The Importance of Being Wicked

by Miranda Neville

  “My grandchildren! With ducal titles!”

  Caro ignored her interjection. “On my thirtieth birthday, and not a day earlier, you may deliver my fortune to my husband. But I will not be obliged to you in any way. I neither need nor wish for your approval of any marriage I may make.”

  Even under its layer of powder, the darkening of her mother’s complexion was patent. “Vile, ungrateful girl! Sharper than a serpent’s tooth! It’s plain you have learned nothing from the wretched mistakes of your life. I pity the Duke of Castleton for allying himself to such a wicked creature. I only pray that he will not live to regret it.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “You mark my words, Missy. You may have managed through lures and stratagems to deceive the duke, but when he discovers your true nature, he will make you change your ways.”

  It took a full fifteen minutes after they left for Caro to stop trembling. She sat with her arms crossed in a protective huddle, trying to dismiss her parent’s venom, to forget it as she had for the last seven years. Only the reappearance of Tish comforted her. The cat suffered her embrace, as though he understood her distress, and allowed an attention that would normally have drawn a sharp meow and perhaps a scratch.

  “Oh, Tish,” she whispered, burying her face in his furry flank. “Suppose she is right. Suppose Castleton wants to change me.” Her mother’s prophecy would be ignorable if it didn’t reflect her own fears. She wanted Thomas back now, to hug and kiss and make love to her, to remind her why he wanted her, why she wanted him. To reassure her that she needn’t change. Not herself, not her habits, not her friends.

  “I won’t, Tish, I won’t. I’ll show them.” And she didn’t know if by them she meant her mother and John, or Oliver and Julian and her circle, or Castleton himself.

  Chapter 17

  Two days before his announced return, Thomas knocked on the Conduit Street door. He’d hurried through his estate business and left Hampshire late. It was almost ten o’clock, much too late for a call, but having been enticed from his affairs by the thought of Caro, he refused to delay seeing her even a few more hours. A couple of weeks’ separation had also weakened, he trusted not fatally, his resolve to wait for the wedding before bedding her again. But he could certainly hold her, taste the sweetness of her lips, bask in the warmth of her charm.

  Judging by the light at every window, the household was far from asleep. Typical of Caro’s haphazard servants, there was no answer to his first or second knock. The chatter of voices from above dampened his anticipation. He longed to have her to himself, without constant interruption by Oliver Bream or any of the other hangers-on. A third and heartier application of force to the knocker bore results. A stranger wearing a paper crown let him in.

  “Hurry,” the fellow said. “It’s starting.” Without further ceremony, the man dashed upstairs.

  As Thomas followed him to the drawing-room floor, he noticed discarded clothing everywhere. In the morning room, which lay open on the ground floor, and strewn over the banisters all the way upstairs and onward to the floor above where, presumably, the bedrooms were located. What kind of assembly required the mass removal of garments? A racket of laughter, cheers, and applause emerged from the drawing room, which now Thomas entered, with some difficulty since it was full of people dressed in outlandish costumes.

  With his superior height, he was able to see over a crush of men and women, some standing, some on chairs, and some seated on the floor but all facing the far end of the room, which had been cleared of furniture. The empty space was flanked on either side by a pair of folding screens. Thomas was trying to find Caro amid the confusion when a man dressed in a blue military tunic emerged and bowed.

  “This is our first of two,” he announced.

  Aha! They were playing charades.

  A chorus of barks heralded the appearance of a pack of dogs, played by both men and women with paper ears attached to their heads and tails to their behinds. He recognized Lady Windermere and Miss Brotherton among the players, both yapping with considerable vigor. They fought over a scroll of paper that someone tossed into the center of the “stage.” The undignified display continued for some minutes until all the “actors” collapsed onto the floor in mirth to a hearty round of applause from their audience.

  Foolish, but harmless enough. Thomas settled in to enjoy the show.

  The short man returned to announce “The second of two, and the whole word” but this time he remained on the stage and was joined by Caro, who had been concealed by a screen. Somewhat to Thomas’s relief, she was dressed in one of her white gowns and revealed no more than the usual amount of bosom, which he eyed appreciatively. She looked flushed and eager, and the sight of her gladdened his heart. He wondered how soon he could get these people out of the house.

