Lady Fiasco, A Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt)

by Kathleen Baldwin

  They were engaged in a search for the said cloth when a masculine voice interrupted their ministrations.

  “Might I be of assistance?” He flourished a white handkerchief across his palm.

  “Ah! Marcus. What an accommodating surprise you are.”

  Honore handed Fiona the proffered handkerchief. The gentleman bent and kissed Honore on each cheek. Fiona dabbed at her stinging eyes, nevertheless, she could not fail to notice even with her blurred vision how exceedingly handsome he was. Tall, with a Romanesque profile, he wore a striking blue morning coat, and high white shirt points set off his dark olive skin and raven black hair.

  “You, dear Mother, are looking as lovely as ever. Although, I nearly failed to recognize you. You are so…” —he glanced pointedly at Honore’s brilliantly colored hair—“So, very red. Or is it liver-colored?”

  The word Mother jolted Fiona.

  Her aunt thumped the tip of her umbrella against the walkway. “If you ever dare to address me as Mother in public again I shall hang you from the nearest tree by your cravat. Any fool can see you’re far too old to be my son.”

  “My apologies.” He bowed. “However, I must protest, dear lady. You cannot punish me, because my father married a sinfully young bride?”

  Honore shrugged. “Don’t flirt with me, you young rapscallion. Pray tell, what are you doing in Brighton? You are supposed to be in Portugal tending to your estates. This is very bad of you, Marcus, to suddenly appear where you are not expected.”

  He placed his hand over his heart. “You wound me, dear lady. First, I am an accommodating surprise, and now you say I am very bad.”

  “Oh fustian! Don’t try to distract me m’boy.” She rapped his arm with her umbrella handle. “What are you doing here? Out with it!”

  “At the moment, I am standing along the Steine with two of the loveliest women in Brighton. And while you enjoy berating me, this silent beauty remains a delectable mystery. Do you mean for me to suffer longer or will you introduce me to your companion?” He bowed toward Fiona and swooped off his hat, grinning like a roguish schoolboy.

  Fiona could not help smiling back.

  Honore’s voice bit sharply through the damp air. “Don’t be a popinjay, Marcus. She’s not my companion. What do you take me for? An old woman who needs her hand held? She’s m’ niece.”

  “Better and better. Por favor, introduce me.”

  “Oh very well,” she sniffed. “But I had rather hoped you would never meet. Miss Fiona Hawthorn, this is my late husband’s son, Lord Marcus Jose Louis Alameda, the new Count de Alameda.”

  “It is an honor to meet you, my lord.” She curtsied.

  “Much too formal, Miss Hawthorn. You must call me Cousin Marcus, mustn’t she, Honore?”

  “Oh, call him whatever you like.” Honore waved a gloved hand in the air. “But beware–a greater rascal has never lived.”

  Marcus took Fiona’s hand, smirked at the thin little lace mitten, and then caressed her fingers with his thumb before bowing over her hand. Still holding her hand he leaned close enough to her cheek to whisper. “She wounds me to the core. Dear sweet cousin, I pray you will comfort me.”

  He smiled at her teasingly. Fiona felt heat rising in her cheeks and lowered her eyes under his impertinent gaze. He straightened to his full height, which was considerable, and turned to Honore. “My compliments Honore, your niece is charming as well as lovely.”

  “Let go of her hand, and do stop toying with the girl.” Honore poked him with her umbrella. “Mind you, Marcus, step lightly in that direction. I mean to bring her out as if she were my own daughter.”

  Marcus’s eyebrows shot up in momentary surprise. “You mean to give her a Season then?”

  “I mean to do more than that. I want a daughter of my own. Raise up an heir to follow in my footsteps.”

  Marcus glanced with considerable irritation at Fiona then back to Honore. “You raised me, did you not? Odd you should crave another child at this late date.”

  “Fah! You were half grown when you came to me. I dare say, you must’ve sprung from the womb full grown. Never needed a mother.” She laughed. “I warrant you’d have bit off the teat that suckled you.”

  Fiona stifled a gasp.

  Marcus inclined his head at Honore. “That makes us two of a kind, my dear lady.”

