Zoe sprang up from the stool to again pace the floor. She picked up a two-branched fashion of Sheffield plate. “Not the candelabrum, please,” Ianthe protested. “You have already broken my favorite vase.”
Zoe set down the candelabrum. Beau reflected again that there was something damned queer today about his womenfolk. “I shan’t change my mind, even if you break everything in the house,” he said sternly, then turned to Ianthe. “Where’s the wedding list?”
Ianthe lifted the coffeepot. “I threw it in the fire.”
Beau looked at the fireplace, where a merry blaze was burning. “But we must have a wedding list!”
Ianthe poured coffee into her cup. “Then you may make it up yourself, because I shan’t.”
“Don’t look at me,” said Cara, as he turned to her. “I’m about to have my heart broken by this business, if you will recall.”
Zoe arched her delicate eyebrows at her papa. “You know no one can read my writing! Heaven knows who might turn up were I to make out the list.” She looked thoughtful. “Maybe even the Prince of Wales.”
Beau stared at the women. They stared back at him. Beau was unaccustomed to being the focus of such unified feminine opprobrium, though he might well have expected it from his mistresses, were they ever to meet
He didn’t crumble under the weight of the ladies’ disapproval, nor did he even quail, but instead got up from the chair. “You’ll marry Mannering and there’s an end to it." Daisy rose also, and trailed after him toward the door.
“Papa!” Looking her most woeful, Zoe clutched at his arm. Without the merest glance, Beau brushed her aside. She stepped back, tripped over Daisy, and sat down abruptly on her
derrière.
Zoe shrieked. Beau fled. He knew damned well there was some good smuggled French brandy at his club.
The door slammed shut behind him. Zoe flopped on her back, still wailing, and drummed her heels and fists on the floor. Daisy licked her face. Ianthe set down the coffeepot. “Damnation!” Cara said.
Zoe pushed Daisy off her and sat up. “That certainly went well. Do you know, I may be young and selfish and wrapped up in my own concerns, but it occurs to me that Beau seems a little preoccupied.”
Ianthe and Cara exchanged glances. Zoe scowled at them. “Did you think I wasn’t listening? I am hardly deaf. ‘Vain’ and ‘spoilt’ and ‘shameless’ come to mind. For a start.”
Best Zoe was distracted before she got to brooding on this topic. “Your father has good reason to be preoccupied,” pointed out Ianthe.
Zoe snorted, delicately, and climbed to her feet. “If it was
me
he was preoccupied about, he would have paid more attention to my feelings, which is hardly the case. No, Beau must be thinking about something of monstrous importance, perhaps to do with government, or the ongoing hostilities with the French, for he wouldn’t otherwise be so cruel to his only chick.”
“If your father had paid
less
attention to his only chick in the past, we might not now find ourselves in this pickle,” retorted Cara. She broke off, “pickle” having put her in mind of a certain largely naked marquess, who had treated her abominably. She was looking forward very much to treating him abominably in turn, to taking him to the height of passion and leaving him dangling there while she took a stroll around the block. Perhaps to prevent him from following her, she would tie him to the bedposts. Although, were Nicky tied to the bedposts, it was highly unlikely that she would be going anywhere. To have that magnificent body vulnerable to mistreatment from her hands, her lips, the feather fan—
Daisy wandered over to Ianthe, and flopped down in front of her chair. Ianthe rested her feet on the setter’s back. She couldn’t think where her slippers had gotten to. Not that she particularly cared. “We must think of something else.”
“You
might
think of my position!” sulked Zoe. “I appeared so clever as to have brought Mannering up to scratch. To cry off now—I shall look like the worst nitwit. And you needn’t point out that I have brought this upon myself, because I am very aware of it."
Valiantly, Ianthe refrained from comment. Zoe dropped down beside her on the sofa. “I didn’t wish to marry anyone! At least, not yet! Oh, I
did
think it would be nice to be a marchioness, but not if it breaks Aunt Cara’s heart. No, and so I shan’t, even though Beau drags me to the altar, because he can’t force me to speak.” She nibbled on her thumbnail. “Or maybe he can, because I don’t like being locked up in my room. Maybe I’ll wed Lord Mannering, and then run off with someone else. After I’ve had the wedding night, of course, because there’s no point in missing that. I
was
thinking of having an
affaire de coeur
with Lord Mannering, after all, although I didn’t anticipate marrying him.” Gustily, she sighed. “It is a great pity! I would make a lovely bride.”
