Crossed Quills

by Carola Dunn

  “I wish!” The world sparkling about her, Kitty floated down the stairs, her heart as light as her feet.

  Mr Chubb was standing by the window, fiddling aimlessly with the catch. He turned as Kitty entered the room.

  “You came!” he said in some surprise.

  “Of course.”

  He came towards her. “You have been crying,” he accused her. “Did your mama make you come down? Is my suit so distasteful? I wouldn’t for anything make you cry.”

  “I was crying because I thought you were going to marry Pippa,” she said with a tremulous smile.

  His face lit. “Then you won’t refuse me?”

  “You have not asked me yet,” Kitty pointed out demurely.

  But the diffident Mr Chubb enfolded her in a passionate embrace, and it was some time before he actually got around to offering his hand and his heart.

  Which Kitty gladly accepted, giving her own in return.

  * * * *

  Wynn felt as if the world had crashed about his ears. He had given up his career to save Pippa from ignominy, and she was to wed his best friend!

  Of course, had he known in advance that she was lost to him, for her sake he would still have broadcast his authorship. But how was he to face the future without even the prospect of a useful career in Parliament to console him?

  Retreat to Kymford to tend his acres was all that was left to him, he supposed. He wouldn’t have minded with Pippa at his side. They could have discussed politics at least. She would have helped him decide which Parliamentary debates he should go up to Town for, to add his twopennyworth for whatever good it could do. She might have let him help her with her articles.

  But all that was over.

  Betrothed to Gil—Wynn recalled all the bustle and turmoil attendant upon Bina’s betrothal—why should Pippa even go on helping him with his speech, when it had more prospect of being laughed out of the House than of doing any good?

  If only he had not been in Yorkshire just when she needed him most! She had been right to send him, though. Speaking to the child himself, and to the compassionate family who had rescued him, had ignited a fire in Wynn to fight for the thousands of little boys who had not escaped.

  Dammit, he would fight! Between what he had learned in Yorkshire and what work Pippa had already completed, he would cobble together a speech good enough for the few listeners who were likely to turn up. If all he achieved was to awaken one or two consciences, so be it.

  His agitated strides had taken him across Berkley Square and down Bruton Street to Bond Street. He turned south towards Albany.

  Bond Street was the wrong place for a notorious gentleman in a hurry to seek the solace of solitude and hard work. Every three paces he was stopped by strolling friends and acquaintances. Carriages halted in the street to allow their occupants to call to him. Shoppers dashed out of shops at the sight of him passing the windows.

  The same question was on every tongue: “Is it true you are Valentine Dred?”

  “I was.”

  Dowagers scolded indulgently. Matrons decried his announced intention to write no more. Damsels blushed and giggled. And gentlemen quizzed him, laughing.

  As Wynn had expected, he would never again be taken seriously. Somehow he managed to reach Burlington Gardens without losing his temper. Turning off Bond Street, he almost ran to the shelter of his lodgings.

  Gil Chubb was not there. A last, unacknowledged seed of hope—that in spite of being compromised Pippa would refuse him—shrivelled. Rejected, he would surely have come home. Accepted, he had stayed in Charles Street to celebrate and make plans.

  Wynn sat down at the table in the window, pulling from his pockets the sheaf of Yorkshire notes he had taken to give Pippa.

  “Damn!” he muttered. He had forgotten he hadn’t got her notes for the speech. How long would it be before he could bear to face her and ask for them? He’d send a message through Gil, he decided, if he could ever bear to speak to his friend again.

  Running footsteps sounded on the stairs and Gil burst into the room. “Congratulate me!” he cried jubilantly. “She loves me!”

  The shrivelled seed died. “I thought you loved Kitty,” Wynn said sourly.

  Gil blinked. “I do. She is the dearest, sweetest girl in the world!”

  “Then why should I congratulate you for being engaged to marry Miss Lisle?”

  “You shouldn’t. I’m not. We aren’t. She won’t. It’s not Miss Lisle I’m going to marry, it’s Miss Kitty.”

