He tossed the brown paper parcel onto the dressing table. “I found that book you were going on about. Coleridge.” Cas stifled a yawn. More poetry.
“What put you into such a good mood?” Poll frowned at him in the mirror, where he stood impatiently ripping out the knot in his cravat, probably in order to start over. “I’d have thought you’d be ready to toss me into the boiler after today’s mess.”
Cas smirked as he watched Poll struggle with his cravat. Poll was always becoming obsessed with some pretty creature and getting himself into a dither. Once in a while, he even waxed eloquent upon the alleged joys of matrimony. That simply wouldn’t do.
However, Cas wasn’t too worried. Passions swept Poll from time to time. He never managed to keep his heart entirely uninvolved, despite Cas’s tutelage. Fortunately, those sweeping passions eventually swept right past, leaving Poll completely well and slightly mystified by his former craving.
Women had one purpose in the lives of the Double Devils, as they were known in Society. Women were for kissing if they could be convinced of it, and for more if they could be seduced to it. Oh, they expended no energy toward the despoiling of virgins. They were too aware of the evil of that, what with three beloved if irritating sisters.
However, bored wives, wicked widows, and lusty barmaids were readily available and easily charmed. Why bother with anything more complicated than that?
I don’t have a new girl. Truly.
Catching Cas’s grin in the mirror, Poll cocked a brow. “Seriously, what are you so happy about?”
Cas hesitated. He wasn’t ready to reveal the bargain with the Prince Regent. He knew Poll wouldn’t like it. Poll found their impudent existence to be highly agreeable. Bringing his twin around to a new, more serious status might take some time, and some thought.
However, he truly ought to share his afternoon escapade with the pretty widow. He and Poll always did. Women were wonders to cherish and pleasure—but they were also adventures to relate over a brandy. Debates would ensue, discussions of blonde versus brunette, of curvaceous versus slender. Neither of them had a true preference, it seemed. They were both equal-prospect lovers. Poll would enjoy the story of the pleasantly rounded widow rolling beneath Cas in the alley. And that kiss.
Except that it was just a kiss. Of course. Really, there was nothing to tell.
Cas just grinned and shook his head. “I’m looking forward to tonight, that’s all.”
Poll looked confused, then dismayed. “Oh hell. I forgot about tonight.”
“‘Oh hell’?” Cas frowned at his twin, firmly putting his mixed afternoon behind him. “Our invitation to Mrs. Blythe’s House of Pleasure rates an ‘oh hell’? A posh and dissolute orgy—er, ball—is a subject of consternation?” For the first time the danger occurred to him. Need he worry about scandal? No. What happened at Mrs. Blythe’s never made it past the doorman. Which was a relief, since the bargain had been struck barely an hour ago. He’d feel a fool if he could not even make it though one day!
Poll turned away from the mirror, his expression a bit mulish. “I had another plan for this evening.”
No, Poll, you don’t. You are going to stay where I can keep an eye on you at all times. “You had a plan more exciting than an evening of decadent entertainments provided by the most notorious brothel in London? What will you be doing, hunting tigers in Hyde Park?”
Poll narrowed his eyes. “No, it was nothing so fascinating. Just an interesting prospect.”
Cas took his brother by both shoulders and gazed pityingly into his eyes. “Tonight is not a prospect. Tonight is not a gamble. Tonight is a houseful of beautiful, willing, and eager!”
Pol grinned. “But I like hunting tigers.”
Cas grinned back. “I, as well.” He released Pol with a little shake. “But since we are neither moneyed nor likely to ever be, we are fortunate just to be invited into this evening’s bacchanalia.”
Pol smirked. “Mrs. Blythe loves us. We keep things interesting.”
Cas untied his own hastily knotted cravat as he graced the room with an angelic smile. “Well, we are lovable—”
“—and so imaginative—”
“—and twice as handsome as any other bloke!” They recited the old joke in unison.
“And the ladies are so grateful for a respite—”
“—from boring old statesmen and corpulent dukes!”
