Lady John (15 page)

Menwin seemed forcibly struck by this question.

“It’s very simple,” he said at last. “I must contrive to
have Jane Casserley cry off from our engagement. And I have as much chance of
that as of the King regaining his senses and revoking my betrothal as an act of
State.” Menwin dropped his head gloomily between his hands.

“But you cannot mean to cry off?” Mrs. Martingale protested.
“Even if you did, and made proposals to Livvy, and she accepted them, only
think of the scandal. Everyone would say that my Olivia had—had bewitched you!
Only imagine the opprobrium! No vouchers for Almacks—oh dear, and Lady Jersey
called here today—what could she have wanted?” She turned anxiously to Menwin. “O,
my lord, I beg you will not cry off! Think of Olivia!”

Menwin met her eyes with the ghost of a smile. “Ma’am, the
only time I consider crying off is when I
do
think
of your daughter. Nonetheless,” he went on, “it would be unkind and unfair to marry
Jane Casserley feeling as I do. I must arrange to have her jilt me; the only
problem is, how to do so.”

Both occupants of the small salon lapsed into gloomy
silence.

At length Menwin rose and addressed his hostess. “I beg your
pardon, ma’am. I’d no notion of forcing my depressing presence upon you this
way. This is quite obviously a problem I must deal with myself. But will you
act my friend with Lady John?”

Mrs. Martingale smiled tremulously. “I have tried to do so
already, my lord. It would make it easier, I confess, did I have some
understanding of why you contracted an engagement to Miss Casserley if you were
in love with my daughter.”

Menwin flushed. “My aunt—” he began. Halted shamefacedly. “It
is rather a long story. You see, my father was not a wise man.”

“I see,” Mrs. Martingale murmured. She clearly saw nothing.

Her companion could not help a smile at her bafflement. “That
is only the start of the trouble. My father had no head for money, and a taste
for high living, and as a result he died deep in River Tick; I inherited not
only the viscountcy but all my father’s debts. And as no one apprised me of
this until I returned to England, I did not think to curb
my
spending either.”

“And you found yourself quite done up, I collect.”

“Rag-tied, very nearly. Mind you, the income from Scolans
and my other properties is handsome, and if I did not have my father’s debts to
pay I should be accounted a warm man. And I now have the expectancy of becoming
Mardries when my grandfather dies. So my monetary embarrassments, while grave
enough, are not permanent. But given that both my brother and my father have
died within the last two years, my grandfather decided it was time I were wed.
He set about deciding upon a bride. I was offered the settlement of my father’s
debts, as well as an additional income settled upon me, provided I should marry
where my grandfather approved.”

“And this Miss Casserley was their choice?”

Menwin nodded. “My Aunt Bellingside is a good friend of Lady
Whelke’s and, well, I hesitate to say what must sound shabby to you, ma’am, but
Lady Whelke complained to my Aunt Chloris that Miss Jane, being somewhat difficult
to please, was not attracting as many beaux as she ought.”

“Miss Casserley was scaring away eligible suitors because
she was blue, and your aunt saw you as a solution to the problem?” Mrs.
Martingale finished shrewdly. The look with which Menwin answered her was
mingled respect and chagrin.

“I am afraid you have got the meat of it. Aunt Chloris
wheedled my grandmother, who in turn wheedled my grandfather, and as a result,
I paid my addresses to Miss Casserley.”

Mrs. Martingale had begun to suspect that the Earl and
Countess of Mardries were as outrageous in their way as the Temperer clan. “What
part, if any, did your feelings play in all of this, sir?”

“I hadn’t any, ma’am. Feelings, that is. I suppose, if I
thought of anything beyond the honorable settlement of my father’s debts, I
felt I had as well take Miss Casserley as anyone.” Menwin, listening to his own
words, recognized an echo of Olivia’s words the night before and flinched.

“Well, as I understand it then, if Miss Casserley were to
cry off and find another beau who suited her, Lady Whelke would be happy, which
would make your aunt happy, which would leave Lord and Lady Mardries only
wishing that you would marry someone.”

“Exactly so, ma’am. At which point I might bring up the
topic of Olivia. Lady John, that is.” He continued, a little more soberly, “The
only problem is, how do I convince my fiancée that she would not care to be
married to me?”

