Kasey Michaels (19 page)

“Papa’s only a lowly knight, I’m afraid,” she answered easily, ripping off the other chicken leg and handing it to Simon, who began devouring it with as much enthusiasm as she had shown. “And for the silliest of reasons.”

“How so?” Simon asked, sitting up again, the better to gnaw on the chicken bone.

Callie told the story in between taking small nibbles at the chicken leg. “Well, you see, Papa just happened to be sitting nearby when one of Her Royal Majesty’s maids began choking on a fish bone during a banquet at some local estate party a dozen years or so ago. The knighthood was his reward for saving her—not that he’d meant to do any such thing.”

“He hadn’t?”

“Oh, no,” Callie explained, laughing. “Papa, more the worse for wear after several rounds of toasting His Royal Majesty’s health, saw the poor woman choking and bolted to his feet in a panic, planning to race off to get her some assistance. But he drunkenly tripped over the hem of the lady’s gown as he turned to run, causing the two of them to pitch forward over the edge of the table—at which point the fish bone shot straight out her mouth and everyone declared Papa to be a hero. Only think,” she said happily as Simon began to chuckle, repeating something Justyn had said more than once, “if Papa had only had the foresight to fall on Her Royal Majesty herself, we’d all be peers today.”

At that last statement, Simon rolled onto his back, holding his sides as he laughed so hard tears formed in the corners of his eyes. “What—what was your father before his fortunate stumble?” he asked at last, wiping at his streaming eyes with one edge of his serviette.

“A gentleman farmer,” Callie told him, trying to hide her own giggles. “Nicely well-off, actually, but becoming Sir Camber seemed to effect a profound change in him and—with Mama no longer about to keep him from such flights of fancy—he concentrated on raising both my brother and myself as if we would someday move in London society. We were both already more than half-grown, and fairly wild, motherless children, but none of that served to dampen Papa’s enthusiasm. Justyn found himself inundated with tutors, and I, sadly, a progression of governesses, each one worse than the last. Thank goodness Justyn let me sit in with his tutors, so it wasn’t all terrible. Would you like me to say something in Greek? I can, you know.”

He looked up at her rather quizzically. “I see. That explains you better to me, I believe.”

Callie shrugged off his comment, not sure if she liked it. “The knighthood means nothing to either of us, you understand, especially as the honor expires with Papa, but he was determined,” she said, frowning. “I also think it’s one reason Justyn went off to London once he reached his majority—to hunt up his fortune, as there seemed precious little hope of another providential fish bone.”

“And Lester?”

Callie smiled, picturing her good friend in her mind’s eye. “Oh, Lester. His papa is the local squire, and the man spent some years with his nose fairly out of joint after my papa’s noble feat raised him a notch higher in what passes for society in Sturminster Newton. But that’s all settled now. I think he had wished for a match between Lester and me, actually, until he realized that I quite routinely lead poor Lester around by his nose, which proved that we’d never be more than very good friends. And he is, you know. My very dearest friend.”

“Poor Lester, if you’re saying that this deep friendship you feel for him explains why he allowed you to dress him up in that pink horror,” Simon said, his sherry eyes twinkling, so that she knew he was funning her.

“Lester—Lester is somewhat
malleable
,” Callie said carefully, drawing on her lessons with Miss Haverly. And then she sobered, deciding it was time for some home truths. “Just as you believe
me
to be, my lord. But I’m not, not really. I wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t have allowed myself to become a part of your plan, if I couldn’t see the sense, the simple beauty of the thing.”

His gaze, that had been so concentrated on her, shifted to the horizon. “Really?”

“Oh, yes. I’m very impressed with it, you know, which is also why I have been so diligent at my lessons. I still can’t believe I’ve allowed strawberries and cream to be rubbed on my face, or spent an hour a day pacing my cell with a three-volume copy of
Pride and Prejudice
on my head. I had to be very careful with the books, as your mother seems to consider Miss Austen to be on a par with Shakespeare.”

Simon, still lying at his ease as if he had nothing better to do than sprawl on the blanket, asking her questions, tossed his denuded chicken leg in the general direction of the basket, then wiped his fingers on the serviette. “Your
cell
, Callie? Isn’t that a bit harsh?”

