Nothing. The
horses
grew restive
and unruly.
The
baron sent another servant around to the kennels. Nothing. “Thunderation!” he bellowed, and kicked his horse onto the track leading behind the stables. Many of the assembled riders followed.
At the kennels, only two excited young pups bounded toward the horses, getting underfoot and causing at least one high-strung gelding to unseat its rider. Fat old Bridey heaved herself up and plodded out to greet the party.
“What the hell?” Bannister muttered as he dismounted by a ring of kennel men, grooms and two whippers-in who were nudging, coaxing, cajoling the rest of the hounds to get to their feet. His dogs, his prize black and gold hunting pack, were asleep! If not asleep, they were barely awake, tongues lolling out of the sides of their mouths, tails barely managing a thump or two. And they all had bloated bellies. Some rascal, everyone agreed, some spoilsport, fox-loving, bleeding-heart rascal had feasted the pack, with drugged meat. Most of the neighbors knew exactly which rascal it had to be, the same one who put pepper on the trails and unstopped the earths. They rode off, laughing, at Squire Thurkle’s invitation to get up a good ride at his place. He could guarantee the dogs were eager for a run, Squire crowed, for he’d never let that minx of Bannister’s next or nigh his hounds, his horses, or his sons.
Lord Bannister wasn’t laughing. Red-faced, he made his way to the stables, followed by a few disappointed huntsmen and some smirking grooms who came to gather the mounts from the house-guests who decided not to follow the hunt so far a distance on such an inclement day. Lord Wingate dismounted and led Toledo after the others.
“Irmagard Snodgrass!” he could hear Lord Bannister bellow. “Get out here now.”
Irma stepped from her mare’s stall, straw on her skirt, her curls tumbled down her back, but her chin thrust upward as she faced her father across the stable aisle. “I am right here, Papa, you needn’t shout.”
Bannister was so angry, words stuck in his throat. “Did…did you…?” He slapped his riding crop against his booted leg in frustration.
Irma’s arms were crossed defiantly across her chest. “Did I feed the hounds and lace their meat with laudanum? You know I did. You needn’t worry about the dogs; I was very careful with the dosages. I couldn’t be sure with the puppies or old Bridey, so I just fed them, with no drugs.”
“How in God’s name could you do such a thing, miss?” he thundered. “Just tell me how?”
“How not?” she answered. “Fox hunting is barbaric, and so is this practice of handing your daughters over willy-nilly to the first available man. Or boy, like Algernon Thurkle. I got rid of him, didn’t I?”
“Oh, that you did, missy. He’ll never be back, nor half my friends and neighbors! And willy-nilly is it? I haven’t seemed to hand my daughters over to anyone I want. First a rake, then a cleric. That’s not who
I
chose for sons-in-law. And I begin to see your hand in all of this, you misbegotten brat. Why, if your mother wasn’t such a coldhearted woman, I’d swear she played me false, to beget such an unnatural child!”
Irma noticed the grooms and others moving around the stable, not nearly out of hearing. “Papa,” she began.
“Don’t you try to turn me up sweet now, you impossible baggage. Hand you over to any man I want? Why, I’ll hand you over to the first man who asks, with good riddance to you and good luck to him!”
“You cannot mean that, Papa. You are just angry at missing your hunt. Look, it’s coming on to rain anyway.”
Maybe Thurkle’s dogs would lose the scent in the wet. That didn’t calm the baron’s fury a jot. Now they’d all sit around the fire over at the manor house, joking about Bannister’s drugged dogs and devil-ridden daughter. A laughing-stock, that’s what she’d made him. “Too late, missy, too late. I’ll offer your hand to the first man who asks you to dance at your mother’s ball. Aye, and I’ll throw in that extra parcel of land I was going to add to Inessa’s dowry, to sweeten the pot. She won’t need it, and the poor bastard who gets you will. The first unmarried man, do you hear, missy? And you’ll be there, Irmagard, or I’ll drag you by your hair. And you’ll dance, by Jupiter, for you sure as hell won’t be sitting down.”
“Papa, you wouldn’t!”
He would.