  “Must you leave, my dearest?” Caro began, clasping her hands together and regarding the undersized soldier with a look of regret.

  “For zee glory of France I must leave for war,” the soldier said in a ridiculous French accent that elicited hoots of derision from the audience. “But I will return to you, my leetle cabbage.”

  More jeers. “You can do better than that, Longley!” Thomas identified Bream’s voice. Of course.

  “Go, go, my general!” Caro cried. “Bring back la gloire to our country. I will be waiting faithfully.”

  “Ah, my beloved Josephine! Every night I shall think of you!”

  “And I of you. How can I bear to let you go? Hurry back!” She put her hand on her fellow actor’s shoulders and bestowed a smacking kiss on each cheek then, in a somewhat flat alto, sang a few bars of a song. “Allons, enfants de la patrie, le jour de gloire est arrivé.” His fiancée, he learned, was no singer. The crowd, perhaps to drown out Caro’s croak, took up the refrain. Soon the entire party was singing the Marseillaise, the anthem of England’s enemy, revolutionary France.

  “Damn good song that. Now let the fellow leave for war!” This comment came unmistakably from Denford, who lurked in one of the window alcoves.

  General Napoleon Bonaparte, as Thomas now knew the soldier fellow to portray, embraced his Josephine fondly, giving Thomas only a very mild urge to step in and object, so obviously was Caro acting her grief at his departure. Really, he would have expected better delivery from her.

  As soon as Bonaparte left the stage, “Josephine” tiptoed across the stage and beckoned with one finger. Another actor stepped in, a tall fellow in a red coat with a ladies’ shawl tied around it to make a hussar’s pelisse. Even this incongruous accessory and a twirling painted moustache didn’t conceal that the newcomer was a handsome young fellow with an excellent figure. Josephine cast herself into his arms and this time there was nothing false about her ecstasy.

  “Hippolite!” she cried. “My darling lover. You may come in now. My husband has departed.”

  “Forever, I hope!” cried the rascal.

  More hoots and catcalls from the audience as Caro and the hussar were locked into an embrace. And though their kisses were of the mwah-mwah stage variety, it was all Thomas could do to keep his clenched fists jammed against his thighs and not release his coiled-spring tension into the smirking face of the fellow, who played Madame Bonaparte’s lover with a dash too much verisimilitude.

  He knew what came next. The French general’s letters to his bride, upbraiding her for infidelity with Hippolite Charles, had been intercepted by the British Navy and published in all the London newspapers a couple of years back. Napoleon Bonaparte might be the most famous soldier in Europe and de facto ruler of France, but he was also one of Europe’s most famous cuckolds. It was, of course, nothing but a play, a silly charade. In light of his recent discovery, however, Thomas couldn’t help wishing he hadn’t returned home to find his bride-to-be portraying a faithless wife. He watched the rest of the scene with diminished amusement.

  A chorus of warbled toots from Caro’s watching teammates emulated a military fanfare.

  “My husband! You must fle
e, mon chéri,” she cried, snatching a final kiss and shooing her lover off the stage. Someone provided her with a chair and her embroidery hoop. When General Bonaparte once more entered, she was seated demurely over her work, reminding Thomas of the first time he’d seen her.

  “Mon amour!” Caro said, her eyes limpid and innocent. “How happy I am to see you safe home after so long.” She rose to embrace him. She was doing a good deal too much embracing of other men in this charade. Bonaparte shoved her away, and she landed on the floor. Thomas wanted to hit the man for hurting her.

  “Faithless baggage!” shouted Bonaparte, pronouncing it Ba-Garj in the French fashion. “I know what you have been doing while I was in Egypt. You have disgraced me, and I must put you away.”

  Caro knelt in supplication, her clasped hands raised to him. “Please, my dearest husband. Forgive me, and I shall never stray again. I love you.”

  “Never!” he thrust one hand through the opening in his coat and turned his back on her.

