Dancing the Maypole (17 page)

“I’m afraid my
card is full.”

The matter of
fact words wiped the smile from Peter’s heart. “Full?”

She visibly
bristled at his incredulous tone. “Eighty thousand pounds makes
even an old maid an attractive dance partner. Do you wish to
inspect my card for proof?” Removing her ivory dance card with its
matching pencil from her wrist, she jabbed it into his chest. “Look
for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

Peter flushed
in horror at his latest faux pas. “I d-d-didn’t…” Silently cursing
his tongue to hell, he forced himself to read the names of the
lucky men. His embarrassment was consumed by irrational rage; most
of her partners were Smirkes. “Why the d-devil does my son, Cosmo,
have three d-dances?”

“Mr Smirke
asked whether he could have the honour of three dances and I
consented. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to give people
something to talk about. All the gossips in Bath will be whispering
that the aging maypole, Mademoiselle de Bourbon, has her eye on a
man young enough to be her son…if she’d married at fifteen. One can
still marry quite young in France. Word of my acute desperation
will fly around England on wings of titillating laughter. It might
even help me find a husband.”

“You d-d-don’t
need to find a husband,” said Peter through clenched teeth.

Both of her
eyebrows rose, “Is there a reason I should accept your offer?”

“I’m still…”
Peter scowled as Cosmo appeared at his elbow making him feel
old.

“What are you
doing here Papa? Mademoiselle does not desire your company.”

“I was asking
the lady for a d-d-dance, but you filled up her c-card. You eat all
the toast, use all the hot water and now you ask a woman you hardly
know for three dances? Can’t you think of anyone other than
yourself? Why do you have to be so blasted g-g-greedy?”

The young man
visibly paled as his eyes widened with indignation. “Greedy? For
taking a bath? Shall I attend social functions smelling like a
goat? Shall I kindly starve myself to death?”

“A sponge bath
would have sufficed,” snapped Peter. “The kitchens couldn’t send me
a single can of hot water because the ingratiating Mr Cosmo was in
need of every last drop. Cecil, George, and Charles completed their
ablutions with cold water. I had to wait. You know I have sensitive
skin.”

“I didn’t think
you were coming. You were snoring for England when I went to ask
whether you’d need any hot water. I can’t remember the last time
you came to ask me if I’d need hot water before ordering yourself a
hip bath.”

Peter blushed
as he glanced at Isabel’s twitching lips. “I do not snore!”

“Yes you do.
Every time I share a room with you I need two pillows; one under my
head and one over my head.”

Peter blushed
again as Isabel snapped open her fan to hide her amusement.

“I’m not
surprised Mamma preferred to sleep in her own bed what with you
snoring and moaning in your sleep for…”

“Cosmo Xavier!”
Peter felt his hot face form his sternest expression. “My nocturnal
habits are not fit subjects for mixed company.”

“Neither is my
hip bath. Go pester some other lady for a dance. Mademoiselle’s
card is full.”

Cosmo snatched
the ivory booklet from his father and held out to Isabel, but
before she could take it, Peter snatched it back. Licking his
thumb, Peter wiped Cosmo’s name off the last dance and pencilled in
his own. “I wish to d-dance with a woman who won’t g-gaze at my
navel.”

The dance card
was yanked from Peter’s fingers a second time. “Then dance with
Aunt Agnes.” Peter’s title was rubbed off the card and replaced
with Mr Cosmo Smirke.

Peter felt
brown eyes watching him…weighing his words, doubtlessly deciding he
was unfit husband material. “I wish to dance with Mademoiselle.”
The words were petulant; as if sulking might win the lady’s
approval.

“Papa, it
doesn’t matter if you’ve finally noticed the lady is not
unattractive; it’s too late. You can’t erase her memory. Go pester
some old woman and leave Mademoiselle in peace.”

Peter felt the
words like a knife in the heart. Hope gushed from the wound as he
stared at lovely breasts decorated with amethyst intaglios set into
a long silver chain. Why would she want to marry him? He had five
grown sons. He was old enough to be a grandfather. He’d lost the
chance to taste sublime marital happiness, and now he would die a
lonely wretch. Feeling ill, Peter glanced at brown eyes watching
him intently over the top of the lilac fan and made a deep bow.
“Pardonnez-moi.” Without waiting to learn if she accepted or
rejected his apology, Peter walked blindly past various family
members trying to get his attention and back out into the
night.

