Jean-Marc turned and slid his attention to poor Mr. FitzDurham. “Good evening to you, sir. I trust you are enjoying the festivities.”
He sounded like a stuffy—father.
FitzDurham was already on his feet and executing a smart bow to Jean-Marc. “Yes, thank you, My Lord. Quite wonderfully, thank you.” He cleared his throat and rushed on. “Your sister is delightful. Such beauty and wit rarely occur in the same place.”
Meg was glad of the fan that hid her smile.
Jean-Marc masterfully retained a somber expression. “I agree,” he said. “Désirée is a rare creature, indeed. Have we been introduced?”
Mr. FitzDurham repeated his credentials and went on. “My father is Burris FitzDurham. Notable judge and also—in Scotland—a producer of a passable single malt.”
Meg wasn’t so silly that she didn’t know when a man appeared impressed, and Jean-Marc definitely did appear impressed. “I’ve heard a good deal about your father. All of it laudatory. And you are too humble about FitzDurham. I’m never without a few bottles on hand. Very fine. Very fine, indeed.”
“Thank you, My Lord. It’s my intention to take over that side of the family concerns in time.” He gave Jean-Marc an unwavering look. “Might I call on the Princess, My Lord?”
Meg noted that Jean-Marc looked to Princess Désirée for some sign of her wishes, but that young lady contrived to appear serene and subservient. She would, Meg thought, be a credible actress.
“Hmm, yes, yes, you may, Mr. FitzDurham. My sister does not spend enough time with young people. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
FitzDurham backed away, bowing as he went. He looked pleased with himself.
“Oh, yes,” the Princess said when there was no fear of being overheard, “Désirée needs more playmates. She has no one to bowl her hoop with, or to enjoy tea parties with Halibut and Mr. Bear.”
Rather than being annoyed, Jean-Marc showed how his sister could amuse him. “You are too sharp for your own good, Désirée. And you have reminded me of a subject I’ve been too busy to approach. Halibut. Aha, so you speak freely of him, do you? Well, not usually to me. Where did you get that great beast, and what do you mean by hiding him in this house? I thought your mother and our father considered pets unsuitable for you.”
The Princess’s face grew pale. Piled on top of her head, her hair seemed too heavy for so ethereal a girl.
“My Lord,” Meg said. “Please don’t blame your sister. It was I who—”
“No,” Princess Désirée said, and leaped up to throw her arms around Meg. “You are the best friend I have ever had but you shall not take blame for me. I found Halibut, Jean-Marc. Outside. He—he was not well. I nursed him and he got well. He was my only love. He loves me and stays with me. Please, please, say you will not make him go away. He—”
“Hush,” Jean-Marc said, responding to his sister’s anxious prattle. “That will not do, my dear. Do not upset yourself so. You are become different, Désirée. Gentler. Or more comfortable showing your true nature, perhaps. Keep the wretched animal, but make sure he doesn’t intrude upon me again as he did. He sneaked into my apartments the other night and shocked both Verbeux and myself.”
“Oh, dear. Oh, thank you. I will be very careful to keep him in my rooms,” Désirée said. She shook, and swallowed repeatedly. “Thank you, Jean-Marc. Thank you.”
“No, no,” he said, and bent to place a kiss on her cheek. “You need not thank me further. You really love the animal. I have always considered people with a soft place in their hearts for animals as worthy of trust. He is a very handsome cat, and I understand why you admire him. Now, attend to your guests. Soon you will play for us.”
“Oh, must I?” She turned the corners of her mouth down and promptly turned them up again. “There’s Mr. Chillworth. He has come. He is quite shy, you know, so I wasn’t sure he would.”
“I was,” Jean-Marc said, not quite under his breath. “Hmm. And here he is heading this way.”
“Where else would he head?” the Princess asked. “He only knows me—and Meg, of course.”
Jean-Marc caught Meg’s eye, but if she had thoughts about his sister’s excitement at seeing the painter, she didn’t show them.
Chillworth had undeniable presence. He had chosen to wear what appeared to Jean-Marc to be the garb of a member of some Indian hill tribe. And quite dashing he looked in a loose white shirt open at the throat, and white trousers. Leather bands crisscrossed his chest and were belted at the waist. He carried a rifle on his back. Damned unsuitable, Jean-Marc thought. A dagger was one thing, a rifle, quite another.
