Amanda McCabe (8 page)

They
were
rather amusing, he had to admit. He almost laughed aloud at Angela’s revisions of their checkered childhood histories.

“Yes, it was so amusing!” she was saying about the trout incident. She sighed as if in wistful nostalgia. “Father always did say that if he had been so fortunate as to have a son, he would have wanted him to be like you, Marcus. Did you not, Father?” Her voice rose sharply to get her father’s attention.

“Eh?” The marquess looked up, startled, from his berry tart. “Oh, yes, of course, my dove.”

“Yes,” Angela continued. “Father always has been so fond of you, just as your
dear
mother was always saying how fond she was of me. I do believe she quite missed not having a daughter.”

The only thing Marcus could recall his mother ever saying about Lady Angela was how useful it could be to have the Fleming lands attached to those of the Hadleys’. But she
had
been quite fond of that idea, so Marcus said, “Mother spoke very highly of you.”

Angela smiled like the proverbial cat who swallowed the cream and patted at her smooth hair. “Such a dear woman she was. The Harvest Fete has not been at all the same since she left us.”

“But Lady Edgemere has always done a grand job with the Fete at Edgemere Park,” Julia said quietly.

Angela looked at Julia sharply, as if surprised she was still there. “Well, yes, of course she has. But they have not been the same since the days they were held here at dear Rosemount.” Angela sighed deeply again. “You were not in residence when the Fete was held here, Miss Barclay, but I am sure Marcus remembers those glorious days.”

Marcus did remember the annual Harvest Fete. It was one of his most cherished memories of childhood, because it was the only time of year when his mother was too busy to scold him, or admonish him to behave like a proper little viscount.

The Harvest Fete had grown out of a medieval market that had once been in Little Dipping, and during the day of the Fete even the farmers and tenants were allowed into the gardens of Rosemount. There were tables and booths set up where they could buy fresh bread and cakes, roasted ears of sweet corn, or giant skewers of beef and vegetables. There were performers of all sorts, singers and jugglers. Above all, there was laughter and conversation. The hard work of the harvest was ended, and winter had yet to set in its icy hand.

At night there was a grand ball for the gentry. When Marcus had been on his wanderings, that was how he most often pictured Rosemount in his mind—lit up and glittering for a Harvest Fete ball.

“Certainly I remember the Harvest Fete,” he said quietly. “So it is being held at Edgemere Park now?”

“Yes, but I hear that Lady Edgemere has said she does not want the bother of it anymore. I plan to offer to host it at Belvoir Abbey,” Angela replied. “Father is so excited to host the Fete, are you not, Father?”

The marquess nodded around his mouthful of seedcake. “Whatever makes my dove happy.”

Marcus somehow could not envision the merry Fete in the stark environs of Belvoir Abbey, with Angela to carefully orchestrate every moment until all the fun was gone from it. “I shall look forward to it,” he lied.

“It will be coming up very soon,” said Angela. “I must call on Lady Edgemere, to begin making the arrangements. It is the tradition for the last person who hosted the Fete to choose the new host, you know. But listen to me going on about the Fete, when the reason we came to call is to invite you to a party at the Abbey tomorrow evening.”

“That is very kind of you,” Marcus began, “but as I have only just arrived home again—”

Angela interrupted him with an airy wave of her hand. “Oh, it is not a ball or anything grand! It is only supper and cards with a few friends. Everyone is so eager to welcome you back, Marcus!” Her smiled dimmed as she looked at Julia. “You must come, too, of course, Miss Barclay.”

“Of course,” Julia murmured.

Marcus looked at Julia inquiringly. She merely raised her brow at him, as if to say, “
I
am not your social secretary. You must make up your own mind about the invitation.”

He looked back at Lady Angela, who watched him expectantly. “We would be happy to attend, Lady Angela,” he answered her. “Thank you for the invitation.”

At that moment, the drawing room door was flung open, and the giant butler strode into the room.

“The cook has sent a special creation, my lord, in honor of your guests,” he boomed. “I present the grand finale of the refreshments!”

Marcus half rose from his chair in alarm. He had no idea what was coming next, but he did know that whatever it was he ought to stop it.

