Talk of the Town (20 page)

“But no mushroom. A fine old family, and well to grass, too. Effie needs that. It would be the making of her if he’d marry her again.”

‘‘I am convinced he came for no other reason."

“I’m delighted to hear it. But about
my
reason for coming?”

“Your reason has less chance of prospering. None, in fact.”

Seeing she was adamant, he changed his tack. “May I bring Mama here, then?”

“When, tonight?”

“Yes, right away."

“You can’t bring her
here.”

“Then come with me. Everyone is asking for you."

“And assuming, no doubt, that I was not invited.”

“Perhaps at first, but the family has been at considerable pains to let the world know you have been induced to accept, and I cannot believe you will be cut on this occasion.”

“No, for I shan’t be there to give the world another chance.”

“You are too hard on the world. Every dog is allowed his one bite. Give the city another chance, as you gave me."

“Yes, and I still don’t see why you first came here determined to despise and insult me. Why should I take so much abuse sitting down?”

“I hadn’t observed you to be doing much sitting down in the matter. But about my own behaviour, it was anger that led me to perform so abominably—anger with myself. When you find yourself liking someone you know you should by rights hate, you become angry with yourself and vent your ire on the other. It is not an uncommon thing, I believe.”

“I never heard anything so nonsensical in my life,” she objected, pretending not quite to grasp the import of his words.

“Have you not? And here I thought you might be experiencing the same sensation.” He regarded her levelly.

“I wonder what Lord Standington can be saying to Auntie,” she remarked irrelevantly.

“Whatever it is, he’s saying it in a mighty soft voice."

Daphne walked to the door of the study and looked into the hall, just in time to see Standington and Effie emerge from the Blue Saloon, wreathed in smiles and still holding hands like a pair of lovesick youths.

“Daphne, you’ll never guess what!” Effie said.

“It won’t take me three guesses,” Daphne laughed. “Congratulations, to you both.”

“She has the gift, too,” Arthur said to his bride-to-be. St. Felix looked lost, but no one explained the mystery to him.

“We’re to get married right away and go back to Ireland,” Effie continued with her good news. “How happy I shall be to get away from here, and really I was not looking forward to Bath in the least.”

“Brighton is where you should have gone, goose,” Standington told her, but his attention was at least half for Daphne.

“Indeed, it is, for besides Bath being so close to James and Mary—not that I would mind seeing Mary, of course—but James, you know... And there are all those invalids wheeling around in their chairs, taking up the whole sidewalk.”

“I am very happy for you,” Daphne said, kissing her aunt’s cheek and offering her hand to Arthur, who reached up and helped himself to the fine young wench’s cheek. “A regular dasher,” he was thinking.

“And you’re to come with us—no arguments!” Arthur said, more aware by the moment of the beauty of his bride’s niece.

“Oh—oh, that sounds lovely,” Daphne said, startled at the idea of sharing their honeymoon but not yet on to Arthur’s passion for her. He kept up a good show of leering at Effie, too.

St. Felix felt the ground shifting beneath his feet and, like his father before him, was rapidly becoming a foe of Lord Standington. But he shook hands and offered congratulations civilly while his mind raced to adjust itself to the new state of affairs. Effie and Standington soon returned to the Blue Saloon and St. Felix, putting his hand on Daphne’s elbow, steered her towards the study.

“You won’t like Ireland at this time of the year,” he said firmly.

“Spring is the best time of the year, and it can’t be worse than London at any season.”

“You will find it cold and damp—the houses all draughty and the food deplorable. The people are rude and ill-spoken.” He had been to Ireland twice and liked it very much. “You would do better to stay in England. Come to Mama and myself in Kent if you don’t wish to return home yet.”

“Kent is the last place I could go.”

“The countryside is beautiful. Kent is the garden of England you know. My house is large and comfortable. I keep a full stable—plenty of ladies’ mounts, for I often receive my sisters; and the food, prepared by my French chef, is excellent. And the host and hostess would do all in their power to make you feel welcome.”

"Thank you, but I have never been to Ireland. I am convinced the travel would be broadening."

“You saw the way Standington was looking at you! Why do you think he wants you there?”