“Would it not be more to the purpose to convince her that
she would like being married to someone else better?” Mrs. Martingale
suggested. “In that case, Lady Whelke could have no objection, and all would be
tidy.”

Menwin took his hostess’s hand. “Ma’am, you are inspiring,”
he told her lightly, and bent to kiss the hand he held. “Now, all we need is a
likely suitor.”

“Well, I shall do my best to think of one for you. For her,
rather. But I think you had best take counsel elsewhere, as I am very little
informed as to eligible men in Town these days. Olivia tells me nothing of any
other—I mean—” she blushed prettily. “Well, I do promise to do my possible to
dispose Livvy to hear your story.”

Menwin offered his eternal gratitude, his apologies for
keeping her from her rest, hinted at his very earnest affection for her
daughter, and thanked her again.

“Well!” Mrs. Martingale said to the empty room, once Menwin
had departed. No answer was forthcoming; she took herself off, thankfully, for
her nap.

Despite her mother’s best efforts at diverting commonplace,
despite the distractions offered by Lady Bette and Lord Christopher Temperer,
both of whom had been included in the invitation by Quincy Haikestill, despite
even the inanities of the obligingly obstinate Mr. Haikestill himself, Olivia
was but poor company that evening. She dined, with Mr. Haikestill and her
mother, with the Temperers in Portman Square that evening, and even his Grace,
having caught wind of Mrs. Martingale’s presence, dined with the party, making
the meal wholly uncomfortable for everyone except Mr. Haikestill, whose
egalitarian notions made him count himself as good as any Duke in the land,
always excepting his Grace of Wellington and, perhaps, the Royal Dukes.

It was an uncomfortable meal but quickly over; since half
the party was to go to Covent Garden directly after the gentlemen had done with
their wine, the courses were served quickly and dispatched with readily. The
Duchess, much recovered, stayed in the house tonight, with Lady Susannah to
keep her company. Tylmath hinted broadly that he would not refuse an invitation
to join the theater party, but did not receive one, and left in offended
silence for Brooks’ Club. Olivia would have been exceedingly grateful to Mr.
Haikestill, who had blithely ignored the Duke’s hints, had she believed his
behavior deliberate rather than obtuse.

It took very little observation on the part of Lady Bette or
her brother to see that their sister-at-law was moped about something. Bette
immediately took upon herself the task of cheering Olivia, while Lord Kit set
himself the less agreeable but equally important task of diverting Mr.
Haikestill’s attentions from Lady John, a chore in which he was joined by Mrs.
Martingale. Privy to her daughter’s state of mind, Mrs. Martingale half feared
that if Haikestill pushed his suit too far on this particular evening her
daughter would do something drastic; push him from their box in the theater
into the stalls, belike, or strangle him with her shawl. While Mr. Haikestill,
purely in the interests of advancing the cause of egalitarianism, might have
asserted himself to be rude to Lord Christopher, he could not do so to Mrs.
Martingale without incurring Olivia’s displeasure.

In consequence of all these machinations, Olivia was left
pretty much unmolested by Haikestill. He did manage to secure a seat by the
object of his affections once they settled in the box at the theater, however,
and proceeded, through the first act of the play, to explain each speech of the
actors to Lady John, just in case she should not have understood it.

For her part Olivia believed she was acting completely as
usual. Granted, under what she thought was a fine social manner, her mind was
flitting back and forth with alarming speed, and she was aware of a strictly
repressed urge to examine the crowd of theatergoers to see if Menwin was among
them. But she was putting a good face on things, she felt, and even managed to
refrain from boxing Mr. Haikestill’s ear the fifth time he leaned over to
inform her that the hero was now taking his leave of the family.

“Thank you, Mr. Haikestill. I believe that I did understand
that.”

“Certainly, my lady. Obliged to be of assistance,” he
returned, oblivious. Olivia exchanged a look with Bette and turned her eyes
back to the stage.