Désirée clapped her hands when Chillworth reached them. “You are splendid, Mr. Chillworth. I think your true spirit shows tonight. A free creature always trying to break free of his bonds.”
Chillworth’s only response was an embarrassed smile.
“What do you think?” Désirée stood up and pivoted in a complete circle. Her gown was a little work of art. What looked to be a single band of fabric, flesh-colored and covered with the pink gauze, wound the length of her body from shoulder to hem. Between this, a sequin-studded pink lace made the same journey. Tight to the knee, the garment flared there. She reminded Meg of an almost transparent fish, a very beautiful fish. “Would it be interesting to paint me in this silly thing?” she asked Adam.
Jean-Marc watched Chillworth’s reaction. This must be how a man felt when he first realized his daughter had changed from a child into a woman. He could not see her as other than a child, but the flicker in another man’s eyes proved him wrong.
Chillworth took a long time to gather his wits enough to speak. “I see Meggie’s hand in that. It’s clever. Yes, I think it might do well enough.”
“Only well enough?” She pouted, actually pouted like any coquettish girl.
“It might do very well,” Chillworth said, and when he tilted his head and revealed in his deep gray eyes the frank pleasure he took in Désirée, Jean-Marc almost wished the fellow had a title and an advantageous position.
Désirée stood on her toes to whisper in the painter’s ear. He shook his head, and Désirée whispered again, and jiggled impatiently. Chillworth looked down at her and said, “My Lord, may I dance with the Princess, please?”
Jean-Marc felt Meg shrink as if she expected him to refuse—not only to refuse but to express offense at the question. “Very well,” he said. “You have my permission, but remember she is young. Be certain she does not tire you.”
Désirée rushed the man away, and Jean-Marc congratulated himself on his sensible reaction to a situation that held no danger anyway.
“Don’t worry about her dancing with Adam,” Meg said. “He is the most honorable of men.”
Jean-Marc adjusted the dagger at his waist. “I rather think it is Mr. Chillworth who is the more in danger there. If nothing else, during this evening we will have learned a good deal about just how much my sister can be trusted in social situations. She is so quixotic. She is a minx. A charming minx, but a minx nevertheless.”
“They are handsome together,” Meg said.
“I think so,” Jean-Marc said. “With your help, Désirée has bloomed. True, she is a rebel, but perhaps we should hope that she doesn’t entirely lose that strong will of hers.”
“I do hope she doesn’t,” Meg told him, standing straighter. “The world is changing. One day women will play as important a part as men—in all areas. I should like the Princess to be a part of all that. She is very clever.”
Jean-Marc chose not to comment on Meg’s unconventional views, but he said, “Yes, she is clever.”
“My Lord.” Verbeux appeared at his side once more. “Lady Hester Bingham is here.”
“Where is Lady Upworth?” Jean-Marc asked, frowning at him.
“I, er, left her spending some time alone. That was her wish. Lady Hester insists you want to meet her.”
Jean-Marc looked not at Verbeux, but at Meg. The delight on her face assured him he had better be a
nxious to meet his neighbor. He turned and smiled at a tall, blond woman with a mature but admirable figure. Hunter Lloyd stood at her shoulder, and he nodded to the man. “My sister and I are delighted you could come, Lady Hester,” Jean-Marc said, pleased with his own judgment. Just as he’d thought, the woman was pleased that he knew who she was. “I am a great believer in neighborliness. You look—extraordinary.”
“Aha,” she said, tapping his chest with her fan. “A flatterer, I see. You are extraordinary yourself, My Lord. If I were a much younger woman my heart would likely stop at the sight of you.” Lady Hester didn’t look at Meg.
“What do you call that color?” Jean-Marc asked, surveying Lady Hester’s robes, a headdress bound about her head and forehead with strips of gold, and the rows and rows of crystal and jet beads that hung heavy on the lady’s considerable bosom. “The shade is lilac, perhaps?”
