Barbara Metzger (9 page)

Today was for seeing: flowers, a child with a spinning hoop, rainbows in puddles—and a wood nymph, fairy dust sparkling sun-gold in her hair and laughter like nectar on her lips.

“Hello, Bluebell,” he said softly, not to startle her. “I wish I had a field of daisies for you to dance in, or a coronet of roses for your hair.”

“Oh fiddle,” was Cristabel’s disconcerted reply. She knew she shouldn’t have come so far, alone.

“‘Oh fiddle’ is it? And here I thought I was being poetical. I thought of Chaucer’s ‘fair as is the rose in May,’ but it’s only April, so I had to be original. Shall I simply revert to plebeian flattery? That’s a charming bonnet.”

Reminded of yet another stricture she’d violated, Miss Swann hastily crammed the bonnet back on her head. Her fingers were too in a flurry to loosen the knot, so she left it drooping under her chin. “Stop it, do,” she told the fine-looking lord, thinking he was making fun of her. “There is no need to pour the butter-boat over me.”

Here was plain speaking, indeed, thought the viscount, disappointed that the chit should be so businesslike, even though Perry had warned him.

“What, even if it’s not Spanish coin I am offering?”

“Thank you,” she said, thinking he meant the pretty words, “but we haven’t been properly introduced.”

Gads, but MacDermott had her well trained. Kenley told himself he should walk away. Love for hire held no attraction for him, offered no lasting fulfillment. Still, there was that innocent gaze, that sweet curving smile and the adorable confusion when he’d caught her unaware. She couldn’t be a hardened jade, not yet.

“But you do know who I am, don’t you?” He was sure Mac would have counted off his assets and per annums. At her nod he continued. “And you—No.” He wouldn’t let her speak. “You can be a fairy princess, Bluebell, just for an afternoon, can’t you? It is such a lovely day, and I desperately need a little magic.”

She should walk away. There was never a silver-tongued devil who meant right by a maiden, she knew that. But there was that slow, tender smile and those direct gray eyes, one brow raised. No, she could see a scar running through the eyebrow, giving him that quizzical look. She took the hand he held out.

“There is a path to the water through here, if I remember correctly. I want to see if the children still sail their paper boats.”

“Did you do that, my lord?”

“Every chance I got. What was your childhood’s favorite pastime?”

“It wasn’t spinning wheat into gold, I am sorry to say.”

She went on to tell him about her music—“What, you even practiced without being forced? You really were an angel-child.”—and her books. He let her talk, delighted with her cultured accents, her educated intelligence. In turn he spoke of his brother and their games, their ponies and cricket matches. Not one word was wasted on insincere flattery, or coquetry, or in double meanings. But time passed.

“Oh dear, I must go. Mac will be worried.”

“Yes, I’ve kept you longer than… Here, let me help you.” Her fingers were again working on her bonnet’s strings. Bad enough she’d been missing, she could not return to the crowded area looking tousled.

Then his strong hands were at the ribbons at her throat. For a change she had to look up at someone, to watch him frown at the knot in concentration. At this nearness she could see that the scar continued under the curls above his eye, and called herself a widgeon for worrying that he had been hurt, in a duel, likely. He was nothing to her. He was comely and courteous, but he was a viscount. Cristabel was quality come down in the world, just a vicar’s daughter fallen on hard times, and harder, into trade. In a world where “in trade” was a short step ahead of “in Purgatory,” the two could never mix, so she could never be anything to him.

Then he had the ribbons untangled and he smiled at her while he tied a bow alongside her cheek, his fingers brushing her skin, his gray eyes looking into her blue ones. And then he placed his hands on her face and drew her closer. He kissed her, as slow and sweet as his smile at first. Now she was the enchanted one, mesmerized by a new magic, a new pleasure, as his arms tightened across her back and his kiss intensified and mingled their breaths, their souls.

Ah, how the two of them could mix after all, she thought in a tingling haze. Then he stood back and the haze lifted and Cristabel realized exactly what she was to him: nothing, that he could treat her so! Worse, her lips were still warm and he was still smiling, laughing at her look of outrage. She decided to flee instead of smacking him or making a scene, which would only confirm his low opinion of her. Actually Cristabel’s feet made the decision, carrying her back along the path while her mind was torn between anger, shame, and regret. Anger won.

She was no coward, was she? Then why was she running away from an uncomfortable situation again? He was the one at fault, this man she’d never property met, taking such liberties. How dare he!

