The Rambunctious Lady Royston (20 page)

Samantha watched the gentlemen as, one by one or in pairs, they made overly dramatic protestations of pressing engagements elsewhere and bowed themselves from the room, lying through their aristocratic teeth as they praised Miss Sybil and congratulated her mother on her talented daughter before escaping to the street—nearly leaving behind their evening capes in their haste to be away—or skulked off to join the equally bored Lord Mallory in his private study for a few hands of whist, doubtless to send up fervent prayers that no one would succeed in smoking them out of their masculine hidey-hole.

A satin slipper tapped the parquet floor while an apricot-and-ivory striped-silk parasol that matched an apricot-and-ivory striped gown twirled absently. Samantha debated whether to plead a headache or stick out the evening as a sort of endurance test that would prove once and for all that she could play the game of social graces with the best of them.

Having made a decision to hold firm until the last yawn, she settled back in her seat with a cup of punch—brought to her by one of her dutiful admirers—ready to suffer all to prove herself worthy to be Royston's Countess. To be fair, she probably would have lasted out the night with nary a hint of a blot in her copybook had it not been for the single-mindedness of her hostess.

So what, thought Lady Mallory contemptuously, if more than half the gentlemen had faded off into oblivion dining the short intermission. What did a man know about things artistic anyway? After all, wasn't it a man who invented those cursed howling bagpipes, of which the Prince was so odiously fond? And then there were those distasteful, raucous standing ovations they all gave nightly to that new singer at Covent Garden (who couldn't carry a tune in a pail)—which certainly settled the case.

Well! Just wait until they heard her little Sibbie sing. Then the few that were left within earshot would fight each other for the privilege of sitting at the girl's feet in adoration of her glorious voice. So long as young Lord Lampson was still in the room (it had not occurred to the hostess that he was too bovine in temperament as well as body to have shifted himself in time), there was hope yet for the evening.

Clutching the reluctant Sibbie by the elbow (girlish modesty being so very affecting), Lady Mallory marched up to the piano, gesturing to the very compliant (and very plain) Miss Bradwell to seat herself at the keyboard and cleared her throat before reintroducing her daughter.

"Oh, no, you don't," Samantha declared under her breath, snatching up her reticule. Holding a scented lace handkerchief delicately to her lips, she hastily excused herself as having been suddenly taken ill.

Isabella saw Samantha's precipitant departure and, being above all else a good sister, followed after her to lend assistance—only to find Samantha leaning against the wall outside the music room, giggling into the scented bit of lace.

"Lord, Izzy, have you ever seen such a dense woman? Half the gentlemen near trampled the other half, so in a quiver were they to make their exit, and still she persists. Mother Love overlooks a multitude of faults in her offspring, but if Sybil's voice ranks anywhere near the quality of her ham-fisted plucking at the harp, one wonders how even Mother Love does not feel duty-bound to strap a muzzle on the chit."

Isabella, recognizing the gleam in Samantha's dancing green eyes, hastily suggested they rouse Aunt Loretta and make an early night of it. Her sister didn't answer, but continued to cast her eyes about the wide hallway, her head cocked to one side as if listening for some sound.

"Well, then," Isabella persisted, "if you don't wish to leave we'd best make our way back inside. Sybil has begun her first rendition, but I'm certain there are seats in the back, where we can slip in without distracting her."

Samantha harrumphed in amusement. "Heaven forbid! If the looby should be jostled out of her deadly concentration, she would probably be so befuddled she'd have to go back and start over at the beginning of her piece—and that would be unforgivable! Besides," she continued quickly, "I have no intention of subjecting myself to another off-key note. Right now I'm searching for the whereabouts of the disappearing gentlemen. What do you suppose they are about? Whatever it is, it's a sure thing it's a hundred times more enjoyable than the ear-beating they've cravenly left their women to suffer alone."

Samantha set off down the hallway, following a footman carrying a tray of glasses and a full decanter, with her sister skipping along behind and begging her to reconsider.

"Oh, do stop whining, Izzy," Samantha scolded. "Can't you ever comment on anything I do, other than to point out the possible pitfalls? Don't you ever—even if just for a fleeting moment—consider the enjoyment to be had in life if one does not opt for the safety of dull propriety?"

