Authors: Janet Kent
“I see you brought your dotty old
aunt along to play duenna,” he cooed in his high-pitched voice. “Clever,
clever.”
Alicia stiffened. She had best
not let Louis believe staging a compromising situation was a necessary tactic.
Beatrix patted her arm but made no response.
“We’re heading back inside,
Louis. Please enjoy the garden,” Alicia said in an icy tone, helping Beatrix
navigate the winding path.
He inched his nose higher into
the air. “Where’s your bonnet, cousin? You certainly need something to cover
that unfortunate yellow hair. It’s so light that it looks white. I don’t want
my future wife looking ready for her deathbed.”
Alicia ground her teeth. “I may
be close to being on the shelf, but I’m far from old age, Louis.”
“My hair turned white years ago,”
said Beatrix, “and I’m not anywhere near my deathbed.”
Louis raised an eyebrow and
smirked.
Her entire body shook as rage
coursed through Alicia’s veins. It was impossible to imagine playing wife to a
shameless scab like Louis ten days hence. A creature like him would never
change. She elbowed her way past him, guiding great-aunt Beatrix through the
gate. She refrained from slapping him when he pulled her hair as she walked by,
although she “accidentally” trod on his foot.
His unrepentant cackle followed
her into the house.
“A lady always wears a bonnet
when out-of-doors,” Louis lectured in his usual loud voice before shoveling another
bite of stew into his gaping mouth.
Alicia grit her teeth. Of all the
inappropriate places to start waxing sanctimonious, he had to choose a dinner
party. She schooled her features into a blank mask. When opportunity knocked, a
lady opened the door.
“How fortuitous you should
mention bonnets,” she answered with an incline of her head. “I read a book on
the subject just the other day. Did you know that the Scots were among the
first to use the term ‘bonnet’, and it originally applied to caps for men?”
Louis paused, blinked, and
continued chewing. After he swallowed, he began, “Your aunt–”
“Great-aunt,” Alicia interrupted
with a bland smile. “And she is your first cousin, twice removed. I read about
genealogy just this morning. Or rather, theogony, which is the genealogy of
mythical gods. I have been concentrating on the pantheon prevalent in ancient Greece. It’s quite fascinating.”
He stared at her for a moment,
nonplused, and then returned to his bowl without comment.
Alicia smiled to herself and
wondered how much more he could take. Bluestockings everywhere would despise
her for parodying them in such a bad light, but this was a chance for a spot of
fun while in conversation with Louis.
His head jolted up from his
plate. With a sly smile, he paused with his spoon inches from his mouth. “Have
you tried the
blanquette de veau
, Alicia?” he demanded in his piercing
voice.
Heads swiveled in their direction, including Mr.
Morrissey’s. He didn’t look up from his food, but he lowered his spoon and sat
very still. She had been aware of his gaze since the moment he was placed two
chairs down from Louis. At least he sat too far away to intervene with
inappropriate questions of his own.
“Not yet,” she answered. “Did you
know that La Reynière considers the dish to be naïve and timid? What do you
suppose that means? He published an almanac–”
“Let me guess,” Louis
interrupted. “You’ve been reading the almanac in your free time.”
Alicia widened her eyes. “Would
you like a recitation of some of his more interesting quotes? They’re not all
about food.”
* * *
Ian wondered if he could risk a
glance to his left without being as blatant as the other gawpers. He could see
Alicia, but a Miss Holmes sat between him and Louis Larouche, obstructing Ian’s
view with a teeming mass of brown ringlets.
“I certainly do not,” came the
unmistakable screech of Larouche’s shrill voice. “A dull recitation of facts is
always boring. You’ll find my home bears no library for that very reason.”
Miss Kinsey stirred her stew with
her spoon before answering. “I believe it was William Shakespeare who said ‘My
library is dukedom large enough.’”
Larouche’s loud sniff could be
heard halfway down the table.
