Barbara Metzger (20 page)

She refused to see any of the callers, except for one. Winifred came upstairs to beg her sister to grant Mrs. Ott an interview. “For you must know she is downstairs weeping and moaning about how it is all her fault that you are ill. I do not know how that could be since you were already feeling poorly before she came. Nevertheless, she refuses to leave until she sees with her own two eyes that you are recovering. Grandfather is becoming a trifle overset at the commotion, Syd, and you know I hate it when he makes those noises.”

Bella was indeed beating her breast, and the general was beating his fist on the arm of his chair when Sydney dressed and went down. She set Winnie to reading Grandfather the newspapers while she took Bella off to the front parlor for a glass of sherry and a cose.

“Oh, my dear, I am so ashamed! What you must think of poor Bella, going off and leaving you like that. But my nerves! You know I haven’t been the same since the major passed on. It was that place what did it, the gambling, the men. Why, a man next to me lost twenty bob right there at one turn of the card, then said the game was as crooked as a goat’s hind leg! My stars! My very heart took to palpitating. I knew we should leave. That was no place for ladies like us, I could see straight off.”

“Yes,” Sydney agreed, “we were sadly misinformed. I think there must not be such a thing as a polite hell. But why did you not come get me when you realized, especially if you were feeling ill?”

“I tried, dearie, Lord knows I tried. I was on my way to find you when a man pinched me! I won’t call him a gentleman, I won’t, but can you believe that?”

In the usual course of things, Sydney wouldn’t. Bella was more pillowy than willowy. In her widow’s weeds she looked like raw dough in a sack, puffy face dotted with raisin eyes. And for all her troubles, no one had taken such liberties with Sydney’s person until the ride home, of course. Still, as she told Bella, refilling the other woman’s glass, she was willing to believe anything was possible at Lady Ambercroft’s.

Bella frowned, but went on. “Well, my heart started going
ga-thump, ga-thump, ga-thump.
I could hear it in my ears, I could! Then a black cloud passed right over my eyes. Like the time you told me that publisher chap was a sneakthief.”

“Perhaps you should see a physician?”

“Oh, I have, dearie, I have.” Or the next best thing, tipping a jug with the mortician next door. “He says emotional turmoil carries away a lot of folks. Anyways, next thing I know, Lady Ambercroft’s man is calling for a hackney. But what about Miss Lattimore, I says? I can’t just go leave the lamb. She says she’ll look after you till I send your footman back to see you home. So I give the jarvey my address, and tell him to go by Park Lane so I can leave a message, and then—oh, I am too ashamed to tell!” She started striking herself on the chest again.

No wonder her heart went
ga-thump,
Sydney thought, if she kept pounding on it that way. “Please, Bella, please calm yourself. Remember what the doctor said. Just tell me what happened.”

“A mouse.”

“A mouse?”

“Recall how it was raining  that night? The jarvey put down a fresh layer of straw to keep his coach clean from the wet boots and such. And I heard it, I swear.”

“The mouse?”

“It’s foolish, I know, but I am mortal afraid of mice, dearie. Why, my husband used to call me a chicken-hearted maid.” (Paddy’s actual words were “cheating-hearted jade,” or worse.)

“I am sure he did not mean anything terrible by that... .”

“But it’s true, and I failed you, lovey, through being weak. I heard the mouse. Right at my feet, it was. And I couldn’t help myself, I start screaming for the driver and jumping on the seat, and all the time my heart going
ga-thump, ga-thump,
and then that black curtain comes down again. Next thing I know, I’m in my own parlor, with m’footman burning feathers under my nose. Then I remembered! I never got that there message to your house! Well, I almost went off again, let me tell you. But before I did, before I even took a sip of spirits to settle my nerves, I sent my man round with a note. Tell me, dearie, tell Bella so I can stop worrying, he got there in time, didn’t he, before anyone could insult you or”—her whole body quivered—”make improper advances.”

“As you can see, I am perfectly fine,” Sydney told her, somehow not comfortable repeating the evening’s true events. “Willy got your message and was there in no time flat. Why, it seemed like just a few minutes after you left.”

