And then she smiled brightly and bounced off, leaving him to ponder the peculiarities of the female mind.
Chapter Thirteen
The next afternoon found Amanda, and Psyche, on pins and needles. To Psyche’s intense relief. Aunt Anna had gone upstairs for her customary nap still muttering about last night’s debacle.
Amanda and Psyche, dressed in their most becoming walking dresses, and with bonnets at the ready, sat in the library, trying to do embroidery. But with little success.
Amanda was too anxious to sit still and Psyche herself was fighting off an attack of nerves. She sighed, picking out another wrong stitch. There was no need to be so anxious. This excursion should go well. And she would have the earl to herself. No Georgie to flirt with him this time.
“Why don’t they come?” Amanda demanded for the hundredth time. “Whatever can be keeping them?”
Psyche, who had just been asking herself the same question, though silently, gave Amanda a sympathetic look. “Come away from the window, my dear. You simply must stop twittering about so. Overton has never liked the nervous sort.”
“Oh, I am not nervous,” Amanda chattered, wringing her handkerchief. “Not really! Not usually. Only last night, when he danced with me, I was even more certain that he is the man I wish to marry. So today is very important.”
Poor thing. Psyche could certainly commiserate with her. “Today is only one day,” Psyche reminded her. “If my cousin doesn’t notice you today, there is always tomorrow.”
Amanda frowned, turning back to peer out through the lace panels. “If he doesn’t notice me soon, I shall be on the shelf. Permanently on the shelf. Old and wrinkled and—” She turned from the window, her hand to her mouth. “Oh dear, I am sorry. You are not old or wrinkled! But I am just such a wreck. Why can’t the man see I love him?”
Psyche sighed. “Men are not always the brightest creatures, Amanda my dear. Especially about love. Sometimes we have to help them recognize things that they ought to see for themselves.” As the earl ought to see that I would make him a better wife than Georgie.
Amanda sighed. “I only wish to be Overton’s wife and make him happy.” She made a face. “Even if that means having his mama live with us.”
Psyche sighed, too, and then smiled. “Never mind that. For a wedding present I will give you lessons on circumventing strange relations like Overton’s mama. It can be done. It just takes some practice.”
“I shall need—” Amanda began, then at the sound of a carriage she turned to the window again. “He’s come!”
Psyche swallowed. The eager welcome on Amanda’s face was obviously for Overton. But surely the earl had come, too. He had promised. “Is my cousin alone?”
“No, no. He isn’t alone.” Amanda turned back. “The earl is with him.”
Psyche’s heart went back to beating regularly. He had come, just as he’d promised.
“And someone else,” Amanda went on. “Your friend, Lady Standish. And the Viscount Gresham.”
Psyche’s heart sank again. “You mean another carriage has arrived?”
Amanda shook her head. “No, they’re all in the earl’s landau. Oh, good, Overton is coming to the door!”
Psyche got to her feet. Why did Georgie have to come?
Psyche followed Amanda into the foyer just as Overton entered. “There you are,” he cried, smiling at Psyche. “I told Southdon you’d be ready. Come, get your bonnets on. We’re going to see the Folly.”
Amanda, who was already tying her poke bonnet, swung around to ask, “What folly, guardian?”
Overton patted her hand and smiled at her. “It’s a new scientific museum. Just opened on Piccadilly Street.”
Amanda turned her bright blue eyes on the man and smiled sweetly. How incredible, Psyche thought, Overton couldn’t see that his ward loved him and it was so completely obvious.
“But why,” Amanda inquired, “is it called a folly?”
Overton smiled, a smile so patronizing that Psyche bristled. Whatever was wrong with him? The man needed some common sense.
And what was wrong with her? She was never this waspish. She had to stop thinking about the earl and concentrate on helping Amanda. She had come to London to help the girl, and that was what she meant to do.
“It was just lately established by Lady Elizabeth Farrington, the late Lord Farrington’s daughter,” Overton explained. “He kept a scientific cabinet—you know, a room for scientific objects—and she decided to enlarge upon it, to open a museum to display his treasures. And some things of her own finding.” He grinned cheerfully. “I understand she has quite an outstanding collection of shrunken heads.”