Cas tugged free his cravat and swept it into a deep bow like a flowing lace handkerchief from another era. “We aim to please.”
“And please—”
“—and please—”
Their laughter was interrupted by an unholy screech from the floor above.
“Attie!”
Chapter Five
The Worthington brothers cringed.
“Ellie,” Cas commented wryly, “has a lovely singing voice.”
“Mm.” Poll rubbed at his ears. “Truly a gift from the gods. Its splendor brings tears to my eyes. Look at me now. I’m already about to weep.”
At that moment, a small skinny whirlwind blew into the room, slamming the door behind her. Attie pressed her back to the oak panel and assessed them thoughtfully. “If you hide me, I’ll cry pax on you two.”
Poll narrowed his eyes. “For how long?”
Laughing, Cas opened his hands. “I don’t care how long. Take the deal. Even one day of safety from her would be worth it!”
Poll shook his head, his attention never leaving the glinting eyes of his youngest and deadliest sibling. “I’d do just about anything for a day free of pranks—except that if we do this, we’ll have to suffer Ellie’s wrath instead.”
Attie huffed dismissal of her elder sister’s fury. “Ellie’s a featherweight.”
Cas nodded. “Exactly. Take the deal.”
“You must think she’s in a truly bloodthirsty mood, or you wouldn’t be here.” Poll pursed his lips. “One month.”
Attie scowled. “Two weeks.”
Poll lifted his chin. “One month. We could hear her from here.”
Thudding noises sounded overhead, as if heavy items were being tossed about the upper bedchambers. Attie tilted her head. “A short month. Twenty-eight days.”
Poll looked upward. An animal shriek of pure rage penetrated the ceiling. Attie flinched.
Poll smiled at that flinch. “Long month. Thirty-one days. Beginning tomorrow.”
Attie snarled.
Poll held up a hand. “You know the rules. Pax means no vengeance later. Clean slate.”
“Never mind.” Skinny arms folded and pointy chin lifted. “I’d rather face Ellie down.”
It wasn’t true and both brothers knew it. Ellie could definitely be considered a featherweight in the vengeance department—unless one were caught in the first, most intense explosion. No one wanted that.
Attie, on the other hand, might take months to develop the most perfect and devious retribution. For a child, she had a deep and true understanding of “Revenge should have no bounds.”
Immediately through Poll’s mind rang his mother’s voice. Hamlet, Act Four, Scene Seven. He shook off the twitch-inducing pronouncement with a sigh.
“Attie, she’ll be down here in approximately forty-five seconds. It’s going to take at least thirty seconds to hide you properly. Agree or run for it.”
Attie tried blinking back tears, throwing in a little lip tremble for good measure. Poll snorted. “Nice try.”
Cas smirked. “Don’t bother, Rattie.”
Poll started counting down with fingers held up. “Thirty-five seconds.”
They heard the swift patter of sure-footed Ellie racing full-speed down the stairs.
“Thirty seconds. Twenty-nine.”
“Fine!” Attie growled. “Hurry!”
Poll smiled. “Cas?”
With a snort of laughter, Cas reached beneath Poll’s bed to withdraw a medium-sized carpetbag. He stripped the buckle open and held it wide. “Get in.”
Attie drew back. “I w
on’t fit.”
Poll grinned. “Yes, you will. We bought it for just such an occasion.”
Cas put the bag on the floor and Attie stepped in. It took a moment to kneel and fit all her gangly limbs within, but Cas was able to fasten it closed over her folded form. He then stood and lifted it easily, holding it as casually as a man about to board a coach.
Just in time. The door flew open and Elektra stormed in, lightning flashing from her blue eyes and an unseen wind blowing her golden hair about her face. Well, not really, but very nearly.
“She’s in here,” Elektra stated with a snarl. “I know it.”
Cas and Poll glanced at each other innocently, then turned back to Ellie. “Who is in here?”
Again, Ellie sneered. “The Queen, you arse. Attie, are you in here?”
