Scandal's Reward (10 page)

“ . . . ‘And hermits are contented with their cells.’ No, I do not.”

“You are a harsh judge, Miss Hunter. ‘In truth the prison, unto which we doom / Ourselves, no prison is . . .’”

“It was no prison at all! You may have learned Wordsworth, sir, and set sonnets to music, but you still had no problem at all in scandalizing the neighborhood and seducing the maidservants, did you?”

She felt filled with confusion and anger. She had almost surrendered entirely to his wiles!

“Ah, so I am yet again to be reminded of my misspent youth? I suppose it matters not. I have become the complete libertine, of course, Miss Hunter: a rake, with no regrets and not a single selfless act to my name.”

“Must you always mock? I did not ask for either this meeting or this accounting. No one’s character is entirely black. I have learned from Sir George that you used to destroy his cruel rabbit traps. That surely was an act of mercy?”

If he noticed that she was being a little inconsistent, he gave no sign. Instead, his face was unreadable, though the sea-green gaze never left hers.

“Rabbits? Oh, yes! My cousin’s traps. Perhaps you think in your romantic view of my youth that I gave a thought to the poor suffering conies? Maybe I just wanted to annoy George?”

“And be thrashed for it?”

“Oh, it was worth anything to annoy George.”

“And is that why you’re here tonight, to annoy Sir George Montagu?”

“Of course! I intend to speak to Mary. That will annoy him very much.”

“And Farmer Westcott’s sheep? How was he discommoded by that?”

“He was not. But don’t think for a moment that you can find an example of my behaving selflessly. Isn’t it possible that I just like to amuse myself?” Which since it was so close to what Catherine had herself said to Amelia, reduced her to silence. “Now, if we have discussed the undoubtedly enthralling subject of my character for long enough, perhaps you will excuse me? Mary should be through with her duties for the night, and under the confusion of Lady Montagu’s little entertainment I can have her at my untender mercy. If I stay here a moment longer, I may be tempted to remember myself and kiss you again. It is unaccountable that I did not do so in the grotto, isn’t it? I have had plenty of time to think about it, and I am mystified. You were certainly tempting enough.”

Catherine wished she had something to throw at him, but instead she was left standing helplessly in the little room. Her heart was beating uncomfortably. She knew perfectly well that he could only have destroyed George’s rabbit traps at the risk of such vicious punishment because he had hated their cruelty.

And the drowning sheep! He had very nearly died, and that was not only for Farmer Westcott and his wife’s scones. No, the truth was that, in spite of his reputation, Devil Dagonet simply would not stand by and watch any creature suffer if he could save it. She could not help but admire that.

Then how had Millicent Trumble drowned? She would very much like to know the answer. She knew perfectly well that his kisses meant nothing to him, but they had stirred feelings in her she didn’t know she possessed. In spite of herself she had become involved. She had never been kissed like that before. It would take more than a moment to regain her composure. There was no way she could quietly go back to her room and go to sleep. Instead she went down through the house to the parlor and paced restlessly about. Faint strains of music echoed from the ballroom. She was lost in her tumbling thoughts when the door opened silently behind her.

“We are both destined to be frustrated tonight, Kate. All my efforts to uncover the past are in vain, and you must hear the music without treading a measure. Mary will not speak to me; you are excluded from the ballroom.” Catherine whirled around. Emerald eyes surveyed her under slightly lifted brows. “I have something for you. I almost forgot.”

He walked up to her and formally presented her with her handkerchief, which she had last seen covered in mud up on the moor. Some unknown hand, perhaps Mrs. Westcott’s, had laundered and starched it. How could she have so casually dismissed that bravery? And the jewelry had been his mother’s. It was George who had no right to it. She had judged harshly, indeed. She blushed.

“Thank you, sir,” she said stiffly. “I have been unjust, haven’t I? I have no right at all to question your behavior.”

“On the contrary, Miss Hunter, you alone have every right. If nothing else, I owe you something for your brave warning on Eagle Beacon when we first met. It was my behavior which stands very little scrutiny on that occasion. And in the grotto, I caused you an unwarranted ducking. I can hardly apologize for kissing you, because I cannot find it in my black heart to regret it. But I have abused your trust, and put you in an untenable situation with your employer. Though you have twice caught me in the house, you have not betrayed me. Surely you can agree that it is I who am in your debt.”