Amanda paled, her hands trembling at her bonnet strings. “Real shrunken heads?”
Overton nodded. “Yes, child, but you needn’t examine them if they frighten you. I’ll admit, it does sound rather grisly.”
He ushered them both out the door. “There are other things to see, many other things. But Georgie says the learned pig is the best.”
Psyche swallowed another sigh. Georgie again. Was Georgie going to intrude into every situation? And then Overton’s words finally registered. “Learned pig?” Psyche could not keep the incredulity out of her voice.
Overton nodded emphatically. “Yes. He counts, you see. Adds and subtracts. Tells the time.”
Psyche stopped, halfway down the walk. “Come now, Overton, really. You are bamming us.”
“Indeed, he isn’t,” the earl said, coming up the walk to meet them, a smile lighting his handsome face. “Toby is quite learned. I have seen him perform.”
As always, seeing the earl raised Psyche’s spirits. He was such a handsome man and today in his coat of claret-colored superfine and fawn inexpressibles, with his Hessians gleaming in the sunlight, he was striking indeed.
And in her blush-colored walking dress and darker rose bonnet, she matched him nicely. What a lovely coincidence.
She gave him a smile, and leaned closer, unable to keep herself from asking, “Why is Georgie here?”
The earl raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I ran into Gresham at the club when I was discussing the thing with your cousin. I thought having him along would be a good idea. And when Georgie heard about our excursion she wished to come, too. I didn’t think you would mind.”
“Of course not.” She minded a great deal, but she couldn’t say so, could hardly admit to herself, let alone to him, that she wished Georgie somewhere else. All night Psyche had been thinking about this afternoon, about spending it in the company of the earl. And now Georgie would be coming along. Spoiling things.
Farrington’s Museum was housed in a rather nondescript building. Psyche did not remember what it had housed during her Season. When they descended from the landau and the gentlemen offered the ladies their arms, Psyche found herself, somehow, paired with her cousin.
She sent the earl a bewildered look, but he raised one eyebrow a fraction, as though to say she would understand later, and then he turned back to Georgie, who was arrayed in a stunning walking dress of Bishop’s blue, exactly the shade of her eyes.
Psyche sighed bitterly. She would never understand why so many men preferred Georgie’s company to hers. But deep in her heart she knew it was not “so many men” she was thinking of. Georgie could have all the men in London for all she cared. Psyche only wanted the earl.
Gresham had offered Amanda his arm. Now he leaned closer, his reddish hair tousled, his round face alight with mischief, and whispered something to her. For the merest moment her eyes sought Psyche’s, then Amanda laughed merrily, as though Gresham were the greatest wit in London.
At Psyche’s side, Overton frowned. “I wonder what Gresham said that Amanda finds so funny.”
Psyche shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.” What did it matter, anyway, when Georgie was hanging on the earl’s arm and gazing up at him with bright admiring eyes?
But Overton’s grumbling brought Psyche’s attention back to her ward. Strange, the way Amanda w
as acting. After all, it wasn’t Gresham Amanda wanted to attract. So why was she acting the flirt, ohing and ahing like a green chit?
“Don’t like that chap,” Overton muttered. “He’s too forward by far. Don’t know why Southdon had to ask him along.”
Gazing at her cousin’s disgruntled expression, Psyche suddenly saw. Gresham had been put up to this! He was playing a part, flirting with Amanda to make Overton jealous. She could see it now. That had been the earl’s plan all along. And it fit in with Gresham’s desire to make Georgie jealous. It seemed to be working, too.
Psyche swallowed a sigh. But none of that accounted for Georgie’s behavior; for the merry little laugh that showed her perfect teeth, for the way she clutched the earl’s arm as though she couldn’t walk alone, for the way she leaned so intimately close to him, resting against his arm. Oh, it was clear, too clear, that Georgie had a plan of her own. A plan to—
“Psyche!” Overton’s tone was impatient. “Come on. We’re going in.”