That earned him another sharp slap with the fan. “You know entirely too much about female frippery, My Lord. Yes. Lilac. And I am a sheik’s first wife.” She smiled, clearly enormously pleased with herself. “What do you think of that? Do I surprise you with my knowledge of such things? First wife, ha? Such heathen behavior. I should not tolerate second, third or any other number of wives for my husband, I assure you. But I can play the part for a night, can’t I?”
“Indeed you can, and play it very well,” he told her. “Good evening, Lloyd. Good of you to accompany your aunt. We’re honored to have you both. Meg speaks very highly of you, Lady Hester. Of your kindness and loyalty.”
Lady Hester finally looked at Meg and her expression softened. “She is a wonderful girl,” she said. “Skilled, versatile and good to her heart. We who are her friends worry about her. She is one of the world’s gentle people, and a strong person could crush her. I’m sure you are making certain she is very safe here.”
Meg looked at the floor.
The discomfort he felt surprised Jean-Marc. “I make it my own responsibility,” he said, and instantly wished he’d held his tongue. “Just as I do with Sibyl when she is here. I could not have managed without them, Lady Hester. A man is not well equipped for the task of bringing a girl out.”
“No, indeed,” Her Ladyship agreed. “I should like you to show me the house. I am interested in how the renovations were made. My grandfather was Sir Septimus Spivey, the celebrated architect. He designed Number Seven and took great pride in the achievement. In fact, so the story goes, he had so little faith in the ability of his offspring to look after his creation that he simply wouldn’t die until he was sure they had improved. He lived to be one hundred and two before he was forced to give up, but he died letting everyone know he was not at all sure they were ready for the task. A vain man by all accounts, and one who rose beyond his level of incompetence.”
Jean-Marc chuckled with her. “Quite the story to tell one’s grandchildren,” he said.
Her Ladyship looked pained. “If one had any grandchildren.”
“Yes, well,” Jean-Marc said, arranging his face into a suitably sympathetic cast. “Let us view the house.” He could think of nothing he’d like much less, but for Meg he would make the best of it.
“I say,” Lady Hester said, clinging to his arm. “Here comes Sibyl. Who is that scarecrow of a creature prancing around her?”
Meg turned abruptly and all but lost her balance. “Ash,” she said, sighing. “The Princess’s dancing instructor. I had no idea she would be here this evening.”
“Probably couldn’t escape her curiosity,” Verbeux said. “Had to see the Princess dance.”
“She couldn’t have known Désirée would dance tonight,” Jean-Marc said. “And she isn’t even looking at her.”
“Nor is she wearing a costume,” Lady Hester said, a lorgnette raised to her blue eyes. “I understand she is using your room during your absence, Meg, but I have yet to see her. Even Barstow hasn’t seen her—which is just as well. You were always too sensitive for your own good, but you were kind to help her.”
“Sibyl says she remains in her room when she isn’t here,” Meg said, but she was concerned by Ash’s agitated capering in front of Sibyl. “Please excuse me.”
She hurried to her sister’s side. “I wondered where you were,” she said, barely acknowledging Ash. “You are so pretty, Sibyl. You look like a nymph.”
“I’m not anything, really,” Sibyl said. “It was much too late to start making another costume.”
“An Eastern goddess,” Meg said, smiling. She kissed Sibyl’s cheek. “Green chiffon. It makes you look so very small. It might have been wound on you. And your hair is almost down. Very clever. And you, Miss Ash.” She turned to the other woman. “I see curiosity got the better of you, after all. I don’t blame you. But where is your costume?”
“Piffle,” Ash said, her thin face registering disapproval. “I am here because I had to come. My duty required me to come. I must insist that you two young women talk to me. Now. It is of the utmost importance. For your good, not mine. Someone spoke to me or I should not have known the pass things have come to.”
“What do you mean?” Meg asked. “This is not the time or place to deal with anything but the matter to hand—the Princess’s musicale. If you must speak to us then let it be tomorrow.”
“Tonight,” Ash said, and let out a yelp. “Get it away! Get rid of it!”
“Oh,” Sibyl said, putting a hand over her mouth. “A cat, Meggie. A beautiful cat. What can he be doing here? We must rescue him before he’s seen and thrown into the street.”
“Rescue him?” Ash squealed. “Toss him from the window, I say. He’s vicious. Did you see that? He bit my ankle. And now he snarls at me.”
