Somerville Farce (16 page)

T
he week following
the twins’ come-out ball was, to say the least, hectic. To say the
most, it was seven days and nights so chock-full of bustle from
dawn to nearly dawn again that it was no wonder that events and
places and things were concentrated upon almost without exception,
leaving the various souls of Glynde mansion little free time in
which to think about anything save their own particular
problems.

Trixy was perhaps the most preoccupied
inhabitant of the mansion, and not without reason. If she had found
it difficult to reconcile herself to the idea of being a reluctant
blackmailer, the notion of being considered mistress material had
all but shocked her into speechlessness.

As she had relived that last embarrassing
conversation between herself and the duke—and she relived it almost
hourly, much to her disgust—she had at last come to the conclusion
that she had handled herself quite well under the circumstances,
while the best she could say about Harry’s part in the whole affair
was that he had behaved with all the finesse of a greased pig
attempting to navigate its way along a tightrope strung fifty feet
above a sty.

All right, so her heart had been
broken—stomped on, actually, until it had been pounded into a
million tiny painful pieces. Was this such an unusual occurrence
among penniless ladies with no prospects, who dared to dream of
happily-ever-after with the wealthy, titled men of their dreams?
No, it was not. It was so ordinary, as a matter of fact, so totally
predictable, that Trixy could only wonder that she had ever been so
foolish as to have dared to dream of such unremitting bliss in the
first place.

She had dared to dream, and made a sad hash
of the thing. However, she had also dared to blackmail—and once
again, that part of her plan seemed to be coming along swimmingly,
as Eugenie and Helena had been pursued by more than a dozen suitors
each ever since the ball.

Not only that, but Trixy’s plan to revenge
herself on the duke for all his many slights had been growing by
leaps and bounds, even though she had stopped personally applying
herself to the task from the moment she had used Sir Roderick’s
interest in her as a cutting exit line to get her out of harm’s way
before she betrayed her true feelings for Harry.

Sir Roderick, bless the man, had taken up
the slack nicely, paying her court daily, taking her out on drives,
sending her flowers, standing up with her at dances, and generally,
by his devotion, driving his friend the duke all but round the
bend.

It was all gratifying in the extreme to
watch, because Harry, Trixy was sure, was caught between the urge
to tell Sir Roderick the truth about her—effectively destroying the
relationship—and what she hoped was an equally compelling urge to
punch the neatly bearded man squarely on the nose because he was,
she sincerely prayed, extremely jealous.

He
was
jealous. Trixy was sure of it.
He did want her. She was equally sure of that. The single bright
spot in the entire mess remained the knowledge that he had admitted
to wanting her. But he would no sooner contemplate marriage with
her than he would consider jumping from the White Tower in an
effort to launch himself to the moon.

And that’s why Trixy was so unhappy in the
midst of the captivating frenzy of the Season, and why she could
only hope with every fiber of her being that the twins would soon
be settled so that she could tuck her tail between her legs and
slink off somewhere to lick her many wounds.

As Trixy stood in front of a full-length
mirror in her bedchamber just after luncheon, her heart not really
in the thing as she considered whether her simple strand of garnets
really was appropriate adornment for the gown she had chosen for
that evening’s entertainment at Lady Hereford’s, Lacy knocked on
the door and, not being bidden to enter, entered anyway.

“And there ye be, missy, primpin’ and
plannin’ ta take yerself out struttin’ again, without so much as a
single thought ta m’poor babies.”

Trixy looked at the maid’s reflection as she
saw it in the mirror—or at least she saw part of it, for Lacy was a
very large woman and much of her bulk did not fit within the gilt
frame. “Your poor babies, Lacy? When last I saw Helena and Eugenie,
they were off to Bond Street with Lady Amelia to look at hats.
What’s wrong?”

The maid jammed her fists onto her ample
hips. “As if ye didn’t know,” she countered, sniffing. “Helena’s
moonin’ around like her best chum just up and left her, and
m’darlin’ Eugenie is ridin’ fer a fall, moonin’ over that Salty
fella.”

Trixy moved away from the mirror to sit on
the edge of the bed. “Let’s take this one step at a time, if you
please, Lacy. First of all, I have noticed that Helena isn’t quite
entering into the thrill of the Season with all the joy I could
have wished. At first I thought it was because Willie wasn’t paying
her enough attention, but the boy is clearly besotted with her.
Does Helena believe Harry—I mean, the duke—will cut up stiff at the
match?”

“Lord Willie?” the maid said with a sniff.
“That’s yesterday’s news, missy, and ye’d know it well enough if
you was paying any attention ta anythin’ but yerself. There’ll be
no match in that quarter, and no mistake. The colleen likes Lord
Willie well enough, and he’s a fine broth of a boy for all he did
truss me up like a chicken that first night, but the wind’s blowin’
in another quarter altogether nowadays, if ye can take
m’meanin’.”

Trixy put a hand to her head, wondering if
Lady Amelia would object overmuch if she tried to cry off for the
evening, complaining of the headache. Didn’t she have enough on her
mind without having to deal with another of Helena’s infatuations?
Besides, Harry wasn’t going to be at Lady Hereford’s, a fact he had
made very clear earlier as they sat around the table at luncheon.
“And from which quarter would the wind be blowing today, Lacy?”

Lacy rolled her eyes and plopped her ample
body down in a nearby chair. “And if I knew that, missy, would I be
needin’ ye? Whoever he is, he’s makin’ m’baby unhappy, and when I
finds him I’ll make him smell hell for that!”

