Knaves' Wager (15 page)

The butler glanced enquiringly at Lord Brandon, who shook his head and gestured the servant away.

Betraying not a smidgeon of interest, the marquess poured the wine and handed a glass to his cousin. The young man absently took it while he perused the note a second time. Finally he looked up.

"I have been cut off," Robert said in disbelief. "I am banned, banished, and outlawed." He handed the sheet of paper to his cousin. "Did you ever hear the like?"

The older man quickly skimmed the round schoolgirl script. "I have never seen the like," he answered. "She has not mis-spelt a single word. Moreover, she states the case so plainly and simply, it might be a receipt for a poultice. Most extraordinary."

"I told you she was level-headed. I only wish her aunt were. You'd think I'd tried to ravish the girl."

"You did not order up lingerie for Elise?"

"How should I know? We're always at the dressmaker's or the milliner's or somebody's. That is to say, of course I must have — but what's that to do with anything?"

Lord Brandon dropped gracefully into a chair. "It has everything to do with everything, Robin. Miss Glenwood is fresh from the schoolroom. She is not supposed to know of mistresses and their intimate attire. Now the girl is no longer ignorant, and, unluckily for you, Mrs. Davenant knows precisely where to pin the blame. This is what comes of excessive letter-writing."

"It's completely irrational. I'm banned because some fool servant delivered the wrong package to the wrong house. Banned — and I'm not even
courting
her niece, drat it. Does she mean to investigate the private affairs of every fellow who talks to the girl? Ventcoeur isn't banned, and he spends half his nights in the Covent Garden alleys. Even that loose fish, Beldon, who has the bailiff camped on his doorstep — "

"Their indiscretions have not been waved under Mrs. Davenant's nose as yours has been by this unfortunate accident. An accident of fate, Robin. Drink your wine and put the matter from your mind. We shall dine with Scrope Davies tonight and bury our disappointments in wine and laughter. He is a very amusing fellow, an intimate of Byron's. Perhaps the poet will join us. I understand he's decided not to accompany Hobhouse to Paris after all."

"He's a moody, pretentious bore," was the sulky answer.

"I admit he has not Miss Glenwood's immense blue eyes and guinea-gold curls, and being some years older and lame as well, he cannot be as lively — "

"It's nothing to do with her looks, Julian. It's the — the principle of the thing, dash it! Here I've been dutifully going about in company to pacify the family. I meet one girl who doesn't bore me out of my wits. At last there's someone sensible to talk to, so the evening isn't an endless punishment — and now I'm not to talk to her, not to go near her. I feel like a damned leper. Confound her aunt. Mrs. Drum-mond-Burrell isn't half such a prude."

Robert stomped to the tray and refilled his glass. "It's all the more astonishing to me now how you ever got such a stiff-necked prig to even speak to you — let alone dance with you."

"Perhaps I took advantage of a fit of temporary insanity," said the marquess. He rose. "I believe I shall dress now. You, of course, may amuse yourself as you wish. Freers will bring you another bottle when you have done soaking up that one. I expect he'll also provide a litter to carry you to bed when you have completed your liquid meditations."

Lord Robert had not meant to drink himself unconscious. Still, he was exceedingly put out, and in the course of execrating Mrs. Davenant at length, grew thirsty. Since he continued grumbling to himself for hours, he had frequent need to soothe his parched throat, with the result his cousin had predicted.

The young man awoke very late the following day and, suffering the usual consequences, was more out of sorts than ever. He spent that night in a fit of the sullens with his mistress.

Elise's forbearance only compounded Lord Robert's unhappy state, for she added a generous dollop of guilt to the already indigestible compound of indignation and frustration. Consequently, Robert spent the greater part of the following week in his cousin's company.

The constant companionship of a young man behaving like a petulant little boy must eventually irritate even the most serene of natures. Otherwise, Lord Brandon would have been his normal unruffled self. Certainly he could not be chafing yet over the mere pin-prick of one lady's displeasure.

Lord Brandon had known he'd be unwise to seek the widow out immediately. He'd told himself she wanted time. She was not a stupid woman. Given time to reflect, she must surely come to see the injustice of her accusations. Being the soul of rectitude, she must therefore repent of them.