Before he could do anything, the two footmen in their doublets and hose entered, bearing between them a large crystal bowl of what looked like frothy syllabub. They struck a dramatic pose next to the settee where the Flemings sat.

The butler strode over to the fireplace and lit the tip of a piece of kindling. Then he came back to where the footmen posed with the bowl.

“Et voila!”
he cried dramatically, and touched the flame to the syllabub.

It ignited in a great “whoosh,” causing Lady Angela to scream and leap to her feet.

As she did so, she jostled the arm of one of the footmen. He lost his balance and fell to the floor, dropping his end of the heavy bowl.

The sloshing liquid extinguished the fire, but a tidal wave of cream and port and lemon juice splashed all across Lady Angela’s fashionable riding habit.

She gave a great wail and screamed out some very naughty words indeed. Something about cutting off the footmen’s noses and feeding them to her horse.

***

With the Flemings gone at last, Julia crept up to her room and threw herself across her bed, rumpling the skirt of her mother’s fine gown. Her head ached abominably, and she swore that she would retch if she had to drink another cup of tea—or syllabub—ever again.

The thought of a wretched evening with those people at their own home filled her with dread. She could have declined, of course, and probably should have after that disgraceful scene. But that seemed like conceding defeat. Defeat in what battle Julia was not sure, but defeat nonetheless.

She refused to wave the white flag to Lady Angela. She might have to leave Rosemount soon, but she would not do it like some whipped puppy, shrinking away quietly. Well, not so quietly after the Syllabub Incident of today, which would surely supplant the Punch Incident in local folklore. By Jove, people might remember her as a clumsy ox, but they would remember her!

And she would make Marcus remember her, too. Then, some day, when he was shackled to Lady Angela and had ten bratty children, he would be sorry he let her go.

Julia sat up in the middle of the bed and reached up to free her hair from the pins that were gouging into her scalp. Whatever was she thinking, vowing to make Marcus remember her? Was she in love with him, then?

Perhaps she was, she admitted to herself. Just a tiny bit.

That was probably why she felt so jealous of silly Lady Angela, and why she felt such a wicked satisfaction at that ugly scene in the drawing room.

Julia giggled at the memory of Lady Angela covered in sticky syllabub, screaming like an Irish banshee while Abelard and Marcus ran about looking for towels. John and Ned had fled the room at the first opportunity, the cowards. They probably thought Lady Angela truly meant to feed their noses to her horse. And maybe she did, at that.

Julia laughed even harder to recall how the marquess had surreptitiously scraped some fluffy cream off his daughter’s skirt and plopped it in his mouth.

She fell back to her pillows again, tears of helpless mirth streaming down her cheeks. She kicked her heels in the velvet counterpane, and laughed and laughed.

Her stream of amusement was soon interrupted by a knock at her door. She sat up, wiping at her streaming eyes. “C-come in,” she called.

It was her maid, Elly, looking rather like a frightened kitten. “Beg . . . begging your pardon, miss, but his lordship would like to see you in the library. At your convenience. But his lordship did make sure to mention that your convenience had best be soon.”

So, it was time to pay the piper, was it? Well, Julia was willing to do so. He had played her such a merry tune this afternoon.

“I suppose the Flemings really are gone, then?” she said. She had stood on the front steps and watched them leave the house, but she thought it best to be sure.

Elly nodded silently, wide-eyed.

“And I suppose you heard the commotion in the drawing room?” How could anyone have failed to hear it? Lady Angela’s invective had been quite loud enough to rise even to the attics.

Elly nodded again.

Julia had to struggle not to break into laughter again. Instead, she looked down at her dress and saw that rolling around in mirth had caused it to become quite wrinkled.

“Help me to change my gown, Elly,” she said. “Then I suppose I must go down to speak to his lordship.”

***

Marcus could not recall ever having such a splitting headache before.

He sat down at his desk in the library and buried his head in his hands. The house seemed to echo with silence after Lady Angela’s storm of wrath.