The play was not a very good one, which circumstance made it
possible for Olivia to spend the first act brooding on Lord Menwin’s perfidy
and, perversely, wishing that he had come to the theater that evening. At the
first intermission, while Mr. Haikestill removed to procure punch for his
party, Lady Bette amused herself by teasing Olivia about her worthy suitor, and
Lord Kit flirted amiably with Mrs. Martingale, who was quite amused by the
attention and characterized him as a wretched boy. Olivia parried Bette’s
quibbles easily, trying not to scan the audience, resolving every minute not to
think of Menwin, Miss Casserley, or her own furious misery. And then she
sighted, in a box across the theater, that same Miss Casserley.

Bette followed her glance. “It is the most unaccountable
thing, Livvy, that engagement between Menwin and Jane Casserley. I should no more
have thought him to have a
tendre
for her
than—”

Mrs. Martingale broke in hurriedly with a question about the
play.

By the time Mr. Haikestill returned Olivia was almost
pleased to see him. Once she had seen Miss Casserley it was impossible for her
to take her eyes away for more than a moment, and in order to stare at her
without giving the appearance of staring, she was reduced to a set of tricks
involving dropped kerchiefs, rearranged shawls, and fluttered fans. As she
observed, Olivia strove to understand what about that handsome but undeniably
severe woman had made Menwin choose her. She was very pretty, yes, but… Always
there was a “but;” only Mr. Haikestill’s blessed clumsiness in upsetting a
teacup practically into her lap distracted Olivia until the end of the
interval. By the time all was right again the next act was begun, and she was
able to settle back and watch, with Haikestill’s careful narration droning in
her ear.

And during the second interval Lady John Temperer gave Lord
Menwin the cut direct.

Recovered somewhat, Olivia engaged in forcedly cheerful
chatter with Lady Bette; they engaged to admire the arrangement of a lady’s
hair in the box below theirs, and their admiration was so fervent that when a
voice broke through their conversation Olivia jumped in her seat. It was
Menwin. He stood, very large in the curtained doorway of their box, wearing the
look of someone expecting chastisement.

Mrs. Martingale frowned and shook her head slightly at
Menwin, but the man did not heed her. As if he and Olivia were the only people
in the theater, they watched each other, and it seemed to them that there was
no other sound, no other sight in the entire of Covent Garden than the sound
and sight of each other.

Olivia turned away first, a deliberate, cold dismissal.

“Lady John?” Menwin began awkwardly. Belatedly he knew that
the middle of a crowded box in the middle of a crowded performance was hardly
the place to accost her.

Olivia kept her eyes studiously
trained on the empty stage and bit her lip hard. She was not certain whether
she wanted to cry, to scream, or to answer in an exquisitely cool and
repressing manner, but in any case it was safer to say nothing, to stare
blankly at the painted curtain and pretend that she was momentarily afflicted
with deafness.

“Lord Menwin, I think perhaps,” Mrs. Martingale began
uncertainly.

“I understand, madam. Good evening.” In tones as cool and
collected as those Olivia would have liked to possess herself, Menwin took his
leave. She felt oddly cheated by it, as though she should stop him there,
demand an explanation. Which was clearly impossible, given several hundred
witnesses who would have delighted in such a brangle.

“Livvy?”

She ignored the voice.

“Sister Liv, I don’t know what is between you and Menwin,
but for heaven’s sake, do not give the world the satisfaction of seeing the two
of you so publicly up in arms with each other.” She turned and Kit pressed his
handkerchief into her hand. Only then did she realize that tears were running
down her cheeks.

“Kit,” Olivia began. Stopped. Began again. “Thank you. I’m
sorry to be such a liability to you.”

“Nonsense. Fustian,” he blustered. “But will you contrive to
put on a happier face? What on earth is between the two of you? More of your
same quarrel?”

Olivia smiled wryly, mopping away the last traces of tears. “There
is nothing between us. Absolutely nothing.”

“It didn’t look like nothing, Liv. I imagine any number of
people here thought it looked like something indeed.”

“Then they are all horrid. Do you know the way this play
ends?”

Kit blinked. “Yes.”

“Well then, perhaps you will be so obliging as to tell me
the story of it. In the carriage. I should like to go home now.”

“I will take you home if you insist, but you know it will
suit your purposes much better if you stay here and at least feign enjoyment of
the play. You might even laugh at my jokes.”