Lord Bannister muttered something about dashed popinjays, and conversations resumed. Irma flew from the room, likely in search of the truant sister.
Wingate waited a moment, then slipped out after her.
The hallway was empty, as was the grand stairwell spiraling to the upper reaches. “Now where the deuce has that baggage—”
“Ssh,” he heard, from behind an enormous arrangement of chrysanthemums on a hall table. Winn stepped closer. The youngest daughter of the house was flat against the wall, out of sight of the drawing room and the stairs. If ever there was a minx up to some devilment, he decided, this grinning, green-eyed sprite was it. “What the devil are—”
“Hush, you’ll ruin everything.” And she boldly reached out and took his hand, pulling his dignified lordship into the shadows beside her, wedged between a grandfather clock and a flowerpot. He really ought to demand an explanation; he definitely ought to release her warm hand. He did neither.
The grandfather clock started to chime the hour, uncomfortably close to Wingate’s ear. Irma squeezed his hand, peering up the stairs. He followed her gaze and was finally rewarded with the sight of Iselle gliding down the upper hallway toward the landing. She was gowned in ivory silk, with a blue net overdress that flowed about her willowy figure from ribbons that tied just beneath the minute bodice. Her gold hair was piled on top of her head like a crown, with one long tress falling over her shoulder to rest along the expanse of creamy flesh left exposed by the plunging décolletage. The viscount took a deep, loud breath, and found his hand cast into the flowers.
Before the clock had finished striking, Sir Evan strode down the opposite hallway. The London tulip was as exquisite in his dress as Iselle. Whereas Viscount Wingate was precise in his black satin knee-smalls and tailcoat, with immaculate white linen and stockings, Farrell was a peacock in aqua velvet, with saffron-silk stripes on his waistcoat, an enormous amber pin in his intricate neck cloth, and enough ribbons and chains crossing his chest to anchor a coal barge. Now it was Wingate’s turn to bristle when Glory sighed in appreciation.
Farrell and Iselle met at the upper landing. The baronet bowed and offered Miss Snodgrass his arm. Iselle inclined her golden head and lightly placed her gloved hand on his velvet sleeve. They proceeded down the stairs. When the pair was halfway down, Irma stepped out from the shadows. She didn’t leap out or spring out or hop out, she merely took one step away from the wall and whispered, “Boo.”
Wingate looked at her in amazement. Glory had not been pitching gammon after all: insanity must truly run in the family.
Somehow, while he was staring at Irma, Iselle had lost her footing on the stairs. Iselle, who never put a foot wrong, who was the most graceful dancer in all of London, tripped. Iselle screamed. Irma screamed. The viscount made to dash for the bottom of the stairs, but found himself held back by two small fists clutching his coattails. No matter, Farrell had caught the girl. Wingate’s stomach settled back where it belonged. He would have gone to the pair, collapsed now on the stairs, but the back of his coat was still in Glory’s hands.
Farrell was seated, holding Miss Snodgrass as she trembled. In the fall and subsequent rescue, one of his fobs had become tangled in Iselle’s hair. He struggled to release the curl, but managed to pull the whole topknot down around her shoulders. Iselle tried to catch the falling hairpins, and suc
ceeded in dislodging
the
dandy’s
elaborate neck cloth. When the baronet reached to save his miraculous creation, somehow the crested button on his coat sleeve snagged on the fabric at Iselle’s plunging neckline, with even more plunging results. Iselle screamed again and jumped up, trying to hold the scraps of fabric together, but Farrell’s silver-buckled evening pump was firmly atop the net overskirt of her gown, which pulled away, leaving opened seams in the ivory silk.
My God, Wingate thought in horror, the chit is half naked! The death grip on his coat had been relaxed, so he started to shrug out of the tight-fitting garment, to throw it over the now-hysterical female on the stairs. Instead, he felt a decidedly unladylike kick to his shin. “Ouch!” he yelped, and looked down to see a dark blot from Irma’s kid slipper smeared across his silk stocking. “Hell and tarnation!”
