“One either discovers a preference or one does not,” he explained gently. “If you find yourself thinking of a young lady at queer times of day, and without the slightest cause; if the time that you are apart from her seems an eternity, and the time you spend together a mere instant; if a day that passes without a glimpse of her is a day uninspired — then, Kit, you may fairly conclude that you have discovered a preference.”
It was obvious from Lord Carlin’s expression that so mawkish a condition did not meet with approval. “Egad!” he said, revolted. “Are you certain?” On this absurdity, Mr. Rutherford’s other eyebrow rose. “I mean, of course you must be certain, because if anyone you should know — but must it apply in every case? If I think frequently of a young lady — any young lady — even a vulgar little chit who has made a dead-set at me — am I of necessity on the way to stepping into parson’s mousetrap?”
Perhaps fortunately, Jevon did not pause to ponder the identity of his lordship’s “vulgar little chit.” Instead, he hastened to clear away a misapprehension under which his lordship labored. “The two don’t necessarily follow!” he reproved. “Love and marriage, that is! A man doesn’t go around making a habit of marrying his ladybirds!”
Briefly distracted from his own dreadful dilemma, Lord Carlin regarded his friend. Had Jevon not hinted that he, too, thought of marriage? Lord Carlin wondered with which lady Mr. Rutherford meant to enter that state. The only female who came to mind as currently enjoying Jevon’s favor was a pretty little opera dancer who trod the boards at Drury Lane.
An opera dancer? Surely not! “Hopefully one’s preference,” Kit ventured tactfully, “will fall upon a lady of one’s own station in life.”
Mr. Rutherford was not a man to tolerate any slur upon his beloved who, though of eminently respectable birth, was currently embarked upon an existence of the utmost ignominy. “Balderdash!” said he.
His wild guess had been correct, concluded Lord Carlin: Jevon did mean to marry his fancy-piece. Kit could only think that Jevon had suddenly gone quite queer in the attic. This was the great sage whose wisdom he had sought? With laudable self-restraint, Lord Carlin set down the silver-backed brush on a table, uttered a scathing denunciation of the quality of his friend’s advice, and departed the premises.
In a ruminative manner, Jevon gazed after his lordship. Kit’s unappreciative comments regarding his own good sense, Jevon sensibly ignored; he was certain he hadn’t grown so addle-pated as to profess that the ladies not only wanted what they couldn’t have, but also didn’t want what they could, a piece of very shabby reasoning that failed to take into consideration the innate capriciousness of its subject. But Kit had been most adamantly concerned with matters matrimonial. With the intention of frankly warning his scapegrace sister to leave off plaguing Lord Carlin, Jevon donned his many-caped greatcoat and his curly-brimmed beaver hat. Exiting his lodgings, he pulled on his gloves.
Even Lord Carlin’s odd behavior had not power to perplex him long, and Jevon’s thoughts soon returned to the subject which had occupied him before his lordship’s appearance: a way of life that, with the assistance of a certain Miss Valentine, must speedily be reformed. Bad enough that Byron had been forced to flee the country in disgrace; but Byron had been a queer bird, with his club foot and his carefully disheveled curls, his dining habits that centered around eating vinegar and potatoes and drinking from a skull, his highly publicized affaire with the spoilt and selfish Caro Lamb. Brummel was an altogether different kettle of fish, and Jevon would sincerely miss the Beau’s outrageous impertinence. No more would he be glimpsed riding in Bond Street, reins grasped between forefinger and thumb as if he held a pinch of snuff; no more send his linen to be washed and dried on Hampstead Heath; no more exchange snubs with his one-time friend, the Prince Regent. It was a very great pity, felt Jevon, whose unflagging good humor and large sense of the ridiculous rendered him immune to the quips of gentlemen whose habit it was to be unspeakably rude in the politest possible way.
Jevon did not anticipate that he would suffer so great a lapse of his usual good sense that, like Brummell, he would amass debts he could not pay, or, like Byron, indulge in several too many affairs of the heart; but rather viewed these débâcles from a broader viewpoint. One could only maintain a position at the summit for a finite period of time before the props were knocked out from beneath one. Downfall was inevitable. Jevon Rutherford had for a long time dwelt upon the heights. Before unspecified disaster tumbled him from his perch, Jevon would descend of his own volition.