  “Mind your manners, boy.” Honore thumped the ground with her umbrella and glared at him. “That insolent attitude disfigures your face. I’ll choose whoever I want for an offspring. Furthermore, I won’t have you sniffing about her skirts.”

  Marcus lifted his chin and turned to Fiona. Callously, he raked his eyes up and down her body, perusing every detail of her face and figure. She felt naked, and pulled the flimsy shawl to cover herself better. Finally, his shoulders relaxed and he chuckled. “I never sniff skirts, my dear. But I must hasten to tell you, Honore, this child appears to be fully grown. You’ll have to find another pup to raise.”

  He delivered this retort through a genteel smile, but Fiona could not help but observe the fury glimmering in his eyes.

  “You know nothing about it Marcus. Aside from which, you very cleverly dodged my first question. Why aren’t you in Portugal where you’re supposed to be?”

  He picked a minuscule particle of fuzz off his coat sleeve and flicked it away. “My dear Honore, Portugal is still in the throes of war. The estate is in a shambles. I found the situation there rather uncomfortable for my taste.”

  He presented them with a disarming smile. “Come let us talk of pleasanter things. Will you ladies be my guests for dinner this evening? I’m lodging at the Four Feathers which boasts of an almost tolerable cook.”

  “We are engaged for dinner with Prinny,” Honore said, lifting her nose higher in the air.

  “Ah! Excellent. I, too, am invited to the Pavilion later this evening for the entertainment.” He stepped toward Fiona, lifted her hand, and executed a crisp bow. “Until then, dear cousin.”

  Fiona watched Lord Alameda saunter away. She had never met anyone like him before. When she finally stopped gawking, she found Honore glaring at her. Fiona bit her lip and studied the ground.

  “Humph.” Honore straightened her back and walked on briskly. Fiona hurried alongside.

  “You, Fiona Hawthorn, are painfully green, and that young rascal you just met is much too tough a lesson to cut your teeth on. But”—Honore sighed, and slowed her pace—“I suppose, there’s no help for it. He will, undoubtedly, remove to London with us when we return. Mark my words, child, be wary of your cousin.”

  “Yes, Aunt. Although I’m certain there can be no danger in that quarter. Surely, a man like Lord Alameda surrounds himself with women of rank and beauty. What possible interest could he have in me?”

  “What, indeed. Don’t be a fool. Listen here, my girl, let us have this perfectly clear between us. I refuse to be your nursemaid, your governess, or your duenna. I will not be relegated to the role of an old dragon, and don’t you forget it.” Honore rapped nervously against her thigh with her umbrella and then pointed it at Fiona. “You cannot afford to be so ridiculously innocent. Not in my company. Not with the society I keep. Do you hear me? You must guard yourself.”

  Fiona put her chin in the air. “I have always done so. Indeed, I would not have it any other way.”

  “Ha!” Honore rolled her eyes and raised her hands to heaven. “Oh very good, very good indeed.” Her voice dropped menacingly low. “The greatest danger, my ignorant young beauty, is that you do not see the truth, especially the truth about yourself. You have that wild look about you, as if you ought to be standing out on a moor with the wind blowing through your hair.”

  Honore waved her hand about her head, simulating the wind, ignoring the curious glances of passersby. “Won’t the poets just love that,” she ranted. “Nothing stirs a man to passion as quickly as a female who needs taming.”

  “But, Aunt, I haven’t an untamed bone in my body. Quite the contrary, I’ve spent my enti
re life trying to do just what was expected of me and failing miserably.”

  “Yes, well...” Honore’s skepticism was plain. “You aren’t hunting for a husband. That much is clear. Dutiful tame girls hunt husbands. A man can smell a husband-hunter a mile away and he steers clear, unless he intends to step into her trap for reasons of his own. It is the way of nature that if an eligible young woman isn’t hunting a man, men will feel compelled to hunt her. Men are like that.”

  “I cannot believe they are as predictable as that.”

  “There’s the danger, my dear. You don’t have your moorings. You’re all out to sea.” Honore thrust her umbrella point in the direction of the ocean.

  Fiona tried to muddle through her aunt’s metaphors and extract some meaning from them. She finally gave up and shrugged.