Agent 1680
appeared from nowhere, “Peter Augustus, where are you going?
Happiness is back that way!”

“I wish you
were solid so I could k-kick you. Laissez-moi tranquille!”

“So Peter
Augustus has failed again to charm the lady and whose fault is it?
The romantic agent is to blame. It must be the dead man’s
fault.”

“Go to
hell!”

“Your life will
be hell if you don’t go back in there and start smiling at old
maids. Do you want people to think you only came to speak with
Isabel Désirée? You don’t want your sons hearing that gossip. Your
Robert Benjamin is right; you do look as though you’ve come from an
amateur performance of Hamlet. Be sure to wear all black for our
evening adventure. We don’t want any staggering drunks to think
you’re a giant ghost abroad at the midnight hour…woooooooo.”
Glaring at the laughing agent, Peter tugged on his waistcoat and
returned to face the nightmare of watching the rest of his family
dance with Isabel.

*

Lucius Smirke’s
purposeful stride around the ballroom was taking him nowhere. He
bowed his head and smiled at the ladies as they passed, but without
a formal introduction there would be no conversation or dancing,
not that he cared. The two arts were highly overrated unless one
had a skilled companion. He briefly allowed himself the pleasure of
glancing at his cousin’s wife. Agnes was an accomplished woman.
When she came into view, he couldn’t help wishing he’d had a chance
to elbow James out of the picture, at least long enough to have had
the chance of kissing those sneering lips into quivering
submission. It was a pointless wish. Nothing would have come of it.
Agnes’ father had gambled his daughter into penury and then shot
himself. Beautiful women in need of security always landed in the
arms of wealthy men. She’d have scorned a suitor who worked for a
quarterly wage and lived in a house provided by his employer. There
was no point wishing for something never meant to be. Second sons
were born to serve.

Lucius was
acutely aware of being a well-paid servant, but he found it the
least vile option available. The Army offered the probability of an
agonising death or the loss of a limb. His mother wanted him to
stand as Member of Parliament for a rotten borough, but the
prospect of spending the rest of his life flattering intellectual
inferiors was unbearable. As for selling himself to a wealthy old
woman in need of a pretty virile husband; the Army and probable
death were more appealing. As Peter’s steward, Lucius was second in
command of a large estate with the implicit trust of his employer
and the ability to speak his mind freely. Lucius enjoyed his work,
and his cousin treated him as an equal, but after fifteen years he
was ready to live in his own house on his own estate. The dream was
still out of reach; all his wealthy dying relations had passed him
over to leave their fortunes and land to Peter’s fourth son.

Cosmo had
inherited six estates, but had recently handed over four of the
properties to his brothers. If Lucius discovered how Cecil and
George had blackmailed Cosmo, Lucius would turn the screw; he’d
finally be his own master. The boy would have one property; he
wouldn’t starve. Lucius had saved most of his income over the
years, but he didn’t want a few hundred acres of land; he wanted an
estate. Once he had property and an income, he’d be able to search
for a suitable wife. With luck, he’d find one who’d bring him
several thousand pounds to invest in more land. He wouldn’t be
bought and leashed like a pedigree dog. He’d be damned before he
sold himself to some self-important female with more money than
sense. Allowing himself another glance at Agnes, Lucius sighed in
regret. The woman was wasted on James, but fate was a blind monkey
throwing dice. Looking away, Lucius found himself looking into the
smiling eyes of Peter’s ghostly romantic agent. Sneering, Lucius
walked on through him, but the man in brown floated back into view.
“Lucius Smirke, I need your help.”

Lucius snorted
in derision. “I need you to go to hell.”

“I want you to
tell Peter Augustus’ helpful sons that Isabel Désirée is acquainted
with the owner of his cherished fan. Tell them on no account are
they to ask Isabel Désirée if she knows their father’s dream
mistress.”

“Your brain is
full of ghostly worms. If I tell Cecil or Cosmo not to say
something they’re sure to repeat it embellished with cringe
inducing information that Peter wouldn’t share with his
doctor.”