Cara was distracted from contemplation of what torture she might inflict upon Lord Mannering. “How long has it been since someone boxed your pretty ears?”
Zoe grinned. “That got your attention! I understand that you are positively betwattled, Aunt Cara, but pray try and concentrate. Cousin Ianthe is right. Since Beau has proven himself immune to reason, we must put our heads together and
think!”
“I wouldn’t wish to be accused of vulgar curiosity.” Fitz raised his quizzing glass. “But
both
of them? There? In that very bed?”
Lord Mannering was in the process of tying his cravat, his chin pointed toward the ceiling, while James stood at the ready, holding a spare length of starched white cloth. “You forgot the dog.”
Fitz stared at the great carved bed. “I knew I shouldn’t have left.”
Nick lowered his chin. “Ah. You are suggesting a
ménage a cinq.
I didn’t realize you favored that sort of thing.”
“I ain’t suggesting anything of the sort. Don’t try and change the subject.” Fitz turned the quizzing glass on his friend. “You look like the devil, Nicky, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
If the marquess didn’t mind, his valet felt otherwise. James had already shaved his master and brushed his hair, persuaded him into fresh body linen, breeches and waistcoat. Nothing could be done to dispel the aroma of camphor that clung to his person, alas, save to plunge him into a hip bath, a venture that, considering the condition of his poor back, it was unlikely either of them would survive. The valet’s lip trembled. “Shame on you, Fitz,” said Nick. “You’ve upset James.”
The baron was stricken with remorse. He knew, none better, the value of a good valet, his own incomparable Franchise having made no small contribution to the vision that was Fitz this afternoon. His chin was smoothly shaven now, if not his upper lip, the growth there at this stage in its evolution rather resembling a fuzzy caterpillar; the rest of him clad nattily in a purple coat with large plated buttons, a chequered waistcoat, kerseymere inexpressibles, gleaming boots, and a stunningly violet cravat. “No offense, James! You’re a dashed good fellow, and I’m sure no one could have made Nicky look better than you have. It’s the little Loversall as is responsible for him not being able to stand up straight, and Lady Norwood for the bruises on his face.”
“I can too stand up straight,” said the marquess, and attempted to, and groaned.
Fitz had had the foresight to bring along his vinaigrette. He uncapped the bottle and waved it under his friend’s nose. “You don’t have to do this.”
Lord Mannering pushed away the bottle. “Yes, I do. My blasted fiancée was going to explain everything to her papa, and ask him for his advice. Therefore, we are going to the Park, and discover what she accomplished, if anything at all.”
As well as set tongues to wagging, thought Fitz, especially if Lady Norwood was also present to punch the marquess, or whatever else she’d done to inspire the besotted expression that occasionally crossed his face. Fitz glanced at the suit of armor that stood in the corner. What amazing things Ferdinand must have seen not only in the past few hours, but during his lifetime. Although perhaps “lifetime” was not the right word.
As Fitz was thus speculating, James assisted his master to don an excellently tailored dark green coat, designed to fit its owner like a glove. Since the garment’s owner was at the moment none too supple, by the time the jacket was smoothed across his broad shoulders, both he and his valet were perspiring gently, and Nick was as white as his bedsheets.
“You don’t—” Fitz said again.
“Yes, I do!” snarled Nick.
James rang for Jacob, and together they assisted the marquess down the stair. By the time they reached the bottom, Lord Mannering was perspiring rather more profusely, and both James and Jacob were looking pale. Mary waited in the hallway, bearing cane and gloves and tall beaver hat, the latter well brushed on the outside with a soft cloth, and wiped inside with a clean handkerchief. Fitz held out the vinaigrette. Nick swore.
The front door opened. A young gentleman with chestnut hair and hazel eyes walked into the hall, and stopped, and stared. “Hello, Unc! This is a surprise. I was going to go to ground, and here you’re hiding here first.”
“Don’t call me Unc.” Sourly, Nick regarded his nephew and heir. “Your mother thinks you’ve fallen in with bad company. And I’m not hiding here.”
“No, he’s just having assignations,” observed Fitz. “Hello, Colin. I like your coat. The paisley mixture, ain’t it? You have a piece of lint there, on your sleeve.”