Marcus thought he could safely say that nothing like that wild scene had ever been enacted in Rosemount’s drawing room before. In his mother’s day, such a thing would have been utterly unthinkable. Servants had always been orderly and unobtrusive under her sharp gaze. Guests had always departed unmolested, with their attire immaculately intact.

No doubt word of this debacle would soon spread throughout the neighborhood. Though Lady Angela had appeared mollified by his charming and effusive apologies before she left, he had seen the simmering anger in her pale blue eyes.

He should be angry, himself. He should be livid that the gracious rooms of Rosemount had been turned into a music hall spectacle. He should be furious with the servants, and with Julia, who had been frozen with shock at the scene, gaping at the screaming Lady Angela with wide eyes and unable to do anything to help.

He
should
be angry. But somehow he was not.

In fact, he had never been so diverted in all his life.

Marcus broke into laughter, and not just polite little chuckles. Great waves of mirth seemed to swell up from his chest and burst out in a tide of snorts and guffaws. He laughed until his ribs ached, until his cheeks cracked. He laughed until he had to lower his head to the desk and gasp for breath.

No comedy on the stage, no matter how brilliant, could ever be funnier than the vision of the elegant Lady Angela covered in sticky syllabub, shrieking like a fishwife while her father scraped the cream off her skirt.

It
was
true that Marcus was vaguely considering making an offer for Lady Angela. She was, after all, quite suitable, and his mother would have approved. As a potential future Lady Ellston, then, he should have the respect not to laugh at her in her darkest hour. But he could not help himself. Even now he could feel another bubble of laughter rising up at the memory.

Then there was a soft knock at the door.

Marcus sat straight up and made a concerted effort to arrange his face in suitably severe lines. He straightened his rumpled cravat and pushed his hair back from his brow.

“Enter,” he called.

Julia came into the room, her steps slow and her eyes downcast. A faint blush stained her cheeks, causing her freckles to stand out in golden relief. She had changed her silk gown for one of simple sprigged muslin, and her hair was once again twisted back in its usual knot at the nape of her neck.

She came to a halt several feet away from the desk. “You wished to see me?” she said.

“Yes. Please, do sit down, Julia,” he answered, gesturing toward the chair across from him.

She sat down with obvious reluctance and carefully smoothed her skirt, still not looking directly at him. “I suppose you wish to discuss the, er, incident in the drawing room.”

“An intelligent deduction,” he said, steepling his fingers and bringing their tips to his lips to hide his grin. “It
is
the thing preying most on my mind at the moment.”

She did look at him then, her hazel eyes wide. “It was not the fault of the servants! There is no need to sack them. It was I who asked that the syllabub be served.”

She seemed quite desperate to get her point across. She leaned forward in her chair, and her fingers pleated nervously at the cloth of her skirt.

“Did you also ask that it be set alight?” he said.

“N-no. I did not even know that syllabub
could
be set alight.”

“And did you ask that it be spilled on Lady Angela?”

“Of course not.”

Marcus lowered his hands, folding them on the desk. “Julia, I think that we need to have an overdue discussion about the household staff.”

Julia bit her lip. “The staff?”

“Yes. Was your mother perhaps running some sort of charity home for out-of-work actors?”

“Actors? Whatever gave you that idea?”

Marcus shrugged and sat back in his chair to watch, fascinated, as her blush deepened. “I do not know. They just seem to have a rather . . . dramatic bent.”

Julia shook her head. “No. The staff is highly professional.”
Not out of work at all
. “My mother had the highest esteem for them. I know that they may seem a bit eccentric on occasion . . .”

“On occasion!”

“But the meals are on time, the fires are lit, and the furniture is dusted. Are they not?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Then there is no difficulty. I
do
apologize for what happened to Lady Angela, and I will send her a note telling her so.”

“That would be very good of you. I have already offered to pay for a replacement riding habit.”

Julia’s eyes, so wide before, narrowed. “Oh, did you? That was . . . generous.”

Marcus smiled. “Perhaps it is not strictly proper, of course, but it seemed the only polite thing to do, after hers was ruined in my own drawing room.”

“Polite, indeed,” Julia murmured. “Well, if that was all you wanted to speak to me about . . .”