He was confident of this, the waiting was tiresome only because Robert was tiresome. This, clearly, was the sole reason Lord Brandon rounded upon his cousin on the seventh night of Lord Robert's banishment, as they were leaving Watier's.

"What the devil is the matter with you?" the marquess snapped as they reached the street. "You've been growling and sulking without cease for a week. I do wish you'd entertain

I

your mistress with your megrims. She's paid to endure you. I merely have the misfortune to be related to you."

"Why should I talk when there's nothing to say? Everyone says the same things and makes the same jokes over and over. Why can't a man hold his tongue if he wants? He might as well, when he's a damned
leper
. An outcast. A — a — "

"A bloody bore is more like it. I see we are about to play once again the monotonous tune of your persecution."

"She danced twice tonight with Ventcoeur," muttered his unheeding cousin. "And twice with Maddock. And once with that lout, Beldon. And once with Melbrook. And she went in to supper with — "

"You've already been through the catalogue with me three times this night. Confound you, Robert. You might try to understand the aunt's position."

"She's a stiff-necked old cow. Aargh."

This last remark was occasioned by Lord Brandon's taking his cousin roughly by the neck-cloth and lifting him several inches off the ground.

As he put the young man down again and released the mangled cravat, the marquess said in low, dangerous tones, "Mind your manners, boy."

He was answered by a series of croaks as Lord Robert strove to recover from near strangulation. When he'd regained his wind, he apologised.

"That sounds more like reason," said Lord Brandon. "A reasonable man would understand that Mrs. Davenant was obliged to take the steps she did. A reasonable man would also clearly perceive her to be neither ancient nor in any way bovine. That her posture is stiff may be blamed upon the board strapped to her spine at a tender age. Your mama was once so accoutred. Ask her if you don't believe me."

Subdued, Robert withheld further comments until they were at the marquess's town house.

Never one to hold a grudge, Lord Brandon invited his cousin into the library for a brandy.

"I suppose," said Robert after sipping quietly for a time, "I have been rather disagreeable."

"I will not debate that."

"Still, you must admit the situation is provoking, fair or not."

"The situation is provoking," said Lord Brandon, gazing at the amber liquid in his glass, "though probably fair enough."

"Gad, I wish I had your cleverness. If it were you in my place, you'd have her talked round in no time."

"Would I? I wonder."

"What would you do in my place, Julian?"

"Whatever it is, I suppose I had better do it," came the bored reply. "Since you are not philosophical by nature, you'll go on worrying the thing forever. Even as a child, a word of denial would send you into fits for hours. Now you are a man, you have graduated to weeks."

"You mean you'll talk to her aunt?" Robert eagerly asked, disregarding the aspersions on his maturity.

"I shall try. But be warned, my impetuous cousin. I am not at present in Mrs. Davenant's good graces myself. My interference may do you more ill than good."

10

Though it was a nearly two-hour journey to Redley Park, no one who received an invitation thought of declining. The elderly Earl of Redley and his young countess were reclusive, rarely seen in Town. Once a year, however, they invited half the Beau Monde to a lavish entertainment on their sprawling estate.

There, champagne flowed like a mighty river, delicacies of every kind beckoned from the great table under its ornate canopy, while jugglers, magicians, and fortune-tellers practised their amusing arts. The atmosphere was that of a street fair, but untainted by the vulgar rabble that usually mobbed such events. For those of higher sensibilities, a string quartet performed in a shady arbor of the vast garden. Perhaps most delightful of all, the half who had been invited enjoyed the sweet prospect of lording it over the half who were not.

The house itself was a small, rather shabby relic of Tudor times, to which little except basic maintenance had been done in centuries. The Earls of Redley preferred to devote their energies and incomes to improving upon Nature.

For the previous earl, Lancelot "Capability" Brown had built gently rolling slopes where before had lain a generally flat expanse of meadow and woodland. A lake, replete with swans, now glistened where once had been a narrow stream and minuscule duck pond. Even the village had been relocated another mile distant, because the present Lord Red-ley's mama had complained of its cluttering the landscape.

