A Christmas Gambol

by Joan Smith

  “No, no. I, too, spent the day at Bedlam. It’s good comic relief, and at least it don’t cost anything. No new taxes will be required in a world without armies.”

  “I’m sure you politicians will find some new ex­cuse to gouge us. More churches, perhaps. Have you spoken to Morland about that humble pie?”

  “Not yet. That’s the other reason I am here.”

  “The other reason? What is the main reason?”

  He studied her over the rim of his glass. His dark eyes gleamed flirtatiously. “Hmmm,” he murmured. “I must be slipping. Do you really have to ask, Cicely?”

  “One gallant an evening is quite enough for me. Don’t you start flirting and pretending you like me, too. If you want to be sure of that invitation, speak to the duchess. I doubt she’ll refuse you.”

  “Flirting?” he asked, feigning offense. “A fine way to talk to an M.P. who has wasted—spent—hours arguing the Holy Alliance. A little respect for your elders, miss. Let a lady sell a book and she sets up as the equal of an M.P. You’re not the only person with a contract from Murray in your pocket.”

  “No, but I am the only one with a contract from Lord Montaigne,” she retorted. “You’d best watch your step with me, Master Jackanapes.”

  “You don’t mean to let me forget it for a moment,” he said in jest. Then, more seriously, “Perhaps it is time to normalize relations with Debora. I’ve been avoiding her as much as possible, but I can hardly do so for the better part of a week at Hastings. I’ll see her now and be back tout de suite.”

  Morland was on the alert for Sissie. When he saw Montaigne enter the ballroom alone, he went off af­ter her and found her in the refreshment parlor, fin­ishing her wine.

  “Ah, Sissie. Just the girl I was looking for. I have a book in my library I must show you. Just the sort of thing a bluestocking like yourself would appreciate.”

  “I don’t consider myself a bluestocking,” she replied, but as it was a foregone conclusion the duke wouldn’t take no for an answer, Cicely went to the library. It was better than waltzing with him again.

  She was dismayed to see the library was empty. Like all the chambers, it was huge and decorated to excess. It held more statuary and Roman vases than books, though there was one wall of books in bur­gundy leather with gold embossing. Their perfect arrangement on the shelves suggested they were untouched by anything but a goose-wing duster. As Morland left the double doors to the hallway open, Cicely assumed that he did actually have a book in mind to show her.

  The main point of the visit was to give her the brooch, but as she was acting stiffish, Morland went to the bookshelves, scanning for a title that might amuse Cicely. The title Ars amatoria, by Ovid, caught his eye. The high seriousness of a Horace, the Bucolics and Georgics of a Virgil were not for him. If a fellow had to study Latin, Ovid was the thing to study.

  “Here it is,” he said, opening the book at random. He began to read in Latin, pacing back and forth and imagining he was on a stage, with hundreds of admirers. The Latin might as well have been Greek or Sanskrit, for all it meant to Cicely—or Morland, for that matter. She sat and let him read, as it kept him out of mischief and gave her a moment to col­lect her thoughts. She knew the Fairlys would stay until two or three in the morning, but perhaps Mon­taigne would leave earlier and give her a drive home. She only had to interrupt her scheming from time to time to clap or say, “That was charming, Dick.”

  Morland enjoyed the performance but eventually realized he could be spending this private moment more profitably. He sat down beside Cicely and closed the book. “But enough of that,” he said. “You know why I invited you here.”

  “It was very enjoyable. Thank you. And now we ought to join the others.” She rose.

  Morland rose and grasped her fingers. His other hand went into his pocket. Palming the diamond brooch, he lifted his hand to her bodice to attach it to her gown.

  Cicely leaped in alarm when she felt Morland’s hand on her breast. “What are you doing?” she ex­claimed, brushing it away.

  “Don’t be shy, Sissie. We’re alone. No one need know.”

  “Know what? What are you talking about?” She looked down and saw the sparkle of diamonds on her gown.

  She lifted her hand and unfastened the brooch. Morland caught her fingers, pressing his hand against hers on her breast. His other arm went around her waist. Giving him the slap he deserved was difficult with her left hand, especially when they stood in such close proximity. The best she could manage was to give his nose a sharp pinch. He squealed, then stepped back.