Ian smiled to himself. Their
banter had continued in this vein for much of the evening. Miss Kinsey’s
references to esoteric facts were quite witty, often leaving Larouche
scrambling for a rejoinder.
A grudging respect threatened to
bloom. Unlike many debs who could speak of nothing save fashion and the weather,
Miss Kinsey utilized a surprising education – if only to irritate her cousin.
Ian’s lips twitched. His own sisters were not above tactics such as those.
He returned his attention to his
food. No sense thinking about his family. He would only miss them all the more.
He needed to clear Chadwick and, if possible, determine the true villain.
Most likely, the culprit moved in
high circles, throwing about large sums from inexplicable origin. As soon as
politely possible, he needed to ask some discreet questions.
Ian spent the rest of the meal in
continued silence, memorizing faces and absorbing the chatter of all those
around him. After supper, he stood with the rest of the gentlemen and exited
the dining room. He accepted a glass of port from a footman and prowled around
the perimeter of the room, listening for snippets of relevant conversation.
Someone present might be the recipient of an unexplained windfall or the
missing jewels themselves.
“…like crossing Southwark Bridge without a penny…”
“…without a fire-screen to shield
them…”
“…right by the scaffold outside
Newgate…”
“…ever since he was crowned…”
“…but I said everybody knows my Wellingtons are far more fashionable than his Hessians…”
Ian cringed as Larouche
vociferously attempted to convince some poor chap of his superior fashion
sense. He moved to escape unnoticed when Larouche veered the conversation down
an alternate tangent.
“…and anyway, all he cares about
are his precious antiquities.”
Turning perpendicular to the
wainscoting, Ian took a casual sip of his port. He tilted his head slightly and
listened.
“I thought Chadwick was a right
famous collector. Some sort of expert.”
“I wouldn’t say famous,” shrilled
the unmistakable whine of Larouche’s piercing voice. “And heaven knows, I
advise him on many points.”
“You do?” came a doubtful reply.
“Of course, of course, but it’s
not my life, you see. I tend to pursue, shall we say, more exciting pastimes.”
“I did hear about that episode at
Graham’s–”
“I very nearly won. Next time
we’ll just see whom the cards favor.” Larouche sniffed. “I was referring to
pleasures of the female sort. Eager to please, not know-all titters like… well.
I really oughtn’t name names.”
Larouche’s tone made it clear he
would love to name names. When silence ensued, Ian risked a glance in their
direction. The two heads bent together. In all probability, Miss Kinsey found
herself the unlucky victim of Larouche’s spiteful venting. Whatever response
the friend had made in response to the disclosure so discomfited Larouche as to
empurple his florid face even more.
Judging by his gaudy attire,
Larouche had little sense to guide him in the ways of women. Although a highly
impolitic individual, his main crime seemed to be a lack of both manners and
discretion. It was a wonder he got invited to such gatherings at all. If not
for his cousin, he probably wouldn’t. Shaking his head, Ian ambled past another
group of gentlemen then another and another.
As the men began to file from the
room to rejoin the women, Ian hung back, careful to capture and categorize each
face and name to memory. Once he reported his findings, Caspian could examine
their finances and filter out some suspects.
Finding himself the last
remaining gentleman in the room, Ian relinquished his glass to a footman and
stepped through the doorway. He strolled toward the bubbling voices. He
considered making his goodbyes and heading to the next soirée when he caught
sight of Miss Kinsey, resplendent in a rippling gown the color of fresh
raspberries, cornered against the wall by a gesticulating Louis Larouche.
Nobody deserved that fate.
Sighing, Ian shelved his hopes of
an early departure and worked his way across the candlelit room to rescue her.
* * *
Alicia tried to ignore the
spittle that shot from Louis’ mouth when he said she wasn’t good enough for her
family’s money. She could not ignore the comment itself.
“What do you do with your time,
Louis,” she asked, “besides playing at dandy and collector?”
