Barbara Metzger (6 page)

"That she is dying, without ever having a child of her own."

"Well, I can see how that would be distressing, my love, but I don't think your correspondent intended it as a threat."

"You don't think it's a hint that she knows about little Algernon and means to tell everyone? I shouldn't like any more talk, Comfy.” The gossipmongers had been working overtime when Vivian married the aged earl by special license; she did not want another breath of scandal. She liked her position as the eminently respectable and indulged darling of Bath society. The Reverend Mr. Merrihew, in fact, had done her the biggest favor of her life, the cad.

The earl handed his son over to the wet nurse, then came to stand behind his wife's shoulder. He put on his spectacles to read. “See, she wishes you happiness in your marriage, my love. I wouldn't worry. Send the female fifty pounds and be done with it."

"What if she really is dead?"

"Then she can't tell anyone about Algernon, can she?"

Letters? Litter, more like. Invites to places he didn't want to go, bills for purchases he hadn't wanted to make, that's all the post ever brought Lord Haverhill. Now this.

"Aggravation, aggravation, aggravation,” he mumbled into his morning ale. Even his mistress was getting headaches. “Jamison,” the baron bellowed for his butler. “Get my wife and daughter down here on the instant."

"But, my lord, it is not yet noon."

"And half of England has put in an honest day's work.” Not Townsend Haverhill's half, of course, but someone was busy about delivering the post. Blast it to Hell!

Lady Haverhill fluttered into the breakfast room, took one look at her husband's clenched jaw, empurpled cheeks, and empty mug of ale, and backed out of the morning-room door, trailing scarves and shawls.

"Madam, you will do me the courtesy of attending me this morning."

The baroness nodded, shrank into her seat at the opposite end of the table, and reached for her smelling salts.

"My word, woman, I am not about to carve you up for breakfast!” he shouted, making the baroness cringe deeper into her chair.

Thunderation, Lord Haverhill swore to himself, his wife was a rabbit and his daughter was a vixen, which made him a jackass.

Clarice wasn't half pleased to be rousted out of her room before she was entirely satisfied with her ensemble for the day. “What is the problem, Papa? You know I don't like to be disturbed, especially when I'm not ready for morning callers."

"Morning callers be hanged. This"—he waved a letter in the air with the hand not holding his mug out to be refilled—"is the problem. This morning I received a farewell message from my niece at that school, saying she is sick and likely to die."

Lady Haverhill gasped and clutched her vinaigrette, while Jamison finished pouring, then beat a hasty retreat, shutting the door behind him, but Clarice merely reached for a slice of toast. “Fiddle. Rosellen always took herself too seriously, Papa. I received a note from her, too, and you may rest assured that I paid it no nevermind."

"I should rest comfortably knowing that you don't care if your only cousin might be sticking her spoon in the wall?"

Clarice paused in buttering her bread to look at her father with wide blue eyes. “Why ever should it matter? It's not as if I have to go into black gloves or anything."

"Good grief, the chit is your own kin."

"But it's not as though we were close. I never saw her in my life until that Season she embarrassed us all with her turnip manners. You were the one who declared the Lockhartes beneath us for all those years, Father, you know you were, so you cannot fault me now. I don't recall hearing any remorse when Rosellen's mother died."

The baron gnashed his teeth. The chit had a point, one he was not proud of, but a point nonetheless. “My sister was married. She was the vicar's responsibility. Rosellen is mine. She may be dying, and we may be accountable for her demise."

Clarice gave a trill of laughter, a sound she was practicing for effect. Now that she wasn't a debutante, titters just wouldn't do; she needed trills. “Oh, Father, how you go on. We haven't seen hide nor hair of the farouche female in two years. I'm sure noble houses cannot be expected to keep track of every ragtag twig on the family tree."

"I sent my sister's only child to that school you attended because you said she was ruined."

His wife spoke up now. “She was on the terrace with that dreadful Dawe boy. Everyone saw her, Townsend. We really could not have kept such a wanton under our roof. Why, there might have been a scandal."

"There
was
a scandal, madam, for which I blamed Rosellen. Now I am not so certain. I always thought there was something havey-cavey about that night, the vicar's daughter going off with a known rake."