Callie raised herself onto her knees, threw back her head, using the chicken leg to cross her heart dramatically before holding it high into the sky, like a sword. “‘Oh! give me liberty, for were ev’n Paradise my prison, still I should long to leap the crystal walls.’” Without relaxing her Boadicea-like pose, she then looked at Simon down the length of her nose and pronounced proudly, “John Dryden.”

“The impudent little brat wants a spanking,” Simon shot back at her without hesitation as he tossed the serviette after the chicken leg. “Simon Roxbury, Viscount Brockton.”

Callie collapsed on the blanket in amusement, her head just inches from Simon’s, and the sun shone down on the pair of them, adding its warm glow to the budding friendship that had replaced any animosity that might have remained between them. At least that’s how Callie saw the thing. How she hoped she saw the thing...

Maintaining their relaxed poses, their faces only inches apart, they spent the next half hour or more discussing philosophy, the late war, the problems of the poor, and—for the last five minutes or so—the relative merits of chocolate over beef if one were to be stranded on a desert island for a year with only one or the other to eat. Callie’s reasoning, that of beef turning rank and chocolate remaining good almost forever, won that argument for her, at which time Simon asked if he could possibly trade the beef for smoked ham, and the argument was back on again.

It was such good fun to have someone to talk to again—really
talk
to—now that Justyn had left England, Callie decided as both she and Simon sat up at the same time and attacked the picnic basket once more, all this talk of food making them both hungry again. Lester was a good sort, a wonderful friend, but he did not possess the quick wit of someone like Justyn, someone like Simon Roxbury. She was always the leader with Lester and, much as she liked being in that position, there was something about matching wits with her brother, with the viscount, that challenged Callie in a way that made her feel alive. So very alive.

“We’re going to do this, aren’t we, Simon?” she asked after a bit, once the remainder of the chicken, neatly dismembered, had been devoured. She was holding out her glass at the moment, frowning as Simon refused to fill it more than half-full of rich white wine. “We’re going to rout Noel Kinsey so thoroughly he won’t be able to figure out the reason behind his fall until he is lying facedown in the gutter, his life in tiny little pieces and raining down on his broken body.”

“Bloodthirsty creature, aren’t you?” Simon asked with a smile. He then became serious, although she quickly noticed be wasn’t really answering her question, or even agreeing with her. “Still, Callie, Imogene’s done a fine job so far, even if she only finished what your governesses began—not that I’m so uncaring of my health as to repeat any of the above in the woman’s presence, either the praise or the mention of the governesses.”

“I should think not!” Callie agreed enthusiastically. “Imogene didn’t hold out much hope when she first saw me in my breeches, then went to work with a will. I hadn’t the heart to tell her I didn’t eat with my fingers or walk as if my feet were stuck ankle-deep in mud, and just allowed her to believe she had wrought a miracle.”

“And I thank you for that.” Simon picked up a long blade of seed-topped grass and desultorily began to twirl it between his right thumb and index finger. “But there’s still work to be done, you know, before you can enter Society enough to take dead aim at Filton. Not that there isn’t time for more lessons. At last word, our quarry remains in the country, and I don’t know when he’ll return to London.”

“That’s all true enough.” Still feeling this niggling itch at the back of her neck—as if there were something going on that she might not like if only she knew what it was—Callie took refuge in a bit of bantering. Imitating Imogene’s speech, she said, “There is one small remaining problem, curse it all. She can walk, she can talk, she can even eat—but the dratted gel simply don’t dance.”

Simon had been about to stick the blade of grass in his mouth, but hesitated, the blade a mere inch from his open mouth. He looked, curse him, almost relieved to hear of her sad lack. “She don’t—you
don’t
?”

Wrinkling her nose and shaking her head, Callie admitted, “Not a step. Miss Haverly was going to hire a dancing master for me just before Justyn came home in disgrace and Papa could no longer afford to keep her on. Papa had plans to bring me Out in the Small Season last fall, you see—it being shorter, and less expensive. But that’s neither here nor there, and I wasn’t that dreadfully disappointed, truly. But this matters, doesn’t it? That I can’t dance?”

