Her vague hopes that the years might have altered his character were shattered on first sight. Bevis was enthroned in the drawing room’s most comfortable chair, his afflicted foot propped up before him. Eunice Scattergood was seated in a comer, ostentatiously busy with her embroidery. Tilda was unaware that Eunice had committed a terrible blunder of manners; so anxious had she been to secure his grace’s comfort that she had offered him a chair still warm from her own body. The fact that the Duke refrained from remarking on this breach of etiquette only elevated her opinion of him.
A thick silence had fallen upon the room. Tilda had no doubt she’d interrupted a conversation concerning herself. Since the Duke’s shirt points were so highly starched it was impossible for him to turn his head, and since Eunice had chosen a seat out of his line of vision, the thought of their discourse was a staggering one. Tilda suppressed a grin.
Bevis had not missed the brief twinkle in those brown eyes. He scowled. “You have not changed, I see,” he remarked in disapproving tones.
“It seems unreasonable of you to expect it of me,” Tilda replied, lounging against the mantelpiece in a manner calculated to displease. She had no doubt that her brother’s unhappy frame of mind was in part inspired by the elegant surroundings in which he found himself. Bevis had never before set foot in the detested Dominic’s house; he would have hoped to find it such as must displease. Tilda had some idea of what her brother’s Scottish holdings entailed, and knew his disappointment. Even the ancestral home of the Dukes of Abercorn, which Bevis had allowed to go to rack and ruin, could not compare with Tyre’s Abbey.
“What do you mean by that?” growled the Duke.
“Why that you, too, have not changed.” Tilda’s smile might have betrayed great sweetness of character, an illusion that would have been speedily dispelled. “What brings you here, Bevis? It has me in a puzzle. I had thought you had nothing left to say to me. If memory serves, you even told me so at our last meeting.”
Bevis straightened in his chair, with an abruptness that caused great agony in that portion of his anatomy so sorely distressed by the gout. His scowl deepened. Eunice, who had entertained vague, and foolish, notions of a reconciliation, made noises of protest that earned her a sharp glance from her benefactress. “I am surprised to find you removed from the gaieties of the metropolis,” the Duke said bitterly, “since that is a life so obviously to your taste. It is a source of considerable chagrin to me that my sister must desport herself in a manner that brings her to the attention of the meanest scandal-monger. Word of your exploits has reached even Edinburgh!”
“I suspect,” interrupted Tilda, “that it is not so much my actions that agitate your sensibilities as the company I keep.”
“There are those,” glowered Bevis, “who will say I should not trouble myself further with your affairs.”
“How discerning of them,” agreed Tilda. “You had much better not.”
“I cannot,” snapped the Duke, “sit back and watch your downfall. Much as I deprecated your choice of husband, I must admit that Dominic did a creditable job of keeping you in hand.” Tilda reflected that Bevis had a convenient memory. More than one letter scrawled in her brother’s crabbed hand had been consigned to the flames by Lord Tyrewhitte-Wilson, who professed himself amused by the Duke’s disapproval of their way of life.
“Gammon!” said Tilda succinctly.
“Mathilda!” Eunice was not one to shirk her duty. “Slang is excessively vulgar—it lowers the tone of Society and the standard of thought. Nor can I believe that Dominic would approve of your attitude.”
This information was ignored by Bevis, whose jowls quivered with indignation. “I thought I’d nipped this matter in the bud, these many years past. Indeed, I am shocked by your injudiciousness. No more do you emerge from mourning than you hurl yourself into dissipation, your boon companion one of whom the kindest I can say is that he is a dissembler and a knave!”
“Were I to hazard a guess,” Tilda commented, “I would suppose that you speak of Wilmington. Really, Bevis, must you talk such rubbishing stuff? Micah may have the devil of a temper, but he’s hardly a knave.”
“Micah Marryat,” pronounced the Duke, “is a scoundrel! I forbid you to have anything further to say to him.” Eunice looked as if only the exercise of great restraint forbade her to applaud.
