Miss Treadwell's Talent

by Barbara Metzger

  It was beginning to occur to Maylene that she had nothing to fear from Finster, she wouldn’t live long enough to face him. She took a step backward, but Hyatt’s hands clasped her shoulders that much harder. “My lord, you are beginning to frighten me.”

  “At last something does!” Socrates was so angry that she was so addlepated—he would decide why later—that if he didn’t shake some sense into her, he deserved sainthood. So he wouldn’t rattle what brains she had, he kissed her. He’d decide why that seemed like a good idea later, too.

  Maylene stopped struggling. Then she stopped thinking of anything but the earl’s lips on hers. She rose on tiptoe, getting closer, not even feeling the mud ooze in her shoes. She felt nothing but his lips. She was nothing but her lips, touching his.

  She’d have to remember to tell her mother that there really was a Paradise. But then she remembered her mother, and her mother’s teachings. She wasn’t a lightskirt, and this was no simple token of affection. This kiss wasn’t Cousin Grover the Groper’s damp lust, nor that curate’s chaste salute when she was seventeen. This was raw sensuality, an expression of Hyatt’s anger, meant to punish, to dominate, to subordinate and subdue.

  So she slapped him. Maylene hauled her right arm back and let it fly with all her might, connecting with his left cheek with an impact that brought tears to her eyes from the pain of her palm. What it did to Lord Hyatt was another story.

  The earl’s head snapped around from the force of her blow, and he jerked back, off balance, into a patch of duck detritus. And his high-shined boots skidded in something less than a champagne polish, to be followed by his buckskin breeches, his burgundy Bath superfine coat, and his long black hair, in that order. He bellowed a curse and started to rise, lost his footing again in his own skid marks, then tumbled backward down the inclining embankment, straight into the Serpentine, with its stagnant waters and weeds.

  “There,” Maylene called over her shoulder. “You wanted to commune with nature, my lord. Commune.”

  She marched toward the carriage without another look back, not stopping till she passed Hyatt’s groom, hurrying to his master’s aid. “I wish you to drive me home,” she told him.

  “Aye, miss, but his lordship…”

  He ran past her, but she halted him with one sentence. “If you do not drive me home, I shall drive myself.”

  His master or his cattle? Jem scratched his head, then chose to save the horses. Lord Hyatt was already broken and blown.

  Chapter Ten

  “Oh, dear, I do hope you haven’t dampened the earl’s enthusiasm.”

  No, Maylene didn’t think she’d done that, precisely. Her mother was distressed to see her daughter arrive home in a temper and in a hired hackney, without an escort. Lady Tremont wasn’t half so distressed as she’d be if she heard what really happened, Maylene knew, and saw no reason to mention that she’d left Hyatt with seaweed streaming off his shoulders and curses streaming from his mouth. And that she’d practically commandeered his curricle. At least she hadn’t left Hyatt to make his sodden way through the crowds of promenaders in the park. She’d made his groom set her down just outside the gates, where she could hire a hackney, freeing Jem to go back and retrieve his master.

  “I thol you you hab windmilth in your head, Thithbe.” Aunt Regina was testing out her new cheek pads. She removed them to say, “Of course the gel gave Hyatt a disgust of her, Thisbe. I told you you should have taught the chit to flirt instead of letting her bury her nose in all those books. There’s nothing about her to appeal to a buck like the Ideal, not when females like Aurora Ashford are ready to kiss his feet.”

  They wouldn’t be this afternoon, Maylene told herself, looking down at her own ruined slippers.

  “Why, she’d do better with a touch of the hare’s foot,” Aunt Regina was going on, “than any highbrow education. A bit of kohl for her eyes, a dab of color on her lips…”

  Of course, Maylene told herself, wishing she could go upstairs and throw herself on the bed. A little face paint and Hyatt would forget she’d planted him a facer. When water ran uphill.

  “No,” her mother defended loyally with a mother’s blindness, “our May is perfect the way she is. And where would we be without her clever head for figures and such? Besides, we would not want your false colors to give any of the gentlemen the notion that our girl is fast.”

  No, then they might kiss her in the park. Maylene was developing a headache so severe that it had a name of its own—Hyatt. Before she went to her room, however, she had to warn her mother about the Ingraham journals. “Have you done any thinking about Mrs. Ingraham’s inquiry, Mama?” she asked.

