That apology was growing harder and harder to make. Maylene wrote down the word “handkerchief.”
“Or one of her gloves? Whatever for, Max?”
Hyatt swore again. “Because your boggarts have decided to turn bloodhound now, I suppose,” he said under his breath.
Lady Tremont smiled suddenly. “Alex is going to help? Oh, how lovely, Max. Now I am sure we can find Lady Belinda.”
“Alex? Who in tarnation is Alex?” Hyatt asked Maylene.
She hunched her shoulders under the shawl. “He is one of Max’s friends, I guess.”
“You don’t know?”
“Well, he might be a brother.”
“Dash it, woman, don’t you know how many brothers you have? Or had?”
“I was an only child. And my mother does not like to speak of it.”
“No, she only likes to speak of what cannot be proved. Now she’s got two pet ghosts to hoodwink Mondale with.”
“Max isn’t a ghost. That’s an unhappy entity that has not gone beyond because of unfinished business or a curse. Max is quite content.”
“He can be dancing on his cloud for all I care. I tell you this, though, whoever the devil Alex is, ghosts cannot smell!”
Socrates had become so irate that he’d forgotten to lower his voice. Lady Tremont sagged in her chair, the contact broken. She stared around vacantly until her eyes found his. “They can if they are dogs.”
Maylene dropped her pencil.
“Alex is a dog?” Mondale asked for them all.
“Well, he was.”
Hyatt threw his hands in the air. “Now I have heard everything. Come on, Mondale, let us get out of this lunatic asylum before they lock the doors.”
The duke, however, seemed amused by the discussion raging around him.
“Dogs don’t go to heaven,” Lord Shimpton insisted.
Aunt Regina asked, “How do you know, if you haven’t been there?”
“My mother always said they were dirty, heathen animals. She’d never let me have one of my own.”
“She never let you have an idea of your own either,” Aunt Regina told him, reaching for one of the glasses that Campbell was passing around.
“Maybe I’ll get a dog then. Always wanted one. If Max can have one…”
“No, my lord, you need a wife, not a dog,” Lady Tremont said, sipping at her sherry and musing aloud. “And if that soldier can be reunited with his leg, I don’t see why a dog cannot be reunited with his master. Why should a poor animal wander through eternity without his best friend?”
Hyatt wanted to scream at them all. He wanted to leave. He wanted a brandy. But he had to make his apology for attacking the unfortunate Miss Treadwell this afternoon in the park first. Lud, it was his wits that had gone wandering.
Miss Treadwell was still sitting apart from the others, hunched over her notepad. Socrates brought a glass of sherry to her, then just stood staring, as Campbell and the footmen went around lighting the oil lamps. His right hand—without volition, by Jupiter—reached out and touched one of the short golden curls that caressed her cheeks.
“Good grief, you didn’t cut it off because of something I said, did you?”
Maylene coughed, then took a hasty swallow of her wine before she answered. “Gracious, no, I’d been meaning to do it this age. I had an appointment with Monsieur Vincente for a fortnight now.” She named the premier coiffeur to the ton. “Cropped hair is all the fashion, don’t you know.”
He raised one eyebrow, but one side of his mouth was raised also, as if he were trying not to smile. The dowdy chick dressed in last year’s style was instructing him about fashion, was she? “And is the uneven length á la mode also?”
“But of course. Symmetry is so boring, don’t you know?”
Well, Miss Treadwell was never boring. “I, ah, was wondering if I might have a moment of your time, in private.”
Such a polite invitation to her execution. Maylene’s knees were shaking. “In private? Mother would never let me…”
Her mother would let her go to dinner with the Devil if he was single, and they both knew it “That is, my mother needs me. These sessions quite drain her of all energy.”
Since Lady Tremont was happily sipping her sherry and chatting with the others, Maylene shifted her focus to her great-aunt. “And Aunt Regina finds them wearying also. At her age, you know, one cannot be too careful, so I always assist her up to her bedchamber. Isn’t that right, Auntie?”
Aunt Regina just looked at her as if she’d sprouted a second head. Maylene stepped closer and whispered in her aunt’s ear: “If you don’t come with me now, I’ll tell everyone that Mrs. in front of your name is as false as your jewelry.”
