Sorcery & Cecelia: Or the Enchanted Chocolate Pot (26 page)

“Is something the matter, Lady Sylvia?” I asked.

“You seem a nice girl,” Lady Sylvia replied, “and I know Thomas well enough to guess the sort of tricks he is likely to get up to. You needn’t be afraid to tell me the entire truth, you know.”

I spilt half my tea in my lap. It was still quite hot and the gloves did not soak up enough to make much difference. I dabbed ineffectually with my napkin as I tried to think of something to say that would relieve my feelings without giving Lady Sylvia the idea that I was badly brought up. “My goodness,” I said finally. It wasn’t very satisfactory. “Drat!” I said. That was better. “I don’t know what you mean,” I said to Lady Sylvia.

“I mean that Thomas might have made you think there was some reason for you to pretend to be betrothed, for his protection perhaps.” Lady Sylvia’s dark gaze had not altered. “You might feel very awkward about ending the betrothal before you were quite sure he was safe.”

Cecy, you
know
I can tell falsehoods. No matter who looks at me, for how long, I can tell bouncers so enormous even Aunt Charlotte does not think to question them. I
know
I can. Only, sitting in that perfect room of ivory and gold, dripping tea on the Axminster carpet, I just couldn’t tell a lie to Lady Sylvia. So I took refuge in silence. For several minutes (it seemed like several years), I gazed into the cloudy remainder of my tea and tried to think why I felt so miserable at the chance to rid myself of the burden of betrothal to Thomas. In a way I thought it would be better than jilting him, for I felt quite certain his Mother would disapprove strongly of his sham offer of marriage.

“He was perfectly honest with me,” I said at last. “He said I was the only young lady he could ask who would not misunderstand him. There is something about Dorothea, you see, that no man can resist. And he wasn’t certain he could resist either, until he saw her. He didn’t like to take the risk.”

Lady Sylvia was silent so long I looked up from my teacup. She was no longer gazing at me. She was staring at the teapot with an air of faint disgust. “So you were the only young lady in the Ton who would not misunderstand him,” she said. There was a twist in the corner of her mouth that boded ill for someone.

“He said I could jilt him whenever I please,” I continued. “I have given it a great deal of thought. I think perhaps the ball at Carlton House would be best. But perhaps you would prefer something more discreet.”

“That is entirely your affair,” replied Lady Sylvia. Her voice was still remote but much of the chill had gone out of it. “In the meantime, we must do the thing properly. There is a set of rubies that Thomas ought to present to you—”

I made an inarticulate noise of protest.

“—and I’m afraid I’ve been dreadfully selfish with the Schofield pearls. There is also a sapphire necklace, which won’t do for your coloring, of course, but will come to you all the same, and a brooch with a really splendid intaglio.”

“Lady Sylvia, I could not—truly—”

“There will be more tedious things to see to in the way of settlements and so on, but I won’t bore you with all that now,” said Lady Sylvia. “No, don’t argue, child. We’ll have the solicitors see to everything. After all, you don’t want to betray Thomas’s useless, stupid little charade now, do you? People will talk if you don’t do the thing properly. And those rubies will be really stunning with your complexion.”

“No, Lady Sylvia,” I said. “No.”

Lady Sylvia gave me another long, measuring look. The ill-natured twist of her lips smoothed itself away as she smiled at me. “No?” she asked. “Well, perhaps not just yet. Will you take more tea, Kate?”

To my relief, she let the subject drop and did not refer to it again. We spent the rest of the afternoon drinking tea and discussing Thomas’s youthful misadventures. Apparently Oliver was not the only child to have the firm conviction he could fly from the peak of the stable roof. Thomas did something very similar, only instead of breaking his arm, he broke his leg. I ought to write these things down so that if you and I ever have children, we will know at about what age these notions arise.

On Thursday, Dorothea came to tea in Berkeley Square. Robert was already here when she arrived and he stared at her, quite speechless with happiness, all the time Aunt Charlotte was pouring out for Dorothea.

“Will you have a cream bun?” I asked Robert, in an effort to distract him from Dorothea.

Robert merely shook his head and went on stirring his tea absently. Dorothea drank an entire cup of tea before she overcame her bashfulness sufficiently to look up at him, and when she did, he lost his grip on his spoon altogether. It flew in a sharp little arc over the tea table and landed on the carpet at Georgy’s feet.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Robert, flushing scarlet. “Let me get it.”