“Tell them
tomorrow morning while Peter Augustus is still asleep. He can’t
know they know. First, I need you to swallow your pride and ask
Agnes Sophia to introduce you to her cousin. Confide in Isabel
Désirée that you’re worried Peter Augustus will get himself killed.
Tell her he’s planning to sneak into her house tonight to steal her
portrait. When she asks why he’d want to steal her portrait, tell
her that if she’s awake around three in the morning she’ll be able
to ask him herself, but don’t tell Peter Augustus that you’ve told
her.”

“And what if
her father is awake at three?”

“It’s unlikely;
Louis François makes love to his wife most nights and sleeps like
the dead.”

“Every night?
At his age?”

The romantic
agent shrugged his shoulders, “How do you feel about ladies who
wear spectacles?”

“Why?” Agent
1680 smiled, pulled down his hat and faded from view.

Isabel lay in
the dark, listening to servants finishing their work, as the clock
next to her bed softly chimed a quarter past one. As soon as the
house was quiet, she’d sneak down to her parlour. If Peter Smirke
intended to steal her portrait she’d be waiting for him behind a
curtain, assuming Lucius Smirke hadn’t made the story up. He
couldn’t know that in one of her stories her hero, the tall black
haired Pierre, had sneaked into her house in the dead of night to
steal a kiss. The real Pierre would find her awake and waiting in
the moonlight. He’d take her into his arms and cover her face with
kisses…

Isabel’s
pleasant thoughts were disturbed by the sound of whispering
servants passing her door. Why were they still up? If they didn’t
go to bed soon, Peter would arrive, find lights in several windows
and return home. She wouldn’t be able to kiss the real Pierre or
re-enact one of the many chapters she’d had to burn for fear they’d
be discovered by her parents. Her father would have given her his
awful, ‘How could one of my daughters even think of doing such a
thing?’ expression. He’d have marched her off to confession and
then packed her off to a cousin’s convent in France for a taste of
where she’d end up for months if she romped in the moonlight with a
real Pierre.

Isabel’s two
oldest sisters had been confined in a convent while their lovers
had been hunted down and shot by their father. One limping lover
had bravely married his heavily pregnant sweetheart, ending her
confinement. The other had impulsively sailed away to safer climes.
The abandoned sister had returned home to find herself ostracised
by the friends who’d encouraged her to allow her lover liberties.
Their father had nearly gone mad with grief when his first-born
insisted she would die like Clarissa. Thankfully their mother had
thought to invite three handsome French cousins for an extended
visit. Her sister’s appetite had quickly returned, and everyone
assumed she’d be the next Duchesse de Maine until it was revealed
she’d fallen in love with the titled man’s valet. Their father had
not been amused, but her sister was still happy with her Petite
Henri.

Isabel sighed
in disappointment; there was no fear of the real Pierre would enact
the burnt chapter. Peter Smirke would never do anything so improper
or scandalous…even if he were in love with her. Closing her eyes
she tried to recall the touch of his hands on her face. The
softness of his lips…

*

Isabel jerked
awake to find her room filled with morning sunshine. Muttering a
curse under her breath, she peeled off her counterpane and sat up
to stretch. She reeled in shock as something fluttered past her
eyes. Looking around she found a lavender ribbon tied in a bow
around her left wrist. Grabbing her dressing gown, she ran past
scowling servants to her study. Her portrait still hung over the
mantel, her younger face serenely unmoved by her disappointed
glare. She lifted the ribbon on her wrist to her nose. It didn’t
smell of Peter Smirke or lilacs.

There was only
one plausible reason she’d been decorated like a maypole. Pursing
her lips in anger, she marched back upstairs and hammered on her
brother’s door. “Louis!” She kept pounding until a key scraped in
the lock, and the door opened wide enough to reveal sleepy, angry
eyes and curly brown hair jutting off to one side of his head.

“What?”

“Did you tie
this around my wrist in the night?”

Louis’ eyes
narrowed as he looked at the long lilac ribbon. “I thought you
longed to be the next old woman tied up like a maypole.”

“How could you
be such a cow?” shouted Isabel.