He was moving aside some of the small pieces of furniture which cluttered the room, until there was a clear space of polished boards beside the piano. The distant band had struck up the strains of a waltz. Dagonet came back to her and with a disarming smile, swept her an elegant bow.

“And now,” he said with a flourish, “may I have the honor of this dance?”

“How can you be so absurd, sir?”

“You don’t like dancing?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then it is my dissolute self? Can you not forgive me? Miss Hunter, you break my heart. Now I do regret everything. You are afraid of me?”

She was laughing. “Of course not!”

“Good, for though I may be practiced in the art of seduction and abandonment, you are quite safe. I have the greatest respect for your father, and even I am unfortunately too much the gentleman to kiss you again in the drawing room. So you have no excuse. We may be outcasts from the revelries, but there is no reason why we shouldn’t enjoy the music.”

He took her hand and swept her into his embrace. Instantly they whirled into the steps of the waltz. As she might have expected, he was a perfect partner. His hold at her waist was no more than courteous. Her hand lay lightly in his. Catherine relaxed and allowed herself to follow his lead, her plain skirts eddying behind her. She had never felt so graceful or light before. Around and around they spun together in a delicious partnership of joy. She was floating on the wind. The waltz had never flowed like this with any of the bumbling young men of her father’s parish. At last the music died away, and Dagonet released her and bowed. The spell was broken. The next measure was a lively country dance.

“Alas,” he cried. “We need at least four others to make up the figure.”

Within moments, he had placed the piano stool, the fire screen, an occasional table, and a large vase in the appropriate spots to represent the missing dancers. He swept her another gallant bow, and Catherine, thoroughly caught up in his mood, collapsed into helpless giggles.

“Do not give way, dear Kate, to unseemly emotion! The country dance is that most sensitive of occasions, where the parties stepping past each other in stately dignity, yet may exchange the speaking look, the longing glance. Hearts have been won and lost in the country dance, and many a young lady’s future happiness destroyed, because the measure did not bring her a chance to throw an arch look at the gentleman of her fancy.”

“Though the men, of course, have planned their siege of the most eligible heiress like a military campaign. They jostle for the honor of some notice from her limpid eyes or a soft wave of her fan. The winner has his name on her card for the dance. He gets the curtsy at the beginning of the measure, yet then must see her handed down through the ranks of the losers. All his effort doesn’t win him much.”

“If she will but look at him under her eyelashes, all is forgiven and forgotten.”

He began to weave between the side tables and the firescreen in a perfect satire of the most pompous members of the parish. The dreadful Mr. Crucible came instantly to mind. Helpless with laughter, Catherine joined in. Their dance became a pantomime, yet it was one performed with grace and wit, and to her immense surprise, the most innocent joy. She followed his movements, playing her part in the charade as if they were childhood friends. Their hands touched and separated as required by the dance, and at the end he swept her a gallant bow and she sank into her most graceful curtsy. His face was alight with laughter.

“And the waltz, of course,” he continued, as the music changed and he again swept her into his arms, “scandalously allows the gentleman to hold the lady of his choice in his gloved embrace. She, secure in the view of the whole world, may enjoy the chaste encounter without threat to her virtue, while driving him to distraction with her grace and charm.”

“Unless, as has often been my unfortunate lot, Mr. de Dagonet, she has no particular liking for the gentleman, in which case his proximity is uncomfortable. Or she may think she likes him, but he treads on her toes and she limps for a week.”

“Then she should have refused him to start with, instead of thoughtlessly placing herself in such a man’s power.” The waltz ended but he did not release her. “I trust I did not step on your toes, Kate?”

She looked up at his face. She had never seen him so relaxed, his eyes suffused with wit. He reached up to stroke a wisp of hair from the side of her neck. His smile invited all her trust and confidence. Wildly, she hoped he would kiss her again. But as she gazed up at him, his eyes darkened and the long muscles beside his mouth stiffened as if in pain. He ran his fingertips gently over her lips.