  “But, Napoleon. It’s so very hard to manage when we are—”

  The audience had long since solved the charade and were waiting for this moment. “APART!” went up the roar. “BONE-APART is the word. Bonaparte!”

  “I told you it was too easy,” Caro said. “Didn’t I, Annabella?”

  Miss Brotherton still wore her dog ears. The informal style suited her, as did her smile. She offered her hand to help Caro to her feet. Both ladies were flushed with triumph at their stage appearance. “Let’s sit here, Caro, and see what the other team has to offer.” The spectators had rushed behind the screens to prepare for their turn. The two cousins, along with Lady Windermere, took possession of a sofa. Thomas decided not to reveal his presence and delay the proceedings. Let them have their fun, then he could go about getting rid of the guests. Meanwhile, he had an excellent view of his fiancée’s lovely face.

  Oliver Bream was the announcer for his team. “The first of two,” he said, then placed what looked like a bishop’s miter, made from stiff paper, on his curly mop. Eight actors lined up to represent the starting back row of a chess game, each holding a chair in front to represent the pawns. In silence the game began. Several pawns, a knight, the king’s bishop, and the queen moved. Even with only one side of the board, Thomas could read the game well enough to see that someone had thought it out, not moving the pieces at random. It would be pleasant if it were Caro. He enjoyed a game of chess of an evening. When the king was castled, his hope was dispelled. He heard Caro ask Anne Brotherton to explain why both king and rook moved at the same time. Still, perhaps he could teach her.

  The game ended without conclusion. “Chess.” “King.” “Rook.” The audience whispered the possible first syllable of the charade.

  The players returned, without their chess crowns, for “the second of two” and began to dance a stately quadrille. All seemed unexceptional, until Thomas noticed that two of the ladies were men wearing gowns, and one gentleman was a buxom female. Apparently, Caro’s charade at Newmarket hadn’t been out-of-the-way for her set.

  The watchers found it highly amusing, especially the switching of the sexes. Catcalls and comments on the dancing abilities of the participants were called out, along with a few warm remarks about the figure of the breeched lady. “That’s a way to cheer up a TON ball,” shouted one fellow. Caro and Anne laughed along with the rest. A bottle of wine made the rounds. Thomas wondered how much longer he would have to wait.

  Finally, the dancers finished and Denford, burdened with an armload of clothing, announced “the whole word.” Assuming an air of insufferable hauteur, he started with a pair of breeches, which he proceeded to stuff with bundles of cloth. Thomas felt himself redden as the duke began to fill out a shirt in the same way, pinching his nose as though assailed by an unpleasant odor.

  Was that how he appeared to these people? He was watching Caro when she, too, solved the charade. She’d been happily laughing at Denford’s pomposities, then her eyes widened, and a hand covered her mouth. With mirth or consternation? He wasn’t certain. He was standing next to an open window, half-concealed by a curtain, but something, either a sound or an instinct, made her turn in his direction. Now there was no misinterpreting her sentiment. She was distressed. Whether from his presence, or because of the behavior of her friends, he didn’t know. The sounds of the players, the rising din from the audience, the cries of “CASTLE,” “TON,” and “Lord Stuffy” as the scene came to an end, faded away.

  He and Caro gazed at each other, and even in these less-than-ideal circumstances, his heart lightened at the sight of her. Her expression was guarded, alarmed even, not at all the joyous reunion he’d hurried his business to achieve. He offered a twitch of his lips, a slight nod to let her know that he didn’t mind if her friends made fun of him. Because truly, he didn’t. Hers was the only opinion he cared for.

  She jumped to her feet and picked her way through the bodies sprawled on floor and chairs. But just before she reached him she stopped, as though not quite certain of her reception. She looked like a schoolboy caught stealing apples.

  “Castleton!” she said.

  “Good God, Caro! It took you long enough to guess.” Denford’s sarcastic accents cut across the room.

  “I wish I’d known you would be here tonight,” she said. “I wouldn’t have invited everyone if I’d known you’d be back early.”

  “Why? Are you ashamed of your friends or ashamed of me?”

  “Neither one! I didn’t think you’d enjoy a party like this.”

