Corey McFadden (20 page)

“I believe we’d better have that dance now, Miss Quinn,” Edgar Randall murmured in Elspeth’s ear. “Go on as if all were well, don’t you know.”

“I agree with you, Mr. Randall. I accept.”

“You’ll be sorry, of course,” he answered. “Mind your toes.”

He swept her away to the beat of the music that swelled around them. Colors in silks and satins swirled by, a kaleidoscope of madness. Elspeth’s feet kept the rhythm, but her mind reeled in pain and confusion. To the side she saw the viscountess standing in a clot of rapt ladies, her aunt in the middle, gesturing with a weary drama. Caroline swept past, the smile chiseled into her stony face.

“You’re doing beautifully, my dear,” Edgar murmured in her ear. “Now if you could just manage to look rapturously amused at my repartee, we may yet pull this off.”

She stared up at him, hardly registering his remark. He wanted her to smile, that was it. But she did not think she would ever smile again. Nevertheless, she made the effort.

“That’s better, if only barely,” he said smiling. “Now, I want you to titter uproariously, please. A thin little smile like that will ruin my reputation as a wit.” She managed a small laugh, turning her eyes on him. His face was a blur as she blinked back tears. “Oh, no, no, no, my dear, absolutely no crying. Not a single tear. Why, that would set the tongues awag all over this ballroom. Another titter, if you please.”

Another titter. She complied, but it ended in something of a gurgle and a hiccough.

Now he laughed, a genuine guffaw. She couldn’t help laughing with him, fool that she was; she was not sure whether to laugh or cry.

“Excellent, positively excellent, Miss Quinn. I declare I shall make a dreadful flirt of you yet.”

Caroline whirled by, casting a look of such malevolence at Elspeth that it almost hurt. Such a long evening it would be, smiling and tittering at empty nonsense. She would collect Harry and head back to Weston-under-Lizard. At least there she could grieve in peace.

Chapter Ten

The sound of rhythmic explosions threatened Julian’s very existence. Muskets were going off in close proximity; the enemy was closing in for the kill. He grabbed the nearest thing to hand and pulled it over his face for protection. It was his pillow, apparently. The explosions continued, now accompanied by some sort of shouting. He pulled the pillow closer around his ears, but the shouting and explosions continued. Ah, he must have been hit already. No way to explain the searing pain in his head other than a bullet through the brain. Too bad. Now he’d never get to set things right with Elspeth—never feel the touch of her soft lips against his own. On the other hand, death would be a welcome relief from the pounding and shouting.

And then, mercifully, came silence. No more explosions. He thought about putting a hand to his head to see how bloody the wound was, then decided to just lie there instead, savoring the exquisite pain. Surely no man had ever suffered so....

“Excuse me, Mr. Thorpe, I had to take the liberty of entering since you did not respond to my rapping.”

Ah, and now he was taken by the enemy. Well, small good it would do them. He’d reveal nothing, and all they’d have was his bloody corpse to bury....

“Sir? Are you awake, sir?”

Torture. He’d heard that the French were not above torturing prisoners of war. Well, he would die long before they made him crack. Couldn’t remember what the devil he wasn’t supposed to tell them anyway.

“I am so sorry, sir, but you simply must rise. The Viscountess Alderson is downstairs. She is most insistent, sir. Gave me exactly five minutes by the clock to get you downstairs, or said she would be up to roust you herself. I do believe she means it, sir.”

Ah, yes, the Viscountess Alderson. Secret head of the French torture unit. He should have known it would come to this.

“I’ve ordered coffee, sir,” came the insistent voice. Trying to trick him into opening his eyes, they were, but he was nobody’s fool. Hands pulled at him, and he tried to wrench himself away. Got caught up in some sort of net, or perhaps it was a feather comforter. Oh, they’d stoop to nothing. Gad, how his head pounded. He’d be dead in minutes, no doubt.

“Julian! Get up this minute. I haven’t got all day.” The strident tones of The Alderson Horror rang out. Now he knew he would die a hero’s death. Ungentle hands pulled him up. Against all his will power, his eyes opened. Ahhh, there she was, snake-headed Medusa, the Gorgon,
sans merci.
The pain in his head was unbearable. Death could not come too quickly.

“I’ve had enough of this nonsense, Julian. Come alive, boy, now!”