  Somewhere within the seemingly dead seed, life must have lurked, for in a fraction of a second it sprouted, budded, put forth leaves and burst into bloom. “Not Pippa?”

  “Not Pippa,” Gil confirmed. “Had to propose to her. Honour of a gentleman, don’t you know. Mrs Lisle said I ought. But Miss Lisle said she don’t mind being compromised, ain’t planning to marry anyway. She sent Kitty down to me and I had the whole thing all settled in a trice,” he said proudly.

  “Congratulations, old fellow!” Wynn said with fervour, jumping up to give him a hearty handshake. “I’m sure Lord and Lady Chubb will be delighted.”

  “D’you think so?”

  “I do. Miss Kitty is amiable, and pretty, and enters fully into all your country concerns. I have never seen two people so well suited.”

  “Well, I have. You and Miss Lisle. Going to propose to her now?”

  Wynn hesitated. “Not yet, I think,” he said reluctantly, remembering again the fuss and bother when Bina was betrothed to Debenham. “I have too much on my mind at present—we both do. There is this business of making sure everyone knows she is not Valentine Dred, and dealing with everyone knowing I am, and my speech is only ten days away.”

  Only ten days! With all her own troubles, Pippa might not have been able to put her mind to the troubles of sweeps’ boys during his absence. If he was going to make the speech at all, he might as well make it as good as possible.

  Swinging round, Wynn swept up his papers and stuffed them back into his pocket. “I’m off!” he announced unnecessarily, bolting through the door and down the stairs.

  A few minutes later, the First Footman opened the Debenhams’ door to him for the second time that day.

  “Miss...m’sister in, Reuben?”

  “Mrs Debenham is in her sitting room, I believe, my lord.” The footman looked even more impassive than usual, so much so that Wynn fleetingly wondered what the servants were making of the recent goings-on.

  He hurried upstairs. Having asked for Bina, he supposed he had best, for the sake of appearances, at least stick his head into her sitting room to say hello. He knocked on her door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Wynn.”

  “Oh, good. Come in. I was just going to write you a note.”

  “Saying what?” Wynn advanced into the room, where Bina sat at her bureau. “I know Gil and Kitty are engaged.”

  Bina beamed at him. “Is it not splendid? They are perfect for each other. That was one thing I had to say, though I was sure Mr Chubb must have told you by now.”

  “What else?” Wynn asked, a trifle impatiently. He wanted to go to Pippa, and he was just afraid that if he lingered his sister might want to know why he had rushed off in such a hurry when Gil was about to offer for Pippa.

  “Well, I have already given the order—request, rather, for one cannot precisely order such a thing—but it can easily be rescinded if you do not like it.”

  “You sound like Millicent. Cut line, Bina!”

  “Millicent is another...Do sit down, Wynn, instead of hovering over me like a buzzard.”

  “What order?” he demanded, sitting.

  “Request. No, suggestion. I suggested to my housekeeper that she should delicately pass the word to the staff that it would be no bad thing if they should gossip to other people’s servants about you having written The Masked Marauder.”

  Wynn sighed. “I daresay it as good as any way to spread the word fast. Your butler and footmen frequent The
Running Footman, no doubt, as it is just up the road.”

  “Yes, and George’s valet, too. All the best people’s menservants go there, I collect. And the worst scandalmongers seem to place the most credence in what they learn from their servants. You are not angry?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “If the Ton is busy ripping my dignity to shreds, why shouldn’t the servants have their share? What were you going to say about Millie?”

  “I thought it might help if she confessed—to a select few—that she started the on-dit about Pippa.”

  “She what?” Springing to his feet and starting for the door, Wynn shouted, “I’ll wring her neck!”

  “Wynn, come back! I phrased that badly. Do come back and calm down. It was all a mistake.” Bina explained what their sister had done. “It would not surprise me if someone deliberately twisted her words, someone envious of Kitty’s success perhaps.”

  “If I ever find out who—!”

  “Unlikely. In any case, now she is to marry Mr Chubb, her other suitors will have attention to spare for her rivals, so the jealous cats will have no reason to try to drag her family’s name in the mud. So, do you think it will serve to have Millicent explain the origin of the rumours?”

