Earl's Well That Ends Well

by Jane Ashford

  After further contemplation, and more disappointment in his own inventiveness, a possibility occurred to him. That might do. If it was properly managed. Yes, he thought he could make it fit very nicely indeed.

  Practically at his own front door, he turned his footsteps toward another address not far away and prepared to pay a social call.

  The object of his visit would be quite surprised to receive him, since he had never called upon her before. All the more, as the accepted time for morning calls was well past. So here he was, already embarking on his life of social crime.

  Fifteen

  “Macklin,” Miss Julia Grandison said as she sailed into her drawing room some minutes later. “How very unusual. Not to say unprecedented.”

  Arthur rose from the seat where he had been waiting and greeted her in turn. They sat down. He made a few opening remarks.

  “Yes, yes, the weather has been most clement,” Miss Grandison said after a few minutes. “And Lady Jelleby’s rout party was quite amusing. To what do I owe the…curiosity of your visit, Macklin? Is it not the done thing, you know, for a lone gentlemen to call on a single lady in the afternoon. Not for any…acceptable purpose. But of course, you do know that.”

  He acknowledged this with a nod and started to speak.

  “Unless they have clandestine dalliance in mind,” added Miss Grandison with a thin smile. “Which I am confident you do not.”

  His reputation for solid, upright reliability would have to be demolished. Oddly, Arthur found he was looking forward to it.

  “If you are seeking a donation to your curious new…charitable endeavor, Miss Finch has already approached me. I declined.” The lady’s tone was dry and disapproving.

  Arthur jumped in before she could continue. “You had asked me, once, to aid you in your…endeavors with your brother.”

  His formidable hostess eyed him as if he had suddenly turned into a completely different creature. “More than once, if memory serves,” she replied. “Which it always does. And you were slippery, but immovable, in your refusals.”

  “Well, I have changed my mind. I wish to help. I am here at your service.”

  Miss Grandison’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, as if he’d offered to steal the ornaments from the mantel shelf rather than assist her. “Indeed?” she replied, drawing out the word. “Why?”

  “You did ask.”

  “And you did say no. Repeatedly, as we have observed. What has changed?”

  “Perhaps I have come to see that you deserve my aid.”

  “Perhaps. I suppose stranger things have happened. Although none immediately spring to mind.”

  “Do the reasons matter?”

  She stared at him a moment longer and then shrugged. “I suppose not. It’s very odd, though, and I’m not fond of the odd. I like knowing what’s what. It has something to do with Señora Alvarez, I suppose.”

  Arthur was too surprised to reply.

  “Most things you do lately seem to,” Miss Grandison added.

  He hadn’t realized it was so obvious. He should have. All the better, he decided. He would declaim his love from the rooftops if that would make a difference. But words were not enough.

  “And many of them are odd,” his hostess added. “Your recent houseguests, for example!” Her gaze grew speculative. “Señora Alvarez is an…unorthodox connection for you. People are wondering just where she came from.”

  This was the sort of insinuation Teresa dreaded. “Spain,” said Arthur.

  “Well, yes, but that is hopelessly vague, you must admit.”

  “No,” said Arthur.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I don’t have to admit anything at all.” He discovered that there was an almost joyous freedom in throwing society’s rule book overboard. But Teresa would want him to do it kindly. So best to change the subject. “I believe your retaliation should be very public,” he said. “As was the original incident.”

  This diverted Miss Grandison. “Indeed. I agree. But I have not been able to think of a scheme that satisfies me. I had thought to expose John’s opera dancer. But it seems that most gentlemen see her as an…accomplishment of some sort rather than a failing.” She scowled at him.

  “Not I,” Arthur said. And then remembered he was supposed to be demolishing his sterling reputation.

  “Now that Ada is married and gone, no one cares much about the hussy,” continued Miss Grandison. “Except Gertrude, I suppose. And I don’t really wish to humiliate her.”

  Gertrude was her brother’s wife, Arthur remembered, relieved that the dancer was to be left out of this. Teresa would not have liked involving her. “What if you were to subject your brother to the same fate that befell you? And dowse him with a bowl of punch?”

  Miss Grandison blinked, startled.

  “Before a large crowd, of course,” added Arthur. “At a great society squeeze. I had thought the Overton ball? Next week. That is one of the last big events of the season.”

  His hostess appeared dazed by this flow of detail.

  “Your…contretemps took place at a ball, after all,” Arthur added.

  “Well, I…”

  “It seems a kind of…poetic justice. To close the books on the whole matter.”

  Miss Grandison gazed at him with puzzled wonder. “Yes, I see. I agree with your assessment. But I’m afraid… That is, I’m not certain I could bring myself to overturn a punch bowl before all those people. I would be all too likely to botch it.” She shook her head. “A lowering reflection. I am quite disappointed in myself. But I don’t think I have the temerity to do it.”

  “I’ll do it for you,” declared Arthur.

  “You?”