Oh, why couldn’t Louis have
drowned in the port decanter and left her alone? Impossible to search for
suitors with him ranting and waving his hands four inches from her face.
“I don’t play at anything,” Louis
said with a pout. “I am an impeccable man of fashion and a revered collector in
many circles. Your father should listen to me more often.”
“’Revered’ is a bit of an
overstatement, don’t you think?” Alicia racked her brain for an appropriate
quote. “I believe the French author Duc de la Rochefoucauld first stated,
‘Pride has a greater share than goodness in the reproofs we give other people
for their faults.’”
“What does that even mean?” Louis
demanded, bouncing on his toes. “You never make any sense. I can’t imagine why
people fawn all over you. I’m the one who’s intelligent and stylish. You were
simply lucky enough to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth. I’m the one
who deserves it.”
Alicia felt her jaw drop. This
insufferable prig was to be her husband? “As they say,” she quoted, “‘Pride
goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.’” She restrained
herself from poking him in the chest. “Watch yourself, Louis.”
Louis sputtered. “When we marry,
you will not be allowed to read. I will personally burn any books I find in the
house. If you ever presume to lecture me again, I will–” Blood infused his
swollen cheeks and his hands jerked into fists.
“You can’t hurt me,” she said
with more confidence than she felt. She slid a foot backwards and found she was
already pressed against the wall.
“Oh?” Louis smirked, stretching
to loom over her even more.
Alicia’s muscles trembled with
rage. “I,” she said through clenched teeth, “am not your wife.”
“Yet.” With a manic giggle, Louis
lowered his heels, unfurled his fists, and fluffed his cravat. “But when you
are…”
Alicia fought the urge to scream.
But if Louis thought for a moment she would prove difficult, he would run to
her father, and who knows what Papa would do. She glared at Louis with her
teeth clenched behind her lips, fearing what foolish words she might say if she
allowed herself to speak.
A hand appeared on Louis’
shoulder. He pivoted too fast on one heel, causing his hands to flail for
balance. Alicia considered the harm of a wee little push when she noticed whose
body the well-trimmed arm belonged to.
Mr. Morrissey.
He, like everyone else in arm’s
reach, had heard the inane badinage at dinner. Hopefully he hadn’t overheard
this conversation as well.
“What?” snapped Louis in outrage.
“Can’t you see I was talking to my cousin?”
Mr. Morrissey inclined his head.
“Please accept my apologies,” he said. “I simply wished to bid farewell to Miss
Kinsey before I depart. If you’d rather I take my leave without doing so, I
shall certainly honor your wishes.”
Louis harrumphed. “No, no. I was
off to the game room anyway.” He squinted his eyes at Alicia. “Don’t forget,
cousin – eleven days.” He thrust his nose in the air and flounced off into the
crowd.
Mr. Morrissey’s eyes crinkled
with humor. “Although I couldn’t hear what was said, I assume from the
fascinating topics of my own conversations with Mr. Larouche that a subtly
executed rescue would not be amiss.”
Alicia nodded. Blast Louis for
destroying her composure.
“Thank you,” she added. “You
surmised correctly.”
“It was nothing.”
He smiled and lounged next to her
against the wall in companionable silence.
Alicia’s muscles began to shed
their rigidity until she began to notice all the envious glances being shot her
way. Any time Mr. Morrissey moved across a room, hers weren’t the only pair of
female eyes that noticed. From the jealous expressions on various women’s
faces, she was about to start rumors or lose friends, depending on how long she
appeared to monopolize the only handsome stranger at the party.
“I must walk,” Alicia murmured
and strolled away from the wall.
With one long stride, Mr.
Morrissey regained her side. He accompanied her several paces without speaking.
Perhaps he regretting mentioning the scandals in her past when last they met.
Perhaps he intended to apologize and start anew. Perhaps she was wrong about
him and he wanted to court her after all.