Cupid's Dart (3 page)

Receipts were Agatha's passion. Had she the resources, she would have them sitting down to a formal dinner every night. But they did not have the resources, and Agatha's receipts, while intriguing one in one, seldom fitted together in a palatable whole.

Georgie distracted Agatha from her eels with a question about the frenzy of house-cleaning that was currently under way. Agatha waxed enthusiastic about the use of gin-and-water, followed by powder blue, and the application of an old silk handkerchief, to best clean looking glass. Janie glowered. Agatha was keeping her as busy as a hen with one chick.

Came an interruption then, in the form of an elderly butler dressed in ancient livery, complete with an old-fashioned white wig. All three women held their breath as he stepped unsteadily onto the stone-flagged floor. "Begging pardon, Miss Georgie," he said, placing a hand on a whitewashed wall to steady himself, in the process dislodging a copper pot, which clattered to the floor. "There's a gentleman as has come to call. I put him in the drawing room." His tone was anxious. "I hope that was right."

Georgie picked up the copper pot and wondered where else Tibble thought he might put a caller. In the kitchen, perhaps? "Did the gentleman tell you his name?"

Tibble screwed up his features in intense concentration. Then he sighed. "Reckon he did, Miss Georgie, and I misremember what it was. But he was a gentleman of substance. Everything prime about him. Civil as a nun's hen." He peered hopefully at his mistress, as if she might recognize the caller from this description.

Agatha and Janie also regarded her speculatively. Georgie was the cynosure of all eyes. All this combined attention had the effect of making her feel very cross. Granted, she was quite on the shelf, but was the notion that a gentleman should call on her worthy of such astonishment as this? "Have the lot of you nothing to do?" inquired Miss Halliday, and turned on her heel.

With her departure, the kitchen was briefly silent. The little housemaid was the first to speak. "Cor! A gentleman caller!" she breathed.

Tibble sank down into a chair at the elm table, took off his wig, and wiped his brow. His eyesight wasn't what it once had been; times had changed, in his opinion not for the better, and he lived in fear that he would do the wrong thing; but it was sure as check Miss Georgie's caller had been a gent. "All the crack!" he added. "A well-breeched swell."

"Cor!" said Janie once again. She would have liked to glimpse this paragon herself. In honor of the momentous occasion, Agatha brought out her homemade dandelion wine.

Happily unaware that he was once again the subject of conjecture, Lord Warwick paced around the drawing room, which was furnished with restrained classical elegance grown somewhat threadbare. He contemplated rosewood furniture upholstered in striped silk, the faded Wilton carpet on the floor. Add to these a doddering butler who had no doubt gotten his name wrong, and an unfashionable address, and Garth could not help but conclude that Georgie had come down in the world. A partially embroidered pair of men's slippers lay on a pretty breakfront writing desk. He wondered if Georgie had been embroidering the slippers, and with a pang, for whom.

Miss Halliday stepped into the room. Since Lord Warwick was glowering in a most forbidding manner at the slippers she had been embroidering, she had a moment to study him. This afternoon he was dressed for riding in leather breeches and a high-collared, double-breasted coat that displayed his crisp, high shirt points and flawlessly tied cravat. In comparison, Georgie's gown was sadly out of style. At least this time she wasn't bedecked with sand. "Hello, Garth," she said. "You're wearing black again, I see."

Lord Warwick's mood, not sanguine to begin with, was further exacerbated by being caught out brooding over half-finished embroidery. Slowly, he turned to face his hostess. "I seldom wear colors, ma'am," he retorted. "Colors seldom suit my mood."

That mood was currently very dark indeed. Georgie crossed the room to stand by him. "'Ma'am?'" she echoed. "So you have come to offer me further injury?"

Lord Warwick had come to do nothing of the sort. Long and sobering reflection had led him to the unhappy conclusion that he had behaved very badly toward Georgie, and the conviction that he must apologize for making a Jack-pudding of himself. Apologizing was not something Lord Warwick did easily or well, and consequently he was visited by a strong desire to either shake Georgie or kiss her again. To do either was unthinkable, of course. "I have come," he said stiffly, "to apologize. I behaved abominably to you."

Georgie had a good idea of what that apology had cost him. Not that she particularly desired an apology for something that she had liked very well. "Oh," she said with interest. "So I was not one of your peccadilloes, then?"

