Simply Scandalous (17 page)

"That's quite enough, Juliet," said Horatio. "The
joke has gone too far, my lord. Mary, take that foul
concoction away."

"I see no joke," said Swale coldly, shooing Mary
away. He really didn't like the high-handed manner
in which this pretty fellow corrected the evil, yet unquestionably magnificent, Juliet, almost as though he
owned her. "I will eat every bite of this decidedly
non-foul concoction, thank you."

He grimaced at Juliet as he forced the last of the
gruesome stuff down his throat. She watched him in
wide-eyed disbelief. "My compliments on your excellent cookery, Miss Wayborn. I have never tasted anything quite like it. Perhaps, one day you will allow me
to return the favor and serve you a dish named in your
honor? A dish served cold, I think." He snapped his
fingers. "I have it! Oysters. Raw oysters served on a
block of ice and garnished with lemon. Oysters to
match your eyes, Miss Wayborn. Ice to represent the
ice in your soul, and lemon reminiscent of your tart
personality. I give you ... Oysters a la Juliete."

The blaze of scorn in her eyes made him smile, but
the others at the table were alarmed.

"What a splendid compliment!" cried Mrs. Gary,
who did not wish to see anything else set afire in her
dining room. "His lordship means to pay a compliment. Your-your eyes are gray, my dear."

"Indeed they are," agreed Dr. Cary nervously, for
he wanted nothing else broken.

"And you know you like oysters, Juliet," Cynthia
pointed out. "I could never bear the horrid, slimy,
squishy things myself-" She broke off as she realized
that her remarks were unlikely to promote peace. "But
you have always liked them."

Juliet thoughtfully took a bite of cold asparagus. She
had underestimated Swale, she realized. First, his
hands, and now, his tongue. She had not supposed
him capable of matching wits with her, any more
than she would have guessed him capable of easing
a sliver of glass from a wounded animal's paw. Several
witty rejoinders suggested themselves to her, each
icier and more tart than the last, which meant, of
course, that she could not use them, not now.

"I do like oysters," she conceded, inclining her
head graciously to her opponent. "I like them smoked
and stewed. But I would not be adverse to trying
them served cold with lemon."

Horatio had listened to Juliet and Swale cross
swords with growing displeasure. He was not accustomed to sharing his cousin's attention with other
gentlemen, and it troubled him deeply thatJuliet had
allowed herself to be goaded into exchanging rather
vulgar insults with the man. It showed a want of propriety that, he feared, might reflect badly on himself
and his family. He took control of the conversation
as the sweet was brought in and steered it toward
Walter Scott's poetry, a subject that he knew always
interested Juliet.

Swale, who had no stomach for poetry, maintained
a sullen silence as the cherry sorbet did its best to eliminate the taste of burnt carrots from his mouth. In due
course, the ladies withdrew. Dr. Cary unburdened
himself of his political views for three quarters of an
hour, and then the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in
the little drawing room. All signs of the afternoon's
disaster had been removed, but a large pale square
on the wallpaper showed where the broken cabinet
had once stood.

Dr. Cary being set against cards and all forms of
gambling, Mrs. Cary proposed alternative entertainment. At her insistence, each of them was required to perform a speech from Shakespeare.

Juliet, rather than choosing anything from her
namesake, did Portia's "The quality of mercy is not
strained" from the courtroom scene of The Merchant
of Venice. The Vicar regaled them with Marc Antony's
"Friends! Romans! Countrymen! Lend me your ears!"
Cynthia, after much indecision, rather surprisingly settled on Cleopatra's lament. "No more but e'en a
woman, and commanded/ By such poor passion as
the maid that milks/ And does the meanest chares."
It went on and on. Swale could make neither head nor
tails of it, but he noticed Juliet wiping a tear from her
eye as Cynthia's soft voice faded into the air.

Horatio stood up and smiled fondly at Juliet. "What
shall I do, my dear cousin? Macbeth? Hamlet? Othello?"