Cas blinked. “Well, she’d hardly be likely to answer—”
“—having no history of suicidal behavior—”
“—nor lack of survival instinct—”
“—but we cannot help you—”
“—because we’ve been out all day—”
“—buying new luggage—”
“—although we’re not sure this one is quite the thing—”
“—for it’s a tad small. What do you think, Ellie?”
Cas held out the bag to his sister, who rolled her eyes and pushed past him. “I don’t give a fig about your luggage! Where is the little monster? She’s taken my new evening gloves—the ones from Lementeur meant specially for me to wear to the Marquis of Wyndham’s Midsummer Ball!”
This was serious. Elektra, having grown weary of her parents’ lack of interest in matchmaking, had arranged her own coming out. With grim determination, she had begged, borrowed, and stolen a Season for herself. Poll applauded how his resourceful sister had finagled her presentation to the Prince Regent on the basis of at least seventeen flat-out falsehoods, had responded to her growing list of invitations in Iris’s name, and had even struck some kind of devil’s bargain with Lementeur to keep her in gowns—heaven knows what she promised the man.
Fortunately, it wasn’t likely to be her virtue. Elektra had plans for that virtue, plans that included snagging a title at the very least.
The twins waited while Ellie searched the room, checking all the obvious places and then a few that made the brothers exchange glances of alarm. Apparently, they didn’t have as many secrets from their family as they’d thought.
Poll was beginning to worry that Attie might run out of air by the time Ellie climbed wearily to her feet and dusted her skirts, muttering in disgust. “Poisonous little elf … when I catch her.” Dire threats fell from her lips, but it was obvious that because of her exertions, her rage was running its course.
She left with another suspicious glance at Cas and Poll, who shook their heads in commiseration. When the door slammed on Ellie’s defeat, they each exhaled in relief.
Cas moved to open the bag. Poll held out a hand. “Wait.”
It was a fortunate instinct, for just as Cas straightened, the door flew open yet again. Ellie, tight-lipped and blotchy-faced, glared at them both one last time, obviously surprised to find them doing nothing wrong.
“Hmph!” She turned on her heel and stalked down the hall.
Poll stepped forward and silently shut the door. This time he locked it, taking great care that the bolt slid noiselessly into place.
Cas let out another whoosh of breath and hurriedly ripped at the buckle of the bag. Poll worriedly bent over it as well. It wouldn’t do to kill Attie. She was a righteous pain in the arse, but she wasn’t a bad little beast.
Their little sister lay curled in the cramped space, unmoving. Still. Too still. Then, just as Poll’s heart crawled right up into his throat, she lifted her tangled reddish mop from her face with one hand and grinned up at them. “That was bloody amazing!”
Cas sighed and closed his eyes. “Worthingtons.”
Poll helped Attie clamber out of the bag. “That was a one-off, pet. We’ll never be able to use it again … unless it’s Mama. It’s good for a half dozen times on her.”
Attie shook out her gangling limbs as she straightened. Then she cocked her head and examined them in turn, her green-gray eyes sharp. “I smell secrets. You two are up to something.”
Cas didn’t look at his brother. “Haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”
Attie snorted, then shrugged. Holding out her sticky paw, she pumped their hands in turn. “One month pax, as agreed.” Then she turned and strolled from the room, though she did check the hall most carefully first.
“You, too.” Poll laughed and shoved his brother from the room as well. “Get out. Go dig through your own weskits for something to wear tonight.”
“I’d thought to borrow one of yours.”
“Go look in your wardrobe. I guarantee you that half of those are mine.”
“Dandy.”
“Thief.”
* * *
Poll shut the door on his brother with a laugh, but sobered as he turned back to regard himself in the mirror.
Now he wasn’t to see Miranda tonight after all. It wasn’t as though he were disappointed. No, of course not. The evening promised to be famously satisfying—the sort of night one could relive for simply months, hashing out the details and delights with Cas over brandies during the chill February deprivations, when most of Society had had its fill of midwinter house parties and of extending invitations to useless but entertaining young men to fill out their table settings.
