Fallen Angel (38 page)

Her eyes swung to Deveryn. He was watching her with a bemused expression on his face, though his head was inclined toward Lady Caro as if every word that fell from her lips held him spellbound. Very easily, and openly, he raised his wine glass in a salute and brought it to his lips.

Until the first course was served, Maddie was beside herself with apprehension. When the footmen began to serve Mulligatawny soup her sigh of relief was almost audible. Naturally, Deveryn would not serve such exalted company so base a dish as porridge. She chided herself for her wild fancies and remarked to Mr. Lamb on her right, that the soup was of a very high order. What she did not say, but might very easily, was that the stock was obviously boiled from whole fowl, when the bones would have done just as well. She thought that if Janet were let loose in the kitchens of Dunsdale, she could save her hostess thousands of pounds a year. Not that the countess would thank her for it.

The second course was not quite so acceptable—cod's head smothered in a smooth lobster sauce. Her glance flashed to Lord Deveryn.

"Have you tried this dish before, Miss Sinclair?" he asked from across the table.

Maddie scarcely knew where to look. Her tutor had warned her in no uncertain terms that to talk across the table was considered particularly ill-bred. Nobody at the countess's table, however, seemed to take exception to Deveryn's breach of etiquette, unless it was Miss Trimmer whose lips tightened imperceptibly.

"No," said Maddie, "I've not had that pleasure."

"It's an English delicacy. May I suggest that you spear it with your fork and hack it to bits with your fish knife as if it
were . . .
a battle axe?"

She managed a thin smile.

"Don't you have cod's head in Scotland?" asked Mr. Branwell, to make conversation.

"Yes, but we boil them for fish soup then feed them to the stable cats," she answered absently. She particularly disliked the way the cod's eye gazed at her unblinkingly from the middle of her plate, and wondered if it were by design or ill fortune that the head had fallen to her lot. "What do you do with the body?" she asked.

Deveryn caught her remark. "What else? We boil it for fish soup then feed it to the stable cats." He positively purred. "You Scots always get everything backwards."

The guests, all intimates of the Rossmere household with the exception of Maddie and Lady Elizabeth, became alert. Cutlery was laid aside. Footmen were called to refill wine glasses. It was evident that one of the famous Verney dinner debates had just been launched. The subject under discussion was not in question: Scotland Forever versus England and St. George.

Lady Caro caught her brother's eye and said distinctly, "We Ponsonbys are Irish. Naturally, our loyalties are with the Scots. Right Freddie?"

"I'll say. Anything to take these arrogant English snobs down a peg or two."

All eyes turned to Maddie as if waiting for the next salvo. She looked around the table. Her eyes dropped to her plate. She picked up her dessert spoon and very deliberately covered the cod's head with a mountain of lobster sauce. "The least we can do," she said in a pronounced Scottish accent, "is give the
puir
wee beastie a decent burial."

Her supporters were not slow in following her example: first Lady Caro, and very quickly thereafter, Mr. Scott, Freddie, and belatedly and a little sheepishly, Toby Blanchard.

"Toby!" exclaimed Deveryn. "You turncoat!"

"Nothing of the sort! I've always detested cod's head, but have never been brave enough to say so. If I can get out of eating it simply by kissing the Scottish flag, then what I say is—lead me to it."

"The odds are still uneven," remarked Lady Mary. "I don't know who to cast in my lot with. I'm afraid I don't know much about Scotland except that the climate is rather cold."

"Watch it, Mary," admonished Deveryn. "The Scots will stand anything but-an attack on their climate. There never would have been a Jacobite rebellion if some poor English sod in an Inverness tavern hadn't complained that frostbite was a communicable disease and its origins were in Scotland."

"What has England got that Scotland hasn't got?" asked Maddie on a note of belligerence.

"Summer," stated Deveryn emphatically, "and with enough
heat to ripen fruit."

"We have fruit, too!" she exclaimed.

"Oh, yes," interposed William Lamb, stirring himself from his natural indolence, "I remember very well. I should. I spent two years at Glasgow University after I came down from Oxford. I distinctly remember that in a remarkably warm summer there, I tasted peaches that could very easily have passed for pickles, and it is upon record that at the siege of "Perth, on one occasion, the ammunition failing, your nectarines, Miss Sinclair, made admirable cannon balls."

"Have you done?" asked Maddie in frigid accents.

"By no means," interjected Deveryn with relish. "I still suffer nightmares when I remember the North Sea winds. Even experienced Scottish fowls don't dare try to fly across the streets of Edinburgh. Have you seen them, William? They sidle along, tails aloft, and would rather succumb to the deprivations of prowling alley cats than chance the violence of the gale."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," interposed Mr. Scott from the far end of the table, "plagiarism does not become you, and you, passing yourselves off as fine English gentlemen." His tone was sorrowful.

The gentlemen in question exchanged sheepish grins.

"Plagiarism, Mr. Scott?" asked Lady Rossmere, who had been observing the byplay with a benevolent eye, and more particularly the interesting interplay between Miss Sinclair and her son.

"The words more or less are stolen from the mouth, or perhaps I should say 'pen' of my dear friend and colleague, Sydney Smith." He smiled benignly at Mr. Lamb and Lord Deveryn in turn. "Gentlemen, you won't be denying that you subscribe to the
Edinburgh Review.
Aye, I thought as much."

"Shameful!" said Freddie Ponsonby, rubbing his hands gleefully. He'd never been to Scotland, hoped he never would, and could not think why he'd permitted himself to be roped into a cause to which he hadn't a word to contribute.

"The truth still stands," responded Deveryn airily. "And who can name one thing that Scotland has that England hasn't got?"

