Cupid's Dart (7 page)

Lump, meanwhile, had discovered that even the most enterprising of hounds could hardly play fetch all by himself. Or either hide-and-seek. He couldn't imagine what had gotten into his mistress this morning. Normally she would be chasing over the sand after him, begging him to return to her side. Today, however, she didn't even seem to notice that he'd gone.

At any rate, she would be glad to have her bonnet back. Lump bounded forward and presented the trophy to his mistress, then sat down, his wagging tail making semicircles in the sand.

Georgie gingerly picked up the sodden, sandy mess than had once been her straw bonnet. Here was yet another unanticipated expense, because the hat would have to be replaced. "Oh, dear," she said.

Abruptly, Garth released her and stepped back. Georgie looked up at him, surprised. "I am not entirely without scruples," he murmured, "despite what the gossipmongers think." Bedraggled bonnet in one hand, unrepentant hound's collar in the other, Georgie watched him walk away.

Chapter Eight

Silence reigned in the Halliday kitchen, at least for a moment, among the four people gathered there, due to Georgie's recent irritable announcement that her gentleman caller had been an old friend merely, and the next person who pestered her about the matter would be turned out into the street.

Georgie sat at one end of the long elm table, frowning over her household accounts. Occasionally she reached into a bowl of peas that stood nearby, peeled open the pod, and popped the raw vegetables into her mouth. The peas were very sweet, and grown by Miss Halliday herself in a little garden out behind the house, a pursuit that was horridly unladylike of her, but immensely gratifying nonetheless. Although grubbing in the dirt was behavior hardly befitting a lady, Georgie looked like one all the same, in a high-necked, figured muslin gown. Agatha, just then thumbing through her receipts, was dressed rather less conservatively in a dress of India muslin with a low neckline and puffed sleeves, her blazing hair tucked under a huge mobcap. At the other end of the long table, Tibble sat polishing the silver, a task in which he was unlikely to hurt himself, and one that would overtask neither his strength nor his powers of concentration, since most of the pieces had already been sold. In front of him marched an array of silverplate, a container holding a paste made of hartshorn powder mixed with spirits of wine, a brush, several soft rags, a piece of dry leather, and his wig. Tibble had already this day trimmed the lamp-wicks and replenished the rapeseed oil; brushed and blacked the ladies boots (and if he left behind his hand-mark on the lining, no one but Marigold would be unkind enough to remark); and very narrowly avoided doing himself serious injury while cleaning the kitchen knives.

"Lord love a duck," muttered Janie, the only member of the little group not seated at the elm table. She was bent over a kitchen dresser, attempting to remove the stain from a silk ribbon by way of a mixture of gin and honey, soft soap and water, not with a great deal of success.

It was not enough, thought Janie, that she must dust and sweep and polish and scour; now she must also wash out milady's brushes and clean her combs and arrange her hair, remove stains and grease spots from her clothes, and repair her lace. Not that Janie would mind performing any of these tasks for Mistress Georgie, who was a very good sort of person, as Janie should well know, because she had been on the verge of A Fate Worse Than Death when Mistress Georgie and Miss Agatha took her in; but Mistress Georgie's guest was a far different kettle of fish, shedding crocodile tears and capperclawing and butter wouldn't melt in her mouth until one wished that cheese might choke her and the devil fly off with her straightaway.

Janie finished scouring the soiled ribbon with her mixture. She gingerly picked up the ribbon by its corners and dipped the fabric quickly in cold water. After letting the ribbon drip for a moment, she dried it with a cloth, and ironed it quickly with a very hot iron. Then she uttered a strong expletive because the stain was even worse, thereby rousing Agatha from thoughts of Balnamood Skink, and Georgie from the accounts that refused to add up in an encouraging manner, and Tibble from thoughts of which only heaven knew the nature, because he himself could not have said.

"Bless me!" Agatha ventured. "What is it?" Georgie asked. Too confused to put in his own two penn'orth, Tibble dabbed his forehead with the silver cloth.

Janie dropped a little curtsey. "Beg pardon, I'm sure. But Miss Marigold is going to ring a right peal over my head." She dropped the ribbon on the table, then sat down and ate a pea.

