A Christmas Gambol

by Joan Smith

  “You cannot mean she is married to that little ankle-biter with the bulging eyes!”

  “Yes. You haven’t met the Dartmores, Sissie. Let me introduce you to them.” He quickly moved her along the room.

  His ruse failed. No sooner were they in conversation with the Dartmores than Cicely resumed the subject of the Morlands. She was having a quiet word with Lady Dartmore while the gentlemen spoke of horses.

  “Mrs. Morland is very beautiful, is she not?” she said, gazing across the room.

  “Mrs. Morland? I don’t seem to recognize the name.” Lady Dartmore looked, and beheld Debora. “Oh, you mean the duchess. Yes, she was last Sea­son’s Incomparable.” She lowered her voice and added, “But perhaps we ought not to discuss her in front of Montaigne.”

  Comprehension dawned in a flash. “Just so,” she said and, at the first opportunity, drew Montaigne away to tease him.

  “Would you like to leave, Montaigne?” she asked, feigning concern, but her sparkling eyes alerted him to mischief.

  “Leave? We just arrived. We haven’t had a dance yet.”

  “To be sure, but she is here.”

  He gave her a belligerent stare. “I shan’t add to your amusement by pretending I don’t know whom you’re talking about. Of course Debora is here. The Morlands go everywhere.”

  So that was her name: Debora. “It was very brave of you to come, and I do appreciate it. Do you think you are up to presenting me to her?”

  “Why do you want to meet her?” he asked irritably.

  “Use your head, Montaigne. Where else am I likely to see amethyst eyes? They are as rare as three-legged hens. I wouldn’t miss it for a wilder­ness of monkeys.”

  To refuse would only add to her curiosity and lend a misleading seriousness to his past history with Debora. But they would do no more than say good evening.

  “Very well,” he said, bracing himself for the ordeal.

  He took Cicely’s elbow and led her around the cor­ner and down the far wall until he came to the Morlands. While he presented Cicely, she made the proper greetings, but her attention was all on the famous eyes. They were exactly as the author of Chaos had described Eugenie’s eyes. They changed from violet to a shadowy indigo, depending on the light. The duchess’s voice, too, had that same zephyr-like quality often mentioned in the book. Cicely would have called it a little girl’s voice. It was high-pitched and so light one had to listen closely to catch her words. Once caught, they hardly seemed worth the bother. She uttered nothing but the most common banalities.

  “Charmed to make your acquaintance, Miss Cicely,” she said while her gaze fluttered over Cicely’s shoulder to Montaigne.

  His effort to walk on to another couple failed. Morland had latched on to Cicely. As they all stood talking, Cicely noticed that the duchess’s hands fluttered like butterflies—just as Eugenie’s hands fluttered. Other little things, too, reinforced the likeness. She had a beauty spot on the left corner of her chin. Eugenie’s was on the right corner, but taken altogether, the similarities were too striking to have occurred by chance. The Duchess was Eugenie Beaureport. But there was no way in the world that the duke was the handsome, dashing Lord Ravencroft.

  Ere long, the duchess’s banalities turned to complaints. The general behavior of the Morlands re­minded Cicely forcefully of the Fairlys’ before their latest rapprochement.

  “I told Morland I didn’t want to come here tonight,” the sweet voice said. “The Rutlands are having a masquerade party. I had a lovely costume made up.” An adorable moue drew her lips into a bow.

  “No use for costume parties,” Morland said firmly. He had been paying Cicely marked attention. When the dancing stopped, he said, “Miss Cicely, may I have the pleasure of the next set?”

  “I should like it. Thank you,” she replied, and was led to the floor in hopes of discovering the identity of Lord Ravencroft. It proved beyond Cicely’s powers of invention to ask the question, however, as she spent her time fighting off Morland’s advances.

