A Magnificent Match (25 page)

The gentlemen looked prepared to come to blows, a state that highly entertained the spectators. Megan could not bear any more. All she wanted to do was to go home and the two great idiots stood faced off to one another with mayhem on their minds. “How I should like a cup of hot strong tea,” she said longingly.

“And you shall have it,” said Mrs. Tyler firmly. She graciously bid Mr. Bretton good-bye, giving her hand to him briefly. Then she turned. “Miss Stallcroft, we shall be delighted to ride in your carriage.”

Prince Kirov and Captain O’Connell turned as one, their enmity forgotten.

Miss Phoebe waved in a friendly way at her former escort. “Captain O’Connell, I enjoyed the afternoon very much. I am sorry that I cannot offer you a place in my carriage just now. However, I am persuaded that Prince Kirov shall not mind in the least in giving you a lift back into town.”

“Here now!” exclaimed Captain O’Connell, starting forward. “Megan, you are going back to town with me.”

“No, she is not, Colin,” said Mrs. Tyler with finality. She bestowed a frosty nod on Prince Kirov and Captain O’Connell. Then she and Phoebe Stallcroft ranged themselves on either side of Megan and walked off with her.

Prince Kirov stared after the departing trio. “This is not to be borne.”

“You’re right, there,” agreed Captain O’Connell. “We have been shabbily treated, indeed.”

“That is the ladies for you, gentlemen,” said Mr. Bretton, amused. “When they draw up ranks, it is odd’s-time for us.”

Prince Kirov shrugged. He slapped the other men on the shoulders, staggering them. “Ah, well! Such is life. There is my carriage. Let us go into the village to the inn. I thirst for ale. We will eat and drink together, my friends!”

Lady O’Connell sulked. Her ladyship’s displeasure was centered upon Megan’s social ascendancy. Her sense of self was offended. She could not bear that first her daughter-in-law, and now her own daughter, were garnering as much, if not more, attention than she was herself.

“It is utterly incomprehensible to me! I feel as though I have had the rug jerked out from under my feet. Not once does a day go by that someone does not say something to me about Sophronia or yourself, Megan!” lamented Lady O’Connell. “I am going distracted, for you must know that I am unused to these scores of completely negligible gentlemen beating at my door. I have actually been forced—
-forced—
to deny certain ones entrance. It is too fatiguing by half!”

“It is a great deal too bad, indeed. Mother,” said Mr. O’Connell with a censorious glance at his unrepentant sister. “You have no consideration at all, Megan. I do not mind telling you that I am surprised. You were not used to be so forward or disobliging at home.”

“Perhaps you should move up your departure date, Lionel,” suggested Megan cordially.

Her brother flushed and opened his mouth. But Lady O’Connell forestalled whatever he was about to say. “Megan! How can you, when you know that Lionel has been so hardily afflicted by Sophronia’s shameful conduct!” exclaimed Lady O’Connell.

“Pray, Mother!” began Mr. O’Connell, throwing a glance of warning at his parent. Though the family, such as it was, was dining informally at home that evening, there were servants serving them at table. It was no wish of his to air his concerns before the entire household.

Lady O’Connell rushed on, unheeding of her son’s ill-concealed discomfiture. “When I think of that minx getting up to all of her tricks, it is enough to give me palpitations! She denied Lionel’s right to stay at the town house, if you please! And now she is sending him back to Ireland without even a blush of shame! My poor Lionel! Sometimes I think that I should not have written to you at all, so that you could have been spared all this humiliation and trouble.”

Without a word, his expression stiff, Mr. O’Connell put down his napkin and left the table. The footman rushed to open the door of the dining room for him.

“Poor Lionel, indeed,” murmured Megan.

Her brother’s circumstances appeared to have come to a final and depressing conclusion. Megan was convinced of it the next day when her sister-in-law called at the town house. Megan quickly entered the drawing room. She was concerned, for she knew that Sophronia had refused to set foot in Lady O’Connell’s residence for several months. Only something of grave proportions could have brought her sister-in-law there that morning. She shut the door. “Sophronia!”

Mrs. O’Connell turned. Her face was very pale. “Megan, I had to come!”

Megan met her outstretched hands and clasped them. “Oh, Sophronia, I am so very sorry! Naturally you are upset and—”

Mrs. O’Connell looked taken aback. “What?”