Tilda, however, was determined to remain calm. “Stuff and nonsense,” said she. “You have harbored an unreasonable dislike of Micah ever since your schooldays when he drew your cork.” Bevis winced, not so much at his sister’s language as at the memory of that ignoble bloodied nose. “Must I remind you,” Tilda continued, “that I am no longer of an age that I must abide by your dictates? You would do much better to return to your family, rather than attempting to reform such a shocking creature as I. Your advice must fall upon deaf ears, you know.”
“I hope I know my duty.” This exchange did nothing to alleviate the Duke’s discomfort; his foot throbbed mightily. “I will not leave here unless you accompany me.”
Tilda’s patience was nearing an end. “Understand this, Bevis,” she said quietly. “You are welcome in my home, and I will not court the scandal that must arise were I to have you forcibly thrown out, but I shall accompany you nowhere. Nor do I intend to give up one of my oldest friends because you cannot approve of him—and whatever you may believe, my relationship with Micah is no more than that.” Tilda firmly forced the thought of her last encounter with that gentleman from her mind. Micah found few outlets for his inclinations in so countrified a setting; what was more likely than that he had decided to enliven his boredom by a light flirtation with her? As for Tilda, she was not a green girl who knew no better than to fall in love with a rake.
“I knew how it would be,” Bevis sighed. “You’ve flown into a passion. This is as it has always been when someone tried to point out the error of your ways, I see no alternative: you must remarry.”
“Shall I wed someone like yourself?” Tilda inquired. Her eyes flashed. “I tell you, Bevis, I would be better suited leading apes in hell.”
The Duke appeared nonplussed by this apparent embracing of the unenviable state of spinsterhood. “It is a great mistake,” said Eunice reprovingly, “to suppose that vulgarity is in any way a substitute for wit.” With a curse so unladylike that it shocked both her auditors into momentary speechlessness, Tilda turned on her heel and left the room.
* * * *
“What a hobble!” said Agatha, drumming her fingers upon the arm of her chair. Maddy, who had pondered long upon her most advantageous role, sniffled dolefully, an act that earned her a sharp-eyed look. “You look burnt to the socket, child, and I’ll warrant it’s over this business.”
Maddy was not cheered by the Duchess’s sympathy, for it was true that dark shadows circled her eyes. These were due to neither guilt nor remorse, but to sleepless nights passed wondering how best to achieve her ends. “I do not know what I can say to you,” she replied. “It was unforgivable of me to entangle you in my affairs.”
The Duchess, who was wondering what she was to do with the two willful young ladies with whom she found herself encumbered, snorted. “Poppycock! My godson will say it serves me right for meddling.”
“The Earl?” Maddy demurely lowered her gaze. “I suppose he must be extremely cross with me for involving you in this imbroglio.”
“Has he said so?” Agatha inquired. Maddy had severely underestimated the Duchess, for that redoubtable lady knew full well that she was audience to a well-rehearsed scene. Vastly diverted, Agatha reflected that the wrong one of her two protégées had chosen to tread the boards. Miss de Villiers could have out-acted even Sarah Siddons. But she was curious to learn the reason for this face of woe. “Answer me, girl.”
“I beg your pardon.” The Duchess glared at this intruder. Her grandnephew’s tone was not one of repentance but of barely constrained wrath. “I came as soon as I received your summons.”
Maddy goggled at the Marqu
ess, but the Duchess, with every sign of aged infirmity, rose. “It took you an unconscionable long time,” she observed. From his expression, it appeared that Lionel had suffered a violent revulsion of feeling concerning the object of his infatuation. Maddy shrank from that icy gaze, but Agatha was intrigued.
“Ah, but I did not come alone,” Lionel remarked. “Rather, as part of a grand parade. If you continue to issue invitations at this rate, Micah will soon have half of London under his roof.”
“Invitations?” repeated the Duchess, with a presentiment of doom. An unmistakable voice reached her ears, and she scowled. “Letty Jellicoe! Whatever possessed the creature to come baring down here?”
“A combination of factors, I believe.” Lionel did not seem to find the matter of particular interest. “Concern for her niece.” The cold eyes brushed Maddy with contempt. “Though I believe she suffers greater worry that her son will contract a mésalliance. And, of course, she did not wish to face the scandal occasioned by her daughter’s misconduct.”