  “Why, no, dear. I was hoping Max would be able to offer us a clue, since you haven’t uncovered anything.”

  Maylene had searched every likely cranny and cubbyhole. “Do you think it’s possible that Mrs. Ingraham has hidden them away on purpose, that she intends to extort money for their non-appearance? I gather that there might be some incriminating material in the journals, material that her husband’s associates might not wish brought to light. That does not sound like the type of thing one would casually misplace, does it?”

  “What, and she would use our activities in the afterlife to further her evil intentions? Oh, dear.”

  Maylene was hoping that her mother regretted their involvement, not that the money was going elsewhere. “I’m beginning to think such might be the case, Mama.”

  Aunt Regina was nodding, setting the fake bangs to bob at her wrinkled brow. “I always thought there was something havey-cavey about the woman. Second wife, don’t you know, and Barrister Ingraham’s fortune going to the children of the first wife. She might need the blunt.”

  “I’m more concerned that some of those mentioned in the journals might think that we have something to do with the scheme, Mama. They might turn out to be unsavory types, you know. Mr. Ingraham did represent criminals, after all.”

  Lady Tremont tossed her embroidery back into its workbasket at her feet. “We’ll just have to see what Max says about it, won’t we? Dear Max would be quite angry with someone leading danger to our doorstep.”

  Then Max should be positively livid at Lord Hyatt.

  Having done her best in the Ingraham matter for now, Maylene was not up to discussing the Duke of Mondale’s daughter. She’d let her mother figure how to tell the worried parent that they couldn’t help him find Lady Belinda. That should satisfy Hyatt, not that such was a concern of Maylene’s, but they did, in fact, have no clues as to the heiress’s whereabouts. There’d been no hint of an affair in the gossip columns, not the slightest mention of the lady’s name being linked with anyone her father might have favored less than Hyatt for his daughter’s hand. Lady Belinda might have favored her horse more, for all Maylene knew. So they would be finished with another investigation. Perhaps then she could convince her mother to take a trip to Bath, to look for the missing music instructor. They could go if they economized and did not spend their recent windfalls on the wine cellar. Then they would not be in London to face Finster and his ilk—or Hyatt.

  In her bedroom at last, Maylene did not burst into sobs as the huge lump in her throat seemed to presage. Instead, she sat at her dressing table, staring into the mirror to see if she was the same girl who’d set out this afternoon. Never in all her days had the old Maylene behaved so irrationally, so outrageously. Never in all her days had she known such emotion, such anger—or such remorse. Striking a gentleman was bad enough, but sending him flying into the river was beyond the pale, even if she’d been provoked. She had never seen a gentleman so incensed, no, not even her father when he’d lost his hunting box on that horse that fell down dead at the starter’s pistol. Lord Hyatt would ruin them for sure now.

  She supposed she’d have to send him an apology, the dastard, not that she expected his forgiveness, the devil take him. The rake had been as much at fault as she, Maylene told herself, with his insults to her intelligence, her honor, and even her loo
ks. Haystack hair indeed! Then he’d assaulted her virtue. She’d write the apology, Maylene swore, because she was a lady. But she wouldn’t mean a word of it. Nevertheless, she’d write it, she vowed, as soon as she finished lopping off her long, tangled curls.

  She might look like a tasseled lampshade when she was done, but there. And there. And there. Maylene kept snipping, even the back that she couldn’t see. Now if she could only cut away the memory of his kiss so easily.

  *

  Hellfire and damnation, he knew he’d have to apologize to the infuriating female. Socrates couldn’t imagine what had gotten into him, before he’d gotten into the water. After that, he was sure he’d swallowed a gallon of the murky stuff, and a minnow or two. He’d managed to free the little boys’ boat from the entangling weeds while he was still immersed, so he had an excuse to offer to passersby, after he saw his curricle and prize horses pass by. The wench had stolen his rig, by Zeus! She’d sent it back soon enough, granted, before he was forced to drip his way through Rotten Row, but the twenty minutes he spent sodden on a bench seemed like an eternity.

