Petticoat Rebellion

by Joan Smith

  “Oh, no. I do not do that sort of thing. Usually,” she added, as this seemed to make her presence in his house questionable.

  He drew his face into a frown. “I wonder what urged you to take on the job this time?” She just stared at him, waiting. “You refuse to humor me? You are quite right. We have milked the da Vinci’s dry of humor. That being the case, I have good news for you, Miss Fairchild. I have found the missing key”—a smile of pure delight lit her eyes—“and shall give it to you after luncheon.”

  He watched as her smile congealed to annoyance. “I would not want to ruin your lunch by causing too much excitement. Bad for the digestion, so my old nanny used to tell me. But, then, she also told me I would have curly hair if I ate up all my bread crusts, so I ate them dutifully, and have no curls despite my efforts.”

  His rakish gaze moved slowly over a few curled tendrils that had escaped Abbie’s knot. “Do you attribute your lovely curls to bread crusts, ma’am?”

  “I attribute them, when I want curls, to the papers

  I put in my hair at night. It is not fitting for a

  schoolmistress to encourage ignorant superstition in

  her charges.”

  “And your rose-petal complexion is due to liberal doses of Gowland’s lotion, no doubt? he said, struggling to chew back a smile.

  “That, and using a parasol when I go into the sunlight. And you may attribute the fact that I am still here, listening to this nonsense, to the fact that you are blocking the door. Would it be too farouche of me to scramble out the window?”

  The smile he had been fighting broke then. “You and I have enjoyed enough faroucheness for one day. We do not want to scandalize your charges.” His twinkling eyes were a reminder of her former visit. Before she made a reply, he stepped aside and she sailed out the door, unmolested and telling herself she was happy for it.

  Breathless with agitation at her latest bout with Penfel, it did not occur to her for quite ten minutes that O’Leary had not been carrying a journal when he was in the art gallery. He had gone from there directly to Penfel’s study. She had seen no journals along the way. They were left in a stack on a table in the front hall. How had O’Leary got hold of the journal? Or was Lord Penfel not telling her the truth? It was difficult to believe that such an out-and-outer as Penfel would be so naive as to trust a man Bow Street all but called a thief.

  She found it hard to concentrate when Kate told her how fascinating she found Lord John, and how Mr. Singleton had a great tendre for Annabelle.

  “How could you tell?” she asked.

  “He spoke, Miss Fairchild. He said actual words. He said he found Kirby’s ale smoother than Whitbread’s brew.”

  “Very romantic. If you hear him mutter the word ‘elope,’ pray inform me and I shall speak to him.”

  “Oh, he is not that type, nor is John. Susan tries to hide it, but she is jealous as a green cow that we have both found a beau and she hasn’t.”

  “I only hope she doesn’t take it into her head to turn O’Leary into one. Let me know if he speaks to her again,” Abbie said, and ushered the girls down to luncheon.

  It was a lively meal, with so many romances percolating. Mr. Singleton was not driven to speak, but his eyes seldom left Annabelle. When Annabelle saw him sprinkling sugar on his ham, she wordlessly reached out and took the spoon from him. A soft crooning in her swain’s throat was his only vocal acknowledgment, but his glazed eyes spoke whole volumes of poetry.

  Lady Penfel had read the tale of O’Leary/Brannigan in the Morning Observer and was delighted at the notion of a criminal in their midst.

  “We must go back to the circus this afternoon and try to ferret out some clues, Algie,” she said. “You must be on intimate terms with one of the dancers by now. See what you can weasel out of her. Give her a trinket—but nothing too valuable, of course.”

  When Abbie glanced to Penfel to see how he

  reacted to this public announcement of his philandering, he was looking at her with a penetrating gaze. He gave her a long, slow smile that started at the corners of his lips and spread until his eyes were laughing. She noticed he did not try to bam his mama about O’Leary being innocent.

  “Really, Mama!” he said, feigning severity. “What will the young ladies think of me?”

  “Don’t worry about that, Algie. Young ladies like a rake, always have, always will. They are fool enough to think they can reform him, but they can’t.”

  When Abbie glanced at Penfel again, she saw his attention was directed to his plate. She thought he looked a little pink around the ears.