“I’m sure you will, Lacy,” Trixy said,
privately believing that Helena’s latest infatuation would prove to
be as short-lived as any of the half-dozen that had come before it.
“In the meantime, I promise to watch her closely, all right?”

“And what are ye goin’ ta do about Eugenie,
hmm?” the maid persisted. “Floatin’ above the ground, the dear,
daft child is, head over ears in love with this Mr. Grover Saltaire
of hers. Lunatic sort of name, don’t ya think?”

Trixy was fast losing interest in the
conversation, as she considered it much too early in the game for
either of the twins to be on the verge of marriage. “Lunatic? Oh,
you mean ‘Grover,’ don’t you?”

“ ‘Grover’? No, of course not. I meant
‘Saltaire.’ Silly name, don’t you know.” Lacy lifted a hand to pat
at her hair. “Says she’ll be takin’ me with her when she weds,
Eugenie does, as there ain’t no one she loves so much as me. She
didn’t mention you, o’course, but then, ye already took care of
settlin’ yerself with a cottage and a pocketful of ill-gotten
money, didn’t ye, now, even before ye was sure about the girls. No,
there ain’t no one she loves so much as me.”

“I’m sure there isn’t,” Trixy agreed
wearily, rising to return to her station in front of the mirror and
another inspection of the garnet necklace. She might as well have
the word “blackmailer” branded on her forehead. Didn’t anyone
understand that she had only thought the scheme up on the spur of
the moment, and was not a dedicated thief? No, she supposed
not.

She brought herself back to the subject at
hand. “So you think Mr. Saltaire is only toying with Miss Eugenie’s
affections? Perhaps you’re right, Lacy, as he is, after all, a
friend of the duke’s. I will have a talk with her.”

Lacy hauled herself to her feet. “Ye don’t
pay a body a whole lot of attention these days, do ye, missy? I
didn’t say this Salty fella is leadin’ Eugenie down the garden
path. That ain’t it a’tall. It’s the mother, the good Lord blight
all meddlin’ mamas. She’s the one what’s makin’ all the trouble,
cuttin’ up stiff at the match. My little darlin’ thinks she’ll wear
the besom down in time, but not ta m’way o’thinkin’, she won’t. No,
no.”

Trixy felt herself becoming angry. It was
one thing for Harry to see her as beneath him—for, after all, he
was a duke—but it was quite another matter for Grover Saltaire’s
mother to look down her not-so-noble nose at Eugenie, whose own
mother, after all, had been second cousin to the Earl of
Pembroke!

“Eugenie really loves Mr. Saltaire?” she
asked, her green eyes narrowing to slits as she glared into the
mirror.

“Fit to die,” the maid answered firmly,
crossing her arms over her ample bosom.

“And Mr. Saltaire returns her
affections?”

“And would she be wearin’ his ring round her
neck on a ribbon long enough ta keep the thing hidden beneath her
nightshift iffen he didn’t, that’s what I want to know.”

Trixy turned to face the maid. “You’re
right, Lacy. This could prove serious. I’ll see what I can do,
starting tonight at Lady Hereford’s. We must make sure Eugenie
doesn’t feel herself forced to do something rash. We don’t want her
marrying over the anvil.”

Lacy nodded her agreement. “And I’ll be
keepin’ a sharp eye out on Helena. If that little girl gets ta
bein’ happy agin anytime soon, we’ll have the pair of ’em to be
watchin’, don’t ye know.”

The Duke of Glynde had always thought
himself to be a sane man, a rational man, a fair man. He was good
to his tenant farmers and servant staff, a loving son to his late
parents, a mentor to his brother, and a loyal friend. He generously
supported his church, dutifully took up his seat in Parliament
every January, and had never bedded another man’s wife. He was, he
had always believed, a gentleman.

So why did he feel he was such a monster,
one of the lowest of the low? Why did he stomp about the house
wearing a scowl that sent the maids to scurrying for the kitchens?
Why had he been spending so much of his time away from home, gaming
and drinking and generally avoiding all contact with the gaggle of
women that had taken up residence in Portman Square?

Most important, why had he found it
impossible to meet Beatrice Stourbridge’s eyes whenever he was
forced into her company? Was he embarrassed? Was he ashamed? Was he
confused? Was he hurt?

Yes, dammit, he thought as he strode up St.
James’s just past noon, he was all of those things—and more. He was
embarrassed and ashamed that he had been so blockheaded as to
believe that Trixy had cared for him more than she cared for her
own comfort. She may have admitted to wanting him, but she had been
just as quick to grab at the cottage and allowance once more while
admitting that she would pass it all over in a moment if she
thought there was a deeper gravy boat—such as Sir Roderick and the
possibility of a more permanent arrangement in the form of
marriage—anywhere near that she could jump into with both feet.

Harry was also confused, for even now, a
week later, he was having trouble sorting out all that had happened
that fateful night of the twins’ come-out ball. Trixy’s calmly
uttered protestations of business being business might still peal
in his ears, but he couldn’t completely banish the niggling thought
that she had been genuinely caught off-guard by his bald offer to
set her up as his mistress.

His hands clenched into fists. No! He was
not going to allow himself to think that way. He was not going to
allow the memory of those soulful green eyes and that single,
probably purposely produced tear to trick him into believing, not
for the first time, that Trixy was an innocent. No innocent young
lady, no matter how hard-pressed she might be by circumstances,
ever holds a gun, figuratively or literally, to a man’s head and
demands satisfaction in the way of money and a place to live. Not
in Harry’s memory, anyway.