  Cicely thought, for a moment, that she must have really hurt him. Morland stared, turning from pink to rose. “Debora!” he cried in a high, breathless voice.

  From the doorway where she stood, Debora had spotted the diamond brooch. Her violet eyes dark­ened to deepest purple, just as in Chaos Is Come Again when Eugenie mistakenly believed Ravencroft had betrayed her. Their shade was made more noticeable by her frozen, white face. “Am I interrupting you? So sorry,” she said in glacial accents only slightly marred by a hiccup of tears, and stalked from the room.

  Morland took a step after her and came up against the wall of Montaigne’s chest in the door­way. “What the hell’s going on?” Montaigne de­manded in a voice like thunder.

  “Let me go! Debora is unwell,” Morland said and fled.

  Montaigne directed his anger at Cicely. “May I know the meaning of this?” he asked, advancing stiffly toward her.

  “If you can figure it out, I wish you will tell me.”

  “I left you for a moment in the refreshment par­lor. When I returned with Debora, you weren’t there. The servants said you and Morland had come here—alone.”

  “He said he wanted to show me some book. He was reading to me, then he suddenly tried to give me this diamond brooch.” She looked down and saw the brooch was gone. Morland had managed to get hold of it when he spotted Debora. Or perhaps it had fallen off. Cicely remembered unpinning it. A quick search showed her it wasn’t on the floor. “He must have taken it before he left.”

  She explained about the shopping trip after the visit to Bedlam and the brooch supposedly bought for Debora. “Surely he cannot think I would accept diamonds from him!” she said indignantly.

  They sat on the sofa. Montaigne crossed his legs and sighed, satisfied with her explanation. “Dia­monds mean no more to Morland than that little fan,” he said, nodding at the fan on the sofa.

  She threw it across the room in disgust. “Idiot!” she scowled. “There is one good thing about it. I really cannot be expected to go to Hastings after this. Debora probably thinks I was encouraging him.”

  “And just when I have been at some pains to get my invitation reinstated.”

  “I suppose I shall have to face Debora sooner or later and explain. Well, invent some story to ac­count for her seeing that brooch on me.”

  “As your forte is fiction, that should be simple. He was asking your opinion of it as a gift for Debora, perhaps?”

  “She might believe that. I already let slip that he bought it for her. Still, it will be embarrassing. I’ll get it over with now and leave.” She looked a ques­tion at him. “That is, if you—Or I could borrow Fairly’s carriage. He and Meg will stay till the last dog is hung.”

  “Especially with such an enticing new on dit to chew over. He didn’t try to molest you?”

  “I trust you mean kiss me? No, he didn’t. I dare­say he expected a kiss in gratitude for the brooch, the fool. I should have slapped his face. The best I could do was pinch his nose.”

  Montaigne, biting back a smile, picked up the book. “Is this what he was reading to you?” he asked.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Loosely translated, Excerpts from the Roman Light-Skirts’ Handbook.”

  “Is that what it is!” she exclaimed angrily. “Shock­ing! He read it in Latin, you see. I hadn’t a notion what any of it meant. He probably hadn’t, either. He just enjoyed strutting ab
out, declaiming, pre­tending he was Kean.”

  “Pretending?”

  “Kean, the actor, I meant.”

  “Ah. Shall I ask Debora to come in here for a moment?”

  “Would you mind?”

  Montaigne’s eyes glittered dangerously. “Not at all. It will give me the opportunity for a private word with His Grace.”

  He left but returned a moment later, wearing a frustrated expression. “The Morlands have re­tired for the evening and don’t wish to be disturbed. Typical! A house full of guests, and the hosts go to bed. Yahoos!” Cicely laughed. “Come. I’ll take you home.”

  As no serious harm had come to Cicely, Mon­taigne was just as glad the contretemps had occurred. It alerted her to the dangers adrift for a greenhorn in London and wrote finis to the Hastings party.

  “Not all the gentlemen are so harmless as Morland,” he explained as they drove through the dark­ness. A light fog had settled in. The stark outline of nude branches formed a tracery above in the mist.