"I saw her myself, Father, in his embrace."

The baron lapped the letter with his fork. “And looks can be deceiving, missy, as I know to my sorrow.” There was his beautiful daughter, looking like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, and she had the soul of a Billingsgate fishwife.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Father."

Perhaps she didn't. “Rosellen told me not to judge so hastily, Clarice, so we'll discuss it again after we've seen her, if it's not too late."

"What do you mean, ‘after we've seen her'? Surely you are not bringing that impossible female back here? A schoolteacher, Father? Shall you try to get your valet into White's next?” Clarice practiced her trill again.

"My niece is a schoolteacher because I condemned her without a hearing, missy, on your say-so. I sent her to Miss Merrihew's also on your say-so, where she has been cheated and mistreated, possibly mortally affected. If nothing else, we owe her a decent burial. She wants to be placed with her parents in St. Jerome parish."

Clarice jumped to her feet, overturning her chair and the teapot that was at her elbow. Her blue eyes were mere slits and her rose-tinged cheeks were splotched with angry red circles. If any of her suitors could see her now, her father reflected, they'd head for the hills faster than a poacher with a brace of partridges. One look at her daughter's face and Lady Haverhill crawled under the table, pretending to mop at the spill with her lace-edged handkerchief.

Clarice pounded on the mahogany. “I am not going into mourning for some nobody just because you've suffered an attack of conscience. You could have forced RollyDawe to marry her before he rejoined his regiment, or you could have given her a dowry to make her undistinguished birth more palatable to some other barely eligible
parti.
But all you did was foist the parson's brat off on me. My clothes, my friends, my connections. She was
my
cross to bear. I got rid of her then and I am not having her back, ruining another Season, dead or alive."

"Clarice,” her mother wheezed from under the table while Baron Haverhill reached for the brandy decanter on the sideboard.

Clarice wasn't finished. “Furthermore, I refuse to go into half-mourning for your suddenly precious niece, because I look peaked in lavender, and I absolutely will not retire to the country during the height of the Season, especially when I am about to bring Stanford up to scratch."

Lord Haverhill choked on his drink, and not just because it was too early in the day for such strong spirits or strong emotions. “Stanford? You've been chasing the poor devil for two years and haven't gotten an inch closer to him. The man didn't even stay to dance with you at his own sister's party last night."

Clarice raised her chin. “He told me I was in looks."

"You're always in looks, missy, when you're out in public. So is his bird of paradise, and he ain't going to marry Maude Jenkins either."

Lady Stanford was lying on the carpet now, gasping like a grunion on the beach. Her husband and daughter glared at each other, ignoring her.

"I'll have you know that Viscount Stanford paid me particular attention last night before he left. He made a point of telling me he regretted that he could not stay at the dance since he had another engagement. I expect him to be paying you a call any day now."

"And I expect Farmer George to show up in his nightshirt. Stanford has nice manners, that's all, you widgeon. Just because a chap is polite don't mean he's ready to drop the handkerchief. Stanford is too downy a cove to be taken in by a pretty face, girl, and the sooner you realize that, the sooner you might try prettying up your disposition."

"Now you sound just like that mealymouthed Rosellen, telling me I should improve my mind. Hah! My mind's not the one writing sermons to virtual strangers. I'm not languishing at a girls’ school or trying to weasel my way back into favor."

"No, you're just making a permanent place for yourself on the shelf. If you spent half as much time improving your character as you do improving your wardrobe, I might get you off my hands at last."

Now Clarice gasped. Her father had never spoken to her that way. “Father!"

"Well, it's true. A man don't want a woman cutting up his peace all the time.” He looked over the edge of the table at his prostrate wife. “And the plain and simple truth is that you're selfish and spoiled, missy. Saw it m'self, but it was too late to bolt the barn door after the mare was gone. And I let you destroy a young woman's entire life."

"Rosellen Lockharte was born to be a schoolteacher. She was raised a poor bluestocking in a backwater borough. If she dies the way she lived, it is no fault of mine. Now I pray you'll excuse me. I have to get ready for morning callers."

"And I have to go bury my niece."

