The Indomitable Miss Harris (13 page)

Gillian dimpled. “A rather august gathering, however, Mr. Brummell. It surprises me that you would choose to honor us instead.”

“You’d not be surprised if you knew what sort of morning I had, my dear Miss Harris. Prinny descended upon me before I had finished my breakfast, babbled on about the insults he’s suffered from his charming visitors, and positively hovered whilst I ruined I don’t know how many neckcloths. He
would
keep nattering on whilst I attempted to achieve the proper crease, you know.”

“Nattering, sir?” Gillian noted her brother’s flushed cheeks and realized this must be the first time he had encountered the Beau since his unfortunate blunder at the Bettencourt ball, but her comment was enough to encourage Brummell’s confidences.

“Indeed. What with the two levees, a Queen’s Court, and a state dinner all in one day, he was at his wit’s end about his wardrobe, so I am in favor again for the moment. There was little I could do for him, of course. No one can convince him to tone down his style, and with that fat carcass of his forever creaking about in Cumberland corsets, there is nothing he could wear that would not call attention to itself. I did my poor best. Nonetheless, I had a sufficiency of his company for one day, so I shall not grace his dinner tonight. I only hope,” he added, “that his flair for the unique has kept him from ordering a river of carp flowing down the center of the tables as he did for the Carlton House fete several years ago.” He lapsed into reminiscent silence, and Gillian, conscious of Sir Avery shifting from foot to foot at her side, wracked her brain for some brilliant comment to keep the conversational ball rolling.

Sir Avery cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Mr. Brummell,” he said, speaking with care and struggling manfully to meet the Beau eye to eye, “I owe you an apology for my unfortunate behavior when last we met. There can be no excuse for … for—well, just no excuse at all, sir. I’m sorry.”

“Well said, young fellow,” murmured Brummell with a tiny smile. “We all have our moments, and no doubt Landover made you regret yours.” Avery’s color deepened, and Brummell’s smile grew wider. “Perhaps I ought to have been flattered instead of taking such a pet. Generally have better control of myself, I assure you.”

Avery returned the smile gratefully, and just then MacElroy announced dinner. Lady Harmoncourt graciously declined her brother’s arm and nodded for him to take Lady Sharon in instead. Landover bowed, and Lady Sharon accepted his arm with a gentle air of submission that nearly caused Gillian to snort aloud, but she caught her brother’s stern gaze and subsided.

Dinner itself was uneventful. Conversation seemed to focus, as expected, upon the antics of the visiting sovereigns, particularly upon the Tsar, who, like his sister, made no attempt to disguise his contempt for the Regent.

Gillian overheard Lady Edgware remark that Alexander had already refused to dance with Lady Hertford, the Regent’s mistress. “He’s got a nice eye for the female figure,” she added complacently, “but he supposedly said Lady Hertford is too old. Prinny didn’t like that much, I daresay.”

Gillian, aware of Landover’s watchful eye, stifled a grin and returned her attentions to the delicacies on her plate, which included a mouthwatering fricandeau of veal, as well as a ragout of celery with wine. She particularly enjoyed the second-course sweet, an elegant strawberry ice provided by Gunter’s, the fashionable caterer located just across the square. But after dinner, while the ladies were gathering their wraps in preparation for the departure to Almack’s, she overheard a remark that sent her temper soaring again.

They were in a small sitting room off the green saloon, and most of the others had moved back to the saloon itself, when Gillian overheard Lady Sharon speaking to Sybilla in an undertone that nevertheless carried easily to her own sharp ears.

“I’m ever so grateful to your mama, Sybby dearest,” the redhead said sweetly. “If I play my cards well, my mama says there’s no reason I cannot be the next Marchioness of Landover.” She grinned smugly. “He must be worth forty thousand a year. How will you like having me for your aunt?”

Whatever Sybilla might have responded was stifled when she caught Gillian’s eye, and her expression must have warned Lady Sharon. The redheaded girl turned with a light blush but recovered quickly, and drawing herself up, she looked down her nose at Gillian and passed disdainfully by without so much as a word. Gillian looked at Sybilla.

“She’s awful.”

“Indeed she is,” agreed Sybilla heartily, “but you must agree she answers the purpose.”

“Mr. Brummell says Landover is merely humoring your mother.”