  “Even a Morland could make mincemeat of a lady’s reputation,” she said. “I definitely shan’t go to Hastings, even if Debora asks me. I cannot think she will after tonight.”

  “Debora is peculiarly forgiving. Morland’s tried his stunts with most of their female friends. Last year it was Lord Harelton’s young wife. A diamond bracelet.”

  “What did she do?” Cicely asked, staring in astonishment.

  “Kept it,” he said with a tsk of disgust.

  “Did she—”

  “No, she didn’t. She’s not that bad. Nor did Mor­land expect her to. Until a lady has given her husband a son or two, she is expected to limit her favors to him. A man likes to know his heir is his own flesh and blood.”

  “Gracious! They even have rules about adultery! Very practical, of course, but when sin is regulated, it gives it the air of being acceptable.”

  “An astute observation.”

  When the carriage drew up in front of Fairly’s mansion, Montaigne said, “May I come in for a mo­ment, or have you had enough of gentlemen impos­ing their presence on you for one evening? I promise I have no diamonds up my sleeve.”

  “What I would really like is to go for a little walk. It was so hot and stuffy at the Morlands’, and the food was so rich I felt nearly ill. We needn’t go far. You won’t want to leave your team standing long.”

  Montaigne took Cicely’s elbow and they walked down the street with the fog caressing their cheeks. It was warm for December. Patches of light from saloon windows cast hazy puddles of orange into the mist.

  “Now that we won’t be going to Hastings, will you return to Elmdale on the tenth or remain in Lon­don?” he asked.

  “Perhaps split the difference. The extra few days will give me time for a little more sightseeing. But why do you say we won’t be going? There is no reason for you to withdraw.”

  Montaigne glared. “Just like a lady! I was only going to keep you out of trouble. I despise that sort of do. Too much drinking and gambling and gossip­ing and flirting. There won’t be a sensible word spoken. I don’t know how Meg can abide it. I shall call off.”

  “Where will you spend Christmas?” she asked.

  They reached the end of the block and turned around to retrace their steps. “Do you think your papa would allow you to come to London for the Christmas pantomime? Along with Anne and him­self, I mean. It seems a shame for you to miss your moment of glory.”

  “I know Anne would love it. So would I, but Papa—I’m not sure. We always spend Christmas at home. He would be uncomfortable at a hotel, and I can hardly impose the family on Meg.”

  “I meant as my guests,” he said.

  “I wasn’t hinting,” she said, embarrassed.

  “I am aware of that. You’re not a hinter. When you want something, you say it. It is one of the things I admire about you.”

  Cicely grew flustered at this unexpected shower of compliments. She concluded Montaigne was try­ing to repay her for posing as the author of his book and keeping quiet about it. She stopped walking and stared at him.

  “That is extraordinarily generous of you, Mon­taigne.”

  He batted this notion away with a flick of his fin­gers. “The first presentation of the pantomime is on the twenty-third. Your folks could come early, say the twentieth. If your papa is quite bent on Christmas at home, you could leave on the twenty-fourth to be home by Christmas Eve.”

  A smile trembled on her lips. “I know Anne would love it,” she said again.

  “And you? Would you like it, Sissie?”

  “Oh yes. It would be beyond anything great. I have been writing to Anne. It would be so nice if she were here, someone to share all the ton’s foolishness with, you know. You’re the only one I can talk to, and you already know all their doings.”

  “I see them in a new light, through your eyes,” he said, gazing down at her. The eyes of innocence.”

  “My eyes have been opened since coming to Lon­don, though.”

  Montaigne lifted his hands and cupped Cicely’s face in his warm palms. One hand slid down to her chin and tilted her face up to his. He gazed at her for a long moment in silence, then placed a light, fleeting kiss on her lips.

  When he spoke, his voice was gentle. “Don’t change too much. I like you the way you are.”

  Cicely just gazed at him silently. She couldn’t think of anything to say. The breath seemed to have caught in her throat. Montaigne took her elbow again and led her to the door of Fairly’s house.

  “Can we begin our tour of London tomorrow?” he asked. “In the afternoon for choice. I shall wage war on the Holy Alliance in the morning.”

