Miss Darby's Duenna

by Sheri Cobb South

  "But I won't be discovered. I've pulled off this charade once already at Covent Garden, and this time it will be even easier, because you're going to help me."

  "I am?"

  "You are.” Sir Harry refilled his glass with sherry, wishing he were brave enough to risk scandalizing the servants by ringing for a bottle of brandy for the dowager. Swirling the amber-colored liquid about in his goblet, he outlined a plan whereby he would enter the popular pleasure gardens in his Lady Hawthorne persona. He would then leave Olivia and Georgina to Mr. Wrexham's escort while he hastened to a waiting carriage, where Higgins would be waiting with his evening clothes. “Pity it ain't a masquerade night,” he concluded with a sigh. “A domino would be a deuced sight easier to put on in the dark than a curst cravat."

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  Chapter Eight

  Anger is a short madness.

  HORACE, Satires

  The party of four, escorted by Mr. Wrexham and including “Lady Hawthorne,” Miss Hawthorne, and Miss Darby, arrived at Vauxhall Gardens via the water route along the Thames, it having the advantage of novelty as well as being safer than the entrance by land. Mr. Wrexham duly paid two shillings per person to allow them admittance, and soon the little group found itself in a fairy land of winking lanterns and tree-lined walkways ending in mysterious grottoes. Georgina demanded to see the Grand Cascade, and, Olivia echoing this sentiment, Mr. Wrexham offered an arm to each, while the faux dowager, seeing, as she said, her charges in such capable hands, elected instead to await the trio in one of the supper boxes along the Grand Walk.

  Sir Harry watched until he lost sight of Olivia in the crowd, then hurried back toward the entrance to the gardens, where Higgins was supposed to be waiting with his evening gear in a hired carriage. He was almost within sight of his destination when he heard a voice hailing him in ardent tones. Turning, he saw Colonel Gubbins bearing down upon him, his corsets creaking under the strain.

  "My dear Lady Hawthorne!” panted the colonel as he closed the distance between them. “An unexpected pleasure!"

  "The pleasure is all mine,” lied Sir Harry, submitting uneasily to having his gloved hand pressed to the colonel's lips. “But I must not keep you from your party—"

  "Think nothing of it! No one else could possibly hold a candle to your delightful companionship, my lady,” declared the devoted swain, tucking Sir Harry's hand into the crook of his arm. “May I show you the Grand Cascade?"

  "Thank you, sir, but I have already had the pleasure,” said Sir Harry, withdrawing his hand in spite of the colonel's best efforts to retain it.

  "Perhaps you might prefer to promenade along the Grand Walk."

  A move to recapture Sir Harry's hand accompanied this suggestion, but before the colonel could achieve success in this endeavor, he was interrupted by two of his cronies who were eager to locate a good vantage point from which to view the fireworks. Seizing the opportunity presented by this distraction, Sir Harry slipped away. Once outside the gates, he located the waiting vehicle and strode in its direction as quickly as his narrow skirts and fragile slippers would allow.

  Alas, the area surrounding Vauxhall had sadly decayed since Mr. Tyers had established the popular pleasure garden, and while the elite amused themselves within, strumpets plied their wares and pickpockets searched the crowd for easy marks just outside the gate. In this rather disreputable environment, it was hardly surprising that an elderly woman with no visible protector should be accosted by a representative of London's criminal element. As Sir Harry made his way toward the waiting carriage, he felt a hand close about his arm. Turning in surprise, he found himself confronted by an unsavory individual with beady black eyes and dirty straw-colored hair under a dark knitted cap.

  "Now, Granny,” snarled this person through a mouthful of rotting teeth, “I wonders where ye might be goin’ in such an ‘urry. I'll be bound ye'd get there faster without the weight o’ them sparklers draggin’ ye down.” So saying, he reached out a grimy hand in the direction of the diamonds at Sir Harry's throat.

  Once his initial alarm had passed, Sir Harry had little fear for his safety. Having successfully repulsed Colonel Gubbins's amorous advances, he was not afraid of a common thief. He saw no sign of a weapon in the man's possession, and had no doubt the fellow lacked the courage to accost a gentleman, or indeed anyone who might be capable of fighting back. Judging the element of surprise to be his best defense, Sir Harry restricted himself, for the moment, to the role of a frightened old lady.

