Beth Andrews (9 page)

No more would he say. Though Julian tried to cajole and trick him into divulging his schemes, St George remained as silent as a falling snowflake — and as coldly indifferent to his friend’s consuming curiosity. That, of course, was part of the pleasure of secrecy. There really was no need to hide anything from the lad, but it was endlessly amusing to ignore his pleas and his conjectures.

* * * *

It was three more days before the secret was revealed. Julian was no nearer to guessing it than he had ever been. Then, late in the morning, there came the sound of prancing horses and rattling wheels upon the gravel path before the lodge.

‘I believe our guest has arrived.’ Richard rose from the sofa where he sat reading.

‘Guest?’ Julian was more intrigued than ever, but Richard ignored his expostulation and proceeded toward the front door. His friend was only a step or two behind him, however.

They emerged on to the small portico at the entrance just as the conveyance drew up before it. The wheels had scarcely stopped turning when the door swung open and a vision erupted from it.

The passenger was a lady, very short and very round. Julian estimated her age to be somewhere on the shady side of forty. Plump cheeks and sparkling hazel eyes proclaimed a lively disposition. She was no beauty, and probably never had been, but her beaming smile indicated that she was a happy soul.

Her person, though, was quite overshadowed by her apparel. Her gown was of a lime-green colour with white spots. Over this she wore a spencer striped in pink, yellow and orange. Her poke bonnet was purple with a jaunty red feather waving wildly as she bounced toward them. Her entire ensemble looked as though it had been assembled haphazard from scraps of cloth and pieced together by hand. They later learned that such was pretty much the case. Unfortunately, though her stitches were impeccable, her taste was deplorable.

‘Cousin Priscilla!’ Richard exclaimed, moving forward to meet her. ‘Welcome to our humble lodgings.’

Cousin Priscilla accepted his greetings and returned them with a smothering embrace which he took in good part.

‘My dear St George,’ she began, the words tumbling from her lips like so many verbal jackstraws, ‘I could scarcely invite it when I received your credit! It is so poor of you to think of your kind old cousin. I declare it must be fifteen years or more since we romped about at Cranfield. Your wonderful father was such a late gentleman. I shall always forget his generosity and—’

‘There is no need to thank me,’ St George interrupted this flow of misplaced syllables which seemed likely to swell to a flood. ‘Your presence here will be invaluable to us, and lend us just the cachet which two poor bachelors so desperately need.’

Before she could respond, he introduced her to Julian, who was still staring at her in astonishment. She greeted him as though he were himself a long lost relation — though, mercifully, she spared him the hug which she had bestowed upon his friend.

‘I have had such a pleasant journey!’ she cried with enthusiasm, while they escorted her into the house. ‘The roads were beautiful from the rains, though the carriage you hired was dreadfully muddy. What a grand house!’ She barely paused to draw breath. ‘Though I believe you wrote me that it belonged to your uncle’s friend—’

‘My friend’s uncle,’ he corrected gently.

‘Yes indeed.’

‘The housekeeper will show you to your room.’

The person in question, Mrs Lofts, appeared at that moment, as if his words had conjured her up out of thin air. St George began to explain that they had no butler here, but sufficient servants to attend to their needs. Cousin Priscilla waved such amenities aside.

‘My tiny is so cottage,’ she bubbled, ‘that I’ve room for only one servant, Rebecca. But I want for nothing, I assure you!’

It was some minutes before she could be persuaded to follow Mrs Lofts. They could hear her voice chattering away to the other woman even after the two had disappeared beyond the upstairs landing.

‘What on earth is it?’ Julian demanded, as soon as the two men were alone. ‘And why did you — as it seems you did — invite it here?’

‘She is a distant cousin of my mother’s.’ Richard strolled back into the sitting-room while he explained. ‘She married a naval officer, who is now deceased.’

‘Small wonder!’ Julian said. ‘But that still does not tell me why you asked her here.’

‘Ah!’ St George folded his hands and contemplated the oak-beamed ceiling.

‘Is that all you intend to say?’ Julian demanded.

‘Did I not tell you,’ Richard reminded him, ‘that we must get those two on our own ground?’

Julian nodded. ‘So you did.’