He shook his head. That was a big mistake. From the fireworks exploding inside his brain, he might almost think the enemy was still shooting at him. Except he had a sinking feeling that things were much worse than that. Infinitely worse.

“Lady Alderson?” he heard himself croak, his voice muffled by pillows and bedclothes.

“Exactly,” came her redoubtable tones.

“Er—I—er—I don’t believe I’m dressed to receive you, ma’am,” he muttered, trying frantically to recall his attire of the evening before. No doubt his valet Forbush had divested him of a good bit of it before he fell into bed.

“I’ve buried three husbands, young man. If you think I do not know what gentlemen’s small clothes look like, you are sadly mistaken.” Just then the door opened timidly, and one of the kitchen maids pushed through, eyes popping. She carried a large silver tray bearing Julian’s grandmother’s best coffee service. She placed it on a small table between the two wing chairs and with a hasty, terrified bob, scurried away.

“Er—well, I’m not sure I’m even wearing.…”  And he wasn’t entirely sure. Things were feeling awfully bare under these sheets.

“Well!” she said, her tone, if possible, even more frosty. “I certainly do not care to see what you consider appropriate attire for sleeping. Particularly considering the shape you were in last night. I shall busy myself with the coffee while your man here remedies your sartorial inadequacies.”

“Lady Alderson, I’m really not feeling very well at the moment....”

“I do not care how you are feeling, boy,” she snapped. “Indeed, in view of your behavior last night, I trust and fervently hope you are feeling quite poorly. You deserve that. Nevertheless, I require your undivided attention this morning, and I shall have it.” She turned and snapped her fingers at the manservant, who stood goggle-eyed by the coffeepot. “You, there,” she announced. “See to your sorry sot of a gentleman. I shall observe the proprieties by pouring myself a cup of coffee. Not,” she added acerbically, “that I’ve been offered one.” She turned toward the silver coffee service.

“Oh, by all means, madam,” Julian mumbled, “do have some coffee.” He eyed her rigid back with some alarm as he slipped out of bed. Naked he was, indeed. As the day he was born. He’d never seen old Forbush move quite so fast. The handsome burgundy silk robe was around him and tied up tight in seconds flat. A neckcloth, too, appeared around his neck, fast enough to near strangle him, had Forbush not had such a practiced hand, although that hand was certainly shaking now. Forbush stepped back and eyed his work with concern. If Julian hadn’t known the man since his own birth, he’d have sworn the fellow was near to swooning like a lady overset. Perhaps he might at that. Julian gave him a weak grin and stepped away, ready to beard the lioness in his own den. Well, if she wished to so flaunt proprieties, who was he to quibble? Besides, his head hurt like the devil himself was marching up and down in his brain with hobnailed boots on. Coffee was required.

“Now then, Lady Alderson,” Julian murmured, moving with purpose toward the silver coffeepot. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your delightful company this morning?”

“Well, to begin with, Julian, it is afternoon. Well into the afternoon, to be precise. You young people today think nothing of wasting the day entirely. You may go,” she announced to Forbush. Not certain whether or not to be scandalized, Forbush glanced questioningly at Julian, who shrugged and nodded. He doubted seriously that the viscountess’s honor and reputation were at stake here. As Forbush quit the room, the viscountess seated herself with a flourish in a wing chair near the fireplace, giving Julian an icy stare, as if to rebuke him for failing in the most basic courtesies of seating a lady. He sighed and sank heavily into the chair next to her. At least the porcelain coffee cup sent a pleasant warmth through his hands. He took a small sip. It was heaven-sent.

“I wish to know the meaning of your conduct at my ball last night, Julian. I’ve known you since you were in leading strings, and your dear mother before you, and that was not an exhibition I would care to witness again.”

Now, here was a minor problem. Julian had no idea what she was going on about. Didn’t remember attending her cursed ball, in fact. Last thing he remembered, and that not so clearly, was sitting in his club offering to fight anyone who cared to take him up on it. Come to think of it, they must have been a cowardly lot. No one had felt up to the challenge. Now, should he admit his lack of memory, which would be an indictment in and of itself, or bluff it out?

“Well, what have you to say for yourself, Julian?” she demanded.