“Oh, dear!” he said with a wry smile. “I hope we have not just made a dreadful mistake.”

The door crashed open behind them.

“Good God, sir! What the deuce is the meaning of this?”

It was George. Dagonet leapt away from Catherine, thrusting her toward the couch, as he backed past the piano. Sir George Montagu, his face swollen with rage above his intricate cravat, advanced upon his cousin. George wore his best embroidered satin waistcoat and fashionable black-and-white striped coat and breeches. His stout legs, encased for the evening in pink stockings, were embellished at the knee with ribbon rosettes. He was perfectly correctly dressed for a ball, except that in his right hand he carried a naked blade. Devil Dagonet was quite unarmed.

“You were ever proud to beat me at fencing when we were boys, sir, were you not?” George said.

“Yes, but then, cousin dear, I also had a weapon. Will you kill me outright or only maim me a little?”

“Damn you, Dagonet! I would not do you the favor to relieve you of the burden of your worthless life.”

Dagonet vaulted over the piano. “Too bad. Bonaparte wouldn’t do it either, though I tried to give his men every opportunity for seven long years. You were always too conservative with your occasional generous impulses.”

The sword slashed, and Dagonet ducked gracefully around the wing chair, where he had once sat and read Walter Scott to Catherine. A deep gash appeared in the upholstery and stuffing flew into the room. Catherine gasped and ran to the piano. She picked up a book which she could throw at George, if the opportunity once presented itself.

“I only intend, sir,” growled George, clumsily stumbling over the vase, which had so recently represented Mr. Crucible at the country dance, “to insult that insufferable vanity.”

The sword passed within inches of Dagonet’s cheek.

“Well done, George! Your care of me is touching. Even my barber is not so solicitous of my looks. Why, he nicked me on the chin just last week.”

“I’ll do more than a nick, sir. I’ll give you a scar that will make women faint.”

“They already do, cousin, and willingly, into my arms!” Dagonet laughed. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

And as the blade whistled harmlessly over his head, he bent to take up the coal tongs, stepped past the firescreen, and cleanly disarmed his assailant. The weapon clattered to the floor and, in an instant, the sword was his.

Dagonet looked at it in mock surprise. “How generous you are, cousin, to provide me with a weapon, after all. Now, how should I use it, I wonder? If anyone else in the room also had a rapier, we might fence like gentlemen, but our quarrel is still unevenly matched.”

George, his color draining from his face and panting heavily, backed away.

“You will not strike at an unarmed man, sir,” he sputtered.

“Why not?” Dagonet asked seriously, testing the blade. “You just did. However, the neighborhood would only hear your version of events, were I to take revenge.
‘Les absents ont toujours tort.’
So you may escape once more with your miserable hide intact.” He strode to the window, carrying the sword, and lifted the sash, while Sir George Montagu stood, his jowls dark with sweat, by the Sheraton sideboard. “Good night, George! Take care of Miss Hunter, I came across her all unwitting and could not resist taking advantage of her helplessness. The most shocking experience for a young lady!”

And with Catherine thus neatly absolved of any responsibility, he was gone.

George collapsed onto the sofa. He had lost several buttons from his waistcoat and one rosette was twisted around to dangle ridiculously from his kneecap.

“Allow me to fetch you a brandy, Sir George,” Catherine said, setting down the book. “I assure you I am quite unharmed, but I fear you may have overexerted yourself.”

Sir George ignored her, and, getting his breath, ran instead to the window. He stuck out his head and a moment later pulled himself in, grasping his sword by the hilt. The bottom six inches were stained with dirt from the flower bed. He turned, blade in hand, but Catherine, deciding that discretion might well be the better part of valor, after all, was already at the door. She had more things to think about than George’s discomfiture. She was very much afraid that she was falling prey to the practiced charms of a rake. ‘The absent are always in the wrong,’ indeed. Somehow, she must find out the truth about Devil Dagonet.

She was not able to find Mary alone and draw her aside for several days.

“Yes, ma’am?” asked Millicent Trumble’s sister. “Did you want something?”