  Montaigne had taken for granted that he, as Ci­cely’s escort, would have the first set with her. He felt a definite sensation of pique when she left with Morland. And to make it worse, he was now in the position of having to stand up with Debora, with all of Society tittering behind raised fingers and fans. Next they would be saying he had become her lover. It was some small consolation to see that Cicely was not enjoying herself. Even as research material, Morland was useless.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  When the set finished, Cicely was swept away with another gentleman. Montaigne, watching from the side of the room, judged she was better entertained by Mr. Witherspoon, an eligible bachelor about town.

  Fairly became bored with being an invalid and de­cided he was cured. He took off his sling and went after Cicely for the next set. Meg stood up with Morland, who had discovered Lady Fairly was the means of access to Miss Cicely, whom he praised with the ambiguous description “a regular little guy.” Meg hadn’t the least notion what he meant, nor could he elucidate when she asked him.

  When supper was announced, the Morlands ac­companied the Fairlys, Montaigne, and Cicely to the table.

  Morland flirted with Meg; Fairly ogled Cicely and the duchess more or less equally, Montaigne was as close to a fit of sulks as was possible for a gentleman of his years, and Cicely had a marvelous time ferret­ing out the secrets of Society.

  The Prince Regent, she discovered, was having an affair with someone called Lady Hertford, much to the gratification of the lady’s husband. Everyone was carrying on with everyone else’s spouse. Cicely began to think she had straggled into Sodom and Gomorrah. It seemed the only faithful lady in all of London was someone called Emily, but eventually even Emily disappointed her. It was the lady’s lover, not her husband, to whom she was so faithful.

  All this disillusionment did not prevent Cicely from watching Montaigne and the duchess. She could discern no overt advances on his part and was forced to the conclusion that only a red-hot affair could account for his flagrant indifference to such compelling temptation.

  After a midnight supper, the Fairlys continued on to another rout. Cicely was hagged and asked Mon­taigne to take her home. He called for his carriage at once.

  “You were right to speak of the fleshpots of Lon­don, Montaigne,” she said, drawing her gloved hand across her forehead. “I had no idea there was so much debauchery in the world. Is no one faithful to his wife in this city?”

  “We know no ill of the king, in that respect,” he replied. “Unlike his sons.”

  “But the rest of them ...”

  “There are many good marriages. Those unfash­ionable folks are not spoken of. Who would listen if one said Lord Eldon went home to his wife every evening?”

  “I’m monstrously relieved to hear it. And now I should like to speak of something closer to home. About the Duchess of Morland ...”

  Montaigne schooled his voice to indifference. “Well, you have met her. What do you think?”

  “I think you were fortunate she jilted you. One can see how you were bowled over by her appear­ance. She is quite the loveliest creature I have ever seen, but not much to say for herself. Of course I ex­pect the fact that your affair now has to be clandes­tine adds a certain element of romance and danger, but—”

  “My affair!”

  “Well, you are seeing her, aren’t you?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “Really?” She squinted suspiciously in the dark­ness. “From the way you never looked within a right angle of her, I made sure you two were carrying on a madly passionate affair.”

  “I am shocked at you, Sissie!”

  “Doing it too brown, Montaigne. How can anyone who spends so much time in London be shocked by anything? Even the Prince Regent—imagine!”

  “Especially the Prince Regent.”

  “And they say his mistress isn’t even pretty.”

  “One soon tires of a pretty face.”

/>   “Or even a beautiful one. The duke is bored with his duchess already. And by the by, he is a shocking flirt.”

  “I noticed,” Montaigne said through thinning lips.

  “Meg says he called me ‘a regular little guy.’ What does that mean, Montaigne? I believe he meant it as a compliment.”

  Montaigne assumed its real meaning was that she was different from Debora. As he wished to avoid any mention of that young lady, however, he said, “I expect it means outspoken and intelligent without any girlish tricks, yet still dashed pretty.” He peered to see how she reacted to this ducal compliment.

  “It is no compliment to be thought intelligent by him,” she scoffed.

  “Surely he must be allowed to know a pretty face at least. After all, he did marry Debora.”

  “I rather think she married him.”

  “That is implicit in his marrying her, n’est-ce pas?”

  “It’s not the same thing at all. He’s the harum-scarum sort who could have been nabbed by any de­termined lady. I think she just wanted to be a duchess.”