Sydney was already on her way home with the viscount, though, and those were the longest few minutes of her life. There was no reason to disturb poor Mrs. Ott any more, however, so Sydney merely told her, “It was an unfortunate night, but we are neither much the worse for it, except for this wretched cold, so if you would excuse me . . . ?”

“Of course, of course, dearie.” Bella heaved herself out of the chair and ground her teeth. “We wouldn’t want you to get an inflammation of the lungs or anything. But tell me, what of your plan to open a card parlor?”

“Oh, I can see that would be totally ineligible. In fact, I am surprised you didn’t warn—No matter, I have decided to stop worrying about money and let tomorrow take care of itself.”

Bella had never heard such tripe in her born days, no, not even from Chester. What else was a body supposed to worry about, if not having enough blunt for the future?

* * * *

Happiness, that’s what. Sydney realized she’d been putting her own pride in front of her sister’s happiness, her own desire to avoid a loveless marriage ahead of Winnie’s comfort. Facing the prosy Lord Scoville across the coffee cups for the rest of one’s life would curdle anyone’s cream. No, if Winnie wanted to marry Brennan Mainwaring, Sydney would not stand in their way.

When Brennan applied to the general for Winnie’s hand, a conversation bound to be memorable, Sydney would have to be the one to take him aside and discuss settlements. If he truly had two estates, surely he could not object if Sydney and the general occupied one. In exchange, she would be the best aunt ever to his and Winnie’s offspring, Sydney swore to herself.

Nor should Mainwaring balk at repaying his own brother the funds that kept Winnie in muslins and lace, if he was as warm as the viscount claimed. Lord Mayne could return it as a wedding gift and they would all be satisfied.

Everyone but Sydney. The thought of spending the rest of her life in the country tending to someone else’s blue-eyed, black-haired babes, even Winnie’s, was so depressing she took to her bed for another day.

After twenty-four hours of hot chocolate and purple prose from the lending library Sydney felt much better. Happily not well enough for Almacks, bless King George and the Minerva Press.

* * * *

Forrest stayed away for two days. His absence may have defused some of the rumors connecting his name and Sydney’s, but it did nothing for his peace of mind. He couldn’t keep that mind off the impossible chit. The devil, he still couldn’t keep his hands off her. He was besotted, he admitted it, a grievous state indeed.

Lord Mayne tried to treat this affliction like any other illness or injury: wrap it up, drown it in spirits, and sleep it off, or else forget about it and get on with one’s business. None of those remedies worked. He was neglecting his correspondence, relegating estate matters to the stewards, delaying financial decisions. And all for worrying over what bumblebath Mischief would fall into next.

Tarnation, the only way to keep the minx out of trouble was to keep her by his side. The idea of Sydney’s tempests and tumults cutting up his well-ordered life on a daily basis was enough to make him shudder. Then he realized she was already doing it, driving him to distraction. Every day with Sydney? No, he shouted inside his own head, he did not want a wife! Especially not one who was impetuous, mercurial, and illogical, everything he held in low esteem. He had Brennan; he did not need a wife. He had a full and rich, satisfying existence;

he did not need chaos in his life.

But every night with Sydney?
That,
perhaps, was exactly what he needed to cure this ailment.

* * * *

It was Wednesday, it was Almacks. Why wasn’t she here? Forrest surveyed the assembly hall through his quizzing glass, very well aware that he himself was the object of nearly every other eye. Blast, he thought, he’d done his best to see her vouchers to the boring place were not rescinded; the least she could do was not offend the patronesses by bowing out. Gads, if he could suffer being stared at and toadied to, fawned on and flirted with, discussed from his income to his unmentionables, then she could be there to waltz with him.

He waltzed with Sally Jersey instead. Her privileged position gave her the right to ask questions instead of speculating behind his back. Or so she believed.

“You would not be looking for anyone in particular, would you, darling?”

“Why would I, when I already have the loveliest lady here in my arms?”

“But twice in one month to the marriage mart? A lady might think you were on the lookout for a bride.”

He twirled her in an elegant loop, ending the dance with a flourish. “My dear Silence, ladies should never think.” He bowed and walked to where his brother was leading Winifred Lattimore off the floor.