Isabella was indignant. Out of breath from trying to match her sister's longer strides, yes—but indignant just the same, much in the way of an enraged kitten. "If I don't choose to risk my good name and peace of mind on a spur-of-the-moment lark that would most likely prove to be not half so diverting as I had hoped, that is my concern—and you have no right to poke fun at me!" Isabella protested, her lower lip trembling in her agitation.

Her sister was immediately contrite and put a reassuring arm about Isabella's slim shoulders. "I'm a beast, aren't I, Izzy?" she apologized sincerely. Then, assuming herself forgiven, she went on, "If you'll stay with me for just an hour, to lend me the respectability Society requires—though I can't imagine why, for I doubt the gentlemen here tonight would take it into their heads to attack me en masse—I promise not to do anything to place myself beyond the pale. Agreed?"

Isabella did not agree, but—as Samantha had not bothered to wait for an answer to her question and was already pushing open the door to the study—Isabella had no choice but to follow her.

Several hours later, buried up to her chin under her satin coverlet alone in Royston's huge bed, Samantha giggled deliriously as she relived her evening at Lord Mallory's gaming table.

After the gentlemen's initial reluctance to allow two females to invade their sacred territory was overcome by Samantha's witty tongue and dazzling appearance, Isabella had been escorted to a comfortable chair while Samantha reintroduced the players to the childhood card game called My Son's Pigged.

Watch-It-And-Catch-It was another crowd-pleaser, with more than one peer ending the evening feigning chagrin when he had lost all his blunt—the matchsticks Samantha insisted as using as the only stakes.

"Better than the money I dropped at Watiers the other night, playing blind-hookey," one gentleman was heard to comment as he watched the last of his stakes being swept into the massive pile in front of Samantha, whose luck had been quite in all night.

Lady Mallory, it must be noted, was not best pleased. As one by one they went off in search of the sound of laughter filtering into the music room, poor Sybil lost all the remaining souls in her audience but two: the comatose Aunt Loretta, and the hapless Lord Lampson, who Lady Mallory kept pinioned to his chair with her menacing glare.

Still chuckling, and hugging St. John's bolster pillow tightly to her breast, Samantha fell into a sound sleep undisturbed by any repercussions the night's activities might bring. She awoke amazingly refreshed, until she realized that she was facing yet another endless day full of singularly dull and uninteresting social pursuits.

As she paced her own chamber after her bath, clad only in her dressing gown, she paraphrased a line from Hamlet in her mind: To be good (and dull) or naughty (and happy)— that is the question.

"Oh, stuff!" she at last admitted aloud to herself. "I am fated to be a sad trial to Zachary for the remainder of my unnatural life, and—and he may as well become accustomed to that fact!"

So saying, she, with Daisy's help, made short work of donning Wally's trusty breeches. Then, tucking up a lunch in her coat pocket, Samantha tiptoed out through the kitchens while Carstairs's condemning eyes were turned discreetly towards the pantry door.

There followed a glorious day of adventure as Samantha rubbed shoulders with the people in the city: passing the time of day with a friendly apple woman; tipping her hat to a bandbox man as he struggled to guide a long pole, hung heavily with bandboxes, through the crowded streets; watching as a chair mender did repairs while blocking the flagway; and clutching at her sides with glee while a bear ward and his beast stopped traffic and terrified horses as they made their way through the streets.

She might have gotten through her day of truancy without incident had it not been for her sighting of the train of vast, hooded wagons, with their wheels as big as rollers, all drawn by magnificent horses—beasts, Samantha was certain, the size of elephants.

She followed them awhile, marveling at their size, which seemed to her to be on a par with that of the famed straw statues she had read about—Gog and Magog—before they disappeared into the yard of a large brewery.

Just as she was turning away to retrace her steps, a young gentleman detached himself from his party and invited the obviously interested young man to join them in their tour of the establishment. Samantha accepted eagerly.

She walked through the building with her mouth agape and her eyes round as saucers. This suitably impressed the proud brewer; a peach-fuzzed gent marveling at the sight of storage vessels as large as ships that towered over the group on either side.