  His mama continued, “Your papa had many faults, but he was not a rake. He might have been more likable if he were. Rakes like women. Penfel didn’t. There was no fun in him. It was always hectoring and complaining. A gentleman don’t complain about a thing if he can’t change it. He was just a mouth atop a stomach.”

  Lady Susan looked up and said, “I am surprised you and he did not get along better, cousin, for it is said that birds of a feather flock together. But, then, it is also a truism that opposites attract.”

  A profound silence fell on the table. Mr. Singleton made a choking sound in his throat. The others were suddenly very busy with their knives and forks.

  Lady Penfel sat silent a moment, then said mildly, “The thing about me and Penfel, you see, Susan, is that I let him quell my spirit from the start, for I was only a youngster, and he was more than a decade older than I. I did not stand up to him as I ought in the early days. It is more difficult later on. Remember that, ladies. Start as you mean to go on.”

  “Excellent advice,” Penfel said, in a seemingly offhand manner, but Abbie wondered if it was meant for approval of her slapping him.

  “Lady Susan will have no trouble,” his mama continued. “Indeed, all of you seem pretty well able to look after yourselves. The gels are headstrong nowadays, as they should be.” She looked around the board, then shook her head. “I see you glaring at me, Johnnie, thinking I am giving your little friend a disgust of you. Nothing I say applies to my boys. They are unexceptionable. I kept my mouth shut for the twenty-five years I was a wife. If I don’t talk now, when will I ever do it? Pass the mustard, Mr. Singleton.”

  Mr. Singleton passed the mustard, and the conversation turned to the dancing party.

  As they left the dining room, Lady Penfel took Abbie’s elbow and drew her aside. “I know you want to get the gels into the gallery for a lesson, Miss Fairchild. This afternoon is the time to do it. I plan to have Johnnie take me to the circus to snoop around and see what I can discover. We won’t want the gels underfoot. They might give the show away. Such fun!”

  She went twittering off abovestairs to prepare for her outing, and Abbie took the young ladies to the gallery. Mr. Singleton accompanied them, hovering at Annabelle’s shoulder like a shadow. Inspired by her presence, he uttered a few words. “Pretty,” he murmured in front of an Italian painting of a madonna. “Looks like you, Miss Kirby.”

  Abbie kept looking to the doorway, hoping Lord Penfel would bring her the cherished key, but after half an hour she gave up. Perhaps he had gone to the circus to give a trinket to his dancing girl. She wondered if the girl was smiling and making herself agreeable, and told herself the burning in her chest was disgust for Penfel’s wretched morals. But at least he was ashamed of his behavior to a lady. And he had not lifted a finger to repeat it during the whole of her second visit to his study. She felt a wistful sense of regret that the incipient flirtation had not blossomed into something more. Perhaps a slap had been too great a reaction to a little kiss.

  Chapter Ten

  The young ladies proved to be about as interested in art as in the construction of a drawbridge. They yawned as Miss Fairchild pointed out the mastery of Van Dyck’s portraits, the chiaroscuro of Caravaggio, the bravura design of Rubens, the sheer magical artistry of Rembrandt. Their notion of art appreciation was to spy out a resemblance to some acquaintance in every face, or a fault in the m
odel’s features, or clothing, or lack of it.

  “What a horrid long nose the Penfels had in those days” was Kate’s admiration of the Van Dyck of an early Lord of Penfel.

  Even Lady Susan failed her. “When in doubt as to the country of origin of the artist, one has only to look at the nose,” she informed them. “All the Flemish subjects appear to have noses like parsnips. It has often been remarked upon at Wycliffe.”

  “That lady with her hair falling down looks quite like my Aunt Lavinia. How fat the ladies are!” Annabelle cried, when she stood in front of a Rubens tangle of well-endowed female forms in various states of undress, being harried by robust gentlemen in capes and helmets.

  “Notice the repetition of the curved forms, making an S-shaped pattern with the human bodies, drawing the eye around the composition. And the rich, nacreous hues of the flesh tones,” Abbie said, pointing to a rotund naked haunch done in opalescent pinks and cream tones.

