"You know, John, you
'
ve piqued my interest in the lady. Where am I like to meet her?
"
Murray gave him a sideways glance. "She moves in your own circles, David. Somehow, I was under the impression that you knew of her. Don
'
t get your hopes up. She has an antipathy to everything you stand for. Annabelle is
very selective.
"
"What is that supposed to mean?
"
"It means, old boy, that Tories and their supporters are given short shrift by Mrs. Annabelle Jocelyn.
"
He chuckled. "
There
'
s as much chance of finding that breed in her elegantly appointed drawing room as there is a cockroach, yes, and they
'
re as like to meet with as summary a fate. Take my word for it, you
'
ll never get near her, not unless you
'
re willing to sink to a little subterfuge.
"
It had been impossible to suppress the
s
elf-satisfied smile which had creased his face. He
'
d done a damn sight more than
get near her! T
o divert the awkward questions which he sensed were coming, he had immediately asked, "What subterfuge?
"
"She
'
s giving a party for her latest
protégé
, a poet who sees himse
lf as a cross between Robbie Burn
s and Lord Byron. Personally, I can
'
t stand the fellow—too full of his own conceit by half. You know the type—he thinks he
'
s an expert on everything. It
'
s on Saturday. Come as my guest, why don
'
t you? But don
'
t come as a Tory.
"
"Thank you. I
'
ll take you up on that. But tell me, what of the husband? Where does he stand in all of this? He sounds like a very complacent gentleman.
"
"Oh very,
"
agreed Murray with a gleam in his eye. "But of course, he
'
s been dead these number of years. A veritable war hero, as I understand. He fell at Badajoz. You were there, weren
'
t you? Annabelle never speaks of him. There
'
s a child— a son. I forget his name.
"
"A son,
"
mused Dalmar. "A boy of five summers or so? His name is Richard?
"
"I believe so,
"
answered Murray. "From what I hear tell, Annabelle would do anything for that boy. By all accounts, it
'
s Master Jocelyn who
'
s dashed the hopes of many a suitor aspiring to the mother
'
s hand. They
'
ve been known to go to extremes to try to win the boy over, but it seems the harder they try, the more they earn the boy
'
s dislike.
"
Dalmar had gathered more background on the lady after one of his men had inveigled a position as a footman on her small staff, and another had joined Bailey
'
s as a printer. For one
thing, he
'
d learned that there was no hurry to stop publication on Monique Dupres
'
s memoirs. The book
'
s
publication was not for several months. Also, something he had not considered, the girl
'
s diaries were in French, and Annabelle was spending most of her time in laborious translation. Furthermore, his men had uncovered nothing which might lead him to believe that Annabelle stood in any danger. Somerset
'
s suspicions were beginning to look as if they were groundless. All of which played right into Dalmar
'
s hands. In his scale of priorities, the relationship between Annabelle and himself was prime. The last thing he needed, until that was settled, was the complication of the diaries. Once he had bound her to him irrevocably was time enough in which to persuade her to give up her prize. And he wasn
'
t fool enough to expect it to happen without a show of resistance.
From one of the rooms on his left there came the sound of raised voices. Among them he detected Annabelle
'
s, rather high pitched, and showing some signs of strain. He debated whether or not to go and investigate. Since the little contretemps with "The Milksop,
"
he had been at some pains to keep his distance, reasoning that he had made his point and that his design would be best served by giving Annabelle time to reconcile herself to her fate. She had taken advantage, of course. That she would do so had been almost a forgone conclusion. As if testing the limits of his patience, she had flirted indiscriminately with every man present. He had observed it all with an indulgent eye. His time was coming, and they both knew it.
It was the sound of shattering glass which decided him. He shouldered his way through a press of men who looked to be three sheets to the wind—mentally noting that Annabelle dispensed her champagne far too freely—and came to a halt just inside the door.
Murray was there, an
d said in an amused undertone, "
The guest of honor, Annabelle
'
s poet. He
'
s half-seas-over. This should be interesting.
"
A young fop of sanguine complexion, very much in the mode of Lord Byron, with a mop of dark curly locks artfully
disarrayed, stood swaying on his feet, nose-to-nose with Annabelle. Stretched out on a gold satin settee was the black-uniformed figure of a maid evidently just coming out of a swoon. Dalmar had been introduced earlier to the lady bending over her, vigorously slapping her wrists, a Mrs. Pendleton, as he remembered, and Annabelle
'
s companion. On the floor was a silver tray and the shattered remains of several crystal glasses which it appeared the maid had let slip from her fingers.
In a voice that would have formed ice on the sun, Annabelle said, "My dear Mr. Cameron, of course I subscribe to the principle of freedom of speech. Can anyone here doubt it? Moreover, I regard myself as a woman of the world. It would take more than a naughty word or two to bring a blush to my cheeks. But as for my maids and servants, that is a different matter. Their sensibilities are more fragile. Kindly refrain from using such coarse expressions in their hearing.