  "Don't hurt me,” he pleaded in terrified accents. “I'll give you anything you want, but pray don't harm an old woman."

  "Yer necklace, then, and any other gew-gaws wot ye ‘appen to ‘ave on yer person."

  Sir Harry reached up as if to unclasp the necklace, then balled his fist and delivered himself of a punishing blow to his assailant's mouth, to the further detriment of that individual's teeth. As the fellow crumpled to a heap on the ground, Sir Harry hurried to the designated rendezvous, where he found an anxious Higgins pacing back and forth before the carriage.

  "Quickly, man,” urged Sir Harry, as the pair entered the vehicle and closed the door.

  "I had almost given you up, sir,” declared the valet in quavering tones. “Is everything all right?"

  "Quite all right, Higgins, but remind me to carry a heavy object in my reticule from now on."

  "A heavy object, sir? Whatever for?"

  "Self-defense,” uttered Sir Harry cryptically.

  With his valet's able assistance, he hastily divested himself of his dowager's attire, then donned his own clothes as quickly as was possible by the uncertain light of the carriage's sole lantern. The most difficult part of the proceedings, as he had predicted to Mr. Wrexham, was the cravat, Higgins's advanced case of nerves rendering his first three attempts useless. At length, however, the long-suffering valet was able to produce an effort which was, if not quite up to his usual standards, at least respectable, and Sir Harry sallied forth to woo his bride, at long last his own man.

  * * * *

  Meanwhile, having exhausted the charms of the Grand Cascade, Mr. Wrexham escorted the ladies back to the now empty supper box.

  "Why, where has Lady Hawthorne gone, do you suppose?” Olivia wondered aloud. She scanned the crowds, but although she saw no sign of Lady Hawthorne among them, she did recognize another familiar figure—a tall, masculine form in elegant evening attire, whose unexpected appearance caused Olivia's face to light up.

  Mr. Wrexham also observed this gentleman's approach, but with considerably less enthusiasm. Remembering his promise to keep Sir Harry's fiancée out of Lord Mannerly's clutches, he quickly turned to Olivia.

  "I say, Miss Darby, would you care to dance? Waltz, you know."

  "Of course,” replied Olivia, more out of courtesy than any real desire to be partnered by Mr. Wrexham. She allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor, confident that the marquess would seek her out before the evening was much farther advanced.

  And so it happened that, by the time Lord Mannerly reached the supper box, he found Georgina its only occupant.

  "Good evening, Miss Hawthorne,” said the marquess, making his bow. “You do not dance, I see. Will you permit me to rectify this shocking omission?"

  Up went Georgina's chin. “Thank you, my lord, but I have no liking for the waltz."

  "Indeed?” Mannerly's eyebrows rose in mild surprise. “Whyever not?"

  "I should think it would be obvious. The very idea of a lady and gentleman whirling about in a public embrace! It is immoral and indecent!"

  The marquess nodded in understanding. “In other words, you never learned the steps."

  Since she had, in the days before the vicar set her feet on a higher path, spent many hours perfecting the movements of the waltz, she could not allow this charge to go unchallenged. “Although I do not choose to practice them, my lord, I certainly have learned the steps!” Georgina cried, flushing hotly.

  "Prove it."
/>
  "I—I beg your pardon?"

  Lord Mannerly offered his arm. “If you have indeed learned the steps, then prove it. Dance with me."

  "I will not!"

  "Very well. You leave me no choice but to believe your moral posturings are simply the envious outpourings of one who has spent too many dances sitting along the wall."

  This accusation was more than the former belle of Leicestershire could bear. “All right,” she said haughtily, rising to her feet. “I'll waltz with you. But only once, mind you, and only to prove that I do know the steps!"