  “And I think her mama wanted to be a duchess’s mama, but I take your point. You did not take mine, however. I was trying to compliment your pretty face.”

  “My pretty face thanks you,” she said airily.

  Montaigne found it difficult to continue his flirta­tion in this inhospitable climate. They drove along in silence. When they alighted at Berkeley Square, a wind had arisen, a cold wind that spoke of win­ter’s approach. It whipped Cicely’s mantle about and pulled at her curls.

  Montaigne took her elbow. “Come, let us get in­side before you develop chicken skin.”

  “Is that snow?” she asked. A few stray flakes blew against her cheeks. They caught in her hair, where they glistened like diamonds in the moonlight.

  “The first of the season. Not a real snowfall,” Montaigne said, glancing up to read the luminous sky. Then he looked at Cicely and felt a strange warmth grow inside him. How lovely she looked in the semidarkness, with her big eyes shining. Like a phantom lady in a romance.

  “A cup of tea would be nice,” she said, huddling into her cape as she hastened up the stairs, unaware of his mood. “If it wasn’t so late, I’d ask you in.”

  “It’s only one o’clock,” he said.

  “Only! Good gracious, if I were at home, I would have been snoring for three hours by now. But I don’t feel tired, somehow. I expect I’m too excited from the rout.”

  Montaigne flickered a glance at her. Her quaint views and her blunt manner of talking about “snor­ing” brought a fleeting smile to his lips. A phantom lady should speak more elegantly.

  “When in Rome,” he reminded her.

  “Tomorrow’s a working day.” She looked at him. “Well, are you coming in or not?”

  He took this ambiguous invitation as encourage­ment and replied, “That was my intention.”

  The butler opened the door for them. Montaigne asked for tea, and they went into the saloon. Cicely looked surprised when he sat beside her on the sofa, instead of in one of the chairs.

  “You must get at your script as soon as I bring you home from Bond Street tomorrow,” he said. “Mustn’t miss that important research. Do you have an idea yet for the pantomime?”

  “Oh, I have it written. I just have to polish it,” she replied.

  “Finished! When did you find time to do it?”

  “I had the whole afternoon free, you recall. To­morrow morning I shall polish it, and tomorrow afternoon we go to Bond Street.” As she spoke, she removed the clasp from her hair. “You don’t mind my dishabille?” she asked. “Perkins made the barrette so tight it’s giving me the megrims. What a horrid chore it is, trying to look stylish.”

  She ran her fingers through her hair to relieve the scalp irritation of the barrette. Montaigne stud­ied her, trying to decide whether she looked prettier with the cluster of curls on her shoulder or with her hair all tousled up, as it was now. The carefree style suited her better.

  “I expect you were pretty cut up when the duchess married Morland,” Cicely said leadingly.

  “Let us speak of something else,” Montaigne said testily. He had had quite enough of the duchess for one night.

  She reached out and patted his hand. Montaigne felt a little ripple of pleasure at the implied inti­macy of it.

  “I understand, Montaigne,” she said. “But really, you know, it is for the best. You’ll get over her even­tually. Morland is over her already. He invited me to Hastings for a huge Christmas party they are having. Can you imagine! I scarcely know them. If anyone invited me, it ought to have been the duchess. As if I would go anywhere but home for Christmas. He had the most lecherous light in his eye!”

  Montaigne felt such a murderous rage, he could hardly contain himself. “The sooner you turn that script over to Palin and go home, the better,” he said, and splashed too much milk into his tea cup.

  “Yes, I should like to be home at least a week be­fore Christmas, to help Anne with the preparations.”

  “That’s weeks away! It’s only the beginning of December!”

  “My, you do sound eager to see the back of me. You are forgetting the rehearsals. Mr. Palin men­tioned that I ought to be available for a week after the pantomime goes into rehearsal, in case they re­quire revisions. I hope to get away by the middle of December, but definitely by the eighteenth. Meanwhile there is ever so much research to be done. That nice Mr. Witherspoon offered to take me to Bedlam.”