Aunt Regina drooped over Maylene’s arm and moaned piteously. They made their hurried farewells and almost escaped, except that Hyatt stopped them at the door. “Coward,” was all he said.
“No, that’s Howard, your lordship.” Aunt Regina drew herself up to her five feet naught on her elevated heels. “Mrs. Howard.”
As they left, Maylene could hear Lord Shimpton complain that a dog was easier to come by than a wife.
And he wouldn’t have to dance with it.
*
Meanwhile, the music kept playing. Raucous voices were lifted in a rude song in the taproom, while upstairs at the rundown inn, in a shabby room, another voice was raised in desperation. “Don’t you leave me, Joshua Collins. I don’t care what that drunken surgeon said—you have to live. We have our whole futures together, you promised. I swear I’ll never forgive you if you die!”
Chapter Thirteen
The black phantom was chasing Maylene to the edge of the precipice. She looked down to the bottomless pit, and there he was, the same dark specter, ready to catch her. The dream did not make a lot of sense, but, then again, it was a dream and easily interpretable. Drat the man for cutting up her peace, Maylene thought, even when she was asleep, which had not been for nearly long enough. His promise to call the next day had kept her awake long into the night, wondering where she could go to be from home all day. When she’d finally fallen asleep, the dastard had invaded her dreams. And then, much too early, the maid Nora had shaken her awake.
“That Monsieur Vincente fellow is here to cut your hair, Miss May. Says as how he’s sorry he forgot yesterday’s appointment.”
“I made no—” But she knew who did. She pulled a pillow over her head. “Send him away. I cannot afford to pay his exorbitant prices anyway.”
“The Frenchie told me to tell you that the hairdressing will be for free, since he missed your appointment.”
Artists like Monsieur Vincente never did anything for free. Someone must have paid him, and paid him well to get him to Treadwell House at this time of the morning. So his lordship felt guilty for insulting her hair, did he? Too bad. “You may tell monsieur that his services are no longer required. I found someone else to do the job.”
“Pardon, Miss May, but I’d be reconsidering, was I you. Lessen, of course, you don’t mind looking like a ewe what got shorn by the sheepdog instead of the shepherd.”
So Maylene had her hair trimmed and styled off her face with matching tortoiseshell combs the coiffeur produced. “La Cherubim, a la Vincente,” the genius proclaimed, kissing his fingertips. “Mademoiselle will have all the gentlemen at her feet, no?”
No. She had one gentleman, on her feet.
Lord Shimpton arrived for his dancing lesson before Maylene could have breakfast, much less escape the house. The viscount brought part of his own breakfast with him—muffin, eggs, jam, coffee. Unfortunately, they were all on his neckcloth and dribbled down his shirtfront. Lady Crowley had come along to play the pianoforte for them, so Maylene did not even have that excuse for avoiding the mutton-head.
Two pairs of slippers ruined in two days. At this rate, she’d be barefoot by week’s end. At the rate Shimpton was learning, she would not be able to walk by week’s end. The complicated quadrille was hopelessly beyond hi
m, and Maylene would not get close enough to him for the waltz. The jigs were too strenuous, Maylene declared to herself, for someone who perspired so profusely, and the contra dances were too hard to teach without other couples in the set. He’d never find his next partner in the figures, not without a map. So they practiced the minuet. Bow, point, point, step. Bow, step, step, point. Shimpton could walk his way through that, Maylene decided, if she did not mention turns, twirls, or crossovers. And she could tell him that her occasional hops and skips were part of the dance, not efforts to rescue her toes.
She finally sent him home with Lady Crowley, hinting that a gentleman changed his clothing after such vigorous exercise.
“What, that little bit of prancing? Thought it would be harder, don’t you know. Of course, I’m liable to forget it all by tomorrow. Usually do. Better have another lesson before I have to dance with a real lady.”
And this was the man her mother wished her to wed?
Not necessarily, now that there were other choices.