"
The maid, Nancy, was by this time energetically blowing her nose into a large linen handkerchief. Her eyes full of reproach, she looked up at Annabelle and said, "No gentleman has ever said that word to me before. What the vicar would say if he knew I had been exposed to such an insult, and in your own home, does not bear thinking.
"
The girl
'
s words seemed to arrest the poet
'
s attention. He peered down at her. "If you truly were an innocent,
"
he said, "the word would have meant nothing to you. Come now, my girl—admit it. You
'
re not so shocked as you let on.
"
"What word?
"
asked Dalmar beneath his breath, addressing Murray.
"A four-letter Saxon word,
"
was the amused rejoinder.
Dalmar
'
s brows shot up. "Things must have changed dramatically since I was last in a lady
'
s drawing room.
"
"No
…
they
'
re the same as ever they were. But anything can happen at Annabelle
'
s parties. The blight of boredom would not dare show its face here. Uh-oh! I think our poet has the look of a bull in a china shop. Things are just beginning to warm up. I wonder what tack Annabelle will take now? You wouldn
'
t care to make a small wager, would you?
"
"A wager?
"
"I
'
m putting my money on Annabelle.
"
Something in his companion
'
s expression constrained Murray to hastily add, "Forget I said that. It was a joke, nothing more.
"
Dalmar balanced one broad shoulder against the door jamb. One word, one look from Annabelle, and he would soon settle the obnoxious jackanapes.
"It
'
s a perfectly good word,
"
protested the poet unsteadily, his glaring and slightly bleary eyes challenging the silent bystanders. A beatific smile slowly lit up his face. With growing relish, like a precocious infant testing the temper of his straitlaced elders, he proceeded to repeat the shocking word, over and over, till it rose in a crescendo to tremble on the air. That he was enjoying every minute of his dubious glory was never in doubt.
The next move was up to Annabelle. She seemed preoccupied, gazing steadfastly at the toes of her red patent shoes, which peeked from beneath the hem of her gown. When she looked up, Dalmar noted that her expression had softened. His own hardened. She batted her long, sooty lashes and said in a soft, suggestive undertone, "Why don
'
t we discuss this at our leisure in some quiet nook?
"
She placed one hand on the sleeve of Cameron
'
s dark superfine and smiled tremulously up at him. "I
'
ll send for a bottle, and we can be private.
"
A sly, drunken leer slowly spread over Cameron
'
s wine-
coarsened features. He leaned into Annabelle.
"
That
'
s not the only naughty word I know by a long shot,
"
he told her. His speech was slurred, but perfectly audible to the avidly interested audience, which had fallen back a pace, the better to observe the spectacle. "Whatever your pleasure, my dear Mrs. Jocelyn, you have chosen the right man to be your tutor.
"
A gasp went up, and all eyes turned on Annabelle. Her smile scarcely wavered. As everyone in the room well knew, with the exception of Dalmar, there was scarcely a man alive who couldn
'
t be cowed or turned up sweet by Annabelle Jocelyn when she put her mind to it. She opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment an incipient growl deep in Dalmar
'
s chest
erupted into a full-throated roar. His shoulder came away from the doorjamb, and in one long stride he was at Cameron
'
s back. He made short work of the unsuspecting malefactor. Grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his black pantaloons, he forced him from the room. A footman, smiling broadly, hastened ahead of the Earl to open the front door.
Cameron, bawling like a baby, was unceremoniously booted down the front steps. His hat and cane landed on the pavement beside him.
The befuddled poet, still on his knees, looked mournfully up at the Earl and said with as much dignity as he could muster, "Might I trouble you for my umbrella? I wouldn
'
t ask, but it
'
s raining, you see, and the damp will wash out my curls.
"
The spate of colorful expletives which fell from Dalmar
'
s lips quite eclipsed anything the poet had ever heard in his life. There was a moment of stunned silence, then admiration leaped to the young man
'
s eyes.
"I say,
"
he said, when Dalmar paused for breath, "you have quite a way of stringing words together. It
'
s an art, you know. You should write that down—for posterity.
"
Each obscenity that Dalmar uttered carried to all the corners of Annabelle
'
s elegant salons. She heard the mighty crash of the front door as it was forcefully slammed. An uneasy pall descended on the party. Annabelle found that she was literally shaking in her shoes. The tall, broad-shouldered figure of the Earl appeared in the doorway. As if on cue, her guests began to take their leave of her, with many a sly wink and smothered chortle. She was conscious that Dalmar was on the prowl and hastening their tardy departure with challenging looks from eyes as stormy as a North Sea gale.
"Bertie,
"
she appealed as that lady made to sweep past her, "you
'
re not thinking of deserting me?
"
Annabelle
'
s companion cast one unquiet look in Dalmar
'
s direction. "If he beats you, I
'
ll send for Jerome,
"
she said unfeelingly, and bobbed a hasty curtsy in the general direction of the Earl before making a fast exit.