Fortune's fools (8 page)

Oblivious of her pet's escape, Mrs. Beauchamp continued her assault, screeching like a banshee. Kate was dimly aware of other spectators—some laughing, some screaming—but her concern was all for her mother.

Then she saw him, like a knight of old, running toward her, sweeping Mrs. Beauchamp into his arms, and backing away. Almost throwing the outraged matron into her carriage, he returned and held up his hands for the mischievous monkey. Kate handed the animal to him as his laughing blue eyes met hers. Smiling, she answered his wink with one of her own. Then he was gone.

The poor coachman, scarlet with embarrassment, managed to right himself and climb back on his seat, relieving Kate of the reins. She hopped to the ground and entered the landaulet more decorously than she had vacated it. Then she set about soothing her mother's lacerated sensibilities while fishing in her aunt's reticule for Lady Murray's smelling salts.

While her mother was occupied in reviving her dear sister, Kate straightened, her gaze immediately drawn to that one figure amongst the crowd. She watched in admiration as Max Darby soothed the monkey and Mrs. Beauchamp while his brother, Tristram, tried to stem the flood of tears from Miss Philippa Beauchamp. She did not envy either gentleman his task. As their carriage passed by, Kate gave him a little wave, which Max answered with a nod.

She rather thought Max Darby was more like Sir Milton than his brother Tristram was. Max was certainly more of a take-charge sort of person. In contrast, his brother looked almost as shaken as the two ladies.

"I think we should go straight home," she said to the coachman.

"Yes, miss," he replied, pulling his hat down firmly on his head. "Right away."

Max hurried into the garden when he returned home. He knew Kate would come, drawn by the same irresistible force to share the afternoon's hilarity with him. It was almost dark, but he felt sure she would be waiting. She was the sort of girl who would not be put off by a bit of gloom. Recalling the way those green eyes had sparkled when he had taken the monkey from her, he could not associate gloom with her in any setting.

"Kate?" he said, forgetting both propriety and their roles as Sir Milton and Iseult. This was no time for charades.

"Sir Milton?" came the reply, her voice already filled with laughter.

"What? No ... dash it! This is intolerable. I want to see you. I'm going to come around to the front door."

"Not now. It is not the proper time, and Mama has had enough excitement for one day. She is still a little delicate."

"Well, this is deuced inconvenient, Kate."

"I know. I. .. sh! Wait. Someone is coming. Hello, Mr. Taggert."

Max strained to hear her voice as she turned away.

"Afternoon, miss. Was you lookin' for somewat?"

"No, I was just out for a stroll."

"Oh. I thought ye might be lookin' for the gate. It's i farther down, ye know."

"Gate?"

"Yes, between this house an' the next. It used t' stay open on account o' th' two families were related. It's shut now, but if you want..."

"Oh, yes, please, Mr. Taggert. Could you unlock it for me?"

"I'd be happy to, miss. It's right 'ere."

"Thank you, Mr. Taggert."

"Yer welcome, miss. I'll see that it stays unlocked."

The gate creaked as it swung open, and then Kate stepped through the opening. Max extended his hands and she took them, letting him draw her close. Her eyes grew wide.

In the fading light, he smiled down at her and said, "I do hope you are not disappointed that I am not Tristram."

"Not at all, though I must admit that I am a bit surprised," she said, returning his smile.

He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her along the wall. "Come over here. Here's the bench where I sit."

When they were side by side, he kept her hand in his. Turning slightly so that he faced her, Max said, "I have to confess that I was not the one you spoke to that first night, the one who first called you Iseult."

"I thought you were different after that night. It wasn't just your voice. Your brother is more poetic. What happened to him? Did I frighten him?"

"No, he is just forgetful. When Tris is reading or writing something, he forgets everything, including the prettiest horsewoman I have ever seen."

Without a hint of coyness, she ignored his compliment and said, "So he is Mr. Poorman, the author of the Sir Milton novel I am reading."

"You're reading it?" said Max. "I hadn't thought about people actually reading the thing."

