Dancing the Maypole (40 page)

“My Lord, I
need to speak with you,” said Lucius.

“Peter grimaced
as he sniffed the air. “Why do I smell the stables and what
happened to your nose?”

“I was thrown
into a pile of horse muck while saving Cosmo from murderous patrons
of The Maiden’s Head.”

“Saving me? The
lying devil followed me inside.”

Peter turned to
find Cosmo lounging beside him like a wounded prince having his
nose gently dabbed by Isabel. “Your cousin is not a devil! He’s a
g-good man and if you have any sense you’ll thank him for risking
his neck.”

“Thank him?”
Cosmo stared at his father in disbelief. “When I refused to buy his
eternal gratitude he slammed my head on the table. See this lump?
Ouch! That stings! Why can’t you use water?”

“Vinegar is
better…hold still,” said Isabel.

Peter viewed
his son’s injuries with envy. “Why the d-devil were you in The
Maiden’s Head?”

“I was in the
mood for a pint.”

“And you
couldn’t patronise a less d-dangerous establishment?”

“It’s the
oldest inn in town,” said Cosmo. “It has more graffiti. I like the
atmosphere…”

“It’s a d-d-den
of thieves!” shouted Peter.”

“I was
perfectly safe until Lucifer slithered in.”

“In future,
d-drink somewhere sensible. And don’t refer to your cousin as the
d-devil. It’s rude!” Cosmo gave no sign he’d heard his father.
Peter rolled his eyes to see Isabel’s reaction, but she was
absorbed in cosseting Cosmo’s nose. Depressed, Peter turned to look
at his cousin and grimaced in disgust. With a black eye, two
swollen lips and a bent nose, Lucius Smirke wasn’t pretty.

Hearing
footsteps, Peter turned to see Agnes crossing the room towards
Lucius. “Poor Lucius, you look like hell. Hand me the vinegar
Isabel. Cosmo isn’t the only injured Smirke in the room.” Pulling a
handkerchief from her bust line, Agnes doused it with vinegar.

Lucius paled,
deepening the ugliness of his wounds. “My Lord, I need to speak
with…” There was a note of panic in Lucius’s voice as he blinked at
the approaching woman holding the damp cloth. “Don’t touch me
Agnes…” The slurred words turned into a moan.

“Hold still!”
ordered Agnes. Peter watched in bewilderment as Lucius froze,
allowing his nemesis to gently dab his cut eye. “Frederick!” The
footman snapped to attention. “Send for the barber to straighten my
cousin’s nose and tell Cook I need a hip bath in Master James’
study. Cousin Lucius will be using Charles’ bed for the night.”
Lucius sneered, but didn’t try to move.

Cosmo sat up,
indignant. “I’m sleeping in the study! Lucius should wash in the
kitchen and then sleep with the other servants.”

Peter turned to
glare at his son. “Don’t be rude! Lucius is your elder.”

“Typical!”
muttered Cosmo. “Lucifer slams my head on the table and I’m the one
who gets a lecture.”

“If you’d
chosen a safer place…”

“I was
perfectly safe until Lucifer slammed my head on the table.”

Peter scowled
at Cosmo, “And what did you say to upset him?”

“Why do you
always take his side?” demanded Cosmo. “Next you’ll blame me for
the fact your dream lover can’t bear the sight of…ouch! Be careful
Mademoiselle, my nose is cursed sore.”

Peter met
Isabel’s conspiratorial glance. Had he really endured eighteen
years of longing? He held his breath as if a lack of air could
somehow ease the pressure. Jumping up, he resisted a mad impulse to
kiss the back of her neck.

“Enough!”
Lucius wrenched himself free from Agnes. “Are you wiping blood or
skin off my face? Heartless woman!”

Agnes smiled in
amusement. “Shall I help you to your bath?”

Lucius visibly
shivered, “My Lord, I have a message from your agent you’ll want to
hear in private.”

“What agent?”
said Peter, still half-asleep.

“The irritating
know-it-all who wears an ugly brown hat.”

Forgetting
Isabel’s neck, Peter dragged his limping cousin out of the room
onto the landing away from the open door. “Well?” Peter’s urgent
whisper echoed through the stairwell.

“The dead
lunatic said if you hope to elope you need to leave immediately for
London with Mademoiselle…”

Peter’s mouth
fell open in shock. “Immediately? Is he trying to get us both
killed?”

“He doesn’t
advise it.”