“Surely,” said Maddy, rising, “my aunt will wish to see me. I will go to her at once.”
“On the contrary,” the Marquess remarked. “I believe she has little desire to see you at all.” He glanced at his great-aunt. “Whatever possessed you, Agatha, to take up with such a shabby lot?”
“You may have leave to criticize me,” retorted the Duchess, with every evidence of enjoyment, “when you are quite dry behind the ears!” She sailed with dignity from the room, although she would have given a great deal to overhear what might be said during her absence.
Maddy wondered how best to regain her former standing. “What must you think of us?” she murmured. “Believe me, had I any notion of our imminent departure, I would have sent you word.”
“You need make no apologies.” Chesterfield possessed sufficient hauteur for one of royal blood. “It is quite fortunate, for me, though not perhaps for you, that matters turned out as they did, else I might have made a grave mistake.”
“I do not understand.” There was no need for pretense. “Are you angry with me?”
“Angry?” Lionel savored the word. “Not at all. I am, instead, relieved that I learned your true character in time.”
“In time for what, sir?” Maddy was cautious; nothing in Lionel’s demeanor led her to think that he was stricken by admiration of her character. She suffered a curious disappointment.
“In time to prevent a marriage that could only be disastrous!” Chesterfield’s proud features were cold. “Come, my dear, I know you to be a consummate actress, but let us have done with games.” Maddy stared, wide-eyed; never had anyone dared use her so callously. “It is of no use to dissemble; I know the whole.”
“You are angry because I befriended Clem.” Maddy felt chilled. “But—”
“No.” Chesterfield’s tone was bored. “I see I must be more direct. I know you foisted a notorious actress onto my godmother, true. But I also know, dear Maddy, that you are a fortune-hunter of the most scheming sort.” His smile was without warmth. “I must have seemed easy prey to you.”
“You are mistaken!” Maddy cried. “Surely my aunt did not tell you this.”
“Your aunt refuses to speak of you at all.” The Marquess moved across the room. “Do you always repay those who befriend you in such false coin? I am curious: what part plays the Duchess in your schemes? For I have no doubt you also mean to make use of her.”
“You’re wrong!” Maddy’s eyes darkened with anger. “You are crude, and abominable, and odious, and I do not wish ever to see you again!”
“You have little choice,” commented Lionel, “since we are to temporarily reside beneath the same roof.” In rage, Maddy would have slapped him, but he caught her arm. “Your cousin did me a great favor when she revealed your scheme.”
“Unhand me!” Maddy hissed.
“Not yet.” Had she not been so distraught, Maddy might have marveled at this masterful tone. “Do not despair. You have not yet whistled a fortune down the wind.”
“Explain yourself!” It was difficult to retain one’s dignity when held prisoner by two extremely strong hands, but Maddy’s tone was belligerent.
“Is not my meaning clear?” inquired Lionel. “Since it is my fortune you covet, you may still avail yourself of a portion of it.”
A combination of shock and indignation left Maddy speechless. The Marquess took advantage of this brief paralysis to kiss her most ruthlessly.
“Brute!” she cried, wrenching away. She wondered why she had ever thought Lionel dull.
“One might almost think you sincere,” remarked the Marquess in disinterested tones, “but I will not again be so deceived. Do you think to hold out for marriage? You’ll have few offers of that sort when the truth becomes known.”
“And you will see that it does!” Tears of frustration ran down Maddy’s cheeks. “I swear I will repay you for this, if it takes to my dying day.” She fled blindly toward the doorway, and straight into the Earl’s arms. Micah was not one to leave uncomforted a damsel in distress, and merely directed a quizzical glance at Lionel before applying himself to this task.
“Ah,” murmured the Marquess. “I begin to understand.”