  “Silly child, you don’t have a proper grasp on reality.” Honore stabbed her umbrella point against the boardwalk. “Pay attention. You’ve shut your eyes to your assets and magnified your failings.” She smirked at Fiona. “If you go on like this, my dear, you’ll stumble, and land smack in the mud on your face. Then society will delight in roasting you on a spit and serving you with tea and toast.”

  Just as if they had been discussing the weather rather than Fiona’s social demise, Honore smiled and took her arm. “Come, let us remove from this sea air. I declare, I am positively wet to the bone and crusted over with salt. It cannot be good for my complexion.”

  * * *

  Lord Wesmont glowered at the host of the Ship Inn. “Blast it all, man. I’ve been on the road for two days. I’m hungry and covered in filth. I need a room, and a bath.”

  “I haven’t a room to spare. The Regent’s birthday was a fortnight ago. Half of London is in Brighton.” The host surveyed Tyrell’s dusty boots and coat as if an unwanted rodent had just crawled into his inn. “Perhaps the Four Feathers across town can accommodate you, Mister... ah…?”

  “Lord Wesmont,” Tyrell corrected the host. He took a deep breath and tried to control his temper. No pompous little innkeeper was going to get the best of him. Through clenched teeth, he couched his order in as much civility as he could muster. “I am willing to pay double, if you will kindly find me a room, sir.”

  The innkeeper sniffed and lifted his nose into the air. “A moment, my lord.” He strutted away, and when he returned he opened the guest book and handed Tyrell the quill. “You understand, my lord, it is a very small room.”

  “Have a bath sent up. Hot water.”

  Tyrell’s valet tromped through the doorway, lugging a valise in each hand, and looking more bedraggled than any other self-respecting valet in all of Britain. He and the innkeeper exchanged haughty long-suffering glances and came to an unspoken understanding before they both turned their resentful expressions on his lordship.

  Annoyed with their collective displeasure, Tyrell barked orders at both of them. “Don’t just stand there. You, Innkeeper, which way to our room?”

  He realized he’d abused the poor valet’s sensibilities, riding like a mad man to get here. But Tyrell had a blot on his conscience and he intended to wipe it clean. Hence this insane pace. Fiona was here. Now, he had only to find her, apologize, and make certain her aunt wasn’t corrupting her entirely. Then, he would be free.

  Two servants lugged a copper tub up the stairs and poured kettles of hot steaming water into it. Tyrell stripped off, and as he sank into the soothing depths of the tub, it never occurred to him to ask himself exactly what he would be free from.

  Chapter 7

  Hens and Their Confounded Chicks

  Marcus waited in the long gallery with the rest of the guests The Prince Regent had invited for after dinner entertainment. The smell of ducklings in orange sauce, stuffed pheasant, and veal in wine gravy, floated in the air. His stomach rumbled in response. Prince George’s table rivaled any in the world for its elaborate dishes and plentiful removes, while Marcus had, out of economic necessity, to content himself with an inferior pork pie from the Four Feathers.

  At long last, Prinny ushered his dinner guests into the large gallery. Marcus spotted Fiona and Honore.

  The entertainment proved to be the Regent himself circulating throughout the room doing impressions of members of the ton, society’s upper ten thousand. Marcus observed Fiona closely, watching as she laughed at Prinny’s impression of Lord Byron. The Prince limped along and declared his love for three different women all in the same breath. While His Majesty was a very skilled mimic, Marcus would have preferred something more interesting. For instance, one of his indoor shooting exhibitions or fireworks. As his interest waned, he covertly studied Honore and Fiona as they circulated among the guests.

  The countess introduced Fiona to her acquaintances, and she made it clear that Fiona was not simply a niece she planned to puff off on the marriage mart. She proclaimed Fiona her understudy, her protégée, her new daughter. Women whispered behind their ornate fans and nodded discreetly. Gentlemen bowed low and peered at Fiona speculatively.

  Marcus overheard Lady Bessborough exclaim, “The daughter you never had, eh?” Then she looked Fiona over as if the chit were a plucked goose hanging in a market stall. After a thorough inspection, the lady pronounced Fiona, “Quite suitable.”

  “Just so.” Honore whipped open her fan and created a breeze for herself.

  Marcus leaned against a carved pagoda protruding from the wall. He felt a vile mood coming on. Honore was acting like a demented mother hen clucking around her newly hatched chick. It nauseated him.

