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Authors: Joan Smith

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A Christmas Gambol (17 page)

BOOK: A Christmas Gambol
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It was another elaborate evening. Two dozen guests had been scraped together at the last minute. The French chef had been busy with his minions, creating a menu fit for Lucullus. An orchestra was hired. Morland had spent some time in his library searching out titles that might make an excuse to lure Cicely into that room for a little flirtation. No harm in it. He was a gentleman, and she wasn’t a deb, after all. A dashed bluestocking. Up to every rig and racket in town.

Cicely wore again the rose gown with Anne’s diamonds. As a courtesy to the duke, she brought along the peacock fan. The mansion on Grosvenor Square was as elaborate and overadorned as she expected. From the exterior, it resembled St. Paul’s, with a huge dome on top. Inside, a bevy of liveried footmen and maids in frilled aprons scuttled about the vast marble expanse of hallway. Three huge half-circle arches of green Galway marble led into the saloon. They were surrounded by dark, soaring walls of carved teak. Numberless lamps gleamed on red brocade and enough gilt to furnish a palace. And with all its finery, the house was ugly as sin. Nothing matched or harmonized with anything else. The host and hostess were dwarfed by the thronelike chairs they sat in.

The first of Morland’s dinners had been an interesting novelty. During the second, Cicely became bored. There was no intelligent conversation but only an endless round of gossip and loud laughter. The food was too rich, there was too much of it, and too much wine.

By the time the meal was over, Cicely felt stifled. She longed to go out for a long walk in the fresh air, but it was impossible. The gentlemen remained behind for port until nearly ten o’clock. Cicely found herself looking to the arches, wishing Montaigne would come. Perhaps he wasn’t coming. She feared the duke would make a dash for her when the gentlemen joined the ladies and took the precaution of sitting with Debora.

The duchess was a little stiff with her. “Witherspoon tells me Dickie took you to Bedlam this afternoon,” she said.

“His Grace decided to accompany Mr. Witherspoon and myself. We had planned the outing a few days ago,” Cicely replied, hoping to make clear the duke’s coming was none of her doing. Thinking to ingratiate Debora, she asked, “Did you like the diamond brooch he bought you?”

Debora stared at her with bright curiosity in her amethyst eyes. “He didn’t buy me a brooch,” she said.

“Oh, dear! I’m sorry! No doubt it was to be a surprise. I shouldn’t have spoken.”

“No doubt,” Debora said in icy accents. Then she rose and went to sit with Lady Varley.

When the gentlemen finally came, the duke headed straight for Cicely. She was uncomfortably aware of those violet eyes staring at her accusingly from across the room.

“It is to be a waltzing party,” he said. “Just an informal little do. No need to bother with cotillions and minuets. We shall have the first waltz, Sissie.”

“I think you should have the first set with your wife,” she said.

He laughed merrily. “Deb wouldn’t thank me for that. She’ll stand up with young Weatherspoon, her new flirt. Not the thing for a gentleman to hang on his wife’s skirt tails, Sis. Look a dashed quiz. We shall have the first set.” He had spent the afternoon in Witherspoon’s company but hadn’t bothered to learn his name.

As Fairly was leading some lady other than Meg to the ballroom, Cicely assumed this was another London custom and went along with Morland. He was an exuberant waltzer, if not a particularly good one. He swooped and whirled and cavorted about the ballroom, arms driving up and down like a pump handle, coattails flying. Fortunately the room was large and the dancers few, so that he didn’t capsize anyone.

When Montaigne stepped in at ten-thirty, the first thing he saw was Morland swooping about like an inebriated swallow, while Cicely held on for dear life. When she looked up and spotted Montaigne, she made a pleading face. His bad humor faded to be replaced by amusement. He would let her suffer! And besides, it would look odd for him to cut in. As soon as the set ended, he went to her rescue.

“Ah, Monty!” Morland said. “What kept you? You missed a dandy dinner. The
côtelettes de mouton à l
a
française
were rather special, if I do say so myself, eh, Sissie? I daresay you was sunk to one of those wretched beefsteaks at your club.”

Morland didn’t wait for a reply but rattled on with other features of the menu until the music resumed, and Montaigne swept Cicely into his arms.

 

Chapter Sixteen

 

“I see I was greatly missed by Morland. Did
you
miss me?” he asked, glinting a curiously intimate smile at her.

“Wretchedly! I am beginning to have grave doubts about this house party at Hastings. It is to last nearly a week. I shan’t be able to get into my gowns by the time it is over.”

Montaigne was in good spirits to hear the duke’s overpowering style was beginning to pall on Cicely. “You can hide your avoirdupois under a fur-lined pelisse,” he said playfully.

“I wish I had it now, and I’d go out for a walk. I know how a Strasbourg goose feels.”

Montaigne’s easy glide about the floor was a pleasant change from Morland’s erratic flight. His conversation was also a relief from the inanity that had preceded it. He asked how Cicely’s busy day had gone. He heard a sensible account of her two working visits and an amusing recital of the trip to Bedlam. Yet he was aware of the genuine concern lurking beneath her tale of Morland’s antics at Bedlam.

He was especially gratified when Cicely asked him what he had been doing at Whitehall. Ladies didn’t usually take any interest in politics. He waited until the set was over, then led her to the refreshment parlor and told her of the latest political imbroglio.

“That loose screw, Czar Alexander of Russia, has fallen prey to a mystic, Madame Krüdener, and is trying to bind Europe in a Holy Alliance. It is more a profession of faith than a political document. Something to the effect that the nations have no other sovereign but God. It recommends that the people fortify themselves to practice the duties Christianity enjoins on them. Meaningless verbiage that wouldn’t stand up a minute once a shot was fired. The simpleminded king of Prussia and others are going along with it.

“Since our king is hors de combat, the matter has fallen into Prinny’s incapable hands. Our constitutional government prevents him from committing England to such an alliance without the consent of Parliament—thank God. We are hoping the thing does go to Parliament. We would have a heyday with it, but of course that wily devil Castlereagh will wiggle out of it somehow. Perhaps have Prinny write a personal letter of approval that falls short of a formal agreement.”

“Is that the way you spend your days? Here I pictured you making sensible laws for our welfare.”

“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?”

BOOK: A Christmas Gambol
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