Maggie MacKeever (19 page)

“So you said before!” interrupted Lord Carlin, with clenched jaw. “It was the only reason I was ever civil to the chit! And I must say I don’t care much for the quality of your advice, because if I
hadn’t
been civil to her, then she wouldn’t have subjected me to a rowdy-do!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on that. Jaisy is a great one for pulling caps! I couldn’t tell you how many times she’s read
me
a terrible scold, but it doesn’t signify a button, because the next day she’s forgotten about it.” Having rendered this endearing explanation of his sister’s temper tantrums, Mr. Rutherford rested his elbows on his ribs and touched the tips of his fingers together. “As for the other, I do not recall offering you any advice.”

“All the same, you did! You said ladies always fancied what they didn’t have, and didn’t fancy what they did! And that the surest way to
not
be the object of a lady’s affections was to act as if you
wished
to be.”

“I
said that?” Mr. Rutherford looked amazed. “Never! It’s something you’ve made up yourself, Kit! No one with any experience at all in the petticoat-line would spout such nonsense.”

“You did so say ladies fancied what they didn’t have!” Lord Carlin persevered. “I remember it! And just moments ago you said that Lady Easterling would have taken me in dislike had I worn my heart upon my sleeve.”

“Jaisy is an exceptional female,” Jevon responded blandly, and without the least embarrassment at this proof of the contradictory nature of his advice. “I never thought you would have used her in this dreadful manner, Kit! It makes me very sad to think of my sister so sadly out of curl, locked away in her room and drinking laudanum. Oh yes, it’s true. She’s fallen into a lethargy. That you should accuse her of boldness was a dreadful blow to her pride.”

And what of Lord Carlin’s own pride? He was the one whose ears had first been blasted and then boxed and then sent off to the devil with a flea therein. Was
he
not entitled to some sympathy?

“No!” replied Mr. Rutherford, when presented with this suggestion. “The ladies are pea-brains, on the whole; and it is not kind to take advantage of them. As gentlemen, we owe a certain delicacy of conduct to the silly widgeons who pay us their compliments. The devil, Kit!
You
should know that a gentleman can’t just go about callously breaking hearts.”

This unique line of reasoning had not previously presented itself to Lord Carlin. Now that it did so, with Jevon Rutherford’s blessing, Kit struggled against the appalling suspicion that he had behaved less than honorably. “Instead,” Mr. Rutherford added bitterly, “you induce my sister to fritter away her chances and then cast her off. A simple kind word is all that is required to make her heart-whole again, but do you offer it? No! Rather you sit here jawing with
me.”

Could Lord Carlin have successfully navigated his course from Jevon Rutherford’s bedroom to the street outside, he would long since have quitted this unpleasant interview; and though he doubted his legs would support him, a debility attendant upon the excellence of the punch, he now tried to rise. His assumption had been correct; abruptly he sat down again. With immeasurable dignity, he stated extreme reluctance to have any further acquaintance with a damsel with whom he would forever be at daggers drawn.

“Damned if there’s any pleasing you!” retorted Mr. Rutherford. “First you wish to have nothing to do with the well-brought-up young women who are forever casting the handkerchief in your direction because you say they bore you to death. Now you don’t want to deal further with my sister, who hasn’t bored anyone in all her life. But that’s your business and it’s no skin off
my
nose if you make a rare muddle of it! Let us talk of something else.”

With this suggestion Lord Carlin fell in readily enough, and soon the gentlemen were engaged in conversation of a nature that, had she been present to listen and contribute, would have been greatly enjoyed by Lady Easterling. Despite his dislike of hearing such talk from the lips of females, Lord Carlin was one of those wealthy patrons of the Fancy commonly known as Corinthians, and had frequently acted as patron to promising young bruisers who showed unusual prowess in street brawls. On one memorable occasion, during his salad days, the viscount had even turned his own drawing room into a sparring ring. Older now and more aware of his station, he contented himself with witnessing exhibitions conducted at the Fives Court in St. Martin’s Street, Daffy’s Club at the Castle Tavern in Holborn, and the Thatched House Tavern in St. James’s. The relative merits of Gentleman Jackson and Mendoza occupied them a while longer; and then, in excellent charity with one another, the gentlemen sent out to Gunther’s for a repast most unsuitable to a tipsy invalid. Over cakes and biscuits, fine and common sugarplums, ices and tarts, they continued to converse amiably, while Lord Carlin resolved to at the first opportunity conduct himself in a very ardent manner that would cause Lady Easterling to take him in disgust, and the enterprising Mr. Rutherford congratulated himself that his chosen sacrificial lamb would do precisely that woolly-headed thing.