“How dare you!” she told him, turning back to see him in the same spot, looking at her curiously. “You, sir, are no gentleman. You are wrong, furthermore, if you think you can take advantage of an unprotected woman. Major MacDermott would call you out if I told him.”

Winstoke seemed more amused than concerned. He crossed his arms and drawled, “Would he?”

Well, Cristabel wasn’t positive, to be quite honest. Mac had not taken such good care of her reputation this afternoon, and she was not really his responsibility by blood or bond. Could she ask him to risk his life for what was, on reflection, just a kiss? Her first, of course, and a memory to be cherished, but just a stolen kiss when all was said and done. Perhaps she had been somewhat at fault, too. She looked away.

“I shouldn’t have stayed with you.”

“No, you shouldn’t. But it’s all right. You can tell Mac that if I decide to hunt in his preserves, I’ll pay the woodsman’s fee.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No? Do you understand that if you stay here I will kiss you again?”

This time she did run away.

“May I call?” he shouted after her, and the echoes of her “NO!” blended with his laughter.

Chapter Nine

So Winstoke didn’t notice ’er ’ighness at the park. What now?”

“Oh, he noticed her all right, he just didn’t
know
her. Did you find anything in her rooms?”

“No papers, no cash. What are we gonna do?”

“Keep writing.”

Mac and Nick were busily engaged in a major creative effort: fabricating a new set of ledgers out of whole cloth. They worked with fresh ink, watered ink, seven different quills and two nubby pencils, taking turns with their right hands, then their left hands. They added tea and wine spatters for authenticity, and a boot-heel scuff for good measure. Their minds were so taxed with making up new debits—“Do we
have
fire protection, Nick?”; “Sure, there’s a bucket out back.”—that it was no wonder they couldn’t find a solution to the problem of Miss Swann.

“Business is way off, you know,” lamented Nick.

“Why? The gents don’t seem to mind using the back door and my sitting room, and the girls are being good about keeping them quiet.”

“It’s not from missin’ the parlor, you nodcock, it’s the blasted music comin’ out of it. ’Arp playin’ don’t exactly set the right mood, if you get my drift.”

“Well, I don’t know what you expect me to do. She won’t take so much as a sip of wine or tea in the evening, and I am already keeping her out of the house as much as possible. We’ve been to every church and tourist spot and regimental drill. I’ve taken her to Drury Lane and the opera and even Astley’s Amphitheater. Incidentally, you should see the wenches at Astley’s in their tights and spangles.”

“There’s a gaggle of women upstairs. Can’t you get your mind off the petticoats ’n back on business?”

“We’ll go to Vauxhall come Friday night, all right? I’ve run through a month’s pay already, entertaining her.”

“Too bad, so long’s you keep ’er out of my sight. I was thinkin’ on a more permanent solution ’owsoever.”

“I have it in mind, the dibs just haven’t been in tune. Have you seen the way she’s looking now?”

“Yeah, so she’s not something one of Boy’s cats drug in. She’s still a long Meg.”

“You’re blind. She’s exquisite. You should see the bucks ogling her.”

“I’ve seen you droolin’ at ’er. That’s enough.”

“There’s a fortune to be made off her, you just wait and see.”

“What about your plan to marry ’er ’n get hold of the deed?”

“Unless she’s got a full account somewhere, it won’t fadge.
I
can’t live on my income, no way it’ll cover her, too. No, she’ll have to earn her own bread.”

“Mac, you’re more of a clunch than I made you out to be, ’n that’s sayin’ a lot. She ain’t goin’ to tumble, face it.”

“She hasn’t thrown her bonnet over the windmill yet, I’ll grant you, always bringing Fanny or Marie along, but maybe Friday. You know Vauxhall, the lanterns, the music, the fireworks…the Dark Walks, heh-heh.”

“So she falls for the music ’n your pretty face. You get your itch scratched, what then?”

“Then she won’t have much choice. These,” he said, tapping the fake ledger books, “will show her she’s got no income, so once she’s blotted her copybook for good and all…Hell, she was ruined the minute she walked into this place, she just doesn’t know it yet.”

* * *

There was a lot Miss Swann did not know. Like how a rooming house could have no vacancies and no money both. Or why Mac was such a restless soul, forever needing to be out and doing things, and surrounding himself with his officer friends other times. Or why the boarders giggled at her, or why Marie’s beau would never make an appearance. She was too busy to worry; she would do that next week, when she measured the parlor for new drapes and had the pianoforte tuned. This week was already full with things for which she had been waiting her lifetime; the house could wait a few more days.

How could she concern herself with the condition of the kitchen stove when there were dress fittings with Marie, trips to the parks with Fanny, sight-seeing with Mac, the park, the opera…and Lord Winstoke.