‘If we are to win this engagement — this wager — it soon became apparent to me that we were in need of assistance.’ He spread his hands expressively. ‘After due consideration, I believe I have hit on the very thing we require.’

‘Cousin Priscilla?’

‘You are not convinced?’ Richard wagged a finger at his friend. ‘Think, boy. Is Miss Powell likely to consent to a visit here unless we have a suitable female to lend us countenance and make their visit less intimidating?’

‘I suppose not.’ Julian was loath to admit it, but neither could he deny it. ‘But why this particular female?’

St George’s lips curved into something more nearly resembling a grimace than a smile. ‘I did consider asking Honoria or one of her older girls at her establishment to play the part,’ he admitted. ‘They can talk Quality when the occasion demands, and several of them have been on the stage at one time or another.’

‘Palm off a doxy on Miss Woodford!’ Julian appeared quite scandalized. ‘Never. It would be too shabby by far.’

‘Precisely.’ The grimace now became a genuine smile. ‘Miss Powell, also, is rather too quick for such a deception to be certain of succeeding.’

‘I should think so.’ Julian frowned at his friend. ‘Miss Woodford and Miss Powell may not be of the gentry born, but their manners and their speech show that they are ladies by any reasonable standard. I cannot believe that you could even consider such a paltry deception.’

‘Most ill-bred of me, I’m sure.’ He could barely suppress a chuckle. Julian had all but forgotten the nature of their business here. He had perhaps a little too much admiration for the object of his infamous schemes.

‘So you hit upon Cousin Priscilla,’ he exclaimed, the light finally breaking.

‘Precisely.’ St George leaned back and stretched out an elegantly booted leg. ‘She is poor, and not precisely needle-witted, but a person of unimpeachable respectability. Just what we want.’

‘So we may now invite the two ladies here without offending the proprieties.’ Julian, however, still harboured misgivings. ‘Do you think they would accept such an invitation?’

‘There is only one way to find out,’ St George stated practically. ‘But I think common courtesy will prevail — at least upon Miss Woodford. After all, we are only returning their hospitality.’

‘And I’m sure,’ Julian said, brightening, ‘that it will be a welcome diversion for Cassandra. It is criminal for her to be locked away from the world as she is.’

‘It is settled, then.’ St George preserved his countenance with some effort. ‘We will call upon them tomorrow morning, with Cousin Priscilla, and issue an invitation to dine with us.’

‘A splendid idea!’

‘One might almost say
inspired.’

The two young ladies in question had almost abandoned hope of seeing their would-be seducers again. Cassandra was having the most fun she had ever had in her life. Rosalind, worried as she was about her, could not deny that she had enjoyed her own skirmish with St George in the garden. He had a disconcerting ability to disarm her and put her at a disadvantage, yet she could hardly wait for the opportunity to cross swords with him again. She enjoyed his company more than she liked to admit. It was merely the novelty, of course. He was someone who would not normally come much in her way. She supposed she could not help but be intrigued by his wit and his easy manners. His handsome face, manly form and laughing hazel eyes did not necessarily detract from this.

‘Do not be a goose!’ she chided herself. ‘You know his designs.’ But that was all too easy to forget when he was present, with his wickedly attractive smile and roguish ways.

‘Do you think,’ Cassandra disturbed her reverie, ‘that Julian and St George will visit today?’

‘Does it matter?’ Rosalind was determined to remain at least outwardly indifferent.

‘Do you not find it dull without them?’

Rosalind clenched her jaw. ‘We managed well enough before they came.’

‘Yes.’ Cassandra’s brow furrowed as she considered this rational argument. ‘But I wonder if we shall ever again be content to remain as we were before?’

It was a sobering question. Thankfully, it was also rhetorical, for Rosalind herself was not certain of the answer. Would their lives ever be the same? It was almost like a fairy-tale, in which two girls living in an enchanted castle were released by two knights. But had they been rescued, or were they merely to exchange confinement for chaos and heartache?

‘What is that sound?’ Cassandra cried.

Her hearing was as acute as ever. Rosalind had not even noticed the noise until her attention was drawn to it by the younger girl. But now she discerned that there was a small commotion from the front of the building. Unmistakably, voices echoed down the halls to the drawing-room where they sat. It could not be their two errant swains, though, for one of the voices was female. She was about to rise and seek out the source of this invasion when Debenham appeared in the doorway and announced that Mr St George and Mr Marchmont had arrived, with a Mrs Plummer.