  “Because I’m Lord Stuffy?” He was hurt. He’d thought the nickname an affectionate one. Yes, he was a little straightlaced, certainly compared to Caro’s set, but apparently she thought him above being amused by a simple charade.

  She shrugged and avoided his eye. “I thought you preferred a quiet house. I am accustomed to entertaining. My house is rarely empty.”

  That he knew to be true. Still, there must be nearly two dozen guests crammed into the small room, most of them staring at him and Caro. He bestowed an indiscriminate glare on the whole assembly and turned his back on them, taking his betrothed firmly by the hand and drawing her out onto the landing. Raucous speculation exploded in their wake. The noise through the open windows might well bring the watch down on them. Another fierce look disposed of a couple sitting on the top stair. They jumped up and scurried into the drawing room, where they would no doubt spread unjust tales of his bullying ways.

  “If you were going to give a party to celebrate our betrothal,” he said, “it would have been polite to wait until I was in town.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic, Castleton,” she said with a stubborn set to her mouth. “What could I do when you left London for so long? Do you expect me to live like a nun?”

  He didn’t know what to do with her in this mood, and he couldn’t meet her challenge. A nun? No, of course not. But neither did he expect revelry on such a scale. The landing table, like every surface in the drawing room, was covered with open wine bottles and dirty glasses. Of her thoroughly inadequate servants, there was no sign, and he’d wager the company had swallowed the entire contents of her wine cellar.

  The happy anticipation of seeing her had vanished. “We’ll talk about this later. As the future master of the house I should greet our guests.” Having a row when the house was full wasn’t at all proper behavior. Besides, it was late, and he’d been working and traveling all day. They’d have to wait to have this out.

  “I didn’t accept you to gain a master.”

  “That’s not what I meant—”

  She folded her arms and stood her ground. “I’m not good at taking orders. If you don’t like the way I manage my household, we can call off the match.”

  Any doubts Thomas had entertained about the marriage flew out of the window at the hint of a suggestion that it might not take place. He gazed at her, infinitely desirable in her indignation, once again seeking the right words to convince her. Then, in one of her mercurial changes,
the fury in her face dissolved.

  “Oh, Thomas! I’m such a horrid girl to be cross when I’m so happy to see you.” She flung her arms around his neck and pulled his head down for a kiss.

  Exhaustion fell away like a discarded shirt. He finally had the reception he wanted, and he couldn’t do a thing about it with the house full. With supreme effort, he controlled his hands, which itched to wander around her waist and travel south. Better still, snatch her up and bear her upstairs. Damn all those people.

  “Not now,” he croaked. “Guests.”

  “Horrid, horrid guests,” she said with a sigh, leaning her head against his chest. “I’m furious at Julian and Oliver for planning that charade. You may be sure I’ll give them a piece of my mind.”

  “Because I saw it?”

  “Because I have chosen to marry you, and they should treat my husband with more respect.”

  At that he had to hug her closer. “I didn’t mind, Caro. I can take a joke at my expense. I was far more upset seeing you embrace that hussar. He’s too good-looking.”

  Her chuckle reverberated through his chest. “Bartie? You were jealous of Bartie St. James? I assure you there’s no need. He’s not what one would call a ladies’ man.”

  Thomas really hoped she didn’t mean what he thought she meant. A man who wasn’t “a ladies’ man” in that sense wasn’t a suitable companion for a lady. In fact, a lady shouldn’t even be aware that a man was not a ladies’ man.

  But what could one expect with a houseful of artists?

  Caro wondered if she was going to have to seduce him again. She watched him talk to her friends, with courtesy if not ease and grace. But that was Thomas’s way. He lacked the fluent wit that had always distinguished Robert and his friends, even as young men. She observed both dukes from her stance by the fireplace. How absurd having two dukes in her house—even more that she was betrothed to one of them. How different they were: Denford slender, dark, and dangerous, something of a genius, slipping his conversational rapier into any opening; Castleton, larger and fairer, making genial and polite small talk. The latter would never produce a bon mot to be repeated around the room. Denford’s opinions were eagerly sought and frequently parroted.