No one ever wrote to the Heatherstone twins. Why bother? Bills never got paid, invitations never got acknowledged, correspondence never got found in the rats’ nest the two brothers shared at the Albany. No one knew if the two chuckleheads could read. Instead, merchants dispatched their accountings to Sir Harry, their long-suffering father, who stayed a long way away. Hostesses sent footmen to find out if the twins meant to attend their dinners or card parties, and acquaintances simply tracked them down in the park, at the latest mill, or at the feet of the reigning Incomparable. Two carrot-topped Tulips were easy to locate.

Chance alone put a letter into each of the brothers’ hands, Chance being the name of the porter who was sorting the post that morning at the exact moment the twins were returning to their apartment after a night of carousing. Timothy and Thomas made their unsteady way up the stairs, then tossed their high, starched cravats and tightly fitting, wasp-waisted coats onto the already tall piles on the floor, tables, and chairs of their sitting room. They pulled off each other's boots, then Tim found two hallway clean glasses while Tom searched for the flint to light the fire. Finally, brandies in one hand, letters in the other, the brothers made themselves comfortable on the only uncluttered surfaces, matching worn leather armchairs.

Tim held his letter up to his nose and sniffed. “Not a high flyer."

Tom turned his over and studied the crude candlewax seal. “Not a lady."

Common belief had it that twins could read each other's thoughts. Luckily, the Heatherstones had little in the way of thoughts, for they read minds as easily as they read letters. Still, they managed to communicate as well as any two heads of cabbage. As one, they opened the letters. The fire crackled, lips mumbled the words. Then, silently, they traded letters. The fire crackled, lips mumbled the same words again.

They looked up at the same time, three shades paler. The drained color revealed that Timothy, the elder, had approximately fifteen more freckles than Thomas, the younger by twenty minutes. Timothy was the first to speak. “What do you think?"

"I didn't know ladies liked dogs."

"Not that part. Do you think we did it?"

"We never said she couldn't have a dog."

"Forget about the dog; did we ruin a gentlewoman?"

A minute went by while Tom deliberated. “We were only doing what Clarice Haverhill asked us to do, and trying to help her win that bet with Tully, of course. Didn't think anything would come of it. We lost, besides."

"Beautiful gel. First class."

It did not take any supernatural powers of communication for Tom to understand that his brother wasn't referring to Miss Haverhill's dowdy, commonplace country cousin. “Rich, too."

"I thought she'd have one of us if we made the wager for her."

"Deuced lucky thing she didn't."

"Bitch."

"First class."

Together they stared into the fire, sipping their brandies.

"It was Rolly Dawe who kissed her,” Tom said after a bit.

Tim nodded. “And now he's dead. Do you think she did it?"

"Took a French bullet. That's what they said at the Cocoa Tree."

"But she said she'd get even. And I lost a monkey tonight."

"And I had a nightmare yesterday. Dreamt I was hitched to Mrs. Fitzherbert."

They both shuddered and drained their glasses. “Lud, maybe the female is already haunting us, a warning-like. She said she wouldn't rest easy."

The freckles stood out like inkblots on both faces. “Maybe she ain't dead,” Tim suggested hopefully.

His brother was eager to agree. “Ghosts can't have revenge if they ain't dead, can they?"

Tim sagely pronounced, “If they ain't dead, they ain't ghosts."

"Good thinking, bro. So what should we do?"

"Better find out."

Tom was still troubled by visions of Prinny's old mistress. “But if she is dead, what should we do? We ought to have a plan."

"Leave the country, maybe."

"Spirits don't travel? I never knew that. The pater don't like to leave Yorkshire, but I didn't think spooks were so finicky."

"No, I mean we could join the army. The female says we better not dishonor another lady. No ladies in Spain."

"No? What do Spanish gentlemen do?"

Tim frowned at his brother. “Dash it, pay attention. If we stole her honor, maybe we can make up for it in the army. For God, king, and country, don't you know?"

"Always admired the uniforms. But the pater won't like it."

"He don't like rackety ways either. The governor will be happy to see the last of us. He's always saying we're worthless fribbles, ain't he? He swears we'll never amount to anything, every chance he gets, don't he?"