  “Why do you want to go and gawk at the lunatics?”

  “That’s not why I want to go! I just want to see what it’s like, in case I ever want to write about it. Everyone says you ought to write about what you know, and I don’t know anything. Except village life, I mean.” She drew a frustrated sigh. “I daresay I would learn all sorts of interesting things at Morland’s Christmas party. Pity it is a Christmas party.”

  “You’re already going to Bedlam. There is no need to go to Morland’s.”

  She gave him a cool stare. “I doubt the lunatics at Bedlam enjoy their confinement in ducal style.”

  As Cicely had decided not to attend, Montaigne didn’t bother to discourage her further. They had another cup of tea and spoke of other things. His suggestion of driving all around London to see the various quarters found favor. London was growing like a mushroom, with new homes sprouting up overnight.

  “I’m sure Meg will lend me her carriage,” she said. “John Groom will know where to take me.”

  “I will take you,” Montaigne said.

  “I shan’t encroach on your time. You’ve hinted of­ten enough I am overstaying my welcome.”

  “I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. It is just that I am a little concerned for the sort of company you are meeting.”

  “Why, Monty! You don’t trust me! You think I will fall into a hobble! You needn’t worry. I can take care of myself.”

  But when he remembered the duke’s invitation to Hastings for a house party, and how Fairly had botched the trip to Seven Dials, he was adamant.

  “I will take you,” he repeated.

  He left as soon as the tea had been drunk. Cicely was already yawning into her fist. She went up to her bed immediately, but as she lay thinking over her unusual evening, she remembered something that had escaped her during all the excitement.

  How had Montaigne’s Aunt Ethel written such an accurate description of Debora when she had never seen her? Debora was Eugenie; of that there could be no doubt. Montaigne was trying to conceal the real author. Why, he hadn’t even remembered Ethel’s name. He had called her Irma. Whom was he trying to protect? The book was nothing else but a eulogy to Debora. If the author was a friend of hers, she wouldn’t have to hide it.

  Actually, the descriptions had rather the air of a lover’s rant. No doubt Debora had dozens of suitors, Montaigne among them. Cicely suddenly sat bolt upright. Of course! Monty had written the book himself! That was why he drew back his ears like an angry mare
every time she disparaged it. And that was why he was so eager to conceal the author’s true identity.

  Good God! How his colleagues would stare if they ever learned the truth. The white hope of the Whig Party was a romancer. A wicked smile lifted her lips as she lay down again. What fun! A gurgle of laughter echoed in the dark room. Aunt Ethel indeed!

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  Cicely was an early riser. An advantage to rising early at the Fairlys’ was that she had left the break­fast table long before her hostess was up. She would have enjoyed some privacy with Meg, but Meg usu­ally took breakfast in bed.

  Cicely spent the morning polishing her pan­tomime. By noon she was satisfied with it and sent it off with a footman to Mr. Palin, at Covent Gar­den. When she glanced out the window to judge the weather, she saw the sky was gray, but not the dark, ominous gray that threatened rain or snow. She would wear her woolen pelisse for the trip along Bond Street, and a plainish bonnet, as the wind would tear any feathers from their moorings.

  To add a note of style to the low poke, Anne, who was handy with a needle, had added a fur lining to the brim and lent Cicely her best beaver muff. The muff had a small sealed compartment to hold money, thus avoiding the necessity of borrowing a reticule from Meg.

  As she prepared for the outing, Cicely thought of the lovely time she would have ragging Montaigne about his authorship of Chaos.

  “Surely you are not taking Cicely out in this gale!” Meg exclaimed when Montaigne came to call. She was entertaining half a dozen ladies in her saloon. The ostensible occupation was cards, but the real job was gossip. After her success in the matter of Fairly’s invalidism, Meg had ventured down another original path. She planned to serve the ladies apple tart made from Cicely’s apples. Cook had al­ready made one, which had turned out well. Why not, if that French queen—or was it a courtesan— could make her friends milk cows?

  “It’s all right, Meg. I wore my woolen pelisse,” Ci­cely told her.