Not that Poll minded being a “place card.” He and Cas made the most of their time in the country, being enthusiastic hunters—and, oh yes, there was all that shooting, too. Mostly they hunted for tigers, the women who’d married men twice their ages and now found themselves still vibrant and alive, yet dutifully attending to their doddering husbands.
That was Cas’s specialty, anyway—mature women with time on their hands and well-honed sexuality to indulge. Women who most definitely were not looking for a husband!
Poll didn’t gravitate toward any particular species, himself. World-weary wives filled the bill, but so did lonely widows and even the occasional saucy housemaid. What Poll looked for was a certain something he found hard to describe, even when laughingly pressured by Cas. It could be described as a grace, perhaps—a cleverness, to be sure. A … quality.
A quality that Mrs. Gideon Talbot held in bucketloads.
He tied the cravat again and donned a loudly colorful weskit, pulling on his best black surcoat over the ensemble. His gaze slid to the clock on the mantel. It was only seven o’clock. If he moved quickly, he could have his widow and his orgy, too.
With a single swift motion, he swept the book off the dressing table and grabbed up his hat. He paused outside the door to Cas’s chamber.
No time for explanations—and no desire for them either. “See you there,” he called through the oak door.
By the time Cas opened his door with his shirt off and his damp hair dripping onto his chest and shoulders, Poll was slipping out the front of the house with an expectant smile on his face.
Miranda.
* * *
Poll whistled happily as he sauntered down a street in Mayfair. It was a lovely summer’s evening. He doffed his hat at a pair of slowly strolling ladies who shot him disapproving looks with betraying glints of appreciation in their eyes.
Women. Poll loved all women—from shy, twittering maidens to severely elegant creatures with silver hair and regal postures. His first lover had been two and half decades older than he and she had taught him the foremost important lesson of his life—that time spent on romance was never wasted.
He’d missed the courtship ritual over the past week while he’d been perfecting the steam engine … the one that currently lay in hastily scavenged bits in the workshop, the gears so welded together that they might never part ways again.
Oh, well. Eventually, one of his and Cas’s inventions would pay off and then they would sit back
and collect.
Currently, however, no one seemed to have a need for a rotating clothing-drying device, or a child’s toy that careened wildly out of control, knocking into anything in its way. It was too bad. Poll rather liked that one.
It was a child’s India rubber ball with a windup weighted clockwork within. It had been inspired by the epic failure of their wedding gift to their sister Callie last year. Well, best not think about that night. Their brother-in-law was still trying to bring that ballroom back to its former glory.
Philpott really liked the clothes dryer, though.
Poll smiled at another lady, who didn’t even bother to hide her appreciation.
He kept walking, a smile on his face, knowing that the lady had stopped to catch the rear view. Tigers, indeed.
Although at the moment, he was surprisingly captivated by one single woman.
As he mounted the steps to Miranda’s front door, Poll thought perhaps today might be the day when he would tease a little kiss from her. She really was coming along, and he felt it was time to make gentle advances. Nothing too forward, of course, for he didn’t wish to frighten her.
With a smile and with the gift of a book of poetry under one arm, he knocked confidently on his sweetheart’s door.
Yes, a kiss would be just the thing.
Matters commenced just as usual. They sat down over tea in the parlor. She rang for cakes. He bestowed the book upon her.
“Coleridge! Thank you, sir.” She smiled in shy delight at the long, poetic inscription. Poll was rather proud of the sonnet, for he’d actually written it himself.
Poll watched her pour the tea, enjoying her feminine grace. “And how are all your children doing?”
She did not laugh at his little joke, for she took her responsibility to her favorite charity, a children’s home near Newgate Prison, very seriously.
She regarded him soberly. “I fear I am failing them. I know there must be a way to assist the older children into decent employment, but there is so much intolerance toward them—” She looked away, not finishing her thought.
And Then Comes Marriage Page 4