“To help him reach books and things off tall shelves perhaps,” she replied, laughing. “And don’t you dare to suggest I am in danger of ruin from my aunt’s little tiny husband.”

“Come now, quit prevaricating with me. You know perfectly well what I am trying to say."

“You are not usually without more direct words, Your Grace. What are you trying to say?”

“Marry me. Is that direct enough?” he asked sharply.

“What a perfectly ridiculous idea!” she said, and didn’t even notice his imperative manner of phrasing his offer of marriage.

“So it is, but everyone else finds the ridiculous custom of marriage acceptable. All the go—they are stumbling over each other to get buckled at this time of the year. Effie means to have a fourth go at it.”

“I suppose we could always get divorced if it didn’t work out,” she said with a sly smile.

“Why not? You deprived us of the mud lustre of scandal for our family escutcheon. You could at least give us a divorce and set yourself up in style to pen that epilogue you are preparing notes for.”

“You tempt me, Your Grace.”

“Good. What other temptations can I include? A honeymoon in Ireland, a flirtation with the toadstool, one slightly used duke who loves you very
much, the moon, a voucher to Almack's..."

“And the sun, I think, for good measure.”

“Several sons, and a daughter, as well. It has been brewing for years that a St. Felix marry one of you upstart baronet’s daughters. Let’s have it over and done with, or I’ll end up trailing across the country to Wiltshire at your skirts.”

“Picking up an actress along the way.”

“Laying my son open to blackmail. You see what horrors lie before us. No, truly, Daphne!” his bantering tone became more serious. “I want very much to marry you. Will you have me?”

“You can’t marry me. My reputation is in a shambles. I can’t even think straight. Maybe later—”

“Now! I’ll do the thinking for both of us, and I think we should suit very well. No, no, give your poor disordered brain a rest,” he urged as she opened her mouth to voice some objection. “I further think we should beat Effie and Standington to it. Why should she chalk up four before we have even one to our credit?”

She was laughing openly now in delight at his eagerness, and he took advantage of this rare show of good humour on her part to proceed to action. He drew her into his arms and said, “Termagant!” in a fierce tone before he kissed her with a certain pleasing display of violence.

“Really, St. Felix!” she breathed when she managed to struggle free.

“As good as an acceptance. Already you treat me with a connubial contempt. I am usually given the full benefit of being ‘Your Grace’. I’ll be ‘the old man' before many days are out.’’

“No, no! I had thought to make it Mr. P. as your name is Percival. So much more refined.”

“Certainly it is. I like it enormously, Mrs. P.,” he said, and with a soft laugh he enfolded her in his arms to kiss her breath away.

“You had best go back to the ball,” she reminded him some few moments later.

“I’ve been thinking about that.”

“That gives me a marvelous idea of your romanticism—worrying about missing a ball while you propose to me!”

“It was an excellent opportunity to miss, but I think that, all things considered, it might be better to wait and see what use we can make of your aunt’s marriage. It will be well to have her reestablished to some sort of respectability. And it will be less onerous for both herself and Mama if they meet under this new circumstance, I think.”

“There is no husband for Effie to steal this time.”

“No, but one for Mama to have a crack at! We’ll have the Standingtons bring you to my ball and perhaps announce our engagement there. With Effie on the verge of leaving for Ireland, people won’t think it worth while to feud with her.”

“They might think it worth while to go on hating me, though.”

“No one hates you, except possibly Brummell, and I fancy he’s only piqued that you got the best of him in a few verbal battles.
Try
if you can control your tongue, shrew! I must go. Don’t do anything atrocious before morning, if you please.”

“As I am to spend the remainder of the evening alone in my room, I think it is
you
who had better beware of doing anything atrocious.”

“You wouldn’t be sitting alone in your room if you’d done as I told you. Let this be a lesson to you!” He wagged an admonitory finger under her nose. “I promise I shan’t dance with any but the ugliest ladies in the room—all the Patronesses of Almack’s and their crones, to butter them up for next year. And, of course, the Ministers’ wives, to thank them for letting Larry into the club.”

“You don’t mean Sir Lawrence has been made a member of the Cabinet!”