  But before that? What the devil had possessed him to kiss the woman? He was a grown man, by George, not some green youth given to impetuous emotions. And he was a betrothed man, besides, or as near as made no difference in his own eyes. Miss Treadwell was a lady, or as near as made no difference in the eyes of Society. That alone should have made her safe from improper advances. Besides, he did not even like her! She was unscrupulous, ungoverned, and unwilling to listen to advice. So why, Socrates asked himself again, as his valet poured the third can of hot water over his head to try to eradicate the stench of stagnant water, why had he kissed her?

  Because Aurora Ashford hadn’t waited for him last night? No, he’d been more relieved that there wouldn’t be a scene over his lateness than regretful over his unsatisfied physical needs. Hyatt had a ruby and diamond pendant sent over this morning to appease the widow. If the bauble was not large enough to turn the trick, well, there were scores of other Diamonds for him to mine.

  He’d kissed Miss Treadwell because he was upset, he recalled, and he was upset because Finster was threatening to carve the ladies up for breakfast. Socrates couldn’t even give the excuse that he was acting on Mondale’s behalf when he threatened that loose screw in return. Mondale would turn his back on any female involved in so sordid an affair. Hyatt had turned into a stag in rut.

  Thunderation, he’d kissed Miss Maylene Treadwell. And deuced well enjoyed it. The female must be a witch after all, he decided. Yes, that was a good explanation for his outlandish behavior—she’d ensorcelled him. Now all he had to do was convince himself he believed in witches and magic.

  His conscience demanded he apologize. Diamonds came cheaper. Socrates would rather swim in the Serpentine again than spew out his regrets for such lamentable conduct. So he sat in his tub until his skin shriveled. Then he took twice as long as usual to shave, for the second time that day. He decided to create a new neckcloth style, then spent another twenty minutes thinking of a name for the knot. Philanderer’s Fall? The Disoriental? The Trone d’apology?

  Not wishing to hear any of the day’s damp on dits, the earl changed his mind about dining at his club. His kitchen was unprepared, naturally, so he caught up on some correspondence while his expensive French chef tore his hair out, trying to turn out a creditable meal. In appreciation, Socrates ate every bite—slowly.

  He was ready, damn it.

  *

  The reflections from Aunt Regina’s necklaces, bracelets, and rings couldn’t have been more brilliant if they were real. The old lady had emptied her jewelry box in honor of the duke’s return, every piece of Austrian glass a different color. The reason no one was blinded by the sight of her refulgence in Lady Tremont’s little parlor that evening was that they were all staring at Maylene.

  As soon as Maylene entered the room, her mother, in her usual lavender gauze, started fanning herself with the gloves she’d just removed. Campbell’s mouth was ajar, so he could not announce her arrival. No one said anything, in fact, until the duke, in his old-fashioned, courtly manner, said, “Very fetching, my dear.”

  Lady Crowley, nervously patting her own thick sausage curls, echoed, “Cropped curls are all the crack, Miss Treadwell.”

  Mrs. Ingraham muttered, “Scandalous,” at which Aunt Regina made a rude noise. Bobbed hair wasn’t half so bad as blackmail.

  Lord Shimpton was aghast. “Mumsy would not approve. No, I am certain she would not”

  “Your mother wouldn’t approve of any girl she didn’t select herself,” Aunt Regina said and snickered at him. “But her opinions don’t count, Shimpton. She’s dead, remember? And I like your new look very well, May.”

  So did Maylene. The short curls had dried almost instantly by the fire, and took no time to comb through. The pink ribbon she’d wound through them was more for decoration now, matching her gown, and less to keep order, making her feel younger and prettier. Without the weight of her hair and the worry of it coming loose, Maylene felt a new sense of freedom.

  Another weight was lifted from her shoulders. He was not present for her mother’s gathering this evening.

  “Yes, well, this seems to be everyone now,” Lady Tremont announced. “Shall we begin?”

  Campbell helped the guests take seats around the small table, placing the duke on Lady Tremont’s right this evening, Lord Shimpton on her left. Lady Crowley and Mrs. Ingraham raced for the chair next to Mondale, but the barrister’s widow won. Maylene took up her own seat on the sofa near the fireplace, out of the circle.