  Under her astonished gaze Arthur felt a pulse of excitement. This would work. She couldn’t believe he would to do such a thing. All society would be agog.

  As a young man, Arthur had never indulged any of his wild impulses. He’d watched some of his fellows develop unfortunate habits or make fools of themselves, but he’d always been restrained. Not prudish or judgmental, he fervently hoped, but correct. That had simply been his inclination. But now it seemed that he’d had enough of strict propriety. He’d met Teresa and ended up bundling a half-conscious villain onto a ship for the Indies. Which must certainly rise from unorthodox to outrageous. Or worse. Something had ignited his madcap streak at this point in his life, and he gloried in it.

  “What in heaven’s name are you up to, Macklin?” asked Miss Grandison.

  Fleetingly, he was drawn back into old habits. He started to rationalize. And then realized that he had no idea how to do so. Love was not reasonable. But that was none of Miss Grandison’s affair. He owed no explanations. She could take or leave his aid. If she didn’t want it, he’d think of something else. “Offering to help you? Do you really care what else?”

  She took a moment to consider this. “I suppose not,” she said slowly.

  “And why should you? If your goal is accomplished.”

  “Well, I am very curious,” she answered. “Intensely so.”

  “They do say not to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  “Indeed,” said Miss Grandison. “Why is that? I have often wondered.”

  “One judges the age of a horse by its teeth,” Arthur replied. “To look in its mouth would be to question the value of the gift.” He emphasized the last word.

  Their eyes met for a long moment. Arthur wondered how many people would stare at him with such wild surmise after this. The question made him want to laugh.

  “The punch could do,” Miss Grandison said then.

  And so his fish was hooked. “There are people who recall what happened to you,” said Arthur. “They will understand the message.”

  “You think so?” Her tone was very dry.

  “Turnabout is fair play,” he suggested. />
  “You believe in fairness, do you, Macklin?”

  This was not the time for a philosophical discussion. “You could repeat what he said to you years ago, when he is sitting there covered in punch. What was it?”

  “He said, ‘You are always so clumsy, Julia.’”

  “Yes. You should say something like that to him. In your best public voice.”

  “My public voice?”

  “It is marvelously penetrating,” Arthur pointed out.

  “What in the world has come over you, Macklin?”

  “Ingenuity?”

  “In…” She frowned at him. “You are behaving quite unlike yourself.”

  “Perhaps you don’t know me very well. Perhaps no one does. Oh! I’ve thought of something else. We should include the others. The fellows who plotted against you to overturn the punch. You told me who it was, but I’ve forgotten.”

  “Trask and Quigley.” Miss Grandison had begun to look morbidly fascinated.

  “That was it,” said Arthur.

  “Quentin Quigley is a high-court judge now,” his hostess pointed out. “And Ralph Trask is a solemn paterfamilias. Bald as an egg, of course, as I knew he would be.”

  “He’d look like an Easter egg covered in punch.”

  Miss Grandison was surprised into a laugh. And once she’d begun she couldn’t immediately stop. “To think of them,” she gasped finally. “All soaked, dazed, and dripping on the carpet.”

  “Sticky as well, I suppose,” said Arthur.

  “Oh yes. It was terribly sticky. But I do not see how it can be done, Macklin. How would we get them all together at the right moment?”

  “Leave that to me.” He had no idea how, but he would think of something. “You might start retelling the old story, as if it was just amusing now. Remind people who was responsible. You could call it a lark, or some such thing. Set the stage as it were.” He had learned from Tom’s experience.

  “Lord Macklin, I am beginning to feel that I should refuse your extremely…surprising offer.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because I very much fear you’ve gone mad.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Are you sure?” Her tone was desert dry. “How would you know?”

  “I am very well aware of what I’m doing.”

  They engaged in another lengthy staring contest. Arthur settled in. He would have to become accustomed to astonished gazes. And mouths agape and dumbfounded gasps, he supposed.

  “And you do not intend to tell me what that is,” Miss Grandison said finally.

  “Do you want your revenge, or not?” Arthur asked.

  She considered this for some time, finally letting out a sigh. “I do. Though perhaps I should not. My mother used to say that one should strive to be the larger person. But she never actually had to occupy that position.” Miss Grandison gestured at her massive figure.

  “So we go forward with the plan then?”

  “I feel as if I’ve harnessed a tiger to my carriage.”

  “Thank you.” Arthur smiled. She looked taken aback by his expression. “So we are agreed it is to be at the Overton ball?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I will set things in train.” He could get Tom and some of the actors to help. That was a good notion. Tom was always a wellspring of ideas.

  “Things,” repeated Miss Grandison, voice and expression wary. “I believe I won’t ask what things.”

  “Probably best.” Particularly as he had no details to give her as yet.

  “Do you think it could be rack punch?” she added wistfully. “Not scalding, of course. But rather hot?”