During the customary partaking of the brewer's hospitality at the end of the tour—a meal that consisted of a gigantic steak cooked on a shovel—the host plied his most appreciative guest with several complimentary pints of his "best entire."

"Good for washin' it down," the brewer winked playfully, as the reputed potency of his brew made itself evident in the flushed cheeks and sparkling and faintly glazed eyes of his young customer.

Dusk found Samantha striding purposefully, if crookedly, down the street, reveling in the freedom of the huge strides allowed by the cut of her breeches. She wore a vacant grin, her curly-brimmed beaver tilted to a rakish angle, and would have been fair game for any footpad or cut-purse if not for the menacing presence of the brawny Irish laborer who followed three paces behind, obviously acting the bodyguard.

The reason for this unsolicited but providential protection was explained by the two heavy purses now clutched in the Irishman's beefy fist. Samantha, feeling in charity with all the world, had spied the man standing beside his wife and ten children just as she weaved her way from the brewery door. Their woebegone appearance touched her gentle heart (which right now ruled her muddled head), and she promptly gifted the man with all the money in her possession (a goodly sum, as Daisy had made sure there would be no chance of Miss Sammy's coming home again in a penniless state).

The Irishman, while thinking the young gentleman fair daft as well as bosky, promptly committed himself to the protection of the fellow and followed along behind him like a ragtag guardian angel until his charge at last disappeared through the kitchen door of a large mansion in Portman Square.

"And may the sainted Virgin herself protect ye," he intoned gravely, as he tipped his greasy cap and bowed himself out through the mews.

Once Samantha got upstairs, Daisy had the devil's own time containing her mistress's flailing limbs and loud, raucous bursts of song while she tried to divest her of her incriminating costume.

"Miss Sammy, Miss Sammy," she pleaded sotto voce, "Yer gots ta quiet yerself. Hiz lordship's back and in hiz chamber dressin' fer dinner. Iffen he hears ya, it's the devil to pay for sure!"

This sobering fact served to quiet Samantha, but unfortunately it could not make her limbs cooperate sufficiently to make an easy job of stripping herself of the skintight buckskins.

At last Samantha gave up the fight and had Daisy help her struggle into a gown that would hide the incriminating breeches.

They had only just discovered that the cut of the gown did little to camouflage the outline of the dratted things when St. John's footsteps could be heard approaching the connecting door between the chambers.

"Oh, hang him!" Samantha wailed, and promptly hid herself behind Daisy's ample form.

"Stay with me, Daisy!" Samantha pleaded. "My buttons aren't even done up yet. Oh, what a rare bumblebath this is!" She then giggled. The spirits she'd imbibed earlier were showing their staying power, even in a situation fraught with danger.

The Earl had cut short his visit to his estate when he came to the realization that a small, pert face and a pair of laughing green eyes were making a mockery of all his attempts at rational thought. He now entered his wife's chamber eagerly, as a happy smile curved his lips and stripped a dozen years from his features.

That smile only broadened when he spied out Samantha, cowering behind her maid, her hair piled atop her head (looking sadly crushed, but no matter), and her gown more off than on.

"Ho! What's this?" he queried jovially. "Modesty at this late date, my infant? Come here and greet your husband properly. After dismissing your woman, if you mislike demonstrations of, er, affection in front of servants."

Samantha's fingers only gripped Daisy's shoulders the tighter, making the woman wince, and it was left to the maid to try to make some sense of the situation—not an easy job, as her mistress just then let out with a rather low-class hiccup.

Royston lifted one expressive eyebrow, and Daisy launched into a muddled explanation of Samantha's unfortunate history of "queer-like takings," only to be silenced by one of the Earl's piercing looks.

Then, by means of slight head shakes, and with his face softening only slightly, he induced Samantha to step out from behind her flustered protector.

Once within the circle of light shining from the brace of candles nearby, Samantha's bizarre attire gave the Earl a distressingly clear outline of the proof of Samantha's guilt—of just what crime was for the moment unimportant.

"Pernicious brat," he said under his breath, as Samantha ducked behind Daisy once more.