For there was one thing Miss Swann knew that Mac didn’t: how very close she was to losing her heart, if not her head. But not to him. It seems that a rare smile meant more than a facile grin, a thoughtful discussion more than flirtatious banter, and understated courtesy more than overblown gallantry.

On the days following her first excursion to the park, Cristabel was anxious about leaving the house lest she come face to face with his lordship again. Then she was nervous to stay home, in case he should call. It was only a kiss, she told herself, there was no need to be embarrassed. He would already have forgotten it, a man of the world such as Winstoke. She would forget it, too, see if she wouldn’t. So she threw herself into being a tourist and a bargain-hunter, and there he was.

Marie knew all of the best places to purchase gloves and lace and slippers to match the new gown Cristabel would wear to Vauxhall. In this case best meant least expensive, especially once Cristabel realized how far her hundred pounds would have to go before the house made a profit. So it was the Arcade and the Emporium that drew Cristabel’s trade, not the exclusive shops in Mayfair, where a single gown would cost her entire fortune, and more. Still, looking was free, and Cristabel had gotten over glancing in every carriage and behind every tree for a tall, dark-haired gentleman. She had even stopped fretting that one of her former pupils would recognize her. None of them had enough intuitive sense, but if they had, Miss Swann refused to be ashamed of her new middle-class respectability.

“Why the frown, pretty Bluebell?” a too well remembered voice was asking. “If you don’t like the bonnet, there are hundreds more.”

“Oh no, the bonnet is lovely. It was my thoughts that—Whatever are you doing here, my lord?” Cristabel glanced around. Marie was talking to the shop assistant near the display window; the owner was helping two dowagers adjust their turbans. Even if there had been other men in the small shop, she could not imagine anyone appearing more out of place. With his buckskin breeches, shiny top boots, and a dark blue jacket perfectly tailored to accent his broad shoulders and narrow waist, Lord Winstoke looked ridiculous among the feathers and froth. And very appealing.

“Here, try this one,” he said, offering her a confection made of stiffened ecru lace and trimmed with silk roses. Cristabel hastily tied the bow herself, remembering his touch last time. She wasn’t surprised to find the bonnet was exquisite. Trust a practiced flirt to know all about women’s fashions.

Still frowning, which didn’t do justice to the hat, she repeated her question. “I doubt a gentleman spends his time in fancy shops, my lord. How did you happen on this one?”

“Oh, I was driving by and saw you enter. Actually, my friend Perry was giving me driving lessons. It seemed better to end the session while we still remained friends. How he expected me to handle his pair in traffic first thing is a mystery. Uncooperative and meddlesome.”

“His horses?”

“No, Perry. He’s usually the best of fellows, except when it comes to his cattle. I’ll use a hired pair from the livery from now on.”

“Forgive me for my curiosity, but how does it happen that a gentleman who is so…so…” She caught herself from borrowing Fanny’s phrase about being bang up to the mark. “That is, I thought all gentlemen could drive.”

“What, did you think we were born with the knowledge, along with the silver spoons? Don’t look daggers at me, I am only teasing. You are right, of course. I would have learned years ago, but for being off at the wars. I don’t think that hat will do, after all. It shades your eyes too much.”

If he could change the topic quickly, so could she, rather than have him continue this line of talk which was too familiar for her comfort. It was one thing for Marie or the shop girl to offer advice; they didn’t stare at her so intensely, starting chills along her spine and fuddling her thoughts. To divert him from his scrutiny, remembering how Mac loved to recount his tales of valor, Cristabel asked if Lord Winstoke had received the scar on his forehead in an act of heroism.

“There were no heroes, ma’am,” he answered brusquely, turning away. “Only survivors.”

“I…I am sorry, my lord, forgive me if I—”

“No, no, it’s just me. Besides, I believe I owe you an apology for the other day. I am not sorry, mind. No, that’s no way to begin an apology, is it? Miss Belle, I cannot regret the kiss, but I humbly beg your pardon for upsetting you. Am I forgiven?”

Cristabel quickly looked over her shoulders to see if anyone heard. Oh dear, he hadn’t forgotten the kiss at all!

“Can we cry
pax
?” he asked, a little louder, causing heads to turn in their direction. The dowagers sniffed, but Marie winked!

“Yes, yes,” she cried, to shush him. She hurried to the rows of bonnets on the wall, turning so he wouldn’t see her dratted blushes.

He was right behind her, pretending to deliberate over the selections while she pretended her heart wasn’t pounding at his nearness.