Georgie contemplated the ruined ribbon, which was bound to send Marigold again into her tantrums. "Never mind," she soothed. "I believe I have a ribbon of a similar color. Perhaps if you switch them she won't notice the difference. Go now and fetch it from my room." Armed with the ribbon and another pea-pod, Janie set out on her errand, which would take her by a circuitous route that led out of doors, where she hoped to glimpse the new footman down the street, whose name she had learned was Charles.

Tibble wielded his brush with considerable vigor, and sneezed. "Mad as Bedlam," he remarked. "I seen it before. One day a bee in the bonnet, and the next day, poof! Before you can say Jack Robinson, flying off the hooks and maggots in the brain. Best be shut of the flibbertigibbet, afore she takes it into her head to burn down the house." For emphasis he waved the polishing rag. Then he recollected his surroundings. "Not that it's my place to say so, ma'ams."

The ladies did not think that Tibble spoke of Janie. "Beauty will fade," offered Agatha. "A wise woman lays in a stock of something to supply in its place." She then returned to consideration of what dish would go best with green peas
à la Française.
Potted crayfish, perhaps. Or calf s head soup. Providing that Georgie didn't eat up all the peas beforehand.

Georgie stared at her account book. Everything was grown very dear, for this was the fashionable season, and the inhabitants of Brighton must make up a year's income in but a short time. Lodgings were so greatly in demand that unlet houses now commanded fourteen guineas a week. She wondered what Garth was paying for his house on the Marine Parade, and why. If Lord Warwick wished to reclaim his position in society, what made Brighton preferable to London? The Prince Regent's presence? Or was there some other less obvious reason, one that had to do with Catherine perhaps? His wife's disappearance left Garth in a most unfortunate situation, not only because he was accused of murder, but also because a vanished spouse could hardly produce him an heir. And if Garth had not murdered Catherine—and of course he had not murdered Catherine—where was
she? A person didn't simply vanish into thin air. Georgie thought of Marigold. Much as one could wish they might. She looked up as Andrew limped into the kitchen. Lump followed at his heels. "Hello, love," she said.

Agatha looked up also. Andrew appeared in better spirits today, perhaps due to the distillation of flowers of cowslip she'd snuck into his morning and evening drink. Happily unaware of Agatha's efforts in his behalf, Andrew brandished an envelope. "I found this in the hall. When did it arrive?" he asked.

Tibble started, guiltily. "I disremember exactly, sir. Mayhap this morning. Or it could have been yesterday. I meant to give it to you straightaway, but you wasn't here."

Andrew contemplated the shamefaced butler, whose bald head was liberally splattered with silver paste. Then he sat down in a chair and broke open a peapod. Lump looked around the kitchen in hope of a bite to eat. Agatha hissed at him. With a great sigh of canine martyrdom, Lump collapsed against Andrew's chair. "We are invited to join Lady Denham's party for an evening's entertainment in the Promenade Grove, sis," Andrew said.

Georgie pushed away her household books and regarded her brother curiously. Here was interesting news. Not that she and her brother should receive an invitation, for Georgie was Lady Georgiana, though she disliked to use her title, and Andrew was an Honourable, and Wellington's staff officers had a certain cachet. The Hallidays between them had used to receive a great many invitations before they made it clear that they would rather be left to themselves.

This invitation, apparently, was different. "How come you to know Lady Denham?" Georgie asked.

Andrew grinned, and patted the great head currently resting on his knee. "Lump jumped on her. Which is no more than she deserves for wearing so many curst feathers on her hat."

Too clearly, Georgie envisioned the event. "Oh, dear. And in return Lady Denham sent an invitation? How very odd."

"I suspect it is Miss Inchquist whom we may thank for the invitation," Andrew responded. "
She
had a handbag with tassels." He explained his meeting with Sarah-Louise.

Georgie eyed her pet with dismay. "What a dreadful creature you are." Delighted to have his mistress's attention, Lump panted and drooled.

Andrew pushed the dog's head away from his damp knee. "Don't make a piece of work of it, Georgie. No harm was done."

No harm? This from someone who claimed that attending social functions made him feel like a performing monkey? "What is she like?" Georgie asked.

"A regular Gorgon!" retorted Andrew, then saw his sister's startled expression. "Oh, you mean Miss Inchquist. An unexceptionable young female, I suppose you'd say. She has freckles, and is very tall. Lady Denham is a beldame." He popped another pea into his mouth. "It would be nice for Miss Inchquist if we put in an appearance, sis."