  As the night wore on toward morning, Lady Everly sidled up to him expecting him to charm her. He tossed back more champagne and brushed aside the lady’s ostrich plumes when they blocked his view of his quarry. Lady Everly went away in a huff. He shrugged and snatched another flute of champagne from a passing footman’s tray.

  Finally, Prinny retired for the evening and his guests were free to leave. Marcus made his way toward Honore and Fiona.

  Honore rapped him with her fan. “Where have you been, Marcus? I saw you draped against the wall like a figure in the woodwork, but—”

  “Engaged all night, m’dear. I do hope you will allow me to make up for my neglect. Perhaps, you and your niece would enjoy a walk out on Brighton Pier in the morning.” He smiled with a graciousness he did not feel.

  “It’s morning now, Marcus, and I intend to sleep through the rest of it.”

  “Surely, Miss Hawthorn will not want to miss the ocean view in early light? It is quite spectacular. Not to be missed.”

  The chit actually looked to Honore for guidance, exactly as a dutiful daughter ought. Marcus felt his smile pull thin. It took every ounce of his willpower to make himself stop grinding his molars.

  Honore shrugged. “Oh, very well, you may go if you wish. Take my maid with you. Now don’t bother me anymore, Marcus. Come along Fiona. I have a headache. I want my bed.”

  “Until then, Miss Hawthorn.” Marcus bowed and strode purposefully out of the ballroom and away from Prinny’s noisy Pavilion. He marched toward the sea and out onto a quiet weathered dock. His boots beat a steady rhythm against the boards of the pier. A crescent moon hung low in the sky and clouds flirted across its face, sinking the world into a devilish dancing darkness.

  Marcus walked to the end of the long-abandoned shipping dock, turned, and carefully paced along the edge and thumped on the boards until he found one that made a dull sound, as if giving way to age and rot. Sitting down beside it, he drew a knife out of his boot and plunged the blade viciously into the plank. He wormed it back and forth until he punctured the weathered wood.

  “How dare she insinuate herself into Honore’s life?” He cursed the empty pier. “Honore’s protégée, indeed! And what, precisely, have I been all these years?”

  He continued to grumble, chiseling away at the integrity of pier. “Send me off to Portugal, will she? What am I supposed to do there? Damned French lunatic made a beggar’s hash of my estates.”

  Images of his ravi
shed home peppered his thoughts. His castle looted and burned, scarcely fit for peasants to live in. Hell, peasants were living in the ruins, skulking in the rubble like hungry vermin. He’d taken one look at the damage, sickened, and returned to England. Now his expectations from Honore were in danger of being stolen. “Usurped, by a backwater chit from nowhere! I won’t have it.”

  He stabbed the knife into the board again and sawed with a vengeance. The gray light preceding dawn began to illuminate the horizon. Marcus’s legs dangled off the edge of the pier where he sat chiseling the planks. He leaned over to judge how far down it was to the water, and reckoned it to be nearly thirty feet.

  “I’ll wager Honore’s pup dies instantly from the fall.” Vapor wraiths slithered up from the sea like warning ghosts from hell. Marcus ignored them and thrust his knife into the rotting wood again, continuing his work.

  Chapter 8

  The Plunge

  Marcus lifted her hand to his lips. “Cousin Fiona, my dear cousin, you look delicious.”

  Fiona drew her hand away and inspected her erstwhile escort. He looked positively ragged. “Lord Alameda, perhaps you are too tired for a walk this morning. I should be just as pleased to visit the pier another morning.”

  He cleared his throat and smiled, “No. No, today’s the day for it. Where’s your maid? We must be going.”

  Lorraine bustled into the room, shawl and bonnet in place, and they set off.

  “I know I promised to take you to Brighton Pier,” he began. “But you realize the royal pier is purely ornamental, don’t you? Upon consideration, I decided you might prefer to see one of the actual shipping wharves. Of course, not a pier that is still in service. There is one, in particular, that extends far out into the sea. The view from the end is breathtaking. I’ve heard people say that from the end one might even see whales spouting.”

  “Whales? Right here in the English Channel?”

  “So, I’ve heard,” His tone was not convincing and Fiona wondered if he was simply teasing her.