“Why should we
leave tonight?”

Lucius stared
off into the distance with a morose expression. “He didn’t
say.”

“Curse the
dead! Why couldn’t he tell me this sooner? The sun is starting to
set. The patrons of The Maiden’s Head will be lining the road ready
to shout, ‘Your money or your life’.”

“I’m a
messenger not an oracle. Oh my nose…that heartless witch made it
feel worse.”

Clenching his
fists Peter growled in frustrations. “Why does life have to be so
c-cursed d-d-difficult?”

“Difficult?”
said Lucius, his swollen lips twisted with a sneer. “How is your
life difficult? You’ve had everything handed to you on a silver
tray.”

“A c-cursed
heavy tray! I was b-born with responsibilities and expectations. As
a boy, I could feel the weight of it, crushing me. Inheriting
obligations isn’t easy.”

Lucius snorted
in contempt causing blood to spatter his lips. “If you’d been born
a penniless second son of average height I’ll wager my entire
savings that a certain lady would have dismissed you as too short
and too poor.”

The man’s
bitter tone brought to mind a mental image of Lucius standing with
Agnes at the altar. “She would never have married you,” said
Peter.

“What are you
talking about?”

“Agnes. You
obviously have feelings for the woman.”

“Feelings?”
hissed Lucius. ”For Agnes? Is that your idea of a joke?”

“Lust after the
woman, but don’t take out your frustration on me. I’ve suffered
eighteen years. At least you don’t have to look in the mirror and
know you bored your wife to death.”

“The odds,”
sneered Lucius, “aren’t in my favour of finding one to bore.”

“I thought you
preferred the fleeting c-company of widows.”

“Why wish to
own the moon?” Lucius sighed causing more blood to spatter his
chin. “It hangs in the sky out of reach. My wretched nose… The next
time Cosmo shoves a tankard in my face he’ll be in bed a week.”

“That romantic
agent seems to think there’s someone for you,” said Peter. “Maybe
you haven’t been looking in the right p-places?”

“And where do
you suggest I look for a suitable bride my Lord; your servants’
dining room? I want a wife who can read and write.”

Peter winced,
“That’s a low blow! What the d-devil has come over you? You’ve
never once mentioned wanting a wife. I’m going to send for the
doctor.”

“I don’t need a
damn leech. I need a large dose of laudanum to put me out of my
misery. Death would solve all my problems. My brother could drop me
in the crypt, and I wouldn’t have to worry about acquiring anything
other than dust.”

“You must be in
p-pain; you sound addled.”

“Look at my
crooked nose! Of course I’m in pain!”

“If you want a
wife, then find one,” snapped Peter. “Don’t b-blame me for your
empty nursery.”

“I’m a bloody
servant!” hissed Lucius. “I’m worse than a fortune-hunter; I earn
my living. If I were daft enough to lose my heart, it would be
tossed into the nearest chamber pot.”

“Not if she
loved you,” said Peter feeling helpful.

Lucius paled
with rage, “Women don’t love men! They love money and prestige.
They all want a man who makes them feel big. How big will my wife
feel when she’s introduced as the wife of Lord Adderbury’s steward?
How big will she feel when I die and leave her with four brats and
only enough savings to house and feed her for ten years? How big
will she feel when she has to beg Cecil for assistance? You think
your life is difficult?” shouted Lucius. “You’ll never have to
spend the best years of your life as a servant, knowing that the
time you’ve saved enough money to buy a respectable amount of land;
your looks and humour would have faded. That you’ll be thankful
when a plain old maid with a two hundred pound annuity marries you
so she can climb down off the shelf. How would you feel if that was
your future?”

“Shall we throw
a d-dice to see which son should inherit?” asked Peter. “I d-didn’t
ask to be born first. Inheriting your father’s life isn’t
easy.”

“Easier than
inheriting nothing!” sneered Lucius.

“It wasn’t easy
to me!” Peter’s angry words thundered through the house causing an
eerie stillness. “At least you haven’t sp-spent your life having
your sp-speech mocked. People think I’m an idiot b-b-because I
st-stammer.”

“Poor you,”
said Lucius. “Try being mocked every day because you earn a living
instead of selling yourself to some rich hag or taking the king’s
shilling and dying out of sight like an obedient redundant spare
heir. Cosmo may be a whingeing prat, but I admire his resolve to
avoid my fate.”