She let him lead her in after the others. Next time the earl planned an excursion, she was going to stay home. But wouldn’t that be even worse torture, wondering what Georgie was doing, what Georgie was saying, what wiles she was exercising on the earl?
And perhaps the earl had had a point in arranging the pairings as he had. If her cousin had been paired with Georgie, he’d have been so busy being charmed by her that he wouldn’t have noticed what Amanda was doing at all.
Yes, Psyche conceded, the earl knew what he was doing. But that didn’t mean she had to like it. It simply was not fair that Georgie could have any man she pleased. Assuredly she could have the earl; he’d practically said as much.
“Shall we stop to watch the sword swallower?” Gresham inquired of the ladies.
“But of course,” trilled Georgie, “that sounds terribly exciting.” And she moved even closer to the earl.
Psyche gnawed her bottom lip and kept silent. Coming to London had been a mistake. Lady Bluestocking had not been prepared to find love. She didn’t know how to win a man; she only knew how to drive one away.
The little group stopped before a small stage. The sword swallower, one Signor Cavelli, wore red velvet—and being rather round, he much resembled an overripe apple. But the swords and daggers laid out on the black velvet cloth were long and sharp, quite real—and dangerous looking.
“Oh dear,” breathed Amanda, clutching Gresham’s arm. “How can he swallow such things? The poor man will hurt himself.”
“Nonsense,” observed Overton, dragging Psyche with him as he moved closer to his ward. “It’s not for real. It’s some kind of trick.” Unfortunately, his voice carried to the stage.
The little Italian stiffened. He drew himself up, throwing looks as sharp as his daggers. “The Signor is wrong. Is no tricks here. The Great Cavelli swallows the real daggers.” He glared at Overton. “You come up on stage,” he offered, waving an expressive hand. “You examine swords. You examine daggers. You see.”
Overton frowned and tried to step back out of sight, but Psyche held her ground. If the man was going to issue challenges, he’d better be prepared to face the consequences.
Overton’s face slowly turned red. “I meant no harm, Signor Cavelli. Truly.” He indicated Amanda. “It’s just that I was thinking of the child here. She was frightened. I wanted to calm her fears.”
Signor Cavelli pursed his lips. “Surely milord is joking. This is no child. This is the young lady. Bellisima young lady.”
Amanda flushed and smiled prettily. “Thank you, sir.”
Psyche smiled. The girl did know how to accept a compliment.
Signor Cavelli beamed. “Is no need to thank me. We paisanos, we see the beauty, we appreciate the beauty. Such is our way.”
The little man made Amanda blush again.
As Overton began grumbling under his breath, Psyche glanced over to see what charms Georgie was presently practicing on the earl and happened to catch his expression. The earl was looking extremely pleased with himself. And why not? Everything was going the way he wanted.
Be sensible, she told herself irritably. He’s getting Overton to notice Amanda. Psyche sighed. And Georgie’s getting him to notice her.
But who wouldn’t notice Georgie? She was a beautiful, charming woman who knew how to attract men. She had no trouble getting a man’s attention. Psyche frowned and gnawed on her bottom lip again as Georgie leaned close to the earl once more, smiling up at him with wide, adoring eyes.
Unable to bear it any longer, Psyche turned to Overton. “Cousin, I wish to see the shrunken heads.”
He frowned, but after a glance up at the little Italian, who, though he had picked up a sword to swallow, was still beaming down at Amanda, Overton nodded.
“Come,” he said to Gresham and Southdon. “Let’s move along.”
They had turned, moving away from the stage where Signor Cavelli was happily swallowing one, two, three swords at a time, and had gotten halfway across the room when a shrill voice rang out. “Look, Mama, it’s Lady Bluestocking!”
Chapter Fourteen
Overton started and then, instead of hurrying them out as any sensible man would have done, he stopped and waited for Miss Linden and her mama to catch up.
The man really was a pea brain. Psyche thought irritably as she prepared to face the obnoxious Lindens. Whatever could Amanda see in him?
The Lindens were panting as they drew near, especially Lady Linden whose ample bosom rose and fell with her breath to quite a startling degree.