The next day, not only Mr. Rutherford but also Lord Carlinwere both absent from their customary haunts, both absences a result of overindulgence in conviviality. Indeed, so very severe were the pangs of remorse and retribution suffered by these two gentlemen that Mr. Rutherford could not recall the nature of the nacky notion which had presented itself to him. Lord Carlin’s memory was much clearer, perhaps due to his freedom from the effects of Battley’s Sedative and Morris’s Drops, but the things he recollected eased not his malaise, for chief among them was that Mr. Rutherford’s blessing had been bestowed. In this manner did the two gentlemen pass their mornings, and the larger portion of the afternoon, secluded in their respective bedchambers in the Albany and Grosvenor Square.

Others among our
dramatis personae
were rather more ambitious, and much less delicate. Young Mr. Kingscote had sallied forth to Astley’s Royal Amphitheater in Westminster Bridge Road, Lambeth, there to breathe in deeply of the mingled smell of horses and sawdust, and gaze wide-eyed upon dazzling equestrian displays, which concluded with a most dramatic re-enactment of Waterloo, during which Wellington and Napoleon met face to face upon the battlefield and edified their audience with an exchange of noble and virtuous platitudes. Miss Valentine and Lady Easterling, meanwhile, prepared to embark upon an expedition to Oxford Street.

Not without considerable fuss and ruckus had Lady Easterling emerged from her seclusion, and not a single servant employed in Blackwood House was long left in ignorance of the fact she did so only under duress. “Because I don’t have the heart for it, and that’s that!” announced the lady bluntly, to anyone within hearing distance of the green-and-slate entry hall. “Well, I ask you! Would you wish to be traipsing about the metropolis if your heart had been broke?”

Miss Valentine looked upon Jaisy, and upon that lovely, stubborn little countenance saw a determination to wring every possible ounce of drama from the situation. Miss Valentine was very weary of dramatic enactments and romantic high flights. “Oh, do stop this posturing, Jaisy!” she said crossly. “You are simply sulking because for once in your life you have not had your own way, and very tedious it is for those of us who never do.”

“Sulking,
am I?” Lady Easterling’s fingers curled into fists. “You are a fine one, Sara Valentine, to chastise
me
for indelicate conduct! Because though you may accuse me of indulging in die-away airs, you
cannot
accuse me of being on the downward path to perdition, which ain’t true of everyone in this room!”

Thomas was the sole other remaining occupant of the entry hall, and Thomas’s wooden countenance was an excellent indication that this conversation was the closest he had ever come to depravity. Scant doubt remained as to whom Lady Easterling considered steeped in vice. Whoever would have thought Jaisy would be such a puritan? All this fuss over a little kiss! Or if not just one, then no more than three! “Oh, Jaisy!” Miss Valentine said helplessly.

And at that very moment or as near it as makes no difference, yet another among our
dramatis personae
experienced a similar rebellion against the more unpleasant aspects of his allotted
rôle.
Sir Phineas Fairfax, Lady Blackwood’s long-suffering man of business, had managed briefly to convince himself that in the dowager duchess’s current machinations he had done his part. Had he not fetched Arthur Kingscote to London, as demanded? Hopefully Arthur Kingscote and Lady Easterling would see the wisdom of fulfilling Georgiana’s ambition, and no further exertion would be required of him.

His misapprehension was manifest to Sir Phineas the instant he stepped through the pedimented door. In the entry-way stood Lady Easterling and Miss Valentine, engaged in argument. Upon closer scrutiny, Sir Phineas remedied that observation. Lady Easterling was arguing. Miss Valentine looked as if she wished to sink through the floor.

“No better than one of the wicked!” insisted Lady Easterling, whose broken heart had not prevented her from decking herself out in a Spanish pelisse of shot sarcenet trimmed with Egyptian crepe and Chinese binding, lemon-colored kid gloves and slippers, and a reticule of painted velvet—after all, one never knew by whom one might be seen. “You, of all people, to be embarked upon the primrose path! It weighs
very
heavily upon my heart! By Jove, Sara! First Jevon and then Arthur! What next, I wonder—or
who?”