Simon tossed the grass away with a flick of his wrist. “Oh, yes, Callie, it matters. Although, not it would seem, to my mother. Imogene, helpful dear that she is, and without consulting me first, announced early this morning that she has already sent out invitations for a small ball in your honor. I believe she wants to show you off to her friends or some such thing. That was one of the reasons I wished to speak with you today, Callie. I wanted to make sure you were up to being displayed like a prized pet pony. Because, you know, we can easily cancel the thing. Especially as you don’t know how to dance, if you’re the least bit concerned about your lack of social—”

Callie leaned forward eagerly, waving her hands to ward off his words, her niggling suspicions melting in her eagerness to hear more about her debut. “A small
ball
? I’ll get to have a taste of Society perhaps even
before
Filton returns? Have myself some
fun
? You know, until this moment I didn’t really believe any of this was actually going to happen. Oh, we
talked
about it, and I’ve let Imogene fuss over me and all—but I never
believed
it. Not really. Oh, Simon, how wonderful!”

He looked toward the horizon again, his throat working as he took a deep swallow of wine. The niggle started up again, but Callie ruthlessly pushed it down, much happier to be happy.

She pressed her hands to her cheeks and shook her head. “Me, Caledonia Johnston, having her very own ball. It’s beyond wonderful! And such a pity that Miss Haverly was sent away before we could get beyond globes and sums and water painting, and on to the things that really matter.”

Simon looked at her curiously. “I don’t understand. The things that really matter?”

Callie nodded, still caught up in the idea of having her first waltz. “Yes, of course. Dancing, the proper use of a fan, the rules of flirtation—there are rules, aren’t there? Heaven knows there are rules for everything else in London Society. One of them,” she said firmly, coming back to earth just as Simon pulled a cheroot from his pocket and stuck it in the corner of his mouth, “pertains to never lighting up a cigar in the presence of a lady.”

“Is that right?” Simon commented with easily discernible indifference while making short, neat work out of lighting the tip of the cheroot. “Never?”

“Never!” Was he testing her? How far should she take this obvious trampling of London manners as per the social commandments according to Imogene? “I remember distinctly. It was on your mother’s list. Number three, as I recall.”

“And there can be no exceptions?” Simon asked, his head now wreathed in smoke and with him clearly enjoying himself at her expense.

“Oh, never. Definitely never,” Callie repeated, drawing in the smell of smoke, the aroma reminding her of Justyn, and pleasing her very much, although she wasn’t about to let Simon know that. “I should take immediate umbrage, and insist that you discard the smelly thing at once.”

“Insist, is it?”

She ignored Simon’s twinkling sherry eyes, which had such a strange, unsettling effect on her, and concentrated on the game she believed they were playing. “Yes. Insist.”

He held the cheroot between his fine white teeth, and smiled. “This is interesting. And if I didn’t comply?”

Callie looked to the curricle that stood nearby, the horses munching at the grass at their feet. She sighed theatrically. “Hmmm... this does present a problem, doesn’t it? I can’t complain to my chaperone, for we are quite alone here, aren’t we? I can’t, in this silly gown, outrace you to the curricle so that I can ride off in high dudgeon, because that would mean driving alone through the streets of London. I am quite sure that also is not done.”

“Definitely not done. Leading you back to not going on a picnic unchaperoned in the first place, yes?” Simon put forth helpfully—or it would have been helpfully, if he hadn’t been still grinning. “Perhaps you should have committed Imogene’s entire list to memory before tearing it to shreds?”

All right. He had proved his point, delivered his lesson. Quite well, in fact. Now it was
her
turn! “Perhaps,” she said, agreeing with him. “However, as chance would have it, I am not totally without alternatives.” Callie lifted her wineglass, eyeing it in speculation, then looking pointedly at the lit tip of Simon’s cheroot.

“You wouldn’t!” Simon exclaimed, quickly holding the cheroot behind his back.

With her mouth deliberately closed so that she could both smile and raise her eyebrows speculatively at the same time, Callie watched him, the wineglass still poised for use as a weapon. Simon eyed her questioningly for some moments before he said with the ease of understanding that had thus far served to endear him to her, “You’re threatening me for a reason, aren’t you, brat?”