“Perhaps. Although there is already talk. If he keeps squiring her about and allowing her to drool over him as though he were a platter of Gunter’s best éclairs, he will have to offer for her. And that will certainly solve your problem, for you’ll be back in your little house in Curzon Street before the cat can wink her eye.”

Gillian tried to convince herself that that was precisely what she wanted, but the vision of Landover saddled for life with a woman who wanted only his fortune and title was a bit too much—a high price for him to pay for her freedom.

She gave the matter some thought as she rode in a carriage with her brother, Mrs. Periwinkle, and Mr. Brummell to Almack’s, but she could think of no acceptable way to stop what she had begun. It was not until after the second set of country dances that the glimmer of an idea occurred to her. A strand of hair had escaped her elegant coif, and she excused herself to a nearby withdrawing room to repair the damage. No sooner had she swung the door shut behind her, however, than she realized she was not alone. Her brother and his friend Mr. Willoby turned suddenly, guiltily, to see who had entered. Sir Avery expelled a breath of undisguised relief.

“Dash it, Gillian, you’ve no notion how you startled us. Thought it must be Landover, looking for me to do the pretty.”

“Well, it’s not. He’s occupied with his current interest.” She shot him a searching look. “Why on earth are you skulking about in here anyway?”

“Not skulking,” he insisted, gathering his dignity. Mr. Willoby, managing to look the picture of guilt, said not a word. Sir Avery hemmed and hawed a bit, but when he realized Gillian wouldn’t leave without an explanation, he capitulated. Her eyes widened when he produced a silver flask from behind his back.

“Wherever did you find that?”

“Didn’t. Brought it with me in the waistband of these dashed breeches. Can’t dance with it, though, so we hid it in the potted plant yonder.” He seemed to take her unblinking silence as a sign of disapproval. “Dash it, Gill, can’t expect a fellow to muddle through an evening like this one fortified only by orgeat and ratafia. Not possible, assure you!” Mr. Willoby nodded in solemn agreement, and Gillian chuckled, turning away toward a nearby looking glass to fix her hair.

“Very well, gentlemen. I shan’t cry rope on you, but it will be bellows to mend with you, Avery, if Landover happens to smell gin on your breath.”

“Not gin,” he said cagily. “Took a lesson from our august visitors. ’Tis Russian vodka. They say you can’t smell a thing. But it does pack a wallop. I’ll say that for it. Very potent stuff. Puts the uninitiated under the table before they can say Jack Robinson. Not to worry, though. I’ll steer clear of his lordship.” He secreted the flask once more in the plant and slipped out with Willoby, leaving Gillian alone with her thoughts.

There was no
acceptable
way to rid Landover of the Lady Sharon, but perhaps—She stifled the thought as unworthy of her, but it continued to nag, and when she noted Lady Sharon in cozy conversation with Lady Cowper and observed the redheaded damsel give a coyly proprietary nod in Landover’s direction, she began plotting more seriously.

It was Landover himself who provided her with the opportunity she needed. She and Lady Sharon had both been returned by their respective partners to Lady Harmoncourt and Mrs. Periwinkle, whose chairs were quite near the pertinent withdrawing room, and Gillian’s partner, Lord Darrow, offered to acquire refreshment for them both. No sooner had he returned with the crystal punch cups filled with orgeat, however, than Landover strolled over to remind Lady Sharon that his name was down for the waltz just beginning. He glanced at her cup.

“Of course, if you would prefer to sit this one out—”

“Don’t be silly, Landover,” interrupted his sister. “Of course she don’t wish to sit out when she could be dancing with you. Run along, Sharon dear. Just set your cup on the side table yonder. It will still be there when Landover brings you back.”

Lady Sharon obeyed with alacrity, and the melting look she threw Landover as he swung her onto the floor was more than Gillian could tolerate.

“I think my hair is coming down again,” she said quickly to Mrs. Periwinkle, and before that lady could deny it, she had slipped into the withdrawing room. Lord Darrow had already excused himself with a flattering air of reluctance to find his next partner, and since it had not yet been approved for Gillian to dance the waltz in that most conservative of clubs, she knew no partner would come looking for her. Drawing a deep breath, she hurried to the potted plant and hefted the silver flask. Plenty for her purpose. Spilling more than half of her drink into the plant, she replaced it with vodka from the flask and hurried back out into the ballroom.

