim news that their departure was to be delayed. There was a problem with the barouche, he said, and though he went on to explain the malfunction in exhaustive detail, Bonnie registered only that it had something to do with one of the wheels. Kimball had been working on the carriage all day, but he had completed the repair just ten minutes since, and he now must hitch the horses . . . She gritted her teeth in a fair frenzy of frustration, and at ten minutes before nine, Kimball opened the front door and announced that the vehicle was ready.

  The earl had mentioned that Viscount Peyton’s home was located in Curzon Street, and Bonnie was initially at a loss to comprehend why the barouche came to a halt at the intersection of South Audley and Mount. She leaned forward, thinking to urge Kimball to hurry, and glimpsed a line of carriages before them extending as far as the eye could see.

  “It is as I predicted.” David sighed. “An utter rout. I sometimes suspect Peyton of inviting every beggar in the street to his assemblies so he can claim the dubious distinction of conducting the largest gathering of the Season.” “Perhaps we should go round the other way,” Bonnie said nervously. “By Berkeley Street and Piccadilly.”

  “That route will be no less crowded.” The earl shook his head. “No, there is nothing for it but to wait our turn. I assure you the festivities will continue into the small hours of the morning.”

  Bonnie once more surveyed the endless line of carriages and wondered if she should suggest they abandon the barouche altogether and proceed on foot. A walk would require under ten minutes, she calculated, but even as she parted her lips to point this out, she realized that such a suggestion would seem peculiar in the extreme. So she closed her mouth and began to pick imaginary specks of lint from the yellow satin roses around the bottom of her skirt.

  Bonnie estimated that some forty-five minutes had elapsed when the barouche rolled to a stop in the general vicinity of Lord Peyton’s door. The scene outside the house much resembled her notion of a riot, and she could not but remember the unfortunate occasion, some years earlier, when Carlton House had been opened to the public and four women had been trampled to death in the universal eagerness to be first through the gate. Indeed, it briefly appeared she would be trampled to death by the throng on the footpath, but David somehow propelled her safely up the front steps, through the door, and across the foyer to the bottom of the staircase.

  Bonnie craned her neck and peered up the stairs, but she did not spy any of the Hellier party ahead. Nor would it have signified if she did, she realized, for she couldn’t possibly have made her way through the crowd to speak with Francis. No, she would simply have to search for him the moment she entered the drawing room. Which could not be long; they had already ascended three risers . . .

  But the assembly was not being held in the saloon, Bonnie saw as they rounded the first-floor landing. The corridor was jammed wit
h guests all the way to the end, and she surmised there was a ballroom on the second story. Up still another flight of steps. Good God. The press of bodies had rendered her monstrous warm, and she opened her ivory fan and waved it about her face.

  A long-case clock was situated on the second-floor landing, and it was chiming half past ten when she and David reached it. Bonnie was genuinely faint by now—her knees trembling with a toxic blend of hunger and heat and appre- henson—and she sagged against the earl as they inched their way toward the ballroom entry. At least, she comforted herself, there would no lengthy receiving line. David had also mentioned that Viscount Peyton, like the earl himself, was a bachelor.

  But she was wrong in this respect as well, for Lord Peyton had obviously recruited all his female relatives to hostess his grand assembly. Weil, perhaps not all of them, Bonnie amended: she was not familiar with his lordship’s entire family history. She only knew with certainty that she was compelled to greet the viscount’s widowed mother, three sisters, two sisters-in-law, and several cousins; and to assure each of them that theirs was by far the loveliest ball she had been privileged to attend since her arrival from Barbados.

  David was behind her in the line, and as he murmured his compliments to the last of the cousins, Bonnie gaze despairingly round the ballroom. It was veritable sea of people, and she could not conceive why Lord Peyton had troubled himself to engage an orchestra. The musicians were seated on ap elevated platform at one end of the room, bravely sawing away at their instruments, but their efforts were quite drowned by the roar of conversation. Not that it mattered, for there was no space in which to dance. In fact, there was scarcely space to move, and Bonnie began to doubt she would ever locate Francis. The earl stepped to her side, and at that moment, she spotted the Helliers perhaps twenty feet away.