“Oh!” Miss Linden gasped, fanning herself with her handkerchief. “We might have missed you in this press of people. What a pity that would have been.”
“Yes, indeed,” said the earl with an amused look to Psyche. “A terrible pity.” He smiled at Miss Linden and that fortunate creature blushed cherry red.
But nothing could keep her from talking. “We were just saying. Mama and I, that sword swallowing sounds so romantic—dashing and dangerous, you know. But Signor Cavelli is a disappointment. He just doesn’t fit the part.”
She sighed. “That’s to be expected, of course.” She lowered her voice to a dramatic whisper. “Everyone is talking about Lady Elizabeth’s folly in opening such a place as this. Imagine a woman thinking she can be scientific. How very amusing!”
Psyche swallowed several unladylike words. “I don’t find it amusing at all,” she said grimly. “I find it quite admirable.”
Miss Linden started, sending her a reproachful glance. “But she travels about the country. And Lord Worthington goes with her. She says she’s looking for objects to display in her museum, but really—”
“I don’t see anything wrong with that either,” Psyche interrupted. “I’m sure she has someone with her besides Lord Worthington.”
Miss Linden shrugged. “Oh, her old nanny and that companion of hers, Sarah something-or-other. But really, what does that matter? Everyone says—”
“Remember the reading of your cards,” Psyche said crisply. “You should not repeat gossip. You don’t want to make trouble for yourself.”
Miss Linden’s thin nose turned pink. “Of course not. I did not mean—”
“Well,” interrupted the earl, drawing Georgie toward the other door. “Shall we proceed? I believe the learned pig is in the next room.”
Psyche swallowed a curse. What was wrong with the man? The day was going from bad to worse. He might as well have invited the Lindens to take his arm, except that Georgie already had that.
The Lindens exchanged pointed glances. “The learned pig is not that good,” Lady Linden pronounced grandly, waving a pudgy beringed hand. “Bullock’s has one that’s much better. It’s smarter. And it does much more.”
The earl chuckled. “I’m sorry to disagree, Lady Linden.”
He didn’t look at all sorry, Psyche thought. He looked quite pleased with himself.
“I think Toby is by far the better pig,” the earl continued. “The one at Bullock’s doesn’t
tell time so well. But come along, you’ll see for yourself.” And to Psyche’s disgust, the Lindens did just that.
The pig was big, probably five hundred pounds, and pinkish white but very clean. The man with him was not nearly so big, nor so clean, and he definitely had the look of the country about him.
Could a pig really count? Psyche wondered. No, it must be some kind of trick. But animals often were very intelligent. And they could be trained.
Their party moved closer.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the pig’s master cried, standing with his feet planted far apart and looking like he’d just come in from the barnyard. “Let me present Toby. The smartest pig in all of England.”
“There’s a smarter pig at Bullock’s,” Miss Linden insisted, elbowing her way to the front of the crowd.
The pig’s master looked first amazed, and then hurt. “How can you be saying such a thing? Why, Toby’ll be having his feelings hurt!”
The pig gave an agonized squeal and rolled his eyes heavenward, for all the world as if his feelings really were wounded.
Psyche swallowed her laughter. Miss Linden had obviously not bargained for a man—or a pig—so well versed in dealing with hecklers.
“Now see what you’ve gone and done?” the pig’s master demanded as Toby sank back on his haunches and lowered his great head between his front legs in an effort to hide it.
“Now, now Toby.” The man stroked the pig’s huge head. “The lady don’t mean nothing by it. She’ll apologize, won’t you, miss?”
Miss Linden’s nose began to quiver and she looked to her mama, but Lady Linden remained silent, obviously unable to come up with a reply.
“You’ve got to say you’re sorry, miss. Else he won’t do nothing more. And all those good folks what come to see him’ll be mighty disappointed.”
The crowd began to mutter, turning to look at Miss Linden with unfriendly faces.
“You just tell him you’re sorry, miss. And he’ll go right on. He’ll even tell the time for you, he will.”
Miss Linden glanced around once more, but finding no help in her mama or anyone else, stammered, “I— I am sorry.”
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