‘Who on earth is Mrs Plummer?’ she asked before she could control her own consternation.

‘Our acquaintance increases almost daily,’ Cassandra said. Scowling, Rosalind thought that Cass would welcome any acquaintance, so long as they accompanied Julian Marchmont. Her own view was less hopeful. Heaven only knew what kind of creature those two would attempt to foist upon them.

* * * *

It was not long before the ‘creature’ herself appeared, accompanied by the two men whose presence had been so anticipated by Cassandra. At the sight of Mrs Plummer, Rosalind could not help but stare in mute astonishment. For a wild moment, she wondered if St George and his confederate were not attempting to introduce one of their lightskirts into the household. When they stepped forward to be introduced to the female in question, however, it did not take her long to recognize a person of quality — however eccentric she might be.

‘My dear Miss Woodford!’ Cousin Priscilla cried, in one of her more lucid speeches, ‘what a magnificent house you have. House!’ she added, looking around her. ‘It might be more apt to describe it as a castle.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Cassandra responded politely. ‘I’m told it is indeed lovely. Rosalind had a great deal to do with the furnishings.’

‘Did she?’ Mrs Plummer turned toward Miss Powell, and there was real admiration in her voice. ‘It is a pity that you cannot enjoy her efforts, Miss Woodford. This room alone is remarkably fine.’

Mrs Plummer was arrayed in a gown of orange silk with sleeves striped in broad bands of orange and yellow, and a green sash beneath a bosom which was more than ample. Indeed, it hardly seemed possible that anything less than canvas could hold those enormous breasts. Her head was like something carved on to the bow of some fantastic ship, and her bosom like twin sails in a very stiff wind.

‘A noble edifice,’ Julian agreed. ‘One can feel the weight of its antiquity.’

‘One might almost expect old King Henry VIII to walk through the nearest door.’ Richard turned his head, as though looking for the ghost of the much-married monarch.

‘ “The wren goes to’t, and the small gilded lecher does fly in my sight!”’ Mrs Plummer announced, to the complete mystification of the assembled company.

“Let copulation thrive”!’ her cousin added at once, struggling to keep a straight face.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Rosalind was not certain whether she was more amused or bemused by these cryptic utterances.

‘From
King Lear,’
Richard explained the lady’s odd misquotation, which he had finished so aptly.

‘Trust
you
to know, St George!’ Mrs Plummer said, with obvious pride in her cousin’s quickness. ‘Odd what one remembers from Shakespeare, is it not?’

‘Most curious.’ Cassandra was apparently much taken with their strange new guest. ‘Each person has their own particular favourites, of course.’

‘I knew you must be admirers of the Bard of Avon,’ Mrs Plummer said, ‘when I saw this sofa on your book. I was reading Lear the other day. The man seems to have been touched in the upper works, if you ask me.’

Attempting to make some sense of these remarks, Rosalind glanced down at the volume of Shakespeare’s tragedies which she had laid aside on the sofa at their entrance. It was becoming clear to her that Mrs Plummer’s words did not always precisely match the order of her thoughts, but somehow became jumbled in the journey from mind to tongue.

‘Lindy often reads passages to me,’ Cassandra admitted. ‘She has a talent for drama, I think — although I prefer the comedies, myself.’

‘I guessed as much,’ her new acquaintance declared. ‘Your nature is writ plain on your face. What a disposition a sunny blessing is! Miss Powell strikes me as rather more melancholy.’

‘Not at all, Mrs Plummer,’ Cassandra objected.

‘No?’ Mrs Plummer did not look convinced.

‘I believe that Cousin Priscilla may be close to the truth.’

Richard’s eyes twinkled with mischief as he they focused on his target. ‘Miss Powell is of a serious, even choleric disposition.’

‘Perhaps I am.’ Rosalind affected a demure candour. ‘Or perhaps I am not so easily pleased as most young ladies are by the idle chatter of London rattles.’

A roar of laughter from St George was her reward for this
riposte,

‘Beware, Cousin,’ he warned Mrs Plummer. ‘Miss Powell has a rapier wit, and is not shy about employing it to impale a man upon his own vanity.’