“I must offer you my abject apologies for my deplorable conduct, Lady Alderson.” There. That should do it. Ladies always liked a handsome apology. Take full responsibility and all that. Never mattered whether a man was guilty or not. Just confess and move on. And then she would move on and leave him to his misery. The coffee was good but it was not magic. His head still pounded like the very devil. Perhaps he had had a drop too much last night, at that.

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you, Julian?”

“Er—well, I’m sure you are referring to my somewhat inebriated state,” he floundered. If she wanted details, he was lost. “I’m sure I said something to offend. I was a bit foxed, I admit...” he let it trail off. That had to be enough of an admission.

“Foxed?” The viscountess drew herself up in apparent outrage. “You call that merely foxed? You were an absolute disgrace. I’ve seen bounders passed out in the gutter in better shape than you were. And what, do you mind telling me, do you think you are playing at by deviling that poor gel—the Quinn cousin, what’s her name?” The viscountess paused peremptorily.

“Miss Elspeth Quinn?” Julian filled in, horror growing in him. What had he done to Elspeth?

“I thought so!” the viscountess exclaimed triumphantly.

“Thought what, ma’am?” asked Julian, voice faint. Why couldn’t he just die and have done with it all?

“It’s the Elspeth chit you’re after now, isn’t it? And here you are, engaged to her cousin Caroline. Why, it’s an absolute disgrace the way you young men set about ruining these girls’ reputations. Not a care in the world for what becomes of them when you’ve finished your dalliance. Have a care, boy, or I shall give you the Cut Direct in the Assembly Rooms and you’ll dare not show your face in Bath or London. You mark my words.”

“I don’t care about that,” Julian mumbled into his coffee cup. Dowager she might be, but he’d had about enough of the proprieties.

“I beg your pardon?” came her frosty tones.

“Lady Alderson,” he said, wearily, putting down his sadly empty cup. “I begin to understand I behaved like a clodpoll at your ball last night. For that I am truly sorry. It is not my habit to act the pickled fool. Nevertheless, I beg you to understand that I was most provoked, and leave it at that. I can offer you no other explanation as a gentleman.”

“I rather think your credentials as a gentleman are sorely tarnished at this point, Julian. I begin to suspect rather strongly that you are not over the moon about this engagement of yours. You’ve got yourself into some fool of a situation and cannot extricate yourself. Am I correct?”

“I have nothing to say on that point, madam,” he said, but it came out sounding more like a growl than polite conversation.

“Your silence speaks volumes, boy. On the whole, I have found you to be a cut above your peers as a rule. Has Miss Caroline Quinn got you trapped, or have you simply made an ass of yourself chasing after both gels, and got yourself in a stew of your own making?”

“I—I—Lady Alderson, I beg of you,” Julian said in a near whisper, “leave me to my slow death. I am not up to your withering cross-examination.”

“Well, based on what I saw of your performance last night, Julian, I’d hazard a guess that your heart is engaged by the country cousin, but you have somehow got yourself entangled with Bettina’s viper instead.” The viscountess raised an eyebrow, as if she were expecting a response. Julian reached for his coffee cup, peered into its empty, beflowered depths, then put it down with a sigh.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, boy, give it here,” she said, holding out her hand imperiously. He put the delicate porcelain cup and saucer in it. Dratted little thin things. Forbush knew to serve his usual morning coffee in the sturdy, good-sized china mugs the staff used in the kitchen, but obviously the man did not dare place such offending vessels before the grande dame of Bath. She poured a jot into the little cup. A thimble would hold as much, he thought sourly, but he reached for it like a drowning man, nonetheless.

“Now, then, Julian. You are in a pretty mess, I’d say. I can’t think how you’ll get out of it. I suppose I have to assume you have engaged the country cousin’s heart?”

Julian just stared at her over the rim of the nasty little cup.

“Yes, I could tell by the look of her last night. Although she’s a plucky little thing, I have to give her credit for that. Held up rather well for all that the tongues were wagging. Deserves better of you, I’d say.” She cast an accusatory glance at him. “Well, I can’t mend what’s broken, boy,” she went on briskly, “but if I can aid you in setting it right, I will. Otherwise, you are in for a long and unpleasant married life. Never could abide Bettina Quinn, and her spawn takes after her. I couldn’t for the life of me think what had possessed you to ask for Caroline’s hand. You’re not at all suited, unless I miss my guess, and I never do.”