  “I will see what I can do.” He was pretty well acquainted with Mrs. Overton. He had done her a favor or two over the years. But he was not sure he could dictate the menu at her ball. Still, the request would be another eccentricity, and he was ready to pile up as many of those as possible in the time allotted.

  * * *

  “I never heard of such a thing as that,” said Tom. “It’s like a play, but at a ball?”

  “You might say so,” Arthur replied. They were drinking mugs of beer at Rigby’s pub. The dim establishment had seemed to Arthur a fit place to plot new mischief. Not that he intended anyone else to know the whole of his plan. The retired boxer was throwing doubtful glances their way from behind the bar as if he suspected the worst.

  “But why?” asked Tom. “And how will we work it so everyone can see?”

  Arthur ignored the first question. “We’ll have a sufficient audience. The young ladies who investigate mysteries have agreed to urge people along at the right moment.”

  “Huh.” Tom nodded. “So what do you want me to do?”

  There was no argument or talk of madness. Arthur was touched by the lad’s implicit trust in him. “You will be instructing the actresses and shepherding one of the most important bystanders through the…action,” he answered. “Here are cards of invitation.” Arthur handed Tom three white squares. His reputation for correctness had stood him in good stead with Mrs. Overton. It had never occurred to the society hostess that the august Earl of Macklin might be planning a prank. “I’ve written out the…script for the ladies.” He passed over the handwritten pages.

  Tom scanned them. “Seems like Moll and Kate are the professionals, like, making certain your friends are in the right place at the right time?”

  “A fine way of putting it.”

  “They can calm their nerves as well.”

  Arthur bit down on an antic smile. “I’m sure their presence will be…soothing. But they must seem simply to be enjoying the ball. With no mention of any other purpose.”

  “They ain’t to let on,” said Tom with a nod. “They stay with their characters.”

  “Exactly. The…outcome of the scene is a surprise, you see.”

  “For the players too?”

  “For everyone.”

  “Right.” Tom put the papers in his pocket. “Moll and Kate will do just as you ask. They’re first-rate onstage. And they’re over the moon about going to a real ball. Not to mention the dresses you’re buying for them.”

  “Splendid.”

  “Is it a surprise for the señora as well?” Tom asked.

  “Most particularly for her.”

  This did earn Arthur a speculative glance. But Tom said only, “We’ll keep mum at the theater then.”

  * * *

  Teresa examined the ornate invitation that had been delivered to her door by a liveried footman. It had come in an envelope with a note from Lord Macklin. She picked that up and reread the brief message.

  You have been kind enough to say that you owe me thanks for recent efforts. I would consider it an equal favor if you would accept this invitation.

  The true meaning was no clearer this time than when she’d first opened it. He seemed to imply that her appearance at this Mrs. Overton’s ball was a…payment for his help. But he had rejected the very idea of gratitude, had seemed revolted by the concept, in fact. He might have changed his mind, of course. But that didn’t explain why her attendance at a ball should satisfy him. Were they to dance? Did he mean to repeat his proposal? A ball was a poor place for that. She felt the queasy combination of righteousness and regret that had afflicted her since he’d asked. She shouldn’t go.

  “That’s a fine-looking bit of writing,” said Eliza, shifting over the pasteboard as she set down the tea tray. “What’s in it?”

  “It is an invitation to a ball.”

  “A real ball? Like Cinderella?”

  Was she the girl in the ashes? And Lord Macklin the handsome prince? But Teresa had no magical helpers. This was reality, not a fairy tale. Yet she’d missed him dreadfully since she’d sent him away.

  A knock on the door heralded Tom’s arrival. He had invited h
imself today for some of Eliza’s lemon tea cakes and an unspecified discussion.

  He devoured three of the former before tapping a finger on the invitation. “I came to see if I could escort you to this Overton ball.”

  “You are going?”

  He grinned at her surprise. “Not very likely, eh? His lordship arranged it. I reckon seeing a proper society ball will help me play a toff onstage.”

  This might be so, but it didn’t really explain.

  “I’ve spoke to Vining and hired his hack for that night. Be almost like having a private carriage.”

  “What in the world is going on, Tom?”

  “A ball?” He ate another cake. “No need to worry. I’ve had dancing lessons at the theater.”

  As if that was her concern. “This makes no sense. Why am I invited to this ball? Why are you? Who are these Overtons? Surely they cannot have heard of either of us?” They had better not have heard of her.

  Tom was nodding as if he agreed. “Like I said, it’s his lordship’s scheme.”

  “Scheme?”

  “Plan,” corrected Tom quickly. “I got an idea about it.”

  “I would be delighted to hear this.”

  “Well, what they call the season is just about over, eh? I reckon Lord Macklin will be leaving town soon. So I’m thinking he’s seeing this ball as a way of saying goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.” Of course he would be going. Society streamed out of London when the season ended. It would be months before he returned, and by then perhaps he would have forgotten her. He ought to. But she couldn’t bear the thought. Surely she could see him once more. She could have that. They might even waltz. “I will go,” she said. She simply couldn’t resist.