The second time Lord Bannister’s riding crop whistled through the air Winn knocked over a bucket in ’Ledo’s stall, then cursed. Loudly. He kicked the wooden bucket noisily, just for insurance. The baron stormed past him, shouting at the grooms. The viscount waited for the stable hands to busy themselves with their chores, then he sought out the far, unused stall where a slim figure stood shaking.
He walked in and called “Glory?” She turned away, but he gathered her into his arms anyway, and held her as she sobbed against his chest. He tried to smooth back the damp tendrils of her hair, saying “Hush, Glory, hush, sweetheart.” She kept crying. When he felt the moisture seep through his shirtfront to his skin, he cursed and gave her a shake. “Blast, why did you have to stand here and admit the whole thing? I swear you’ve got more bottom than brains!”
“And a sore bottom to prove it,” she mumbled against his lapels before raising a tear-streaked face. “But I had to make sure Algie and his father got a disgust of me.”
Winn took out his handkerchief and wiped at the dampness. “You succeeded then, in aces. You’d think they were made to miss their suppers for a month instead of one day’s sport. You silly chit, though, why couldn’t you just have told that chaw-bacon no? Or let me warn him off for you?”
“You would have done that for me?”
“Of course. We’re friends.”
She took his handkerchief and blew her nose, a loud, unladylike honk that made him smile. “Thank you,” she said when she was finished. “I’ve never had such a friend.” She looked away, shaking out her skirts. “I suppose I’ve made a rare mull of it now, haven’t I? Every gull-groper and basket-scrambler will be scurrying to dance with Lord Bannister’s hey-go-mad heiress.” She waved her hand around the stable. “I’m sure the servants and guests will have spread the word to every fortune hunter for miles around that Papa will come down heavy for anyone taking me off his hands.”
“Algie?”
“No, he wouldn’t take me now if Papa threw in the home woods, three tenant farms, and his best sow. Algie does love his dogs. Oh, I’ll die of mortification!”
“Perhaps your father will change his mind. He wasn’t thinking clearly at the time,” Winn understated.
“No, Mama won’t let him. She’ll have spasms for sure after this ruckus, afraid she’ll have me on her hands forever. She’ll be too embarrassed to take me about, and Ellie is going on her honeymoon, and Nessie’s going to visit Kelvin’s parents, so she cannot even ship me off to either of them!” Irma started weeping again.
Winn opened his arms and she stepped into his embrace, dampening the other side of his shirt-front. He held her close anyway, stroking her back. “Hush, little one, it will be all right. Trust me.”
7
Lord and Lady Bannister opened the ball with the first dance, as was customary. As was also customary with the couple, they spent as little time as possible in each other’s company. After a few bars of music, the baron signaled the hired orchestra to stop playing. He held up his hand and announced his daughter Inessa’s betrothal to their own Kelvin Allbright, after which Nessie and her vicar took the floor. While the happy couple danced by themselves, servants circulated with glasses of champagne. Irma snared one off a passing tray, downed it, and reached for another. Lady Bannister slapped her hand away and dragged her out from behind the potted fern to stand with the family for the toasts.
Then they were mobbed with well-wishers, Lady Bannister’s cronies, Nessie’s friends, neighborhood churchgoers. Irma managed to toss down another glass of champagne during the congratulations, which lasted through two more sets. Nessie was swept off by one of her disappointed suitors, and Lord Bannister took Kelvin off to meet some of the London guests. Irma was left standing at her mother’s side, in full view of the entire ballroom.
Mama was smiling and nodding to the guests, accepting compliments on the ball and on Inessa’s good fortune. Irma was smiling—Mama pinched the flesh between her long white glove and her puffed white lutestring sleeve every time she didn’t—and wishing she had another glass of champagne. Actually, she wished she had a glass of hemlock.
They all knew, of course. She could tell by the way the young women tittered and the older women avoided meeting her eyes. The men were worse, in
specting
her as if she were on the block at Tattersall’s. She could almost see them tabulating her dowry versus the trouble she was bound to cause. To the other side of the ballroom, Master Thurkle was waving his hands in her direction, most likely telling his chums about one hunt-hampering hobble after another. Bless you, Algie, she thought for the first time in her life, for telling them what an uncomfortable, prickly wife she’d make.
