Authors: Fair Fatality
At all events, as he contemplated his harum-scarum sister’s alliance with a gentleman legendarily high in the instep, Mr. Rutherford strolled along St. James’s. It was a fairly pleasant morning, at least in comparison with other recent mornings; feeble sunshine broke sporadically through the city’s miasma of smoky sooty mist. The air remained cold.
The streets were crowded, despite the chilly temperatures, with the ubiquitous street-sellers found everywhere in London. Had he been so inclined, Mr. Rutherford could have purchased rat-traps, baskets, brick dust for cleaning knives; he might have had a chair mended or read a newssheet; he might have munched upon hot apples and crumpets and watercress. None of these pastimes having tempted him, Jevon instead passed some few moments in observation of a large cage on a barrow, which contained two dogs and a couple of cats and some mice, a monkey and three birds, all of which consorted together congenially and performed several tricks, and which was advertised in a stentorian fashion by its keeper as “The Happy Family.”
Thought of families recalled to Jevon his own, and the much less congenial atmosphere in Queen Anne Street. He had deliberately avoided Blackwood House since his last encounter with his beloved Sara in the gardens there, lest he embarrass her by his presence. For Jevon, stolen kisses were no cause for loss of countenance; but his ladylove was a great deal less
blasé.
And so she should be. Not that his own little peccadilloes had ever signified a straw. With that viewpoint, of course, Jevon would not acquaint his Sara, any more than he would make her a candid confession of his sentiments, receipt of which would doubtless result in her thinking he was cutting a wheedle with herself his dupe. Deuced ticklish, decided Jevon, was this pursuit of romance, a quality which had played scant part in his previous
affaires.
But his Sara obviously wanted to be courted in the proper manner, and Jevon would oblige her as best he was able, even if it was a pastime no less difficult than walking on eggs.
All the same, he thought he might now safely return to Blackwood House without anyone getting the wind up, and he had the perfect excuse to seek out Miss Valentine. She would be delighted with his solution, he felt certain; and he would subtly reintroduce the subject of trysts once his baggage of a sister was safely disposed. In point of fact, Sara might experience not only delight but also gratitude as a result of his enterprise. It was as Mr. Rutherford pondered the potential ways in which his ladylove might express her delighted gratitude—reflections which brought a blissful expression to his handsome face—that he espied the very source of his imaginings. He stared, then blinked, then stared again. But she looked horrified; why was that? And then he became aware of the carriage bearing down upon him, and hastily jumped back.
“Gracious God, Jevon!” exclaimed Miss Valentine, reaching his side and assisting him to rise. “Whatever were you thinking of? You might have been killed!”
So he might, and the object of his affections sounded a great deal less anguished than amused. Feeling a trifle out of sorts, Jevon brushed damp dirt from his clothing. He could hardly inform Sara that she had been the object of his rather improper fantasies. Besides, a lady who would giggle at his discomfort didn’t deserve to be paid compliments. All the same, he must say something. Jevon opened his mouth and sneezed.
“Goodness!” Miss Valentine fished in her reticule for a handkerchief. “You seem to be in a very bad way, Jevon! I do hope it isn’t result of—that is, the garden was—and you did not wear your jacket— How dare you laugh at me, you wretched man? I am sure if you go out clad in just your shirtsleeves in this weather, you deserve to catch your death of cold!”
“If I went out in
just
my shirtsleeves, Sara, I should deserve to catch a great deal more!” Mr. Rutherford had recovered his customary sang-froid, and was deriving infinite enjoyment from his companion’s blushes. “It is hardly kind of you to wish for my demise, especially when I have gone to such lengths to place myself in your good graces—especially when I have been so ill!”
“I do not wish anything of the sort!” Miss Valentine responded, with an attempt at careless camaraderie that was woefully inept. “And I am very sorry that you have not been feeling quite the thing.”
“So you should be!” Jevon offered her his arm. “It was entirely your fault.”
“Oh!” Sara’s cheeks blushed rosier still. “How very ungallant of you to say so!”