"My heart, for a start!" Maddie shot back with alacrity.

"Oh that!" Deveryn immediately responded, ruthlessly cutting off Toby Blanchard who had been desperately trying to get a word in edgewise. "Women are so fickle. I don't doubt that in another month or two, your heart will be completely converted to everything English."

"Don't bet on it, Deveryn!" she retorted.

"There's one thing that impressed me about the Scots," said Lord Rossmere musingly, and the only one at the table to calmly continue eating his dinner.

"What's that, dear?" asked his countess.

"Even the lowest menial knows how to read and write. Whereas here, well, you know how it is. Nobody troubles. The attitude is, why bother when the local priest will do it for you?"

"Aye," agreed Mr. Scott, "but that's because in Scotland every man sees himself in some sort as a
lad o' pairts,
an educated man, that is. Whether it is true or not, we believe that education is the great equalizer. Take my shepherd, for instance."

The argument continued unabated for the remainder of the meal. The footmen removed course after course with scarcely a person present aware of the excellent dinner cook had prepared at the express wish of the winsome young master. Only two of the countess's guests remained aloof from the general frivolity—the beautiful Lady Elizabeth and the Duke of Raeburn. But since these worthies had the distinction of sitting on the left hand respectively of the earl and his lady, there was never any slack in the conversation.

When it was time for the ladies to leave the gentlemen to their port, both sides agreed that the honours were even. As the dining room door was closed upon them, William Lamb's voice was heard to say, "Good, now we can talk broad."

Maddie thought little of it, but Lady Caro, who was just ahead of her, turned and said in a voice vibrant with scorn, "Philistine!" and she picked up her skirts and went racing up the stairs.

"The girl's moods are like quicksilver," said Lady Rossmere. She stood undecided for a moment. "I'd best go after her. No telling what she may get up to, and I promised her mother . . ." The words were lost to Maddie as the countess ascended the stairs.

When she entered the drawing room, Maddie thought at first to place herself beside Lady Elizabeth. The beauty, however, gave her a cold stare. Lady Mary's smile was much more to her liking, and Maddie accepted the tacit invitation. Within
minutes, the countess returned
with Lady Caro whose disposition appeared to have had a turn for the better. Her gaiety was infectious, and she kept them amused till the gentlemen joined them.

When the piano lid was opened, Mr. Scott invited Maddie with a twinkle to join him in singing the odd Scottish ballad for the erudition of their English friends. Their object was soon devined by Deveryn, for though the Scottish words were incomprehensible to English ears, he had heard Maddie sing them at Drumoak and knew they were songs of wild Scottish victories against their ancient foe. They paid the penalty for that piece of spite, for Deveryn and young Sophie knew as many ballads which extolled English victories, and sang them with gusto.

Mr. Scott listened attentively as he idly sipped a double dram of Scotch whisky. Suddenly, he cried out, "Glenlivet! I'd know it anywhere!"

"What?" the exclamation came from Lord Rossmere who had been tête-à-tête with Raeburn in a quiet corner of the room.

"Glenlivet?" asked Deveryn, his eyes endeavouring to catch Maddie's frantic gaze which wandered everywhere except in his direction. "The finest Scotch whisky there is to be had? How do you come by it, sir?"

His father looked down at the glass in his hand. He put it to his lips and slowly savoured a mouthful of the amber liquid. "By George, so it is. Miss Sinclair brought it with her. Thank you, my dear. It's almost impossible to come by south of the border. I gather you brought it with you when you left Scotland?"

"Hum . .
. yes,"
confessed
Maddie, not daring to look Deveryn in the eye.

She managed to avoid him for what was left of the evening, and when she retired for the night, she was careful to mount the stairs in the company of one of the other ladies. It happened to be Caro Lamb.

They reached the head of the stairs, and, without preamble,

Lady Caro suddenly asked in a small intense voice, "Whom do you imagine I consider the most distinguished man I have ever met?"

"Lord Byron," said Maddie without thinking, and could have bitten her tongue out.

She need not have distressed herself. The answer brought a small, satisfied smile to Lady Caro's serious expression. "No, my own husband, William Lamb," she answered quietly, and left Maddie to stare after her.

She was still staring when she heard Deveryn's amused voice at her shoulder. "I love the way you roll your 'r's' when you're in conversation with a fellow Scot. You should do it more often, Maddie."

"What?" Her hand whipped instinctively to her bottom. "Roll my arse?" And for the second time in as many minutes, she wished she could bite off her tongue.

There was that devilish glint in his eye. "Your 'r's,' Maddie. I wish you would roll them for me. I adore your Scottish burr." And he walked away with the confident swagger she knew so well.

"Philistine!" she hissed after him, but her own eyes held an irrepressible twinkle.

It took only a few minutes to complete her ablutions and ready herself for bed. Lady Rossmere had kindly loaned her the use of a maid. But Maddie felt awkward about being fussed over. The offer to brush her hair she declined kindly but firmly, and watched from her chair at the lady's dressing table as Rosie scooped up her discarded silk gown and carried it off to be brushed and pressed and returned in the morning.

It was terribly stuffy. The fire in the grate had been banked up to last through the night. And it was a
coal
fire. She didn't know whether to be appalled or overwhelmed by such a show of luxury. A moment's reflection persuaded her to amend her opinion. The Rossmeres didn't give a straw for luxury. The whole house was a statement in comfort. It must be nice, she thought, to be so situated that one could indulge one's preferences without counting every penny. If she ever found herself in such a fortunate position, the first thing she would do was prohibit the making of porridge in her kitchen. It was mere whimsy, of course. Should she ever be so fortunate as to be mistress of a home of her own, she
would . . .
A new train of thought insinuated itself in her consciousness.