As he pondered the manner of his withdrawal from the lists, and the lady whom he hoped would make the retirement worthwhile, Jevon executed the brief journey between his lodgings and Lady Blackwood’s home in Queen Anne Street.
At last the stone-fronted house of fine proportions loomed up before him. The butler Thomas opened the door and informed Jevon that the family was gathered in the drawing room. “Never mind escorting me!” said Jevon, shrugging out of his greatcoat. “I know the way!” Blithely he mounted the stair. That all was not rosy in the dowager duchess’s drawing room became clear as soon as he arrived in the upper hallway.
“The weather has been so dreadful,” said a young gentleman, whose rather desperate voice Jevon did not know. “These stupid fogs and mists! The cold! My mother writes that several of the sheep have expired in the snow.”
“Oh, do stop boring on about your wretched sheep!” came another voice. Very easily did Jevon recognize the venomous tones of the dowager duchess. “Do you but oblige me regarding our little secret and you may buy an entire flock! As for you, young woman, put down that horrid book. Caro Lamb is mad as a Bedlamite. I have thought so for some time.”
“You are just out of frame because you are in these pages!” responded Jaisy, in mulish tones that halted her fond brother’s progress down the hallway. “Lady Mandeville is actually Lady Oxford, Buchanan is Sir Godfrey Webster, and of course Glenavron is Lord Byron.”
“Byron!” Georgiana sounded scandalized. “Don’t let me hear you mention his name again, miss. Better you should take a lesson from Caro Lamb, who has with that accursed volume capped a most reprehensible progress, and finally ruined herself! Why, she used to dress up as a page and steal into, er, that man’s lodgings! To say nothing of throwing things at her servants and slashing her wrists. You see what happens to ladies who blot their copybooks!”
“By Jove!” responded Lady Easterling, very irate. “If that don’t beat all! It is Carlin who should be condemned for his conduct not me, because to be talking in so very loose a way is not gentlemanly! Not that I am wholly convinced that he did not say those things about me just to further whet my interest, no matter what you and Sara think! And furthermore, Georgiana, it is very hypocritical of you to talk about Caro Lamb being unkind to her servants when you have just sent poor Sara out into the cold — if you will forgive me for being so presumptuous as to point it out!”
Jevon anticipated that within seconds the ladies would be at daggers drawn, and sympathized with the young gentleman who could not follow Jevon’s excellent example of effecting a quick escape. It was not the dowager or his sister with whom Jevon wished to converse, especially not when in one of their relative takings, but his own true love, callously rendered prey to the inclement elements.
He found her walking up and down the little garden in obvious agitation, Confucious snapping at her heels. Some few silent seconds passed as Jevon paused to conquer the revulsion roused in him by the sight. It was not his ladylove who inspired disgust, naturally; but Confucious, bundled up in some knitted garment, and wearing similarly fashioned mittens on his paws. “Good God!” ejaculated Jevon, disgusted. Further moments elapsed while he fought off the dog, roused to animated fury by the sound of Jevon’s voice. At length Miss Valentine succeeded in scooping the dog up into her arms, but not before Confucious had set his few remaining teeth firmly in Jevon’s gleaming boot.
“My valet will have a spasm,” said Jevon, rueful
ly surveying the abused article. “You should have let me set that misbegotten cur loose in the streets when we had the chance.”
“I wish I had!” Only in the nick of time did Miss Valentine avoid being nipped. Hastily she set down Confucious on the shell-shaped bench, too high off the ground for an arthritic gentleman to escape. Frustrated and snarling, Confucious settled back to await release. “But much as I dislike the little brute, I cannot connive at his murder. Too, were Confucious no longer with us, I would probably find myself out of a place, because Georgiana would blame me for the loss. And then I truly would be at point nonplus!”
“No, you wouldn’t!” promptly responded Jevon, not one to miss a cue. “My darling, trust me!”
“Your what?” Miss Valentine stared, then blinked and blushed. “Jevon, I thought we had agreed you would talk no more flummery to me.”