“Why, about sending Lionel back alone to Ireland. Isn’t that why you came?” asked Megan, bewildered by the queer expression on her sister-in-law’s face.

“No, no! Lionel and I have come to an agreement. I shall be going back to Ireland at the end of the Season for a trial period. That is why Lionel is leaving,” said Mrs. O’Connell. She squeezed Megan’s hands. “You thought that— My poor dear! You have not heard, then!”

“What, Sophronia?” Megan’s heart began to beat faster. There was such a look of pity in her sister-in-law’s gaze that she began to feel fright. “What have I not heard?”

“There has been a duel fought over you, Megan. One man was wounded. I do not yet know how badly. But Prince Kirov was one of the principals,” said Mrs. O’Connell baldly.

Megan felt the blood drain from her face. “Then he might be hurt? Oh, dear God! I must go to him at once!” She started to turn toward the door.

Mrs. O’Connell caught her back. “No, Megan! That is just what you must not do! That is why I came to warn you. It would be fatal for you to show any knowledge of the affair at all. You would plunge all of us into terrible scandal. You must let me find out for you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, yes, of course! I shall do just as you say,” said Megan, passing a hand over her eyes. “I will wait here for your message, Sophronia.”

“Then I shall be off at once. One or two of my friends might know more, and as soon as I can, I shall send word,” said Mrs. O’Connell. She suddenly reached out and embraced Megan. “He will be all right, my dear. I know it!”

“Pray do not fail me, Sophronia!” whispered Megan. “I do not think that I could stand it otherwise.” She let Mrs. O’Connell go and watched that lady hurry out.

Megan informed Mrs. Tyler of what she had been told and Mrs. Tyler was equally horrified. “I shall stay at home today with you, Megan. After that terrible experience at the balloon ascension yesterday, you will not wish to keep such a vigil alone. No, do not protest! My mind is quite made up,” said Mrs. Tyler firmly. “Oh, my dear! I am certain that Sophronia will let us know as soon as she is able.”

However, it was not Mrs. O’Connell who informed Megan of the truth of the affair, but Prince Kirov himself. When the prince was ushered into the drawing room, Megan flew up out of her chair and ran to him with a glad cry. “Misha!”

Mrs. Tyler quietly picked up her embroidery and exited the room, leaving the two locked in embrace.

Megan stepped back suddenly, hurriedly inspecting him. “But you are not hurt? Oh, thank God! I have been beside myself with anxiety.”

“I was never in danger, my dove. It was not I, but that foolish young poet, Milfred, who threw down the challenge. You recall, of course, that sonnet he wrote to your eyes,” said Prince Kirov. “I was merely privileged to act as his second.”

“Privileged?” gasped Megan. “Mikhail, that is the stupidest word I have ever heard! What happened, pray? Was—was anyone killed?”

“No, of course not! My man Milfred was wounded, but it is only a scratch. As for his opponent, he came off unscathed,” said Prince Kirov. He frowned thoughtfully. “It was rather a tame affair, as such things go. I had expected more, but there was more passion than courage when all was said and done.”

“How can you speak about it so calmly?” demanded Megan.

“How else should I speak?” asked Prince Kirov, slightly puzzled.

“Oh, you are impossible! Mikhail, Sophronia told me that this duel was fought over me. Is that true?” asked Megan.

“It was over the color of your eyes,” corrected Prince Kirov. Megan stared at him, completely bereft of speech. He saw that more explanation was needed. “Young Milfred’s sonnet was ridiculed, you see. It was said that he had not got the color of your eyes down correctly. Milfred flew into a frenzy and tossed a glass of wine into the man’s face. After that, there was no question, of course.”

“Couldn’t you have done something? Why did you not put a stop to it?” asked Megan.

“But how could I do so? It was a question of honor,” said Prince Kirov reasonably.

“Oh, honor!” exclaimed Megan. “Someone could have been killed! Why did they not simply apply to me if they could not decide what color my eyes are? I certainly could have told them!”

“That is not the way of gentlemen,” said Prince Kirov with dignity. “We do not involve ladies in our disputes.”

Megan virtually snorted and flounced out of the room.

When news of the duel became public, Lady O’Connell was appalled. She could scarcely believe that her daughter had suddenly become so notorious. It was unthinkable that Megan was actually the cause of a duel.