“At the risk of being indelicate,” he said quietly so no one else could hear, “have you found someone to, ah, help with finances?”

Now how could he have known about the harp lessons? Mac, of course. It was just like the rattlepate to broadcast her economic embarrassment. “No, I haven’t advertised yet,” she answered crossly.

Eve never advertised either, he thought, astounding himself with the relief he felt. The other marvel was that no man had claimed her yet, unless, of course, she was holding out for a higher price. Kenley had tried to put her from his mind, with less success than he’d had driving Perry’s horses. Seeing her again, he decided he may as well get her out of his system, especially if he could make an arrangement without having a distasteful conversation to deal with MacDermott. These things never lasted long, at any rate. And in the meantime…

“Here,” he said, offering what she thought was another hat for her to try.

This one was gorgeous; a tiny scrap of blue satin with a ruched brim, it had two feathers dyed to match, affixed with a lace bow and made to curl down her cheek.

“Perfect,” the viscount declared. Even Marie and the salesgirl came to
ooh
and
aah
over her. Cristabel hoped Marie especially was taking careful note of the bonnet so they could copy it, for it really was the most becoming she had seen. Regretfully, she took it off and handed it to the clerk with the age-old excuse: “I’ll have to think about it.”

“What, you don’t mean to have it?” Winstoke protested as he followed her toward the shop’s door. “But it was the same color as your eyes.”

“Of course I won’t buy it,” she told him. “It is much too dear.” She looked at him puzzledly, wondering how, if he knew about her financial difficulties, he could consider the bonnet within her means.

Ah, that look of inquiry. Winstoke knew his role well, he believed. Without a moment’s hesitation he recited his lines, offering to purchase it for her, only to be stopped short with her instantaneous “Certainly not.”

“No? You are the only woman of my acquaintance ever to turn down a gift. May I ask why?”

“It wouldn’t be proper. A gentleman never buys a lady’s clothes, does he?”

There were the occasional dashing widows and straying wives, but “Not a lady’s, no,” he admitted.

“Well, I
am
a lady, despite my circumstances. Is that perfectly clear?”

With her blue eyes blazing and her posture as rigid as a topgallant mast, she gave a damn fine imitation, Winstoke decided. He had no idea what game she was playing now, or what the rules were, but all those years at sea had taught him patience. The more he saw of Belle, the more he wanted her, so he would wait.

“Very well, sweetheart, have it your way. May I escort you and your companion to Gunther’s for an ice?”

After that, Winstoke never called her anything but Miss Belle, or my lady; he never called at Sullivan Street; and he never tried to kiss her again. He did appear in Kensington Gardens when Cristabel walked there with Fanny, choosing the less fashionable grounds instead of going to Hyde Park with Mac and the girls and the soldiers and the stares. He even showed up at Somerset House, after she mentioned Lyle’s reluctant agreement to take her to see the art exhibits. The major grew predictably bored after the third noseless Greek statue, and stepped outside to blow a cloud. He never noticed when Cristabel wandered off with Winstoke and Fanny like a freckled shadow behind them, to view a Turner seascape the viscount particularly admired.

Naturally she told him they were to attend a performance of
Romeo and Juliet
that night, so she wasn’t surprised to see him during the intermission; she was only surprised he could find her, with the crowds around Marie, Kitty, and Alice.

Cristabel had been delighted at the prospect of seeing a play she had only read. Twice yearly Miss Meadow permitted the upper girls to attend a traveling company’s dramatic performance in Bath, well accompanied, of course. Miss Swann counted herself fortunate when she was designated among the chaperones, instead of remaining behind to baby-sit the younger girls. Over the years she had seen several mediocre
Hamlets,
an affecting
Lear,
and an incomprehensible
Henry IV,
among others, but never
Romeo and Juliet,
as Miss Meadow considered the tragedy far too suggestive for her tender charges. A particularly bloody
Macbeth
was acceptable; the story of impetuous lovers was not.

The Theatre Royal in London, however, was a totally dissimilar experience from the entertainment in Bath. Here, for instance, the play was followed by a farce so warm Miss Meadow would have lowered her fees before she would let her girls see it. The audience was much more unruly, furthermore, the bucks in the pit booing, throwing things, and shouting so loudly at the stage and each other that Cristabel could barely make out the actors’ lines from her seat in the balcony. Not that it mattered. Juliet appeared to be well past her prime, and Romeo was a mincing fop.

“Mac, these seats are lovely, but I was just wondering if the boxes were terribly expensive? I mean, if I should consider taking one for the season, next year.”