Kate chuckled and said, "You needn't sound so surprised, Mr. Darby. Some people do read novels."

"Certainly, but to think that you would have chosen to read that particular one at this particular time. It is quite astounding."

"Not really. When I spoke to the clerk at Hatchard's— who was reading it also, by the way—he mentioned that the hero was Sir Milton. That caught my interest immediately. When I discovered that the heroine was Iseult, I put two and two together."

"So what do you think of my little brother's writing?"

"It is most entertaining. I feel as if I am on the crusade alongside Sir Milton. Your brother is quite talented."

"Yes, he is the talented brother. My twin is the sensible one."

"And you?"

"Me? I am the hotheaded, impulsive, daredevil brother."

"Rather like Sir Milton," she said, smiling up at him.

"I couldn't say. I'm afraid I haven't read Tristram's stories."

"You should do so. After seeing you in action this afternoon, I rather think you must be the inspiration for Sir Milton. I suppose when you took over his role at the garden wall, perhaps it was not such a great deception."

"Perhaps," said Max, inching closer to her.

Suddenly she shivered, and he noticed for the first time that she was not wearing a cloak. Making a move to shed his own coat, she stilled him by rising.

"I should be going. My father would not approve of this."

"Why? Surely there is nothing wrong with neighbors . . ."

"Paying a call through the front door," she said with a chuckle.

Max rose and bowed over her hand. "Then we will treat this as a formal call, Miss O'Connor."

Kate gave a gurgle of laughter and a small curtsy before turning away. At the garden gate, she looked back at him through the gloom.

"Tomorrow at noon we will be expecting you, Sir Milton."

"I will not fail, fair Iseult," he replied, still smiling, even after she had gone.

Max sat down on the stone bench again, leaning his head against the garden wall. He felt sure of himself with Miss O'Connor. She was not some missish chit

of a girl. She was fully grown and knew what a man wanted of a woman. He felt confident that, given his expertise and her willingness, they could enjoy a cozy relationship while each one of them pursued his objectives. At the end of the Little Season, he would have secured a wealthy bride in Miss Beauchamp and Kate . . . Kate would be going home to Ireland or to the home of some insipid fellow with more money than horse sense.

Why did he suddenly feel like punching a hole in the stone wall?

Four

Miss Philippa Beauchamp glanced left and then right. No one was coming from the front of the house. The kitchen servants were busy preparing dinner. So far, so good. Taking a deep breath, she gathered her skirts in her hand and scurried out the back door, praying no one would look out the windows and discover her flight.

Her breath coming in tiny rasps, she paused to get her bearings. She had seen the gate that led to the lane behind the house, though she had never ventured to open it. What if it were locked? The impossible thought made her tremble, but she forged ahead, determined to attain her goal.

"Miss Beauchamp?"

The voice made her gasp, but she stumbled through the gloom toward the sound. Then strong hands held her steady, and she exhaled a deep sigh of relief.

"Mr. Darby, I am glad you found your way," she breathed.

His profile was in silhouette against the darkening skies.

"So am I," he said, smiling down at her. "I ... I have your book."

"Good. Perhaps you would care to sit down?" Philippa

grimaced She was acting a complete ninnyhammer, and she was not usually one. Well, she corrected, not usually a complete one.

"I would love to. I think I saw a bench over here."

They came upon the small arbor, and Philippa said, "There is only the one seat, I'm afraid."

"Then you must take it," said Tristram gallantly.

"No, for you are so tall, I would not be able to see your face. You sit down, and ... I... I shall..."

"Perch on my knee," he said, his voice full of honesty and kindness, and she knew he could not be wanting the same things from her those other men, her mother's friends, had wanted.

Blushing, Philippa did as he said. She was steadied on her perch by a gentle pressure from his hand on her waist. With the other, he placed the book in her lap.

"I do hope you will like it."

"I know I shall since you wrote it," she replied, turning to face him.

In the somber shadows, their faces were so close, she could feel his gentle breaths. Leaning toward him was the most natural thing. Their lips touched. His hand moved up her back and cradled her against him as she leaned her head against his broad chest.