  The marquess made no reply, but bowed his acquiescence and led her onto the floor. Here Georgina began to repent of her rash decision. She had certainly waltzed before, but as her prior partners consisted entirely of her brother, her dancing-master, and a handful of rural admirers, nothing in her previous experience had prepared her for the virile nearness of the marquess of Mannerly. His hand at her waist seemed to burn her flesh through the thin fabric of her gown, and she fancied she could almost feel his warm breath ruffling her hair. As he twirled her about the floor, it seemed to Georgina that her feet no longer touched the ground, but floated in mid-air. Yes, the waltz was every bit as sinful as she had supposed; she had just not expected immorality to be so very thrilling.

  "There,” said Lord Mannerly at last, when the final strains of the violins had faded into the night. “When you return to Leicestershire, you may inform your vicar that the waltz is not nearly so wicked as you were led to believe."

  "What? Oh—oh, yes, of course,” said Georgina, uncharacteristically subdued. Suddenly Leicestershire and the Reverend James Collier seemed very far away.

  * * * *

  Sir Harry returned to his party a short time later to find Olivia in the supper box along with Georgina and Mr. Wrexham, partaking of rack punch and paper-thin slices of ham. As he strode purposefully toward the box, she looked up and saw him. For a moment Sir Harry fancied that something leaped in her eyes, but he quickly dismissed this notion as a trick of the light, combined with his own wishful thinking.

  "Why, Harry,” she said with studied nonchalance, “fancy meeting you here! It has been a while, has it not?"

  "Far too long,” he agreed gallantly, raising her hand to his lips. “Please believe that nothing but the most pressing circumstances could have kept me from your side."

  Olivia refrained from commenting on an assertion whose accuracy she had reason to doubt. “Your grandmama was just here, Harry,” she informed him. “She will be sorry to have missed you."

  "She is visiting with her cronies, no doubt,” replied Sir Harry with a shrug.

  "You have come just in time, Harry,” chimed in Georgina, who had not been privy to her brother's plans, and had consequently been momentarily taken aback by his unexpected arrival. “The fireworks start soon, you know."

  "Yes, Harry, did you come for the fireworks?” asked his betrothed, opening and closing her fan with restless fingers. “I understand the display is most impressive."

  He shook his head. “How could I stare at artificial rockets when I might gaze instead into Olivia's eyes?"

  "What fustian, Harry!” scolded Olivia, but her color rose, and she glanced away.

  "Have we time for a stroll along the Grand Walk before the fireworks start, my love? We have much to catch up on."

  Although she had long dreamed of hearing herself thus addressed, Olivia was unused to such endearments on Sir Harry's lips and found the experience oddly disconcerting in the light of his recent negligence. Not knowing quite how to respond, she elected to counter his gallantries with humor. “I thought you cared nothing for the fireworks,” she reminded him.

  "I don't,” he replied. “But I thought you should dislike missing them."

  "On the contrary, I find I would much prefer to take a stroll along the Grand Walk,” she said, rising from her chair. Strange as his behavior might seem, Olivia reasoned, Harry was here at last, and she intended to seize the moment. Who knew how long it might be before he thought to seek her out again?

  Sir Harry placed her silk shawl about her shoulders and offered her his arm. They made small talk as they traversed the Grand Walk, until Sir Harry steered Olivia abruptly down one of the narrower, darker paths which intersected the Grand Walk at regular intervals. Their seclusion reminded Olivia all too vividly of her near-disastrous tête-à-tête with Lord Mannerly, and she struggled to maintain a carefree mien.

  "It—it was quite a surprise, seeing you here,” Olivia said, feeling an urgent need to fill the silence that stretched out between them. “What brought you to Vauxhall tonight?"

  "I came in the hope of seeing you,” Sir Harry said simply.

  He paused beneath the concealing boughs of a poplar tree, and Olivia suddenly realized that they were quite alone. A whistling sound overhead drew her attention, and she looked up to see an explosion of red and blue stars. The fireworks, it seemed, had begun, and everyone else had taken places elsewhere on the grounds, where the view was better.

  "What—what nonsense! As if you could not see me any time you wished simply by calling in Curzon Street! It is, after all, your house."

  "And will be yours someday,” said Sir Harry, possessing himself of her hands. “I usually prefer to take lodgings in Stratton Street when in London. The town house held no attraction for me, until the day you came to live there."