Purposeful
footsteps from the drawing room interrupted Peter’s morbid
thoughts. Turning, he found Agnes looking up at him with
exasperation. “Are you secretly hoping Lucifer will faint headfirst
down the stairs? Even the devil deserves a little compassion…”

Lucius visibly
cringed as Agnes put a supportive hand on his upper arm. “The devil
I do! I feel cursed worse with you near.”

“You’ll feel
cursed worse,” said Agnes, “after having your nose straightened.
Heaven knows you can’t leave it like that; your aging bed-warmers
might take fright. One hears so many stories of evil footpads with
crooked noses…” The injured man hissed insults at his hostess as
she firmly led him down the stairs and out of sight.

With his
cousin’s accusations still stinging, Peter stood on the landing
like a propped up dummy board, lost in a nightmare. Mentally, he
swaggered into a London ballroom. Pausing a few steps inside the
doorway, he was spellbound by the sight of a tall pretty woman with
brown curly hair glittering with diamonds. The small door to the
tiny cupboard in his chest flew open. Afraid his heart might fall
out and roll under some old woman’s skirts, Peter carefully walked
across the room with his head held high, but on reaching Isabel he
automatically made a bow causing his heart to fall onto the floor
next to her white dancing slippers.

Admiring
shapely ankles, Peter’s gaze travelled up shimmering yards of silk
only to comfortably stop at the lowest point of her neckline. Her
exposed charms framed a miniature portrait of Louis XIV hanging
around her neck, but to view the rest of perfection he had to look
up. Isabel’s brown eyes were gazing past the top of his head as she
smiled at her cousin Robert who towered like a giant. Peter didn’t
care if he looked silly dancing with a taller woman. The thought of
being able to touch her, even if only briefly in front of six
hundred people, meant he might be able to pick his heart up off the
floor and sneak it into her pocket.

The portrait of
the dead French King seemed to sneer as Peter lifted his gaze to
ask if he might have the honour of a dance. Embarrassed brown eyes
glanced down at him. Every time he asked, her dance card was full.
His offer to fetch her a glass of lemonade was politely declined as
her giant male companion stared down with contempt, silently
ordering Peter to take himself off to the devil.

Peter shivered
in relief as he returned to reality. His relief faded when he
remembered why he was standing on the landing. What excuse could he
give for leaving with Isabel? He couldn’t claim to be taking her
for an evening drive. Not at dusk with a pile of trunks strapped on
behind. Not with his helpful brats hovering nearby ready to rescue
Isabel.

Tugging on his
waistcoat, Peter decided the sensible thing to do was ignore his
cousin’s message; the man was obviously jealous. He’d elope with
Isabel at first light as planned. Turning to return to the drawing
room he found Isabel standing in the doorway holding his sleeping
granddaughter. Cecil, George, Cosmo and Robert stood next to her
staring at him as if he’d renounced his inheritance to become a
freak show exhibit. “What? Why are you staring at me?”

“I think Papa
needs to see a quack,” said Cosmo.

Cecil rolled
his eyes towards George. “You’ve told us that at least twenty times
in two days.”

“I wouldn’t
need to repeat myself if anyone actually listened,” said Cosmo.

“No-one
listens,” said Robert, “because if they bothered they’d end up in
Bedlam chattering to their chains.”

“Shut up
Robert! You’re the one who’s going to end up in Bedlam, and don’t
think I’ll cry a tear when I learn you’ve died of the pox.”

“At least I’ll
have enjoyed life,” sneered Robert, “unlike some people who live to
moan and whine because they’re so boring they’re incapable of
finding something better to do…or rather, finding anyone desperate
enough to do it with.”

“I could find
hundreds of women to roll in the hay,” insisted Cosmo.

Robert snorted
in contempt. “Find one you don’t have to pay, and I’ll wager my
estate she’ll be in love with me before you can get your leg
over…”

“Cosmo Xavier!”
snapped Peter. “There is a lady present.”

Cosmo’s face
contorted with disbelief. “Why are you blaming me? Robert said
it!”

“You started
the conversation. Act your age, and he might look up to you.”

“I can’t look
up to Cosmo…” Robert smiled, “…I’m taller.”

“Why is it
always my fault?” demanded Cosmo.

Robert leaned
over and whispered, “Because you’re a crackfart.”

“Papa did you
hear that? Robert’s always sneering…”

“Enough!
Mademoiselle has finished wiping your nose. Go change your
shirt.”