He rose and circled the table the long way around. As he walked behind Dorothea he made a sudden attack on the plate of cream buns and under cover of this distraction dropped a folded scrap of paper into Dorothea’s lap. Aunt Charlotte would certainly have discovered this piece of amateur subterfuge if I hadn’t had the presence of mind to upset the sugar bowl into the slops dish. To my disappointment, Dorothea was not goose enough to open the paper and read it there and then. She slid it into her glove while Aunt Charlotte was addressing me and ringing for more sugar, and was able to put her gloves on with perfect composure when it was time to take her leave.

On the whole, I would say romance becomes Robert Penwood. He does not talk nearly so much as was his habit, and he ate scarcely anything, not even his cream bun.

It is a pity that I cannot give them another opportunity to meet, but since Thomas warned me of Miranda’s intentions toward me, I have been avoiding her to the best of my ability. Unfortunately, this means I must also avoid Dorothea, except in those rare cases, as at tea, when she can escape Miranda’s company. Georgina teases me about it, telling me that this betrays my jealousy of the attention Thomas paid Dorothea while I was ill. But Georgy is usually teasing me about something. It is almost pleasant to have her roast me about something that I know isn’t true for a change. Much better than her usual instinct—she has only just stopped making references to gilding my toenails. This has been doubly annoying as the whole idea was Georgy’s to begin with. If she keeps on with her arch remarks on the topic, Aunt Charlotte is sure to find out after all, and it will be me that she makes sorry. An awful thought just struck me. Aunt Charlotte will certainly blame me for Georgy’s gaming—but do you suppose she would be right in doing so? Am I to blame?

Love,

Kate

9 July 1817

Rushton Manor, Essex

Dearest Kate,

Of course you are not to blame for Georgy’s gaming. If anyone is to blame (besides Georgy), it is Aunt Charlotte, for (as she has pointed out to everyone so often) she is Responsible For You Both. However, I doubt that she will see it this way. She probably
will
claim it is your fault, for she always does. I cannot imagine why she is so unjust. Nobody can do anything with Georgy when she takes a notion into her head, and she never listens to your advice any more than Oliver listens to me. It is a great pity you cannot tell Aunt Charlotte so to her face, and so bring her to a sense of her obligations, but it would never work. If you tried, she would probably lock you in your room for the next twenty years, and Miranda would make away with Thomas in the meantime.

I am glad to hear that Robert has reached London, and gladder to know that Miranda has not yet arranged to have him set upon by footpads or poisoned with chocolate or thrown by his horse (though the way Robert rides, I do not think I could set such an accident down to Miranda’s account with any great degree of certainty, however much I might like to). I do hope Robert will do something useful, now that he is there. Staring happily at Dorothea over the tea table may be very enjoyable for them both, but I cannot see that it accomplishes anything. I suppose I must pin my hopes on the note he passed her, though it is probably only bad verse to her eyebrows. (And I cannot commend too highly your presence of mind in distracting Aunt Charlotte. Had she noticed what Robert was doing, she would certainly have considered it her duty to inform Miranda, and you know what that must have led to.)

I must confess that I cannot completely make sense of Lady Sylvia’s remarks to you regarding your betrothal to Thomas. However, she seems to have accepted the current state of affairs, which must make things far more comfortable for you. You must have found it excessively awkward, dealing with Lady Sylvia these past two weeks and knowing that she believed you to be really engaged to her son. I do think it rather unkind of her to refer to it as “Thomas’s useless, stupid little charade,” but no doubt she was slightly overset on first hearing the truth. And she is quite right; rubies would be perfectly stunning on you.

I have spent much of this week at Mrs. Hobart’s, having fittings on the gown she made for me from the amber taffeta you sent. Mrs. Hobart is nothing if not painstaking, and I cannot justly say, therefore, that the major part of my week has been lively.

Monday morning I went out for my ride as usual. I did not expect to see James Tarleton, though out of habit I rode toward the wood where we had agreed to meet. He had not been waiting for me since that dreadful tea the week before, when he seemed so upset at my having broken Thomas’s chocolate pot. I considered this most unfair, as it meant that I had still not been able to tell him why I had done it or that subsequent events had justified my actions (i.e., Thomas had begun to recover). So it was with mixed feelings that I saw James Tarleton’s bay coming toward me through the trees.