The scene in Lady Tremont’s drawing room that afternoon was enough to gladden any hopeful mother’s heart: one unmarried daughter, four unmarried gentlemen. Why, the place was practically awash with possibilities. Except for Shimpton, who hadn’t.
Of course Cousin Grover was missing his hair, Lord Shimpton his brains. Lieutenant Canfield was minus one leg, and Lord Hyatt, certes, had no heart Maylene despaired, but her mother was beaming at them all over the tea tray, insisting they stay longer than the usual fifteen or twenty minutes. Cousin Grover needed no urging, since he was determined to keep one eye on the woman he intended to marry, and one eye on the tea cakes.
Lieutenant Canfield had reluctantly answered Lady Tremont’s invitation to tea, anxious to hear what she had to say about his lost limb, but hesitant about making such a public appearance. He need not have worried, for Aunt Regina took him in hand after he limped in on his crutches, pulling forth handbills advertising carved wooden peglegs, ivory prostheses, even a cloth contraption that could fill out his pantaloons. And Lady Tremont was everything warm and welcoming, pressing more poppy seed cakes and raspberry tarts on him. Lord Hyatt mentioned various mutual acquaintances and hinted at possible business arrangements. Viscount Shimpton was ecstatic that Canfield once owned a dog and begged the lieutenant to help him select a pup. He hadn’t liked Maylene’s suggestion that she take him to where they’d found Toby. He did not want a dead dog.
“Besides,” he said, “Miss Treadwell is already helping me find a wife. Wouldn’t want to ask her more than that.”
Miss Treadwell made Canfield feel at home, too. She did not hover over him or show pity, but saw him seated comfortably, served his tea, then took up her sewing next to him. She also bade him remain once the usual calling time was expired. Miss Treadwell was a deuced attractive female, too, the soldier thought. If a dasher like her wasn’t revolted at his missing leg, he thought, then perhaps there was hope for him after all. Maybe he’d go home to Hampshire and put his luck to the test with Becky Haverhill. Yes, he was glad he’d come, and agreed to be introduced to Max that evening, whoever Max was. Perhaps he was someone else who might know of a position for a one-legged man.
The only one in the room who was not polite and friendly to the young veteran was Tremont, who was eying him suspiciously, but Canfield could not decide if the balding baron was more jealous of his position next to Miss Treadwell, his thick head of hair, or the last raspberry tart Lady Tremont was putting on his plate.
The gentlemen seemed determined to outstay each other, even after the last slice of cake was gone. Canfield did not want to make his awkward exit in front of the elegant earl, and Tremont didn’t want to leave his flighty cousin alone with the Corinthian. Shimpton wouldn’t go for fear his new friends would forget about helping him find a wife, a carriage, and a collie. Or perhaps a poodle. Maybe a mastiff. Lud, how was a chap to decide when his brainbox was already filled with the minuet? He sucked on his lower lip, wondering if he should ask his mother.
Finally, Socrates had enough. He stood and invited Miss Treadwell for a ride in his carriage, since the day’s rain had ceased.
“What, you are willing to try that again?” she blurted. “I mean, no thank you, my lord. I have correspondence to catch up on, and must gather last evening’s research notes. Then I have to inform Mr. Ryan about our search for Joshua Collins.”
“She’ll go,” her mother declared. “Campbell, fetch her wrap.”
“Think I’ll fetch m’horse and toddle along with you,” Shimpton offered. “Get some pointers about coaches, don’t you know.”
Maylene could have kissed him. Well, not quite, but she was grateful, nevertheless. “I know,” she said, “why don’t we all go? You have not been outside all day, Mama, and Aunt Regina does so like to visit with her cronies in the park. We can send round to the livery for a carriage, and Lieutenant Canfield can accompany us, too.” Cousin Grover could sit up with the driver or ride with Hyatt in his curricle. He wouldn’t pinch either of them.
Hyatt would not hear of their hiring a coach, not when he had a carriage house full of them. He sent one of Campbell’s nephews off to his lodgings with a message for his own stables, and another for Mondale’s. Somehow, and Maylene was not quite certain how it came about, she found the others bundled into an elegant brougham, except her mother, who was with the duke in his landau, while she herself was back in his lordship’s curricle, with his lordship’s thigh pressed uncomfortably close to hers. Very well, she thought, she’d make her apology and then walk home.