Lord Warwick looked startled. This was not the Georgie he remembered. "Hardly that," he replied.

Georgie wondered what it would be like to be one of Lord Warwick's peccadilloes. And precisely what a peccadillo
was.
"You needn't put yourself in a taking," she said amiably. "It wasn't as abominable as all that."

This less-than-flattering appraisal of his embrace caused Lord Warwick's expression to lighten. "Saucebox!" he said.

Georgie was studying him, head tilted to one side. "I suppose you have had a great many peccadilloes?" she inquired.

Damned if she didn't sound wistful. "You should not ask me that," he retorted, and quickly turned the subject. "Devil a bit, Georgie, what do you expect when you set out unescorted, inviting attentions from reprobates like myself?"

Georgie hoped there was no other reprobate like this one, else she would dare not step foot out of doors for fear of encountering one of them, and subsequently disgracing herself. "Are you a trifle bosky still?" she asked. "Because I don't know otherwise why you should say such silly stuff. I have been looking after myself for quite some time. It won't debauch me to walk along the beach."

Lord Warwick was appalled to realize how much he wanted to debauch his companion. He scowled even more dreadfully. "I know what it is," Georgie said. "You are sorry that you kissed me. No doubt it was an aberrant impulse brought on by overindulgence in the grape. I assure you that I do not hold it against you. In truth, I am quite grateful that you should show such flattering attention to an ape leader like myself."

Georgie, an ape leader? Lord Warwick could not help but laugh at this absurdity. As for that aberrant impulse, he was experiencing it again. In search of distraction, he glanced around the drawing room. "Things have changed for you, I think."

So did Georgie look around her drawing room, at the narrow, ribbed mouldings and recessed ceiling panels, the silk-striped furniture and faded Wilton rug. Whatever else it might be, the room was sparkling clean, as she knew very well, having wiped down the walls herself. Not that Lord Warwick, a gentleman of wealth and lineage—a marquess, no less, who owned estates northwest of London and in Cornwall as well as in the Lake District—could be expected to understand her simple satisfaction in a house well kept. "My grandmama's legacy allows me to be comfortable, if not particularly extravagant," she said dismissively. "Don't look at me that way, Garth. I promise you we rub on very well."

The Georgie he had known would have had no consideration for extravagance. Lord Warwick was tempted to tell her she was doing it rather too brown. "You have not married?" he asked, although discreet inquiries had already provided him the answer to that question, as well as the intelligence that she was estranged from her family, for reasons undisclosed.

Georgie did not like the tenor of this conversation, or the direction that it took. "My dear Garth," she retorted lightly, "the marriage mart is glutted with young women of impeccable breeding and somewhat impecunious circumstance like myself. I promise you, I am quite happy just as I am. What of you? What brings you to Brighton? Have you come to take the waters for deafness? Rheumatism? Gout?"

No, and not for any of the other ailments the waters were claimed to cure, from impotence to diseases of the glands. "Cry pax, Georgie!" Lord Warwick retorted. "You are deliberately trying to set up my back."

Georgie sighed. She
was
behaving badly. "Why did you walk away from me like that? On the beach?" she asked. "We used to be friends, I think."

Lord Warwick studied her. Georgie spoke the truth when she said she was well past her first youth; he found her even lovelier than she had been as a girl. The elegant features were more finely drawn; there was a hint of sadness in the remarkable gray eyes, and her hair—

Her hair remained ungovernable. Drawn back in a serious style, braided and rolled up behind, wisps had already escaped their moorings to curl on her forehead. "Your family has been no friend to me," he said.

So had they not, which had led Georgie to quarrel with them herself. "Perhaps not," she replied quietly. "Still, you must not tar us all with the same brush."

Lord Warwick's innate perversity asserted itself then. Or perhaps he was moved by her words. Whatever the reason, if indeed he had a coherent reason, he raised his hand and touched Georgie's face.

Her eyes widened. She took a step, not away from but toward him. If she advanced one iota further, he would have her in his arms.

Garth wanted very much to have Georgie in his arms. He dropped his hand and clenched his fists. "Your behavior is imprudent, ma'am."