"Hamlet,' 'she said promptly, clapping her hands together like an ecstatic child. Swale did not much like
the way her gray eyes glowed as she looked at her
handsome cousin. She seemed to have forgotten entirely how the rude fellow had insulted her cooking!

Horatio honored her choice with "0, that this too too solid flesh would melt/ Thaw, and resolve itself
into a dew."

Swale was sitting on the sofa next to Cynthia with
Sailor in his lap. "No such bloody luck," he muttered
under his breath, but he added his applause when the
long soliloquy at last was laid to rest. "You might
have had a career treading the boards, Captain," he
said, stifling a yawn.

"Thank you, my lord," Horatio said coldly.

"So that's Hamlet, is it? The man's mother marries
his father's brother-have I got it right?" asked Swale.
"Fairly beastly, what? I must say, I can't approve. English people ought to behave better, set an example
for the world, even in our plays."

The Family Cary did not know what to say.

"Ancient Rome, yes, obviously. And the Greek chap
who married his own Mamma-Octopus or Edifice
or what is it?"

"Oedipus," Horatio said contemptuously.

"Well, foreigners, after all. But one expects better
from the English race, by God."

"They're not English, you ridiculous man," said
Juliet severely. "They're Danes."

"They're what?"

"Danes. The play is set in Denmark." Juliet shook
her head, almost unable to credit the extent of his ignorance. "For heaven's sake, it's called Hamlet, Prince
of Denmark."

"Which explains his rather poor grasp of the English
language," said Swale. "Such an obvious Dane, Hamlet.
That part about the old shoes following the dead
fellow's body around the place, all teary-eyed-"

Juliet angrily picked up the book. "A little month
or ere those shoes were old," she read, "With which she followed my poor father's body/ Like Niobe, all
tears-"

"Is that good English?" Swale wanted to know. "I ask
you, even in Denmark, are those lines to be considered the King's English? Hm-m-m, Miss Wayborn? I
think not."

Juliet slammed the book shut. "And what will you
do for us, my lord?" she inquired, tilting her head to
one side. "Sir John Falstaff, perhaps?"

Swale regarded her blankly. "Sorry?" he said.
"Thought it was Shakespeare night."

"Don't you know any Shakespeare at all?" cried
Juliet, appalled.

"Shakespeare, my dear infant," he informed her
while scratching Sailor's tummy, "is the name of the
horse that won the Lincolnshire in '03."

His lordship returned to his room at the Tudor
Rose in high dudgeon. "If that is the sort of man she
likes!" he fumed as he tore off his neckcloth. "Poetry,
Bowditch, and a lip covered in fungus! He is a great
eater of poulet roti au cresson and salmon en croute and
God knows what! No rabbit pie for him, Bowditch! Not
the great Captain Cary."

Bowditch was already in bed, reading by the light
of his candle, and where another valet might have felt
the need to get up and attend his master, Bowditch
merely turned the page.

"They call him Phoebus in town, you know. One of
those ruddy Parthenon gods, I expect."

"The god of the sun, my lord," Bowditch informed
him. "Sometimes known as Apollo."

Swale sat on the edge of his bed and availed himself of the bootjack. "I expect they call the Wayborn
after one of those bally Parthenon goddesses too."

Bowditch closed his book with a firm clap and
looked sharply at his master. "Miss Wayborn, my lord?
Did your lordship find her to be goddess-like?"

Swale crossed the room and set his boots outside the door to be polished. "Oh, not one of the really
juicy goddesses, not Venus or anything like that. Take
your mind out of the stews, Bowditch. One of those
queenly, stiff-necked, fully clothed goddesses, if you
see what I mean. Prone to flinging lightning bolts at
the heads of defenseless mortals. You know the type.
Supply the name."

"I believe that Juno was the queen of the gods, my
lord. Something of a jealous shrew, or so I understand.
Always trying to kill Hercules."

"No, no," Swale said impatiently. "Nothing Junoesque about the Wayborn. Quite a slim girl,
Bowditch-I daresay I could span her waist with my
two hands. I can't think how she managed those
chestnuts. What's the name of the one that jumped
out of Jove's head with her spear at the ready?"

"Minerva, my lord."