“Yes, he was told this afternoon. It is to be in tomorrow’s paper. Minister of the Colonies. They figure he can’t do any worse than the King, who managed to lose the American colonies for us. Can’t you see Bess setting up a salon in the wilds of Canada?”

“Will they have to go there?”

“No, ignoramus! The Cabinet meets in London. I doubt Larry would even know which direction to head his boat if they sent him to the colonies. And now once again I am to head myself in the direction of Charles Street. South from here, isn’t it? My head is in a whirl. Oh—shall we be married here or in Wiltshire?”

“We’d best go home. You will have to see Papa.”

He pulled a letter from his pocket. “Oh, no, I have
carte blanche
by mail to do with you as I see fit, but it would look better if your family were on hand for the nuptials, and I daresay you would prefer it. Besides, your mama added a post script that I don’t quite understand—something about not hurrying, but I think she referred to gowns and not the wedding.”

“When did you write to Papa?”

“Just a few days ago—the day I got back from Kent. He must have sat down on the moment and written off his agreement. Very happy to be rid of you. Are you quite sure you had all those beaux in Wiltshire at your feet? I begin to fear they thought you destined for the shelf, to have handed you over by mail.”

She looked dismayed at these unflattering statements. “But they were not half so eager to be rid of you as I am to take you in hand,” he assured her with a searching look.

A hand flew to her mouth.
“Take me in hand!
Just like Papa—and Standington, and all the very worst husbands. Oh, what have I done?”

“You’ve cooked your own goose, Mrs. P.,” he answered with a quizzing smile. “Too late to wiggle out of it now, but if you behave with some semblance of propriety and eat up all your meat and potatoes, I shan’t be so very hard on you.

“How strange,” she said, wondering that Effie should have passed up St. Felix’s father for that dumply little lecher sitting with her in the Blue Saloon. If one were so foolish as to take on a tyrant and a dictator for a husband, he ought at least to be a tall, handsome tyrant.

“Very strange,” he agreed, with no notion what she was talking about but with an idea that his mother and sister would be worried at his absence from the ball. “Are you certain you won’t put on your gown and come with me?” he asked one last time.

‘‘No, you had best go."

“I don’t want to.” He kissed both her hands.

“Well, but I think you had better.”

“Now we see who really gives the orders around here!” He touched his forehead with his fingers and left.

Chapter 14

St. Felix did exactly as he had promised and danced with all the stiff old matrons, into whose ears he whispered compliments, interspersed with words of praise for Miss Ingleside, who unfortunately had the migraine this evening, as she had on the occasion of the last meeting of Almack’s. It was nearly morning when the party broke up, and though the whole family wanted only to go to bed, St. Felix made them assemble in the Gold Saloon for a parley as to how they must all proceed in the following days. It was, strangely, from Sir Lawrence Thyrwite that an idea was culled.

“Standington here, you say?” he asked. “Liverpool will be happy to hear it. One more vote for the Conservatives. He always votes with the Prince of Wales, you know. Prinney was speaking of creating a few more Tory peers to get the Reform Bill modified and to get his latest Civil List passed.”

“Be sure to tell them both Standington is in town,” St. Felix said.

“Yes, the Prince will want to invite him to his do at Carlton House. Having a bit of a party tomorrow night. Not precisely in my honour, but I believe a toast is to be drunk to my promotion.” Lawrence and Bess both glowed with triumph and glory, and, indeed, the family was very well pleased with this new honour bestowed on one of their members.

“Excellent.
I
shall take you, Mama,” St. Felix went on. “Don’t pout, I know you don’t like to go there, but I will only ask it of you this once. Bess and Larry, you take Uncle Algernon with you. Mama and I will round up the other relatives—the Dowager Marchioness of Monmouth must be routed out, and Lord Skeffington. When the Standington party arrives, we will make much to do about them. A great deal depends on those first few moments.”

“Will Miss Ingleside be there?” his mother asked, eager for a look at the girl.

“She’ll go with Standington’s party. I’ll arrange it.”

“Don’t see why you couldn’t marry some respectable girl if you’ve decided to swap rings,” Larry complained. “Lady Barbara would have had you.”