Somehow, and this time she was fairly certain the earl had engineered it, their carriage became separated from the others after they entered the string of vehicles in the park. When he suggested they get down for a walk, however, Maylene claimed a sore ankle. After a morning trying to teach Shimpton to dance, that was not so farfetched. Instead of winning her a reprieve, though, her excuse merely made Hyatt direct his groom to get down and wait near the entrance for them.
Once more he drove away from the crowds, but not along the waterway, Maylene noted. Obviously, he was about to give her a bear-garden jaw and distrusted her temper near the Serpentine. Hyatt also held tightly to the reins, most likely fearing she’d make off with his curricle again.
The blasted female was sitting as far away from him as possible on the driver’s bench, Socrates noted. B’gad, did she think he was about to ravish her in broad daylight in the park? “I am not a rakehell, Miss Treadwell.” That was not what he meant to say, either. Deuce take it, this impossible chit with her angel’s cap of golden curls was robbing him of his wits as handily as she was robbing Mondale of his blunt. She and her mother were adventuresses, he reminded himself, vulgar mushrooms, outright cheats, or Bedlamites. He, however, was a gentleman.
“I deeply regret—” he therefore began.
Maylene had gathered her courage and started her own apology. “I am dreadfully sorry that I—”
“Excuse me.”
“No, you were saying…?”
“I was trying to beg your pardon for my behavior in the park yesterday, Miss Treadwell. Although I have no excuse for taking such liberties, I wish you to know that I am not in the habit of mauling young women about or making crass public displays. I swear such a thing will not happen again. That is what I wished to say.”
The horses seemed to take all his notice, for he was not meeting her eyes, which was fine with Maylene. Staring at the glossy backs also, she launched into her own prepared speech. “And I wished to apologize for shoving you into the river and then making off with your horses and driver. I am not in the habit of…of mauling gentlemen about either, nor of creating commotions.”
“But I provoked you, Miss Treadwell, so I take full blame for the episode.”
“You were only trying to protect your friend, my lord.”
“No, I was high-handed and arrogant, just as you said. I have no business dictating your actions or threatening you and your mother. No matter what
I may think.”
He had her full attention now. What was almost a handsome apology and a suspension of hostilities was sounding more like the earl Maylene knew, and wished she didn’t. Her eyes narrowed. “Just what do you think, my lord?”
“Come now, Miss Treadwell, you know how I feel about your mockery of people’s grief and your enriching yourselves on their sorrow. Just as I know your opinion of ‘pleasure-seeking peers,’ as I believe you called me and my friends. We have been through this and must agree to disagree. To avoid any further contretemps, we shall simply avoid each others’ company in the future.”
“And you shall not try to destroy our standing in London?”
“If you don’t try to destroy Mondale.”
“We have never tried to destroy anyone, my lord.”
“You did a fine job on my clothes yesterday. My valet almost resigned. But you showed excellent science. Perhaps you should be giving Shimpton lessons in the manly art of boxing instead of the ballroom.”
“Don’t let my mother hear you, or she’ll have us both tutoring that tottyhead. She is trying to help him, you know, the same as she is trying to help the duke, in the only way she can.”
“I would like to believe that. Your mother is a lovely woman, even if I cannot ascribe to her beliefs.”
“Oh, that never bothers Mama. She knows you’ll believe when you get to the beyond.”
“Then we have a truce, Miss Treadwell?”
“Pax,” she agreed, holding her hand out to seal the bargain. Instead of shaking it, as she expected, he brought her gloved fingers to his lips. “And…and thank you for sending over Monsieur Vincente this morning. I shall repay you, of course, but it was very thoughtful.”
“No, I won’t hear of it. I owed you for my boorishness. Besides, it was worth every penny, for the curls are delightful.”
Maylene colored at the compliment, then recalled that he was still holding her hand. “My lord, we really ought not be stopping here like this, apart from everyone else.”
He sighed, but released her hand after pressing a light kiss to the palm. “That’s right. I am not a rake.”
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