But she was screaming by now, and so was the sister on the stairs, despite Farrell’s feeble attempts at comfort. The deuce, they’d have the whole house party out here in a flash. Wingate clamped his hand over Irma’s mouth—and her pearly little teeth chomped down on his flesh. And she winked! The bedlamite actually winked at him as he sucked his finger, before she set up another howl.
The Bannisters, their servants, and their guests were all pouring into the hall by now. Only Inessa’s sobs could be heard for a moment while every stricken gaze focused on the couple on the stairs. Then Lady Bannister shrieked before fainting dead away. Lady Rothingham gasped, two of the younger ladies yelled for their vinaigrettes, some of the gentlemen nobly turned their backs, and Lord Bannister turned as red as a baboon’s behind.
“She fell, Papa,” Irma explained, as three footmen carried Lady Bannister away and levelheaded Inessa snatched up the hall rug, threw it over her sister, and led the still-weeping Iselle back up the stairs.
Evan Farrell stood, tried to straighten his clothes, ran shaking hands through his hair. He staggered down the stairs. “I…I am terribly sorry, Lord Bannister, and I take complete blame for the unfortunate accident. Clumsy, don’t you know. New shoes.” He swallowed audibly. “I am”—another swallow—“prepared to do the honorable thing to relieve the lady’s embarrassment.”
The servants and guests alike exhaled. Dobbs, the butler, started herding them back to their appointed places. He signaled for another round of drinks to be poured in the drawing room, and sent a message to Cook that dinner might be a tad delayed.
Lord Bannister was mopping his brow. “Gentlemanly of you, I’m sure,” he complimented Farrell. “No one’s fault and all. Still, don’t look right.” He turned to Wingate, who had stayed on in the hall with Irma. The baron was obviously hoping for another solution, one with a higher title and bigger fortune. The viscount didn’t need Irma’s pinch to stay mum.
Farrell squared his shoulders. “If you are worried about my reputation, I have sown all my wild oats. I haven’t been in debt or haunted the gaming dens in ages. I hadn’t thought to wed, but my affairs are in order so I can keep your daughter in prime style, my lord, if that’s a concern.” He made an attempt at a laugh, “I suppose a wife shall complete my reform, what? Had to marry someday, I suppose.”
Lord Bannister nodded. “You’ll do. Better than I expected of a popinjay like you, in fact. Not what her mother wanted for the gel, I have to admit, only
a baronet, but you’ll do. Tell you what, give you a
year to get used to the idea of leg-shackles. Bride clothes and all, don’t you know.”
Irma pulled on her father’s sleeve. “Papa, I don’t think it should wait so long.”
“What’s that? Think the coxcomb will lose his nerve?”
“No, I just don’t think Iselle will be comfortable until she’s wed. You know how the countryside can gossip, and what with the house party still going on and all…”
“Miss Irmagard is right, my lord,” Farrell said. “I wouldn’t wish Miss Snodgrass to be the subject of scandalbroth. With your permission, I shall take her to London, with Lady Rothingham along of course, and obtain a special license. We can be wed and return for the hunt ball to quiet any talk there might be.”
“That’s a big sacrifice, my boy. I appreciate your doing this for my girl.”
Farrell took a deep breath. “It’s the right thing to do, my lord.”
The baron patted Sir Evan on the back. “Good man. I’ll have her meet you in the library in an hour. There’s a decanter in there, if you need the courage.”
An hour later, after a visit from her father and a lecture from her mother, a trembling, white-faced Iselle dragged herself to the library.
In the adjoining room, the breakfast parlor, Irma stood with her ear to the connecting door. That’s where the viscount found her, after changing his disordered apparel and having supper on a tray.
“Your behavior needs explaining, young lady,” he began, only to be hushed again. He shrugged and put his own ear to the door.
“Miss Snodgrass,” they heard, “your father has given me permission to pay my addresses. Would you do me the great honor—”
Then they heard Iselle’s joyous shout: “It worked! It worked! Just like the Worm said it would! Oh, Evan!”
Irma took Lord Wingate’s hand and led him out of the room, grinning.
5
“It was a conspiracy! The whole thing was a brilliant conspiracy! And here I thought I merely had to avoid being alone with Miss Snodgrass to foil the plan to see us wed. What, did you think I was too fusty to take part in your scheme?”