He was looking very stern and solemn, but not, I thought, actually furious. Considering that he had had all of a week in which to let his temper subside, this was not notably encouraging. However, it was at least an opportunity to provide him with my explanation and news, which I felt honor-bound to do in spite of his attitude.

“Good morning, Miss Rushton,” he said coldly as he came up with me.

“And to you, Mr. Tarleton,” I said in similar tones. I could not but feel that this was an inauspicious beginning, so I added more warmly, “I suppose you have come at last to hear the rest of my news of Thomas?”

“No, Miss Rushton, I have come to ask you to stop your well-intentioned interfering in Thomas’s affairs. There is no further need for it.”

I gaped at him, amazement warring with indignation. Indignation won out very quickly. “If I had not broken that chocolate pot, Thomas would probably be dead by now,” I said in as cold and stiff a tone as ever Aunt Elizabeth managed. “It was
necessary
, Mr. Tarleton, and if you do not see that, you are as feather-headed as—as my brother, Oliver. Furthermore, I will have you know that I have no particular interest in the affairs of the Marquis of Schofield. My cousin Kate’s affairs are, however, another matter, and I hope I shall always be willing to lend her my assistance when she is in need of it.”

Mr. Tarleton’s eyes narrowed. “Then it is to oblige your cousin that you are attending Sir Hilary Bedrick’s dance on Saturday?”

“Is
that
what you’re cutting up stiff about?” I said. “I was sure you were still annoyed about Thomas’s chocolate pot.”

“
Damn
Thomas’s chocolate pot!” James said. “Can you think of nothing else?”

“Mr. Tarleton!” I said, more surprised by his vehemence than shocked by his language. “Have you and Thomas had a falling-out?”

“You might say that,” he replied. “But you are not going to divert my attention this time, Miss Rushton. Are you going to Sir Hilary’s party?”

“Yes. Aunt Elizabeth has accepted on behalf of all of us,” I said.

“And I suppose you had no hand in that?” he said skeptically. “No plans to slip into Sir Hilary’s library during the party? No intention of poking around the house to see what you can discover?”

“None whatever,” I assured him. “Now that the chocolate pot is disposed of, there seems not the slightest need for such stratagems.”

“I am glad to hear you say so,” he said in a dry tone.

“Well, it is obvious,” I said. “Without the chocolate pot, Sir Hilary cannot do much to Thomas without returning to London. He cannot do that before the party, so Thomas will have plenty of time to recover from any lingering ill effects. And as long as neither of us does anything to annoy Sir Hilary, he can have no reason to put spells on us to keep us out of his way.”

“So you do suspect that Sir Hilary was behind that convenient illness of yours,” he said, and his tone was not so hard as before.

“Well, of course,” I said reasonably. “And I will take the greatest care not to irritate him again, you may be sure.”

He laughed suddenly, but there seemed very little humor in it. “The only thing I’m sure of is that taking great care is not something you’re particularly good at,” he said. “I suppose I’ll have to come to Bedrick Hall and keep an eye on you.”

I frowned. “Is that wise? I shall be quite all right because I will stay with Aunt Elizabeth all evening, but if Sir Hilary suspects you of spying on him, you won’t be safe.”

He looked at me with a twisted little smile. “Don’t worry about me, Miss Rushton. The only danger I’m likely to be in comes from quite another quarter.”

“Miranda? But she’s in London—” Then I remembered the garden you stumbled into at Sir Hilary’s investiture, and Thomas’s remarks about a portal. “Oh, dear, I hadn’t thought of that at all,” I said.

“Not Miranda,” he said. For a moment he seemed about to explain further; then he shook his head. “I seem to have spent our last few conversations ripping up at you, Miss Rushton,” he said after a moment. “I beg your pardon for it.”

“It is quite all right,” I said. “For I know how worried you must have been about Thomas, and being worried always seems to make people cross.” His expression seemed to be darkening again, so I hurried on, “Kate’s news of Thomas has been very good; if you would not mind riding a little way back with me, I can tell you of it.”