  “No wonder they can’t afford gowns,” Kate said. “It would cost a fortune to cover all those pounds of flesh.”

  Not even the sublime Rembrandt portrait of a woman looking over a half door was spared their insightful criticism. “One would think the model could have taken off her apron and brushed her hair before having her portrait done,” Annabelle tsk’d.

  “Lovely curls. Soft,” Mr. Singleton murmured, referring, of course, to his beloved. He clung like a barnacle to Annabelle throughout the tour.

  The ninety minutes of the lesson seemed very long to them all, not least to their instructor. It was a great relief when Lord John appeared in the doorway.

  Kate immediately escaped the tour and went running off to drag him forward. “Did you learn anything at the circus?” she asked.

  His glinting smile revealed that he had. “I took a close look at O’Leary’s wagon. You can see the traces of the name Brannigan under the yellow paint. It did not quite cover the darker blue beneath. I showed Algie. I wager he is having it out with O’Leary this minute. He was looking for O’Leary when he left the dancer. He was likely turning her up sweet with some trinket, as Mama suggested.”

  “I trust he did not give her any of the entailed jewelry,” Lady Susan said.

  “Egad, no. Algie is no flat. He would never part with the good jewelry, and as his pockets are to let at the moment, he could not buy her anything valuable. A box of bonbons or a pretty scarf is more like it.”

  Abbie made a mental note of all this. It confirmed her wretched opinion of Lord Penfel, and added an interesting point: His pockets were to let.

  Lord John suggested a ride to pass the time until dinner. Kate and Lady Susan agreed. As there were only two ladies’ mounts in the stable, it was arranged that Mr. Singleton would take Annabelle for a hurl in John’s curricle.

  Singleton braced himself to arrange it with Abbie. “Perfectly safe,” he gasped. “Would not harm a hair of her head.”

  “Have no fear,” Lord John added. “Singleton is a bang-up fiddler.”

  As his shyness made it unlikely he would be any sort of romantic menace, Abbie allowed the ride, so long as they were back within the hour. She went abovestairs with the girls while Kate and Lady Susan changed into their riding habits and Annabelle got her bonnet and pelisse. It was a relief to be rid of the unruly youngsters.

  Abbie decided to continue her work on the Chardin and went below with her brushes, paints, canvas, and easel. She met Penfel at the bottom of the stairs as she descended.

  “You should have rung for a footman,” he said, taking the easel to carry for her.

  It was not until they were in the gallery that it occurred to Abbie she was once again in an isolated place with Penfel. As he was helping her and generally behaving very well, she did not mention it. She felt she had trimmed him into line. He set her equipment up in front of the Chardin and brought her a chair.

  “This is the picture O’Leary offered to sell for you?” he asked, studying her work.

  “Yes, he has great faith in my talent, for as you can see, it’s far from finished.”

  “But what is done is well-done,” he said, cocking his head to study it from various angles. “Yes, I think you might give Chardin a run for his money. But why copy? Why not paint one of the girls?”

  “One copies to discipline her hand. I do paint from the live model as well, of course. As to painting one of the girls, I would as lief try to paint a squirrel. They cannot sit still for a minute. Actually, I have a model in mind, but I doubt the one I want to paint would allow it.”

  Penfel wore a little smile of satisfaction. “Why do you not ask him?”

  “Him? I was referring to Lady Penfel. I like to paint faces that have character. Older faces!” she added, when he looked offended.

  “The milk is out of the bottle now, miss! Lack of character indeed. Is that really your assessment of me? I meant no harm this morning, truly. It is just that you looked so—”

  “I was not referring to any moral deficiency, milord,” she said hastily, “but to those lines and pouches that only come with age, and add expression to the physiognomy.” She wondered how she had looked, that had urged him to kiss her.

  “Is there no expression on this phiz, Miss Fairchild?” he demanded, pushing his finger into his chin for emphasis.

  “Indeed there is,” she replied, using the question as an excuse to study him. How bright his eyes were! And that strong chin. She would like to paint him outdoors, perhaps mounted on a horse, like a hero. When she realized her lips were curving in a smile, she drew herself back to business. “But do you really want that childish petulance put on canvas for posterity?” she asked.