Redley Park, in short, was a kingdom unto itself. It was also an excellent place in which to become lost, as amorous couples knew. Twisted, mazelike paths and shady, private nooks abounded, and so long as the heavens did not loose a downpour, one could always declare an urgent need to find shelter from the sun's fierce rays.

Following a luncheon best described as wretched excess, one after another lady made such complaints of the heat and glaring sun to Lord Brandon. He sympathised, he spoke charmingly, and then — to the bafflement of each lady in turn — he vanished.

It happened that, just as he eluded these others, one lady eluded him. Certainly, he always knew where to find her. The trouble was, she had constantly someone clinging to her like a leech — her companion, her fiance, her future sister-in-law — and she and the leech of the moment would be found amid a group. One bodyguard Lord Brandon might detach her from; a host of them was too much even for his ingenuity.

He waited with mounting impatience until his opportunity arrived at last. His gaze lit upon Miss Glenwood just as she was slipping away from a crowd of young people watching a juggler. He glanced at Mrs. Davenant. She, excellent chaperon she was, had her eye upon her niece.

Lord Brandon promptly made for the niece.

He'd scarcely uttered two sentences before the aunt was upon them.

"Ah, Mrs. Davenant," he said. "I was about to recommend Miss Glenwood not allow herself to become separated from her friends. Redley Park is a veritable maze of paths and byways, and on her own, she might be lost for weeks."

"I know," said Miss Glenwood. "That's why I was looking for Anne. I can't think where she's got to."

Though she appeared not at all flustered, Lord Brandon was certain the girl was lying. The particular lie, however, was a gift from Heaven. He decided he approved of Miss Glenwood.

"Your aunt and I shall find her, Miss Glenwood, never fear," said he. "You may watch the juggler with an easy mind."

The girl left, and he turned to Mrs. Davenant.

"Perhaps I was presumptuous," he said. "Perhaps you would prefer I sought Miss Cleveson on my own?"

"Thank you, my lord, but I'm sure Sir Thomas will be happy to assist me," she said stiffly.

"He is well-acquainted with Redley Park, I take it? If not, I must accompany you both, or we shall have three lost sheep instead of one."

He saw her glance towards Bexley. The baronet, true to form, had promptly got himself entangled with Clancarty.

She turned back to Lord Brandon, her cheeks tinged a faint pink. "He has never visited here before today, my lord, and — "

"And at present he is occupied with more momentous matters."

They soon spied Anne Cleveson, for she had hauled her brother only far enough from the others to quarrel without being overheard. From what Lilith caught of the debate — she and Brandon were several yards from the two — Freddie had hurt Lady Shumway's granddaughter's feelings, and Anne, in her own way, had decided to call him out.

"Shall we leave them to their squabble, Mrs. Davenant?" said the marquess, moving towards an alternate path. "Miss Cleveson has the right of it, and he wants his ears blistered, I think."

Lilith was surprised, though perhaps she shouldn't be. The marquess was not, she knew to her shame, entirely without compassion.

"Indeed he does," she said. "Miss Twillworthy can't help her spots — not when her foolish grandmother overindulges her in sweets and keeps her trapped in that oppressive, musty house all the day. The girl scarcely ever goes out, but at night, like a little mole."

While she spoke, Lilith debated what to do. To go with him was asking for trouble. On the other hand, she had something to say that could not be said before others. The matter on her conscience proving powerful enough to squeeze out other anxieties, she walked on with him.

She had kept clear of Lord Brandon all the past week. Now they were alone, she knew she could no longer — and should not — shrink from the apology she owed him. Had he appeared as coldly hostile as he had that morning in the park, her task would have been easier. She might simply make her speech and, her duty done, exit quickly.

His amiability made her far more uncomfortable. Either he was a remarkably forbearing man or too careless and unfeeling to be affected by — to even recollect — the harsh, unjust accusations she'd flung at him.

It didn't matter what he was, she chided herself. She had made a grievous error and must apologise. She swallowed, lifted her chin, and spoke.

"My lord, a few minutes ago you referred to — to ears being blistered. I believe — I know — that is — some days ago, we had words."