For a gentleman determined to proceed with caution, Mr. Rutherford was extremely rash, in demonstration of which folly he bent his head closer to his companion’s and fondly said: “My darling Sara, you are a goose! If you had not gone into the garden I would not have followed you there; and if I had not followed you, I would not have found so excellent a reason to tarry; and if I had not thusly tarried, I would not have taken this accursed head cold, which makes it impossible to pursue those matters which I would most prefer without looking an absolute Bedlamite!” In proof of which, he sneezed. Reluctantly, Miss Valentine smiled. His carefully-laid-out plans of attack and retreat flew straight out of Jevon’s head. “Sara!” he murmured huskily.
“I say! Miss Valentine!” came another voice, and Sara turned away from Jevon with what he could only think an expression of relief. Approaching them, trying unsuccessfully to look languid, was a young man rigged out in very remarkable attire, including a greatcoat with so many capes it made him look like an ambulating evergreen, and yellow stockings with violet clocks.
“Have you been previously presented?” inquired Miss Valentine. “I think the two of you must be distant connections of some sort. Mr. Rutherford is Lady Easterling’s brother, Arthur.”
Arthur, was it? At this indication of how friendly his beloved had grown with a young man also residing under Lady Blackwood’s roof, Mr. Rutherford almost snarled. He was not alone in this sentiment: Confucious, bundled up again in his abominable coat and mittens, had all this time been growling at Jevon from his position at Sara’s feet.
Nor did Arthur appear any more kindly disposed toward his new-found relative. “Lady Easterling!” he echoed bitterly. “If she is your sister, sir, I must take leave to tell you that you should have turned her over your knee a long time ago!” Irritably, Jevon eyed this country bumpkin who stood on such easy terms with his Sara, and informed him that he was not in the habit of turning ladies over his knee.
Hastily, before Jevon could inform them just what it
was
his habit to do with ladies, a matter about which she herself possessed no little curiosity, Miss Valentine intervened. “Carlin called at Blackwood House yesterday,” she said, “and Jaisy managed to speak with him privately.”
“Did she, the clever minx?” inquired Jevon, into Miss Valentine’s handkerchief. “I anticipated something of the sort, when I persuaded him to call.”
‘You arranged it?” Sara looked startled. “How?”
Jevon shrugged. “A small matter of a wager. It doesn’t signify. But I’ll tell you what
does:
Carlin keeps saying he must marry, but can’t settle on a wife. Why shouldn’t he take Jaisy since her heart’s set on him?”
So many objections reared their heads in response to his question that brief silence—save for Confucious’s continuous growling, aimed impartially at both of Miss Valentine’s companions—reigned. “I wish she
would
have him!” Arthur stated bluntly. “Or that he’d have her! Because the more I see of Lady Easterling the less
I
want to be leg-shackled to her!”
This country bumpkin married to his sister? Jevon frowned. Then it occurred to him that did Jaisy indeed marry Arthur Kingscote, he would be obliged to see a great deal of a young man to whom he’d taken an instant dislike. For all that, marriage with Jaisy was preferable to having the young cawker dangling after Sara, as his inclination seemed. Jevon’s golden brows twisted with perplexity.
As did Miss Valentine’s heartstrings twist in sympathy. Scant wonder if Jevon found so convoluted a situation difficult to comprehend. “Georgiana means Jaisy for Arthur,” she explained. “And you know that Georgiana always has her way. As for Carlin, Jaisy bade him go to the devil and for good measure boxed his ears. I gather he had accused her of boldness or something of that nature, and she worked herself up into a dreadful frenzy and said a great many uncharitable things. Georgiana is absolutely livid—not that Jaisy sent Carlin off with a flea in his ear, which suits Georgiana very well; but that Jaisy should have been so heedless of convention as to engage in a
tête-à-tête.”
Recalling her own similar misbehavior, she winced. It was left to Arthur to complete the explanation, and this he did with a great many references to harebrained females who at the slightest provocations flew up into the boughs.
This explanation Miss Valentine for the large part ignored, as with much less success she attempted to ignore Mr. Rutherford’s brooding expression. He would be experiencing keen frustration, she imagined; would wish to interfere with a match obviously destined for unhappiness, yet would not dare defy his aunt. A pity Jevon was so mercenary, thought Sara, and then wondered why she had not earlier recognized that grasping aspect of his nature. Even Jaisy had said her brother might be trusted to feather his own nest. With all her might, Miss Valentine strove to convince herself that Mr. Rutherford’s avarice was strong indication of a nature that was base. She failed. Were Jevon Rutherford the most mercenary creature in existence, the vilest and most base, Sara Valentine would not care.