Colin flicked away the lint. “Assignations, Nicky? Maybe it’s time we had a little uncle-nephew talk. I
am
nineteen.”
Lord Mannering put on his hat and picked up his cane. “To what happy accident do we owe so unexpected a visit, Colin?”
Fascinated, Colin gazed upon his uncle’s bruises. “Speaking of accidents, what’s happened to you?”
“I told you he was having assignations!” said Fitz. “And I’ll talk to you about them, if your uncle won’t. What would you like to know?”
At the thought of Fitz expounding upon assignations, Colin lost his powers of speech. Fitz patted his shoulder. “You think about it. My vast storehouse of knowledge is at your disposal whenever you wish. Colin’s got sent down from university again, Nicky. It’s plain as the nose on your face. What was it this time, performing monkeys? Short-sheeting the don’s bed? Boxing the watch?”
“No, it was a pig. In the chapel.” Colin grinned. “A large, rather smelly pig, which furthermore had been greased.”
Nick tried not to laugh, not because he had any desire to set an example for his nephew, but because laughing hurt. “Cabbage head.”
Colin was still staring at his uncle. “Nicky, what
did
happen to you?”
“Lady Norwood,” explained Fitz, before Nick could formulate a response. “She has a handy bunch of fives.”
Colin blinked. “She
hit
Nicky?”
Fitz took Colin’s arm. “That ain’t all she’s done to him. Come along, I’ll tell you about it on the way to the Park.”
Waiting in the street was an open barouche, drawn by two pair of white horses, the driver perched on his seat outside. Inside, two seats faced each other. The collapsible hood that extended over the back seat was folded down.
Nick was ashen by the time he settled on the dark leather. “I’m not sure this is a good idea,” said Fitz.
Gingerly, Nick stretched out his legs. “Since I don’t recall the last time I
had
a good idea, we might as well proceed.”
The driver flicked his reins, and the barouche moved forward. Colin settled down beside his uncle, with a vague notion of being handy in case of some catastrophe, such as Nicky’s fainting and being pitched off the seat. He inhaled and his nostrils twitched. “What’s that smell?”
Fitz had come equipped not only with his vinaigrette, but also with a lavender-soaked handkerchief and, just in case, a spare. This, he graciously extended to Colin. “Camphor. Among your uncle’s other misfortunes is a damaged back. As well as a fiancée.”
Gingerly, Colin accepted the handkerchief, which was edged daintily with lace. “Wish you joy and all that, but isn’t it a little sudden, Unc?” Conversation paused then, as the barouche swerved to avoid colliding with a pedestrian. The marquess groaned. Fitz offered his vinaigrette. Nick glared at him.
It was that rarest of occasions, a sunny London day, and a great proportion of the populace was taking advantage of the weather to crowd into the streets: town criers in cocked hats and flaxen wigs; postmen in red and gold; ruddy-faced countrymen and porters with their loads; housewives on their way home from market; bowlegged ostlers; sharp-eyed lads in dirty salt-and-pepper coats and battered low-brimmed hats. As Lord Mannering’s barouche wound its way through hackney coaches and fine carriages, carts drawn by donkeys and others by small boys, past a heavy dray laden with beer barrels, and around a bailiff’s wagon piled so high with household furnishings that it looked like it would at any moment collapse, Fitz explained to Colin how his uncle had been accused of attempting to ravish a damsel on her papa’s hall stair steps, although as it turned out she was trying to ravish him instead; and about the older woman whom he
had
ravished; and how the two of them had ended up together with him in a bed, along with a dog. Fitz considered it time Colin knew about such things. Nick gritted his teeth against the swaying of the cart, and tried not to groan.
“Are you trying to humbug me?” Colin inquired.
Fitz snorted. “I’d come up with a better tale than this if I was! Unfortunately, it’s all true. He’s in love with her, else he wouldn’t be behaving like a jackass. And she’s in love with him. Lady Norwood, that is.”
Despite himself, for he was quite out of charity with both his companions, Nick asked, “How do you know that?”
Fitz leaned forward, the better to speak to the fascinated Colin. “She called him a satyr, toad, goat, lying cur, dastardly rat, and lustful slug. Not to mention pond scum. In my experience, only true affection inspires a woman to such heights.”
“You forgot maw-worm.”
Fitz ruminated. “I don’t remember her calling you a maw-worm.”