Chapter Twelve
The day had not had an auspicious beginning. Puggins and Eunice Scattergood had found yet another matter upon which to disagree, for Eunice considered the Duke of Abercorn a perfect gentleman and had taken heated exception to the housekeeper’s condemnation of his grace as an interfering upstart. Tilda had done her best to soothe the resultant ruffled tempers, but Puggins had succumbed to a rare prophetic mood. Having boiled an egg in its shell, she then proceeded to splatter the yolk onto a piece of paper. Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson watched this odd proceeding with amused fascination, but Eunice expressed strong disapproval of such wanton waste. This emotion strengthened to heated indignation when Puggins warned her mistress to beware of a false friend. The two combatants were not, as yet, on speaking terms.
Tilda glanced discreetly about before lifting the skirts of her pea-green muslin gown to climb the fence that separated her estate from the Earl’s land. On the other side of her property lay the famous Chateau de Ledoux, residence of the reclusive Comte, a gentleman with whom Tilda had twice been privileged to converse. Tilda wondered if Maddy meant to call upon her uncle, though by accounts the families were estranged.
It was not the beauty of the day, or the peaceful solitude of the woods, that had led her to this early-morning stroll, but her brother’s disruptive presence in her home. Bevis was as unyielding as stone, and he had declared that he would have no peace until he saw her safely wed. And Bevis was a great admirer of the worthy Timothy, who had no sooner learned that Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson had left London than he, too, had returned home. Tilda suspected she knew what fate had in store for her, and she had been drifting toward that particular destiny for the past year, but she did not care to have the decision taken out of her hands.
The sound of feminine laughter interrupted this melancholy reverie. Though she was feeling quite exhausted by her brother’s forcefulness, Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson’s curiosity suffered no restraint. She walked slowly toward the superb gardens that lay behind the Hall, and found Clemence seated beneath a tree. Kenelm Jellicoe reclined beside her, his head pillowed in her lap. This romantic picture was no whit marred by the young man’s extreme pallor or the fact that his right arm was in a sling.
“Only fancy!” called Clem, discomposed neither by this intrusion nor by being caught shirking her duties. “Kenelm has been set upon by highwaymen!”
Kenelm sat up, with some difficulty. “I thought we had agreed not to speak of that.” He frowned at Tilda. “The Duchess has been told I suffered a fall from a horse. We did not wish to cause her unnecessary distress.”
Tilda’s hands, as she raised them to her curls, were cold. “There was more to it than simple robbery?”
Kenelm’s laugh was humorless. “Theft was not their purpose, ma’am. I marv
el at my continued survival, for all the mishaps that plague me! These were no common highwaymen, but hired cutthroats whose sole purpose, I believe, was to dispose of me.”
Tilda seated herself abruptly. “But why?”
“That,” Kenelm said, with an adoring glance at Clem, “is precisely what we have been asking ourselves.”
“And Kenelm vanquished them!” Clem added, in tones of awe. It was clear that Kenelm had risen even higher in her opinion, no inconsiderable feat. It was equally clear, from the young lady’s disheveled appearance, that the conversation had not proceeded at a rapid pace.
“I was angry.” Kenelm did not appear to consider that he had done anything remarkable. “Unfortunately, the rascals got away. I would have given much to question one of them.”
“But who could possibly bear you such malice?” Tilda asked reasonably. “Who would benefit from your death?”
“There you have it.” Kenelm wore a thoughtful look. “I can think of no one.”
“And your sister?” asked Tilda, aware that the young man meant to volunteer no more information along those lines. “Was she with you when this occurred?”
Kenelm shook his head. “Alathea is safely in Bath, where I trust she will not be allowed to make a Jack-pudding of herself! It was on my return from there that I was beset.”
“Yet he came here straightaway,” Clemence interrupted, with a doting look. “Despite his mama’s protests!”
Tilda was amused by this blatant adoration, and wondered how it felt to suffer such besottedness. These two young people seemed in charity with the entire world. “Your mother?” she offered politely. “I trust you left her well?”
“I left her,” retorted Kenelm, “in the midst of a spasm, with the Duchess of Marlborough’s entire household in expectation of her imminent demise, which was to be laid at my doorstep.” He grinned. “But I don’t doubt the Duchess will soon have her in hand.”
A Banbury Tale Page 17