  “No, best not. It would undoubtedly embarrass her, which would be fitting punishment, but it would also draw further attention to Pippa’s...Miss Lisle’s writing. Someone might guess the truth.”

  “You are quite right, best not to have Millie publish to the world that she suspected Pippa because she is forever scribbling.”

  “Where is she?” Wynn asked, reminded of his speech.

  “Wait a minute. Two more points.”

  “You said you were writing me a note, not a four page screed.”

  “Two more points,” Bina said firmly. “First, you and I will drive with Pippa and Mrs Lisle in the Park this afternoon.”

  “We haven’t the time to spare, Miss Lisle and I. My speech is in not much more than a week!”

  “You will have to make the time, and for more than that. If we are to reestablish Pippa, she must be seen about as much as possible for the next week or so at least. “

  Wynn groaned. “If you say so.”

  “And what is more, you must be nearby, to deflect any attacks. Starting with the soirée I am giving tomorrow. It is very short notice, to be sure, but that means if people do not come—and some are certain not to—I can tell Pippa they must be already engaged elsewhere, so she will not be hurt.”

  “Bless you, Bina.” Wynn kissed his sister’s smooth brow. “I shall be there. But that makes it the more urgent to get to work. Where is she?”

  “Up in the ladies’ sitting room, with her mama, writing invitations. Millicent and Kitty are in the drawing room at the same task, as am I now, since I do not have to write to you. I am inviting practically everyone I have ever met, so as to be sure of a good crowd. It will be an informal betrothal party for Kitty and Mr Chubb. We shall hold a formal one for family and close friends as soon as Lord and Lady Chubb can come up to Town.”

  “Kitty is not family,” Wynn pointed out, purely in the spirit of accuracy, since he had no objection whatsoever to the Debenhams giving a party for her.

  “Almost,” said Bina cryptically.

  As he left, Wynn wondered just what the deuce did she mean by that?

  * * * *

  Pippa was progressing with utmost sloth through her share of the invitations to be written. She kept catching herself gazing out of the window.

  Not that there was anything of particular interest out there, just the usual view of the mews, and the backs of the houses in Hill Street, and roofs and chimneypots beyond. She would have had to stand up to look down to the patch of garden below, but in any case she did not see what lay before her eyes. Her mind was elsewhere.

  Delighted as she was for Kitty and Mr Chubb, she could not help wondering whether Mama had also intended her ploy to bring Pippa and Lord Selworth together. If so, it was a dismal failure. He had not even waited to discover the outcome of his friend’s proposal to her. Obviously he did not care in the least whom she married.

  His noble gesture in relinquishing his political prospects to save her from disgrace was not a sign of his feelings for her but purely impersonal gallantry. For just a moment, when Millie told her he had revealed his alter ego at Almack’s, she had fancied he must have done it for love.

  Sheer folly, she sighed, dipping her pen and returning to the list of names and addresses, only to find her attention wandering again a moment later. Would he give up his speech, robbing her of those precious hours together?

  Came a tap on the door, and Mrs Lisle, seated at the large table, called, “Come in.”

  Lord Selworth entered, looking distinctly harassed. “Mrs Lisle, Miss Lisle.” He bowed slightly. “Will you excuse me, ma’am, if I beg Miss Lisle to give me her assistance at once? Time grows short.”

  “Of course, Lord Selworth,” Mrs Lisle said cordially, with a smile. “Just allow me to thank you for your promptness in disabusing the Ton of their mistaken apprehensions.”

  “It was nothing, ma’am. Honour demanded it. A gentleman could do no less.”

  Not even a generous gesture, Pippa thought. Merely a moral obligation.

  “Still, we are vastly grateful,” her mother maintained. “Pippa, you had best give me your list. I have nearly finished mine.”

  “I have not got very far,” Pippa said guiltily.

  “No matter, my love. You have more important things to do.”

  With the smile that turned Pippa to jelly, Lord Selworth took her list from her hand and passed it to her mother. Taking some papers from his pocket, he set them before her on the writing table.