Imprudent? Georgie supposed she
was
imprudent, but she wanted more than anything to feel those tingles and tremors again. However, it was clear that Garth wasn't going to kiss her. He looked as though he might dive right out the window if she didn't retreat. Georgie sank down on the silk-striped sofa, which was possibly the most uncomfortable piece of furniture in the house. Perhaps the discomfort would distract her from her improper thoughts.

She looked up at him, her pretty lips parted, her cheeks flushed.
"Damned
imprudent," said Garth, and stepped toward her. A knock on the door caused him to reconsider, and Georgie to lean back on the couch.

The dining room door opened. "Beg pardon, Miss Georgie," Tibble said. A young woman brushed past him, almost causing him to lose his balance, which was even more precarious than usual, due to a certain recent encounter with dandelion wine.

The newcomer paused dramatically on the threshold. That she was a very beautiful young woman was evident even through the heavy veil she wore. Her voluptuous little body was swathed about in black bombazine. Her gloved hands grasped a jet-beaded reticule. "Oh!" she gasped, in throbbing tones. "I interrupt!"

She did indeed interrupt. Lord Warwick, no aficionado of dramatic young women with histrionic tendencies, wished her to the devil. As did Tibble, hovering discreetly just outside the drawing room door. Georgie, however, cried, "Marigold!"

"You were not expecting me!" Marigold flung back the heavy veil to reveal golden hair, periwinkle blue eyes, a bewitching elfin face. "Did you not get my letter? Did it somehow go astray?"

Would
Garth have kissed her again if not for this untimely interruption? Georgie regarded her oldest friend with a somewhat jaundiced eye. Then she winced to recall that Marigold's letter had last been seen in the beak of a seagull, and immediately forgot.

Lord Warwick cleared his throat. Hastily, Georgie set about making introductions. "Marigold, I make you known to my friend, Lord Warwick. Garth, this is—"

"Mrs. Smith!" Marigold interrupted hastily, and dropped a pretty curtsey. "I'm pleased to meet you, milord."

Mrs. Smith, was it? Here was a clanker, thought Lord Warwick as he glanced at Georgie's startled face. "I am
de trop,
"
he said, and made Georgie a formal bow. "I will see myself out."

Silence reigned briefly in the drawing room. Then Mrs. Smith firmly closed the door, causing the lurking Tibble to abandon his attempts at eavesdropping and hobble back to the kitchen, there to inform Agatha that the household was about to be set on its ear by one Mrs. Smith, and if that was her real moniker, he would eat his wig.

Marigold tossed her bonnet carelessly onto the sofa. "Georgie, I have heard the most astonishing on-dits!
Tell me, do
you
think Warwick murdered his wife?"

Chapter Four

The remaining member of Miss Halliday's household strolled along the Brighton streets. Accompanying him was Lump, whose normal exuberance was restrained by consideration for his companion's painful limp, which necessitated a slow progress, and the employment of a cane. Andrew Halliday bore a marked resemblance to his sister—not that his sister had ever attired herself in nankeen trousers, gleaming boots, brown double-breasted frockcoat—he had the same slender build, classic features, gray eyes, and unruly blond curls. Unlike his sister, however, Andrew's expression was discontent. He had come back from the Peninsula a curst cripple, prey to recurrent fevers which necessitated that he drink copious amounts of cool water, and that his body be rubbed all over with cold water-soaked cloths; that he be fussed over and scolded and made to eat such stuff as barley gruel and calf’s foot broth and stewed rabbits in milk. Of course he was grateful to his sister for her care of him, but he knew he could not but be a burden to a household already perilously near point non plus.
Andrew sometimes wondered if it wouldn't have been better for all concerned if, instead of being invalided out of his regiment, he had stuck his spoon in the wall.

Georgie told him that such fustian was further indication that he was not yet entirely well. Perhaps she was correct. Andrew had to admit that he was not plump currant. Most often he felt fagged to death. Damned if he knew how he'd turned into such a milksop. Much as he might wish to put a period to his existence, he lacked the courage to take the necessary steps.

Carriages and vehicles of every description, drawn by superb horseflesh, thronged the narrow lanes and winding streets, wound their way among the well-dressed crowds. Andrew would have preferred to stroll upon the brilliant white cliffs, or along the sandy beach, but his curst leg would not tolerate such exercise. With a firm grip on his companion's leash, he ventured onto the Steine. Shops with piazzas and benches lined each side of the brick-paved walk.