Irma blushed. “Not fusty at all, my lord. I think your reputation must be a hum. I saw you looking through that keyhole into the library!” They were back in the drawing room, ostensibly listening to Inessa at the pianoforte. Wingate had not taken Lady Bannister’s pointed suggestion that he turn the pages for Inessa, claiming to be much too unmusical. The Reverend Mr. Allbright, invited to make up the numbers for dinner, volunteered for the job so Wingate was free to take a seat in the far corner, next to Miss Irmagard. Glory was looking like a cat in the cream pot.
“Well, I had to see the outcome of your plot, since I was dragooned into participating, or not participating as it were. I mean, what with having my clothing mangled, my leg battered, and my fingers nibbled on, I felt I deserved some reward.”
Irma giggled, which his lordship felt was almost reward enough. “You were trying so hard to be noble!”
“And you were acting like the most empty-headed skitterwit in creation. I congratulate you, Miss Glory. I only wish Wellington had your help planning strategy for the Peninsular campaign. The war would have been ended much sooner.”
Irma studied her gloved hands in her lap. “Thank you for the compliment, and for not ruining Iselle’s chance at happiness. And, although I should have said so much sooner, thank you for not crying rope on me for that meeting on the hillside, especially after the awful things I said about you, Lord Wingate.”
“My friends call me Winn.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t—”
“We are friends, though, aren’t we?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “And as a friend, I demand to be considered a fellow conspirator in the next skirmish.”
Irma flashed her dimples. “To save Nessie from your evil clutches?”
He grimaced. “Exactly. Your father called on me while I was changing, to make sure my hopes weren’t dashed by losing Iselle and to reacquaint me with Miss Inessa’s beauty and goodness.”
Pride and just a smidgen of envy colored Irma’s tones as she told him, “Nessie
is
good. She is kind and caring, besides being beautiful and talented. She would make any man a fine wife.” Irma paused so he could listen to her sister’s sweet voice raised in a tender ballad, then she started twisting the strings on her reticule. “You, um, aren’t by chance considering her, are you?”
Winn pretended to consider the outrageously forward question, studying the angelic vision at the instrument. “Hm. Perhaps I should.”
“You mustn’t!” came back promptly, bringing a smile to his lips.
“I
though
t
not. I suppose I had
better be seen
paying my addresses to another young lady.”
“No, that would only raise hopes in some poor female’s heart. You might even be forced to marry the girl.”
“What if I pretend to fix my interest with you, then, so your estimable parents won’t thrust Miss Inessa at me? Just a pretend flirtation, you understand.”
Irma laughed out loud, then bit her lip when several frowning heads turned in their direction. “Whoever would believe a paragon like you would choose a sad romp like me over Inessa?”
Winn could think of any number of gentlemen who would prefer a spirited, loyal, and intelligent dazzler to a milk-and-water beauty. Some men favored diamonds; he for one fancied rubies. He held his peace, watching the sparkle in Glory’s eyes as she continued.
“Besides, if you don’t drop the handkerchief, Mama means to attach Mr. Frye.”
That brought Winn back to the drawing room with a start. He looked around and spotted the man she mentioned, sprawled in a side chair, staring at the girl at the pianoforte like a dog that’s missed dinner for two days. “That middle-aged mushroom? For Inessa?”
“He’s wealthy, and raises champion racehorses.”
“’Pon rep, you wouldn’t let— No, of course you wouldn’t. I demand a part in the maneuvers. What’s your strategy to be this time, General?” He gestured toward the pianoforte, where young Allbright had joined his baritone voice to Inessa’s soprano. “Somehow I doubt another compromising situation will arise.”
“No, I have a much better plan.” She fumbled with her reticule, whose strings were now in knots. “I merely need a sample of Mr. Frye’s handwriting. Well, not his actual handwriting. I was hoping to stay down after the musicale and offer him a few more brandies, then ask him to write out the recipe for a poultice for my mare. That was the best I could think of. But you can do much better, if you really want to help. Do you?” His nod answered her eager question. “You can stay with him till he’s truly foxed, then get him to scribble something truly terrible.”