"I hope you will not think me too forward," she said finally, lifting her head to gaze into his eyes. The moon was rising, and she could see indecision written there.

With a little grimace, he shifted so that she was forced to rise. Standing in front of her, his hands clutched hers as she held the book.

"Miss Beauchamp . . . Philippa, I. . . cannot betray my... I cannot."

He took a step away from her and dropped his hands to his sides. He might as well have crossed a desert, for

when next he spoke, his voice was dry and empty of all emotion.

"The hero of the book is Sir Milton. He is a capital sort of fellow, modeled after my brother Max, who is also a capital sort of fellow. He is not the sort who would trifle with someone else's ... I must go. I do hope: you will think of Max while you are reading this. He is the very best person I know, full of all sorts of noble j ideals and qualities. He would never dream of betraying a trust. Never."

"Mr. Darby ... Tristram?"

"I must go. I... I should never have come."

And then he was gone. Philippa sat down on the little chair and cried—small, tiny sobs that befitted a girl who was small and tiny. Inside, however, she was quite certain her heart was breaking, and she wished she were a complete ninnyhammer, because then she would not have understood what Tristram was saying.

It was his brother who was courting her, not sweet, gentle Tristram. Tristram might be attracted to her, but he was not interested in taking her as his wife.

At this realization, Philippa thought her heart really would break!

That night, at the invitation of the Marquess of Cravenwell, Max and Tristram set out for dinner at White's, one of the most fashionable men's clubs in London. Gambling was the main activity, especially in the evening, but neither Darby brother was inclined to join in the play.

As they entered the hallowed portals, Max said, "What the devil has you so peevish? You have been frowning ever since you came home this afternoon."

"Why shouldn't I be cross? What is the meaning of this summons? I mean, does the dirty marquess want to inspect us? I should think he knows what we look like by now."

"Perhaps he invited us to be polite," said Max, grinning unabashedly.

Tristram could not help but smile at his brother's nonsensical comment. Then he spied the marquess and his father.

"Devil take me! The old fool's playing cards with the marquess again!" exclaimed Tristram. "We will never see the light of day!"

"I wonder if there is a way for us to disown him?" quipped Max. "There, that's better. Might as well grin and bear it. Come on, Tris."

The viscount sat opposite the marquess, his nose in a hand of cards, a glass of brandy at his elbow, and a smile on his face.

"Sit down, lads," he said, motioning them forward.

"And be quiet," growled the marquess.

"Do not be offended by your host's incivility. He is not accustomed to losing, especially to me," said Viscount Tavistoke with a chuckle.

"Wouldn't be tonight except that he is having the most damnable run of luck," snapped the marquess.

"Piquet always was your game, Papa," said Max, taking a chair on his father's right side while Tristram still stood, gazing^round the club.

"Sit down, young chub. Hasn't anyone ever told you it ain't polite to stand over people when they're playing cards? Thought a son of Tavistoke here would know better."

"And so he does," said the viscount as Tristram slipped into the fourth chair at the table.

"Sorry. I wasn't looking at your cards, either of you. I just hadn't been here before, and..."

"Well, you mustn't even think of drawing this place," said the rude marquess, jabbing Tristram in the chest with one bony finger. "It would play havoc with the members!"

"I don't see why. It's nothing that isn't going on in a dozen other clubs at this very moment," said Tristram, glaring at the older man.

"Oh, so this one's decided to take the bit in his mouth and run with it, has he?" said the marquess. "It would be well for you to remember, my boy, who is footing the bill for this second foray into the Marriage Mart—a second foray that would not ha» a been necessary if you had taken care of business the first time instead of drawing all your little pictures. That didn't get you very far, now, did it?"

Tristram's chest swelled with indignation, but Max beat him to it by saying casually, "True, and it has made me wonder why, my lord, you didn't simply have our father put in debtor's prison after last Season. That was originally your plan, was it not?"

It was the marquess's turn to glare, but he said nothing.

Max smiled and continued, "Why do we not quit our squabbling? Your note said you wished to know about our progress, and I am prepared to enlighten you."