  “Shrew!” he said, smiling an intimate smile that robbed the word of offense.

  “Spoiled brat,” she replied blandly, and picked up her brush.

  “Spoiled! Well, upon my word, that’s pretty rich! I have had to scramble to keep Penfel together after—” He came to a sudden halt. “But Mama has washed enough dirty linen in public already. My hardships are not likely to impress a young lady who has to work for her living in any case.”

  She looked at him with interest. “Is that why your mama has such a strong dislike for your late papa? Did he cripple the estate?”

  “He mortgaged anything that could be mortgaged. He was not a bad man, really. Not a womanizer or drinker or gambler, except upon ‘Change, where he invariably lost. When he wanted to sell this collection,” he said, waving his hand around the walls, “Mama threatened to take him to law, for it is entailed. They did not get along. He married her for her dowry; she married him because her papa made her. She was in love with some other fellow at the time. I think her anger is as much against her papa as her husband. Now that she has outlived them both, she is determined to enjoy her last years. And I encourage her to do so. She has earned it. It’s appalling to think of being shackled for life to someone one does not respect or even like, say nothing of love. I am all for love matches. And after five years, I am now in a position not to have to marry for anything else. My affairs are in order.”

  The playful Penfel sounded sincere, and while Abbie was not quite ready to acquit him of his amorous attack on herself, she found this sufficient excuse for his behavior with the dancer. He was assuaging his heartbreak in the time-honored manner. “I am sorry Lady Eleanor did not accept your offer,” she said.

  A conscious look seized his mobile features. “Oh, as to that, I shall get over it.”

  “As you mean to marry for love, then one assumes you were in love with her. But I commend your common sense in determining to get over it. You should not let your heartbreak lead you amok. I am referring to your acquaintance with O’Leary,” she added, lest he think she was harping on more personal peccadilloes.

  “I only let O’Leary use the meadow to give the locals a little entertainment.”

  “You have made a friend of him, I think? A gentleman is known by the company he keeps. Perhaps a cardsharp and possible thief is not the optimum companion for the
Earl of Penfel and Baron Rutcliffe and quasi-Lord Worley.”

  “Or even for Algernon Hatfield. That is who I am when I am not busy being a plurality of grand lords. Titles are no guarantee of character. Always excepting Marlborough and Wellington and a few others, I can think of few noblemen who attained their honors on merit. A tumble in the royal bedchamber is where most of us got our handles, that or some chicanery at court. Both, in the case of the Penfel honors.”

  He pointed to a portrait of a lady in a tiara, rubies, and the farthingale style of the seventeenth century, and said, “That is the lady who achieved nobility for herself and her family by a brief fling with Charles II. She was an actress, and she isn’t even pretty, do you think?”

  “No, not very,” Abbie agreed. “The nose is somewhat pug, and the eyes too small for beauty.”

  “She was to Charles’s taste, apparently, though he did not confer a dukedom on her husband, as he did on several of his bastards. I have little enough respect for titles. I would prefer you call me Algernon. And you, I think, are Abigail? Do your friends call you Abbie?”

  “Certainly, when they have known me for a suitable length of time.”

  “What is a suitable length of time?”

  His flirtatious manner warned her it was time for caution. “Three months,” she said.

  “That is somewhat arbitrary, n’est-ce pas? Surely, there are extenuating circumstances? Three months of occasional teas and assemblies would amount to— say, three hours a week. That is less than forty hours of actual familiarity. We, on the other hand, have shared a roof for—” He drew out his watch and glanced at it. “It is four o’clock. Going on thirty hours. At two o’clock tomorrow morning, you may call me Algie. In the unlikely case that I am in your company in the middle of the night, that is to say.”

  She refused to acknowledge his quizzing grin. “We have been in each other’s company for only a few of those thirty hours you speak of, Lord Penfel.”

  “Have you never learned the arithmetic of romance, Miss Fairchild? Minutes count as hours when lovers are apart. Hours are but seconds when together.” He came to a conscious stop. “I am cutting the ground out from under my own feet, am I not? It is that sly grin you are trying to conceal that distracted me. You are about to tell me we have only been together for seconds by that way of reckoning.”