“Did we?” The combination of wide gray eyes and rosy cheeks, Mr. Rutherford discovered, left a fellow feeling a trifle bemused. “Do you dislike it so much?”
“Dislike it? Good gracious, no! I do not wish you to feel I expect you to throw the hatchet at me, Jevon, because you must get tired of such things!” Sara sighed. “I will confess that I find it very pleasant to laugh, what with Jaisy in a pucker, and Georgiana in a bustle, and both of them ringing peals over me!”
“My poor Sara!” Jevon clapsed her hands. “If it becomes too much to bear, you may come away to me.”
“I thank you!” snapped Miss Valentine, and jerked her hands away. “Or I would thank you not to say such things! You may flirt with me, Jevon, but you may not make mock!”
Happy it was for Mr. Rutherford that he was supremely self-possessed, else he might have taken to heart the rejections that Miss Valentine steadfastly dealt. “My darling Sara, pray forgive me. I did not mean to tease you, but sought to indicate my eagerness to be of assistance.”
“Eagerness? You, you lazy creature? I have not forgot your promise to help me persuade Jaisy that she must not dangle after Carlin!” Sara pressed gloved fingers to her hot cheeks. “Now I must apologize for ripping up at you.”
“You need not.” Once more, Jevon took possession of her hands. “We shall consider one another forgiven. Now you must tell me what inspired the contretemps I overheard abovestairs, and I will relate to you the very strange conversation that I had with Carlin earlier this day, and we will decide what is best done.”
Miss Valentine obliged with an accounting of Carlin’s unflattering comments overheard by Lady Easterling. “She cannot seem to make up her mind,” Sara concluded, “whether Carlin is the greatest blackguard alive or a gazetted fortune hunter, whether he spoke with all seriousness or in jest; and consequently cannot decide whether she should fly into a passion or sink into a decline, as befitting a lady who’s received a crushing blow. First she professes he has played fast and loose with her, offering her false coin; then she proclaims that she is broken-hearted that the object of her affections should hold her so unwarrantedly low!”
During these revelations, Mr. Rutherford had with practiced ease placed an arm around Miss Valentine’s slender shoulders and drawn her against his side. “My poor darling!” he responded comfortably.
“Indeed!” said Sara. “Your sister applied to me regarding the truth of Carlin’s remarks and I was obliged to admit they were not wholly without basis, which piqued her vanity. She was very much chagrined and disappointed in me, Lady Easterling announced; and then, if you please, she turned me off!”
“She did what?” echoed Mr. Rutherford, swinging Miss Valentine around so that he might look into her face.
“Not that she can!” Sara was quick to reassure him. “Although I should have liked to leave Georgiana’s employ and have as many bonnets as I wish, I daresay Jaisy would have been no easier to please!” She frowned. “Jevon, you are shivering! Why did you come out without a coat?”
“Because,” responded Mr. Rutherford, who had indeed ventured out-of-doors without benefit of gloves or curly-brimmed beaver hat or greatcoat, “I was so anxious to speak with you, my precious!”
“Oh,” responded Sara doubtfully. “Well, it is very good of you to be so concerned about your sister, but I do not understand why we could not have spoken as easily inside.”
“No?” As has been made apparent, Mr. Rutherford intended to pursue this courtship with all due respect to his beloved’s various bird-witted opinions; but even the most rigidly imposed self-control may snap. In the case of Mr. Rutherford, moreover, self-control was both newly acquired and rudimentary. “I’ll show you!”
As concerns embraces undertaken in chilly gardens, when one participant is in his shirtsleeves and the other in a state of shock, this example was more satisfactory than most. Mr. Rutherford ceased to shiver, perhaps because of the proximity of another human body, and very nicely fashioned it was; Miss Valentine seemed happy enough to perform this humanitarian service for her old friend, because he no sooner released her than she voiced an incoherent murmur that prompted him to do it all over again.
But romance was not destined to flourish that day in the little garden behind Blackwood House. Confucious had gone too long unnoticed by Mr. Rutherford and Miss Valentine, who were so engrossed in one another that they did not even notice when he began to bark.