The Hallidays had passed muster. Though purse-pinched, they were still sufficiently respectable to associate with Lady Denham's niece, to whom Georgie must be grateful, because she had apparently caused Andrew to think about something other than corpses and fallen comrades. Perhaps he was developing a
tendre.
Not that romance wasn't frequently a painful experience in its own right.

Agatha had been following the conversation. "Have you thought," she interjected, "what you are going to do with Marigold?"

Andrew's pleasant expression was replaced by a scowl. "Marigold ain't coming along. Dash it, Georgie, I know she's a friend of yours, but damned if she isn't the most tiresome, totty-headed, rattlebrained female I have ever met."

Georgie glanced at Tibble, who had given up all pretense of silver polishing to eavesdrop. "Not windmills, maggots," she murmured. "We have it on excellent authority."

Marigold walked into the room then, perfectly on cue. "So this is where you are all hiding!" she said, and chuckled, because of course it was absurd to think that anyone would hide from her. "Why are you talking about maggots? Good gracious, are those peas?
Because if they are, I won't eat them. I dislike peas of all things."

Agatha pushed aside her receipts. "I thought it was cauliflower that you disliked above everything," she said.

"Did I say that?" Marigold opened her eyes wide. "If I did, I was mistaken. I'm sure it was peas. Not that I like cauliflower either, so don't think you may feed it to me!"

Perhaps Mistress Pigwidgeon might like a nice dish of powdered mole and fresh horse dung. Agatha got up from the table before she voiced the thought.

Tibble's memory might not be what once it was but he could still sense which way the wind was blowing. He clapped his wig on his head and beat a hasty retreat.

Marigold observed this sudden exodus. "Well!" she said. "At least
you
are glad to see me, aren't you, doggie?" She dropped gracefully to her knees beside Lump, and gave him a great hug. Lump was much more accustomed to swats than hugs. He rolled a bewildered eye at his master.

Awkwardly, Andrew got up from the table. Lump leapt up also, causing Marigold to lose her balance and sit down smack on her backside
.
"Oh!" she wailed.

Apologetically, Lump licked her face. Marigold screeched and flung up her arms to protect her head. Andrew curled his lip at this arrant cowardice. "Down, Lump!" he commanded "I mean it, Georgie. She ain't to come along."

Chapter Nine

The Promenade Grove, located between North Street and Church Street, was a favorite meeting place of the
ton.
There, amid green lawns and avenues of elms and flowering shrubs, ladies and gentlemen gathered of a morning to sip tea or chocolate and listen to the strains of a military band, or in inclement weather to sit and read journals in the elegant saloon where concerts were held in the rain. In the evenings, the Grove was illuminated with swags and garlands and festoons of brilliantly colored reflecting lamps. This particular evening's entertainment consisted of an Italian soprano warbling sentimental songs.

The Italians could keep the lady, Georgie thought, as she drew her shawl closer against the evening chill. A pity Marigold couldn't
have come here in her place, because Georgie would much rather have stayed home with her new book. Andrew, at least, appeared to be enjoying himself, and was engaged in an animated conversation with Miss Inchquist, who was as he had said, very freckled and very tall, and dressed not at all to her advantage in a gown of white gauze striped with blue, and an Austrian cap. Perhaps lack of sartorial discernment was a family failing, for Lady Denham also made a startling picture in a dress of raw gold silk, a great deal of topaz jewelry, and a satin turban made up in the form of a beehive and finished with a bow at the top.

From the animated expression on Miss Inchquist's face, Georgie concluded that her brother wasn't going on about fiery lakes of smoking blood, or corpses piled so high they were still warm the next morning, or carnage so severe that Wellington himself had wept.

Was
Andrew developing a partiality for Miss Inchquist? Lady Denham would wish to look higher for her niece. Georgie was hardly helping Andrew's chances by wishing very much to kiss a man rumored to have murdered his wife, and having as a houseguest a lady who had trod the boards.

Lady Denham was occupied with another member of the party. Georgie was free to glance about at the other visitors to the Grove. Not, of course, that she expected to see Garth. Nor did she wish to see him, and if she did wish to see him she might perhaps find him upon the beach, but then he would only once again scold her and refuse to kiss her and then walk away. If he wished to kiss her, as he said he did, then why then did he not? Scruples, one supposed. Georgie marveled that she had so few scruples of her own, because despite everything she wished for Garth to kiss her, and never mind that he had a wife.