There were other knots of men standing around between dances, glancing at her and laughing with their friends. They were likely laying wagers on who’d be fool enough to ask her to stand up, or who needed her father’s blunt that badly. That loose screw with the dingy neck cloth and the frayed sleeves couldn’t be too particular. Nor could some of the fops headed for the library where card tables had been set up. Lose a fortune there, gain one back on the dance floor, what? Sooner or later one of the dirty dishes would approach her, even if it took a few more glasses of champagne for him to get up the nerve.
Maybe she could manage to tear a flounce. That would postpone her doom for a dance or two. Unfortunately, the white lutestring was in the simple Greek style, with nary a ruffle, flounce, or demi-train to get caught under her foot, no matter how hard she tried.
“Stop squirming, Irmagard. I don’t mind them assuming your attics are to let; I shan’t permit them to think you have body lice.”
Then again, one more glass of champagne might do the trick. Her head already felt thick and muzzy. Not even Mama could expect her to stay in the ballroom when she might cast up her accounts on the hapless soul who’d dragged his courage to the sticking point. Irma giggled at the thought.
“Well, I am glad to see you are no longer in the doldrums over this contretemps,” a voice spoke into her ear while Lady Bannister greeted another well-wisher. Irma turned and smiled. She couldn’t help herself, Lord Wingate looked so superior. His coat was midnight blue trimmed with silver that made the silver in his hair look even more distinguished, and he had a diamond in his starched cravat. “Good evening, my lord. Actually, I think the champagne has more to do with restoring my humor than anything. Would you be so kind as to procure me another glass?”
Winn looked closer at the young woman and caught the hectic flush on her cheeks, the slight waver in her stance. Once again he cursed her parents. “Devil a bit, I think you’ve had enough already. What you need, my girl, is a walk in the fresh air. What do you think your father will do if I ask you for a stroll?”
“I think he’ll have an apoplexy. Shall we go?” Irma tugged on her mother’s sleeve and loudly whispered, “Lord Wingate has invited me for a
walk
on the balcony. If I am not back shortly, tell Papa I fell off.”
Lady Bannister scowled, but she couldn’t very well refuse the highest ranking gentleman at her ball. “You’ll return at the end of this dance, Irmagard, or I shall come drag you back myself, broken legs and all.”
The viscount fixed the shawl more securely on Irma’s shoulders when they reached the balcony. He led her away from the other couples taking the cool night air and advantage of the dark corners. “I’m sorry you’ll have to go back.”
Irma leaned on the railing and stared up at the stars, trying to see them through the blur of tears “Oh, it’s not your fault. And thank you for this reprieve at least. You truly are the most chivalrous of gentlemen. I wish…”
“What do you wish, Glory?”
She wished with all her heart she was older, prettier, more refined—and not about to be affianced to some unknown, unloved, and unlikely shabster. What she said was “I wish this dance will never end.”
Winn chuckled. “Usually it’s some young mooncalf who utters that bit of fustian. Or at least a female who’s been waltzed senseless. In your case it’s not quite the compliment a gentleman expects.”
“Oh, do stop teasing. You of all people know how hopeless my situation is.”
“I told you not to worry, didn’t I?” He took her arm for the walk back toward the entrance of the ballroom.
“That’s all very well and good, but no one is about to condemn
you
to a life sentence.”
“The verdict isn’t in yet, Glory,” he whispered when they reached Lady Bannister’s side. Then the viscount raised Irma’s hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips. She knew what he was doing, trying to frighten other suitors off by making them think he had an interest in her. Such a ploy wouldn’t fadge with Papa. He wanted an offer, not a bit of gallantry. Winn was just being chivalrous again. Still, her fingers tingled.
Happily, a commotion at the door drew everyone’s eye before the music started for the next interval. Iselle and her new husband blew into the room amid laughter and exclamations and more congratulations. There was more champagne and more toasting, and no one paid any attention whatsoever to Irma, hidden at the edge of the family group. A few of her mother’s friends did make snide references to
two
such joyous events, with cutting looks in the third daughter’s direction, but the bachelors were busy chiding the latest benedict in their midst, or swigging more of the baron’s wine.