  Lady Tremont was starting the ritual of directing her companions’ thoughts to the candle in frost of them and to their beloveds above them when they all heard the sound of the front door opening and closing.

  Maylene’s heart sank to her feet, which had finally warmed from their muddy trek. How did one face a man when one had acted with such abandon, then abandoned him? All the demons in hell could not fill Miss Treadwell with more dread than having to meet the Earl of Hyatt after his Hyde Park dousing. She closed her eyes, praying for the floor to open up and swallow her. As her mother always said, all things were possible if one set one’s mind to them. She set her mind to disappearing.

  “I say, Cuz, you are looking deuced ill. Not going to swoon, are you?”

  Maylene’s eyes snapped open. The sight that met her eyes wouldn’t gladden the heart of many a maiden, but Cousin Grover had never looked so good to Maylene. Granted he had less hair on the top of his head than the last time she’d seen him and more sprouting out of his ears, as well as the usual drip of moisture at the end of his nose. But he wasn’t Hyatt.

  He was, however, employing the same obnoxious affectation, surveying her through his quizzing glass. “Dash it, I never heard you were sickly, but the physicians must have cut all your hair off to relieve the fever. Why wasn’t I called if the case was so serious?”

  “I am fine, Cousin. Truly, I am not ailing.”

  “No? I heard you’d left the park in a demmed skimble-skamble manner. Thought you must be stricken with the influenza or such.”

  “And you called to inquire into my daughter’s health? How kind, Cousin Grover. However, Maylene is in the pink of condition, as you can see.” She was in a pink frock, at any rate. “And we are about to begin this evening’s meditations. So if you will forgive us, Cousin…”

  “Well, I won’t, if the chit ain’t sick, and that’s a fact, Cousin Thisbe. I won’t tolerate it a’tall, m’cousin gadding about with a known rake, acting the hoyden for everyone to see. I am head of the family now, by Jupiter, and I won’t hear of it.”

  “If you won’t hear of it,” came a low, slow drawl from the doorway, “then perhaps you should not listen to gossip. Miss Treadwell is a lady, and I beg leave to differ with anyone who says otherwise.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Hyatt was here, and he was defending her? Maylene thought she must have prayed too hard. Now she was hallu
cinating.

  “There was nothing improper about Miss Treadwell’s conduct in the park,” Lord Hyatt stated unequivocally, almost daring the pasty-faced baron to contradict his word.

  Cousin Grover was not well pleased that his stirring of the scandal broth was not causing more of a stink. That malador was Shimpton. Disappointed, Grover waved a scented handkerchief in front of his dripping nose. He’d thought to use the rumors to advance his suit for Maylene’s hand, claiming an engagement announcement was necessary to prevent further slander of the family name. He did not think he wished to partake of pistols for two with the Earl of Hyatt, however. Grover knew full well who’d be having the breakfast for one.

  “I, ah, didn’t mean to impugn your lordship’s honor, heh heh. Just looking after m’dear cousins, don’t you know.”

  “Admirable, I’m sure.” Socrates was sure of no such thing, seeing Ingraham’s widow at the table. If he had any care for his kinswomen’s safety, the baron should have tossed Sophie Ingraham out of the house, rather than berating Miss Treadwell for her behavior. Hell, Tremont should be calling him out, for his misdeeds. Then again, if the clunch had any influence with the Treadwell House ladies, they wouldn’t be in the oracle business. Mrs. Ingraham could conduct her extortion at her own house, and Socrates could resume his affair with Aurora Ashford, instead of having lascivious thoughts about a larcenous little mophead—who was looking like a street urchin with her raggedly shorn curls, or a sleep-tousled angel. No, he would not think of Miss Treadwell in the same breath as sleep, beds, and rumpled sheets. He was a promised man. Bloody hell, he hadn’t even thought of Belinda and her disappearance all afternoon, only the maddening Miss Maylene Treadwell. A few more hours in her company and Socrates feared he’d be as want-witted as the rest of these widgeons. “Why don’t we let Lady Tremont get on with her, ah, musings, shall we?” he asked.

  “Never say you subscribe to that fustian. I don’t believe it.”

  “You can believe I am here.” Hyatt’s one raised eyebrow told Tremont that he could also believe the earl would plant him a facer if he didn’t take his leave.