  Anxious to avoid talking about anything remotely personal, Pippa said eagerly, “Your Yorkshire notes? You mean to proceed with the speech?”

  “Yes. I’ve decided anything I can do to alleviate the lot of those miserable children is worth a try. At worst, no one will come to listen, or only those who come to scoff.”

  “They may go to scoff, but surely when they hear the horrors you have to tell, they will stay to weep?” Seeing his doubts in his face, Pippa hurried on. “I shall study your notes later. Tell me what you learnt from the Stricklands.”

  “It seems they were visiting neighbours when a tiny boy, about four years old, came crashing down the chimney and was seriously bruised. They took him home, the master sweep being glad to rid himself of a bungling encumbrance. When he was cleaned up, he turned out to be a handsome little fellow—I met him, by the way, and can vouch for his looks. Whether the Stricklands would have taken such an interest in an ill-favoured child I cannot tell.”

  “Perhaps not,” Pippa said soberly, “but let us allow them the benefit of the doubt. What is his name?”

  “Henry. He’s well-spoken, too, clearly from a prosperous family, as the Stricklands guessed when he saw a silver fork and cried out in delight that his papa had such forks. Other things also were ‘just like Papa’s.’ He knows the Lord’s Prayer and will not get into bed without repeating it, but unfortunately he is too young to know his surname—or was when he was stolen away.”

  “He was abducted, then?”

  Lord Selworth nodded. “The Stricklands pieced the story together. His mother died and his father went abroad, ‘across the sea,’ leaving him with his uncle, of whom he was very fond. He was picking flowers in Uncle George’s garden one day. A woman came by, asked if he liked riding, took him up on her horse, and carried him off.”

  Pippa shuddered. “So easily! Enough to give any parent nightmares. And the House of Lords is made up of parents. The Stricklands could not find his family?”

  “He comes from southern England, to judge by his accent. He says he and the woman sailed to Yorkshire by ship.”

  “I daresay he thought he was going to join his papa.”

  “Very likely,” Lord Selworth agreed. “According to the master sweep, it was in Yorkshire that the woman
sold him the child. The Stricklands advertised in southern newspapers, without success.”

  “I am very sorry for the poor little boy, but, you know, from the point of view of your speech, it is better that he will never see his family again. Or rather, that they will never see him. Too happy an ending would lessen the impact on all those noble fathers and grandfathers. What is to become of Henry?”

  “A friend of the Stricklands will adopt him and educate him,” said Lord Selworth with satisfaction.

  “I am so glad, but I believe we shall leave his fate up in the air. Let us hope his story helps to alleviate the lot of all those other unhappy mites. It will fit perfectly into what I have already prepared.”

  “You have contrived to work on my speech in spite of...your recent difficulties?”

  “Oh yes,” Pippa said dryly, “I have had all the time in the world with no parties to go to, scarcely daring to leave the house for fear of being snubbed. It is not a pleasant sensation.” She shivered. “I must confess, grateful as I am to Bina, I positively dread tomorrow’s soirée.”

  Chapter 18

  Pippa dressed with the utmost care next evening. She wore her emerald-green crape, remade to open down the front over a white satin underdress, the set-on ivy leaves replaced with white silk roses. Instead of the fashionably brief pale green bodice, it now had a white one with a rather higher neckline, trimmed with emerald ribbons. For tonight, modesty was the watchword, but it must not be so blatant it became an obvious attempt to belie the immodesty attributed to her.

  Fastening her locket about her neck, Pippa prayed that all the efforts to restore her to favour would not be in vain. The stitchery; the writing of invitations and running of footmen to deliver them; the magnificent refreshments provided by Gunter’s at a moment’s notice; George Debenham’s noble sacrifice of the best wines in his cellar; all would go for naught if the Ton refused to accept her innocence.

  Mama and Kitty would be devastated. Perhaps Lord Chubb would make his son break off the engagement. The Lisles would have to retreat to the country to lick their wounds in obscurity, leaving the Debenhams no choice but to repudiate their guests in order to regain their own position.