“Miss Lattimore,” he said, bowing over her hand with his usual easy grace. “You are as beautiful as ever. Parliament should send your portrait to the troops on the Peninsula to remind them what they are fighting for. I’ll mention it to my father.”

Instead of saying “oh, la,” batting her eyelashes at him, or rapping him coyly with her fan, Winnie blushed and said, “Thank you, but I am sure those brave men need no reminding. Sydney says they would do better with sturdier boots, however, if you wish to pass that on.”

Forrest could just imagine the duke’s reaction to Sydney’s well-founded suggestion that the war was not being efficiently managed. Not even the Ming vase would be safe. Then he considered how refreshing it was that neither of the Lattimore ladies flirted. He hoped the Season and the adulation would not change her—them.

“Miss Sydney keeps up with the war news, Forrest,” Bren told him, “reading to the general. Well-informed, don’t you know. She thinks I should reconsider wanting to join up. The war’s liable to be over too soon for me to make a difference, she says.”

If Forrest thought it curious that his hey-go-mad brother listened to Sydney instead of his mother, father, and brother, he refrained from commenting. Instead, he remarked, “I must remember to thank Miss Lattimore, then. I, ah, do not see her among the gathering.”

“No, she was too ill to join us,” Winifred said. “She came down with an ague the night of Aunt Harriet’s musicale. She should be recovered by tomorrow. Shall I tell her you asked for her?”

“Please.” His heart sinking while he mouthed polite expressions of sympathy, Forrest turned to his brother. He remembered the last time Sydney cried off an engagement. She was too sick for Lady Windham’s, but well enough for Lady Ambercroft’s.

Bren was reassuring. “You should have seen her, nose all red, eyes kind of glassy—ow.” Winnie kicked him. “Uh, right. Lady and all, always in looks.”

It was an odd infatuation when a gentleman was relieved to find the object of his affections ailing. Forrest smiled. A broken leg would have kept her out of trouble longer; a cold was good enough for now.

Forrest swung Miss Winifred into a
contre danse,
cheerfully cutting out Baron Scoville, whose name was on her card. Then he left, causing more of a buzz that he danced with only one young lady and grinned the whole time.

* * * *

Lord Mayne went to White’s, where he could relax in a male enclave, smoke a cheroot, sip a brandy, play a hand or two of piquet, all without a single worry to ruffle his feathers. He did keep his ears tuned to the flow of gossip, just in case Sydney’s last hobble was mentioned. Nothing. He sighed with contentment and ordered his supper before the place got crowded.

When he returned from the dining room the club was in a frenzy with the latest tidings. Knowing Sydney was home safe in bed let the viscount stroll casually toward a knot of gentlemen who were shouting, waving their hands, and demanding action.

“The war?” he inquired of his friend Castleberry.

“No, highwaymen. Where have you been that you haven’t heard? Last night five carriages were held up on Hounslow Heath. Three already tonight. It’s all anyone can talk of.”

“I don’t see why. The authorities will have the gentlemen of the road under lock and key in jig time.”

“But that’s just it, Mayne. This new bunch is a gang of three: two men and a female!”

Talk swirled around the viscount, chatter about what was the proper term for the female robber: Highwaywoman? Footpadess? High Tabby? That dull dog Scoville arrived and surprised them all with a particularly vulgar expression to do with the bridle lay.

But Viscount Mayne was back in his chair, holding his head in his hands. He was closer to despair than any time since his navy days. He knew precisely what you called a female out on the roads at night, robbing carriages. You called her Sydney.

Chapter 21

Low Road, Low Blow

The viscount went home and put on his oldest coat and buckskin breeches. He took out his wallet and identifying cards lest he be held to ransom. Leaving only a few pounds in his pocket, he stuck two pistols in his waistband and called for his fastest horse. He rode out to Hounslow Heath through another dark, damp mist. He was promptly arrested.

* * * *

Two nights it took, and two days. Two nights in rat-infested, stinking cells with unwashed drunks and felons. Two days of loutish deputies, ignorant, sadistic sheriffs, pompous magistrates. Forty-eight hours he spent, with no sleep lest his boots and coat be stolen, and food he would not feed to swine. Then he was given the opportunity to make a total ass of himself before one of his father’s political cronies, explaining why a notable peer of the realm was playing at highwayman.