"That's the one. Goddess of war? Chaos? Doom?"

"Wisdom, my lord, though Minerva did side with
the Greeks in the Trojan War. She was the patroness
of Ulysses."

"The Trojans won that one, didn't they?"

"No, my lord. Troy fell."

"Did he? Stubbed his toe? Serves him right." Swale
yawned. "I'm going to bed now, Bowditch, where I shall
sleep like an infant. Why? Because I deserve a rest after
the evening I have had. Tomorrow, we return to
London."

"London, my lord?"

"Yes, Bowditch, London. Hertfordshire is a foul
wasteland. Nothing but trees, sunshine, and grass.
There's nothing to amuse us here."

"But surely, my lord, your revenge upon Miss Wayborn is incomplete-"

Swale sniffed. "I have decided it is not the behavior of a gentleman to trifle with a lady's affections. She
don't deserve to have tender, womanly feelings awakened in her by me. I'm for London, Bowditch. I'd like
an early start, so mind you don't drag your feet! "

"No, my lord," said Bowditch, blowing out his candle.

Some time later, while it was still dark, Swale awoke
with a start from a dream he was having in which a
long, slender snake had gotten inside the shimmering red dress of a tall, dark-haired lady, causing her
great distress, and in which he was pleasantly engaged in helping her to locate it. The search had
reached a most interesting point when suddenly, his
eyes popped open. It took him a moment to realize
what was amiss. The loud, regular snoring of his valet
had ceased, desisted, and stopped altogether.

"Bowditch?" he croaked softly. There was no answer.
It briefly occurred to Swale that he ought to investigate. Then he rolled over and went back to sleep.

The next thing he knew, his excellent landlord
was standing over him. The room was filled with
light. The air smelled beautifully of bacon, sausages,
and steak and kidney pie.

"My lord?"

Swale eyed the man blearily. "What is the time,
landlord?" he asked gruffly.

"Half-past ten," came the incredible answer.

"Damnation!" cried Swale, throwing back the
covers. "I wanted an early start, landlord. Did my
man not tell you?"

"No, my lord. I haven't seen Mr. Bowditch this
morning."

"Tea, landlord," Swale said decisively. "And something to revitalize the tissues," he added, patting his
growling belly. "Another rabbit pie, perhaps?"

"Yes, my lord," said Mr. Sprigge.

Swale rubbed his face vigorously, and his whiskers
rasped against his knuckles. "And I don't suppose you
could shave me, landlord?"

"Certainly, my lord," Mr. Sprigge said readily
enough, but Swale could not help noticing he seemed
rooted to the spot.

"What is it, man? Bowditch didn't run off with the
pewter, did he?"

"No, my lord. There is ... a lady ... waiting to see
your lordship."

"A lady?" Swale chuckled. "Well, perhaps when I am
stronger, Mr. Sprigge. Right now, all I want is my
breakfast. And lots of it."

"It is Miss Wayborn, my lord," said Mr. Sprigge a
little coldly. "She's been waiting for your lordship
for three quarters of an hour already. She asked me
to wake you, my lord. She says it is important that she
speak to your lordship."

"Miss Wayborn?" He was so startled he stopped
midway through a yawn. Certain images from the
previous night's dream entered his head, causing
him some embarrassment, which he covered with a
show of annoyance. "What the devil does she want?"

"The young lady did not confide in me, my lord."

"I wish she'd told you to wake me up two hours
ago," he grumbled, beginning to shove on a few
clothes that happened to be lying around. "I might
be in London by this time. Where is she?"

"The parlor, my lord."

Swale nodded. "Very well, Sprigge. I will join her
anon, as Shakespeare said. For the nonce, whatever
you do, don't let her near my breakfast. She has
rather a nasty habit of setting a man's food on fire."

He found his boots outside the door, put them on,
and made his way to the private parlor. Miss Wayborn was standing at the window looking down onto the
High Street. She was very neatly dressed in a dark
blue redingote that reminded him, as it was meant to,
of a Naval officer's coat. In her gloved hands, she held
a riding crop.