A figure in black bore down upon them, with Hunter Lloyd and Verbeux at his heel. “My cat,” Jean-Marc said, sweeping Halibut into his arms. “I knew I should have given in and let him have his own costume. If he doesn’t get his own way, first he sulks, then he gets mean. Kindly excuse Halibut, Miss Ash. I’m about to take Lady Hester on a tour of the house. I shall return the cat to my apartments on the way.”
Meg gaped as he left, but then she smiled and once more her heart opened as if to the sun because this man she loved kept showing that he was anything but ordinary. Such a commanding man might be expected to ignore unimportant detail, yet he was too kind to do so.
“I need a few words with Miss Meg and Miss Sibyl,” Ash the undaunted said. “If you wouldn’t mind, M. Verbeux, I’d appreciate your making sure we are not interrupted.” From time to time she hopped from one foot to the other and contrived to rub places Halibut had attacked.
Verbeux dutifully faced Hunter, who wore a round white hat, an embroidered blue vest, white shirt and trousers. Meg had no idea what he was supposed to be, but he looked as appealing as ever.
“Right,” Ash said, planting her fists on her skinny hips. “I want you two to listen to me, and listen well. What I have to say is important and it is also said with your best interests in mind. Today I had a long chat with that lovely Mr. William Godly-Smythe, and I could scarcely believe what I heard. He asked you to marry him, Sibyl. A fine, upstanding man like that. And he wants to take Meg to live with you, too. And you refused? I almost fainted when he told me.”
“What business is it of yours?” Meg snapped.
“Meggie.” Sibyl sounded reproachful. “You mustn’t mind when people care about us. We’re lucky to have such kind thoughts sent our way.”
“I’m glad you understand how lucky you are,” Ash said. She lowered her eyes, and the corners of her mouth took a matching downward dive. “Take it from one who has lived the life of a genteel woman consigned to exist without a husband, opportunities such as this don’t come often. When they do, you should thank God for His kindness and take what He’s offered you. And if you ask quickly, that poor, lovesick man won’t sell his home in Puckly Hinton to buy a place in London just to please you. He could never keep the three of you as well in London as he could in the country. Go. Don’t hesitate, go to hi
m before he sells his house and holdings. If he does that, he’ll start out loving you, Sibyl—while you keep him interested in the bedroom—but after that, his unhappiness will make your marriage unhappy. Mark my words.”
“I didn’t think you’d ever been married,” Meg said, distressed at the confusion Sibyl showed.
“I most certainly have not.”
“And you wouldn’t like to be?”
Ash lowered her stubby lashes. “Not all of us ever have a chance. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have enough goodness in my heart to want better for you. When these positions with the Count are over, I’ll return to the school, but you? Who will you have to turn to? Each other, it’s true, but every year you’re a year older and you’ll be surprised how quickly you’re old tabbies, and probably sitting here in this godless city wishing you’d made other decisions.”
“Miss Ash,” Meg said, with a sadness in her heart. “You are a very kind woman. You want us to be happy. But you don’t know our cousin. We would be slaves in his house. I doubt we should even be allowed to read. William doesn’t hold with women broadening their minds. He would decide what were useful occupations for us, and he would treat us badly. Our only task in life would be to make him look better and better. He hates us. He always has, and we don’t know why he is suddenly solicitous.”
“He has had his fling,” Ash said. “I think he is changed, and that he truly loves you, Sibyl. Now he’s ready to settle down and think about having sons. You should be grateful that such a desirable bachelor chooses to bestow his favor on you. Accept him, I exhort you. Don’t waste a moment. Go to him this very night. He has returned to Number Seven. He’s there now, awaiting your response. In his desperation he sent me, a stranger, to you. I certainly had no wish to be here.”
“He’s had my response,” Sibyl said. “I told him no.”
Ash wound her bony hands together. She seemed oblivious of the strange stares she drew. “I feel desperately sad when I think of that man’s longing. I cannot ever remember feeling so certain that this is a mission I must make, and that I must continue to try to persuade you. Change your mind. Go to him, I implore you. And don’t you forget that lovely Reverend Baggs has run himself off his feet trying to watch over you, Meg Smiles. The man is exhausted. Such a lovely man.”
All Smiles Page 30