Lady O’Connell could no longer take the comments and the inquiries that she had been receiving about her daughter. Even her closest friends and acquaintances were beginning to ripple with catty laughter and declare themselves deliciously scandalized by Miss O’Connell’s wide progress.

One of Lady O’Connell’s oldest and dearest friends took her aside once news of the duel had broken and gave her ladyship a piece of advice. “It is obvious, Agatha. You cannot control her. You must take drastic measures,” said the dame.

“But what can I do?” Lady O’Connell almost wailed. “I have tried everything. I have talked to Megan until I am blue in the face. I have spoken to my cousin, Mrs. Tyler, who is her companion. Nothing has been of the least use!”

“If I were you, I would send a packet off to Lord O’Connell this very day,” said the dame.

Lady O’Connell immediately rejected the suggestion. “His lordship would not be pleased to be bothered. Besides which, I do not think that he would bestir himself in the least.”

“If you do not do something, and quickly, then your own reputation and name will be dragged under the same harsh scrutiny as Miss O’Connell’s,” said the dame. “You are her mother. Ultimately her manner must reflect upon you!”

When her free-spoken friend had left her, Lady O’Connell was left in a state of high anxiety. She did not know what to do. Her daughter had metamorphosed into some sort of society monster, becoming talked about and recognized and feted and pointed out to no little degree. If it was not so terrible, she would have been jealous of Megan’s meteoric rise. As it was, however, Megan was hurtling toward destruction. Up to this point, Lady O’Connell had only been able to stand by and shudder.

Now her own social rank was said to be teetering on the brink of disaster. The specter, once raised, could not be forgotten. Lady O’Connell fretted far more about her own preservation in a few hours than she had done on her daughter’s behalf in weeks.

Lady O’Connell finally did as her friend had suggested. She penned an urgent, if somewhat incoherent, letter to her spouse and sent it off immediately. She hoped that his lordship, if he chose to act at all, would be able to rein in their suddenly uncontrollable daughter.

Lord O’Connell arrived in London on a gray day late in May. It was raining heavily when he was ushered into the town house. He was soaked between the carriage and the door and the butler immediately put out orders that a fire be made up in the master’s bedroom. Lord O’Connell had never slept in the largest bedroom in the town house before, but it was still the master’s bedroom and kept prepared for him always.

Lord O’Connell was ushered upstairs by the butler, followed by his lordship’s valet. The first order of business was to make his lordship comfortable. Perhaps then the thunderous expression on his lordship’s face would ease.

Lady O’Connell had the first intuition that her lord had arrived when she languidly made her way downstairs for luncheon and walked into the drawing room to find him sitting beside the fire, reading the London papers. “Oh!”

Lord O’Connell lowered the newspaper. His expression had scarcely changed from the time of his arrival. When he saw his wife, his frown deepened. He tossed aside the papers, demanding, “What is this farrago of nonsense, pray? You have got me to London on some hum, I daresay.”

He had been reluctant to leave his horses. He had scarce interest in anything beyond his beloved racing stables and so he was not in any good humor. No amount of good brandy or a change into dry raiment could alter his disgruntlement.

“I told you all in my letter, my lord. Megan has become impossible,” said Lady O’Connell. “She has made herself a byword, a scandal, a—a scapegrace!”

“Nonsense. Megan is a good, steady girl. I have never had the least trouble in managing her,” said Lord O’Connell irritably. “She knows her place and her duty well enough.”

“That is what I thought until this Season,” said Lady O’Connell bitterly. “It is worse than with Sophronia. At least Sophronia did not do such outrageous things, nor encourage every jackanapes in town! You would not believe me even if I told you, my lord, of the—the
riffraff
that I have been forced to give the office. Then there was that horrible balloon ascension when Megan fell out of the basket. She was dangling from a rope, her skirts blowing every which way in the wind while a crowd of commoners stood gawking up at her! I was never more humiliated.”

“What is there in all that to dash off a damned queer letter to me?” demanded Lord O’Connell. “You are her mother. It is your responsibility to properly chaperone your daughter. Get the girl married off. That will settle the dust quick enough.”

Lady O’Connell burst into flame. Her ample bosom heaved in outraged injury. “My daughter, sir? Megan is
your
daughter, for I wash my hands of her!”