He must naturally be kept unaware of the depth of her sentiments regarding him. With what she hoped was a blank expression, Sara gazed down the street.
It was a damnable predicament. Sara could have wept with vexation at her own foolishness. She, a penniless spinster, had fallen fathoms deep in love with a gentleman entirely too well versed in the game of hearts, and one, moreover, who was on the dangle for a fortune and consequently could only offer her false coin.
If he would offer even that. Sara had not failed to notice that, after her shocking conduct in Lady Blackwood’s garden, Jevon had ceased to make his regular visits to his aunt. He did not want to encourage her to harbor hopes that could never be fulfilled, Sara concluded. Mercenary Jevon might be, but his failure to take advantage of her appalling
greenness
was further proof of his good heart.
On the other hand, she supposed her conduct could be interpreted as the utmost callousness; for what assurance had Jevon that Thomas would not spread the story of their interrupted embrace all around the neighborhood, with the result that Sara was turned out with empty pockets and a large number of frivolous bonnets into the streets? Sara did not know what to think, other than that to henceforth avoid Jevon Rutherford like the very plague would be her only prudent course.
As Miss Valentine silently maligned his character—Jevon Rutherford knew perfectly well that Thomas would keep a still tongue in his head, having paid the butler a very generous stipend to do that very thing and threatened him within an inch of his life if he did not—Jevon heard out Arthur’s account. His sister had followed up her outrageous conduct with alternate hysterics and vaporing, and was currently locked in her bedchamber, along with vials of nervous medicines and laudanum. She was at her last prayers, on the shelf, had frittered away her chances; and it was no use to load her with reproaches, because before she apologized to Carlin, Jaisy would allow herself to be broken on the rack.
“I wouldn’t be surprised to learn Lady Blackwood had such a thing hidden away somewhere!” Arthur concluded. “I don’t mind admitting that the old—er—the dowager duchess gives me quite a nasty turn. But Lady Easterling swears Carlin is a cruelly unfeeling coxcomb who has played fast and loose with her, and claims her life is ruined, and therefore Lady Blackwood may do with her as she pleases, even to marrying her off to me!”
“Ah.” Mr. Rutherford had paid this explanation only half the attention it warranted, the other half of his concentration being occupied with why his ladylove was looking like a tragedy queen. “Have you considered presenting your case to my aunt?”
“I have not!” Arthur glanced nervously over his shoulder, as if expecting to find that the dowager duchess hovered there to enact retribution for his unwise blasphemies. “I’ll be hanged if I give her
my
head for washing, thank you.”
“It sounds as if you may as well be hanged if you do not!” Jevon responded ironically. “Still, I daresay a kind word from Carlin would make my sister heart-whole in an instant, and equally quick to refuse to marry you.”
“Certainly,” Arthur responded irritably. “And pigs will fly quicker than Carlin will speak to Jaisy! It’s all well and good for you to be rainbow-chasing, sir, because
you
have nothing at stake. Oh, I beg pardon, I’m sure! But your sister is abominably provoking!”
Once more silence descended, broken only by Confucious’s bitter comments, and Arthur wondered miserably if his impertinence would result in Jevon Rutherford’s bidding him to the field of honor, from which he would be summarily dispatched, which was not a solution to his dilemma that Arthur relished overmuch; and Jevon in his turn reflected that this young cawker would be free to pursue his Sara, did he persuade Carlin to bestow upon Jaisy the aforementioned kind word. The situation obviously called for prolonged cogitation, no easy undertaking for a gentleman suffering from a severe head cold.
Because he had reached no decision as to his wisest course of action, Jevon voiced no comment. Nor did Arthur, due to belated consideration for the intact condition of his own skin. At length Miss Valentine roused from her own abstraction sufficiently to realize that the silence had taken on a strained quality. “I have been showing Arthur around London,” she offered brightly. “We have been having a splendid time, Arthur, have we not? Yesterday we explored the Strand.”
“Yes, and went into Ackerman’s Fine Art Repository, which I believe is one of the first shops in London to have been lit with gas.” Arthur was inspired by Mr. Rutherford’s unappreciative expression to add quickly: “We have driven ‘round the City. Seen the Tower, the Treasury. The Mansion House. The Bank of England and the Royal Exchange.”