Stricken deaf as were Miss Valentine and Mr. Rutherford — a not-unheard-of side effect of Cupid’s dart — this affliction did not similarly smite the other occupants of Blackwood House. Some moments later, when Jevon reluctantly ceased to kiss his Sara, a respite intended to be temporary and undertaken only so that his beloved might draw breath, he became aware of a disapproving presence behind him.
“Lady Blackwood wishes a word with you, sir,” announced Thomas, in tones no more friendly than the damp and chilly air.
Twelve
* * *
Feeling very much as the aristocracy of revolutionary France must have whilst awaiting the guillotine, Miss Valentine went about her chores. The greater portion of the following morning she spent in the nether regions of Blackwood House — the kitchens with huge elm worktables and charcoal-burning ranges, countless copper pots and pans upon the wall, coconut matting spread upon the stone-flagged floors; the cool larder with its brick floor and slate shelves. Lady Blackwood suspected that her cook sold more than grease and dripping and old tea leaves, as was her perquisite, to the buyer of kitchen stuff who appeared regularly upon the scullery step. Therefore, Sara had to count the silver spoons, and insure that miscellaneous pieces of old brass, or damask cloths, or even loaves of bread and hunks of good meat, were not making their stealthy way out the back door, thereby enriching the cook’s pocketbook. A very plump purse that was, Sara shrewdly reckoned. The cook was a petty tyrant in her own right, every month receiving a commission from the tradesmen with whom she dealt. Any tradesman who failed to cooperate in this example of mutual back-scratching found that the cook’s complaints about the quality of his merchandise had lost him the custom of Lady Blackwood.
Enterprising as was the cook, Sara found no real cause for complaint in the busy kitchens, unless one counted the knowing glances that were cast at her, or the whispers and giggles passing behind her back. Georgiana had meant for her to be put to the blush, Sara thought, as she wearily climbed the stair. The dowager duchess had not expected that Sara would discover skullduggery afoot in the nether regions of Blackwood House. Probably she would next be scolded for having interfered with the creation of that evening’s entrées.
Perhaps she was starting at shadows, Sara told herself, perhaps imagining those sly glances and whispered comments. Perhaps Thomas had told no one that he had caught Jevon Rutherford embracing his aunt’s hired companion; perhaps he had realized that the incident was of no real significance. Jevon was in the habit of embracing every woman who crossed his path. Moreover, he had been so cold that he was shivering. Miss Valentine’s compliance with his odd methods of resuscitation had been undertaken wholly to insure that he did not freeze to death,
and so she would inform anyone who dared broach the subject to her, which thus far no one had, a state of affairs which she dared not hope would last.
Sara’s bedchamber, as befit her lowly status, was located in the attics of Blackwood House, which were bitterly cold in the winter and boiling hot in summertime. It was a mean little chamber, with off-white walls and bare floorboards, furnished with oddments. Sara sank down on the iron bedstead and took stock of her domain. In one corner stood a washstand and basin; in another sat a simple wooden chair, and beside it an old dressing table with a looking glass. If the furniture did not match, at least it provided her a modicum of comfort. Most important, this little chamber afforded a degree of privacy.
As she was thinking ungratefully of her employer, Sara’s door swung abruptly open, and Sara started so violently that her forehead encountered the iron bedstead. “Sara! I wish to talk to you!” Lady Easterling announced, somewhat unnecessarily, from the doorway.
“You are doing so, are you not?” retorted Sara, rubbing her abused head. “What is it, Jaisy?”
Undeterred by this ungracious attitude — indeed, oblivious to it — Lady Easterling tucked herself up quite comfortably at the other end of the bed. “It’s about Carlin,” she said.
“Oh?” Miss Valentine murmured ironically. “Do you know, I rather thought it might be!”
Irony had imperceptible effect on the self-centered Jaisy. Enchantingly, she frowned. “I have decided that Carlin could not have been serious.”
Sara was possessed of a very unkind impulse to immediately throttle her childhood friend. As if it were not bad enough that Sara must dread the dowager duchess’s reaction to the garden incident, and flush to contemplate the opinion other held by her partner in that misbehavior, she must now contend with a positively mule-headed chit. “Jaisy —”
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