  “And I shall make a few changes to Georgiana. Afternoon will be fine. Thank you, Montaigne, for— everything.”

  “It has been my pleasure.”

  He tipped his hat and returned to his carriage. Cicely went inside and up to her room.

  It seemed strange, almost incredible, that Montaigne could have remained so sane in wicked London. He wasn’t as rich as Morland, but he was rich enough to in­dulge in any vice. And, as far as she knew, he ig­nored them all. He had chosen his bride poorly, and Cicely was glad Debora had refused him. Montaigne required a sensible wife, someone who would en­courage him in his work. Someone like—

  But that was going a good deal too far. He was just being polite and thoughtful, wanting to invite Papa and Anne to London. Papa would never consider such a thing. Cicely didn’t even plan to ask him. But she was sorry to have to miss seeing her own pantomime.

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  Cicely worked on Georgiana in the morning, and in the afternoon Montaigne arrived to begin her tours of London. The weather had worsened. The wind was bitterly chill, but in Montaigne’s well-sprung carriage with a fur rug over their lap, a ther­mos of coffee, and warm bricks at their feet, they were as cozy as mice in malt.

  First he drove her through the prestigious West End, where the wealthy had their mansions, each marked off with iron railings. Some of the windows were boarded and the brass door-knockers removed, indicating the owners were away for the winter. To emphasize the difference, he next drove her through the squalid desolation of Long Acre.

  The afternoons were so short in the early part of December, that Montaigne came even earlier the following afternoon. Over the next days, Cicely saw Billingsgate and an art exhibition at Somerset House, hospitals and poorhouses, Carlton House and gin houses (from the outside) and the theater district, ending the last afternoon at the Ladies’ Gallery of the House of Parliament to hear a bill be­ing debated on the final day before Christmas re­cess, when the House was even rowdier than usual.

  “I had thought it impossible anything could be worse than Seven Dials or Bedlam,” Cicely said. “I see I was mistaken. I have never been more disgusted in my life than to see Members of Parlia­ment behaving like rowdy schoolboys. Why do they not let the speaker speak? Three-quarters of the seats were empty, and any who were there we
re stamping their feet, uttering catcalls, and throwing paper balls across to the other side of the House.”

  “The rowdyism is an added difficulty, certainly,” Montaigne replied mildly. “And makes it dashed dif­ficult to sleep during the duller speeches, too.”

  In the evenings, they went out to plays or routs or concerts, usually with the Fairlys and a few other couples. Montaigne broached the matter of Anne and Mr. Caldwell’s coming to London for the pan­tomime again, and again was told that there was no point in suggesting it. Papa would never agree.

  The duke called often at Berkeley Square; Coddle had standing instructions to inform him Miss Caldwell was not at home. Cicely had written her note to the duchess, who had not seen fit to reply. On the fourth morning, Cicely was surprised to hear that Debora planned to call on Lady Fairly at eleven o’clock.

  “I would like a word with her in private, Meg. Would you mind delaying your arrival in the saloon?”

  “I always like to make a grand entrance,” Meg said. “But what do you want with Debora? I thought you two were on the outs.”

  “I want to find out why she didn’t answer my note. I apologized for that evening at their house and told her I would not be going to Hastings.”

  “You apologized! Ninnyhammer! It is Dickie who should apologize to you. Shocking, the way he carries on. Perhaps Deb is in a snit because you can­celed the visit to Hastings.”

  When the duchess, resplendent in feathers and furs, was shown into the saloon that morning, she appeared disconcerted to be confronted with Cicely.

  “Good day, Miss Cicely,” she said coolly. “I hope I find you well?”

  “Fine, thank you, Duchess,” Cicely replied in similar accents. It had been her intention to call Debora to account, but when she saw the girl look­ing so pale and drawn, she hadn’t the heart for it. Despite the elegance of a sable-lined cape with a lovely fox trim, Debora looked positively ill. The smudges beneath her eyes were nearly as violet as the eyes themselves.

  Debora was seated. She made a business of re­moving her gloves, to avoid looking at Cicely. Even­tually she said, “I’m sorry you won’t be able to join us at Hastings.”