It took but a moment’s glance to assure her that no one was paying her any heed before she deftly exchanged the cup in her hand for the one waiting innocently on the side table. Hoping Lady Sharon wouldn’t notice how much the color of her drink had faded in her absence, she returned to her place to await her partner for the next dance.

She contained herself with difficulty when Landover and Lady Sharon returned, but she could not help an oblique glance or two to see if her ladyship would remember her drink. She need not have worried. With a smile, Landover himself picked up the punch cup and handed it to her. Lady Sharon smiled her gratitude and took a sip. Gillian held her breath, but there was no outcry. Lady Sharon took a second, deeper sip. Then, as she observed her next partner approaching, she turned toward the side table as though to set the cup down again. Gillian sighed. But her spirits leaped again when Lady Sharon, with rather unmannerly haste, gulped down the rest of her drink, and turned, laughing, to take her partner’s arm.

Gillian looked up suddenly to find Landover standing over her. She quailed momentarily, thinking that somehow he knew what she had done.

“My dance, I think, Miss Harris.” He held out a hand to her, and swallowing carefully, she put hers into it and allowed him to lead her into a nearby set. As luck would have it, it was the same one joined by Lady Sharon and her partner. Gillian caught the other girl’s eye, and Lady Sharon glared, then unaccountably giggled.

As the dance progressed, the redhead seemed to move more and more enthusiastically through the pattern of steps, verbally encouraging the others to greater energy. When at last the music faded, she came up breathlessly to stand, weaving a bit, in front of Landover. Her partner, crimson with embarrassment, made a halfhearted attempt to lead her from the floor, but she waved him away with a vague, disoriented gesture and leaned intimately toward the marquis.

“Did you enjoy the dance, my lord?” she asked with a giggle that lurched rather unexpectedly into a hiccough.

Landover’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement. “I did. Shall we return to our party now?”

But Lady Sharon ignored the polite suggestion. She tossed her head flirtatiously and nearly stumbled as a result. “No hurry, my lord. The musicians are resting.” She smiled at Gillian, who was watching her in fascination. “How nice for you, Miss Harris, that Landover extends the field of his duties as your trustee to such pleasurable ends. I hope you don’t expect him to extend them further than this, however.”

Gillian gasped and darted a look at Landover. His lips had thinned to a hard line, and his jaw was stiff with anger, but he maintained careful control over his voice. “People are beginning to stare, my lady, wondering why we stand like fenceposts. Let us return to your mother.” He placed a hand firmly on her upper arm, and Lady Sharon immediately leaned against him, gazing adoringly up into his stern face.

“How considerate you are, Landover,” she crooned. “How thoughtful. What a lovely husband you will make, to be sure. And, of course,” she slurred musingly, “there’s all that lovely money. Just how much lovely money have you got, my dear?” There was a pregnant silence. Then, suddenly, her ladyship seemed to hear the echo of her own words and to feel the strong aura of disapproval they had engendered. The adoring look faded to one of shock just before her eyes glazed over entirely. She might well have crumpled to the floor at his feet had Landover, acting swiftly and with commendable presence of mind, not managed to scoop her into his arms. He strode quickly away with his burden, making only the brief statement that her ladyship had been taken ill.

“Ill, my aching back,” commented one wag near Gillian. “That wench is drunk as a lord.”

Word seemed to flit from one end of the room to the other, and Gillian saw Lady Edgware, a deep scowl on her plump face and that lethal lorgnette poised as though she’d like to strike someone, hurrying in Landover’s wake. Gillian went to join the others in her party but kept silent as they exchanged indignant comments with one another. Once she thought her brother looked at her a bit searchingly, but then he turned away again to reply to something Sybilla said to him, and Gillian could not be sure.

Landover returned some moments later. He smiled at his sister. “Her mother has taken her home, and there’s little doubt the poor wretch is in for the trimming of her life. ’Tis a pity, too, for I’m as certain as can be that it wasn’t her fault.”

“Well, you certainly cannot be expected to offer for her now, Landover,” Lady Harmoncourt said indignantly, “though who would have thought” that sweet child would have said such vulgar things to you—for we heard all about it, I can tell you, and I’ve not a doubt in the world that everyone else has heard by now as well. ’Tis clear enough she was under the influence, not that that excuses her, of course. But where do you suppose she got the drink?”