  "Cut line, Harry,” advised his betrothed, twisting her hands free. “You have hardly called in Curzon Street more than twice since I came to London. Why do you persist in talking such fustian?"

  Sir Harry, doing his best to play the devoted lover, was perhaps understandably offended by this question. “I see! When Lord Mannerly addresses you thus, he is charming, but when I do it, it is fustian!"

  "What, pray, has Lord Mannerly to say to anything?” demanded Olivia, her face flaming in combined fury and shame.

  "Aha! You blush at the mention of his name! Just because you have not seen me, madam, do not think that I have not heard! You are almost daily in his company, and the attentions he shows you are so marked that you cannot fail to attract the worst sort of notice. Why, all of London is abuzz!"

  "If you do not trust me, sir, I wonder you should wish to marry me!"

  "If you intend to play me false before the ring is even on your finger, I wonder it myself!"

  Now that the hateful words were out, the betrothed pair could only stare speechlessly at one another, each horrified that the other had spoken in earnest. Olivia, seized by the sudden fear that Sir Harry was on the brink of breaking the engagement, interrupted before he could speak the words she did not want to hear.

  "I wish to return to my party, sir!” she demanded.

  "What? Is your future husband not to enjoy the favors you bestow so readily upon another?” Without waiting for an answer, Sir Harry pulled his intended bride ruthlessly into his arms and crushed his lips against hers. She did not struggle against his embrace (or perhaps she could not, so tight was his hold on her), but he could feel the pounding of her heart against his chest. The taste of her lips and the warmth of her slender form in his arms effectively robbed Sir Harry of his anger, and his kiss grew gentler. “Oh, Livvy,” he groaned as his lips traced the long-familiar yet unexplored planes of her face. So intent was he upon this exercise that he unwittingly loosened his hold on Olivia—whereupon she wrested herself free and administered a stinging slap to his cheek. Stunned into immobility, Sir Harry could only stare helplessly as his gentle bride turned and ran back up the path the way they had come.

  Olivia, having won her freedom by violence, was dismayed to find it so very unwelcome. Too late, she discovered that it was better to be clasped in the arms of a livid Sir Harry than not to be so clasped at all. In her distress, and half-blinded by tears, she took a wrong turn and soon found herself quite lost, with no idea how to reach her party and no very clear recollection of the turns she had taken. It was in this condition that Lord Mannerly found her.

  "Mi
ss Darby!” called the marquess, picking up his pace so that he might fall into step beside her. “Is something the matter?"

  "I—I seem to have lost my way,” replied Olivia, valiantly blinking back the tears she did not want to be called upon to explain. She needn't have worried; Lord Mannerly took one look at her swollen lips and tumbled locks and formed a very accurate estimation of her evening's adventures. “Pray, my lord, will you escort me back to my party?"

  Instead, Mannerly steered her to a stone bench recessed into a dark alcove. “Of course. But perhaps you had best rest here a moment and compose yourself."

  "Y-you are very good, sir."

  "Not at all,” replied the marquess modestly, offering her his handkerchief. As Olivia dabbed at her eyes, Mannerly seated himself beside her and draped a comforting arm about her shoulders. “Now, Miss Darby, what has happened to upset you, and how may I be of service?"

  "There is—nothing—that you can do,” came the watery reply. “There is nothing anyone can do."

  "Surely it is not so bad as all that!” chided the marquess gently, drawing her head down to rest on his shoulder. “Tell me the truth. Has Sir Harry been unkind?"

  Olivia's only response was a sob, which Lord Mannerly understood to be a reply in the affirmative.

  "There, there, my dear,” he murmured into the dark curls tickling his chin. “There are other men, you know—men who would know how to cherish such an exquisite creature as yourself."

  The marquess's words became kisses, whisper-soft kisses that trailed from the top of Olivia's head down to her ear. Olivia did not encourage his advances, but neither did she repulse them. After all, she reasoned (when she was capable of reason at all in the face of Mannerly's sweet onslaught), since she had already been tried and convicted, why should she not allow herself the luxury of committing the crime?