“Arthur?” echoed Miss Valentine, looking positively aghast. “Oh, no, Jaisy!”

“I know!” Lady Easterling responded unappreciatively. “Another cinder! Moonshine!”

Miss Valentine embarked upon the primrose path? queried Sir Phineas of himself. Engaging in assignations and trysts? The notion was patently absurd. Not that Miss Valentine wasn’t an attractive young woman, because of course she was.

Obviously Lady Easterling was in no frame of mind to appreciate an application of logic. “Say—and think—what you will!” snapped Sara. “At least I do not go about boxing the ears of everyone who doesn’t wish to marry me!”

“Fair and far off!” Lady Easterling retorted promptly. “I ain’t seen any indication that anyone
wishes
to marry you! Which is very often the way of it with ninnyhammers who indulge in tender encounters before the knot is tied!” And then, a great deal too late, she clapped her lemon-gloved hands over her mouth. “Jupiter! What have I said?”

“A great deal of nonsense,” Miss Valentine replied, with a degree of self-possession that raised her even higher in the opinion of at least one member of her audience. “I cannot imagine what Sir Phineas must think of the pair of us.”

Sir Phineas’s opinion of Lady Easterling, he did not deem it politic to air, but it was highly unflattering. Toward Miss Valentine, however, he felt as he always had, a respectful fondness not untinged with regret. Were he twenty years younger, or even ten; had he anything to offer her other than the somewhat foolish fancies of a man past his prime—but he did not, and he was additionally very firmly set in his bachelor ways. “You must not concern yourself with
that,
dear lady!” he offered gallantly. “I can conceive of no circumstances under which my opinion of you might be altered for the worse.” On Lady Easterling he fixed a stern eye. “Or which would lead me to look upon you with less than the greatest respect.”

“Oh, our Sara is
prime!”
Lady Easterling informed him, unabashed; and in her turn refrained from voicing her resolution that her friend should not turn into a prime article of virtue. “You must not mind me, sir; I talk a great deal of poppycock when I am out of frame! Naturally Sara did not have tender encounters in the garden with either my brother or Arthur—it was all a hum! And now do you think we might go, Sara? The horses have been waiting all this time.”

What could Sara say? With an apologetic glance at Sir Phineas, and another glance at Thomas, Miss Valentine passed through the pedimented door.

Tender encounters? mused Sir Phineas. The phrase had a distinctly depraved ring. Did Arthur Kingscote prefer Miss Valentine to Lady Easterling? Such preference was easily understood. No young man in possession of his senses would wish to ally himself with an inconsiderate, outspoken, rag-mannered baggage like Lady Easterling. Yet Arthur had as little chance of avoiding marriage with Lady Easterling, wish that avoidance fervently as he might, as he had of wearing the crown. In fact, decided Sir Phineas, Sara Valentine was even
less
accessible than that article for Arthur Kingscote as well as himself. Sir Phineas didn’t envy Arthur his dilemma. Thought of rousing the dowager duchess’s displeasure made Sir Phineas shake like a blancmange himself.

But
was
Sara so inaccessible? pondered Sir Phineas, as he ascended the stair. He could not rid his mind of the accusations made by Lady Easterling. Absurd as it was to think that the meek and docile Sara embarked on assignations and engaged in trysts, Jevon Rutherford was legendarily talented in such activities. Surely Jevon would not deem Sara a suitable target for his wiles and blandishments? Jevon Rutherford’s success in the petticoat-line was due to no special effort on his part; he was more pursued than pursuer; surely he would not deliberately lead a young woman of good birth and sterling character deliberately astray?

After due reflection, Sir Phineas decided that Jevon Rutherford would do no such thing. Too, he recalled the pretty little opera dancer who was Jevon’s current flirt. It seemed to Sir Phineas that Jevon had been a trifle cavalier toward that lovely ladybird of late, which was very remiss in him. Had Sir Phineas been twenty years younger, or even ten, he would have been happy to offer his consolations to a lady so cruelly neglected—and with none of the reservations he had concerning his similar conduct toward Miss Valentine.