The Trouble with His Lordship’s Trousers

by Jayne Fresina

  "But I remember a time when you had a spark in your eye and lust for a pretty woman the same as I, or any man. I remember your love of games too and how, if our eyes turned to the same woman, we competed to win her." Max sighed. "I miss those old days, for now I have no worthy competition to keep me on my toes and, as you see," he ran a hand over his waistcoat, "I am in danger of going to seed."

  Harry had a vague recollection of their "competitions", but it all seemed a very long time ago— another world, before the first time he died. The only thing he took seriously back then was his naval career. Women were recreation, briefly had and swiftly forgotten, but then he did not have much of an example to follow. His mother had run off while he was still very young and then his father enjoyed a second bachelorhood with a parade of petticoat. But it never brought the man any contentment. Why he ever continued trying after the first debacle, Harry could not comprehend. He dearly missed his father, who was long since in his grave— and, unlike Harry, had the good grace to stay there, knowing when he was dead— but it must be said that, while living, the fellow had been a fool to himself.

  His cousin suddenly leapt out of the chair in which he had previously rooted his backside with sprawling carelessness, and paced around it as if he had nettles down his breeches. "I have an idea in mind, old chap."

  Oh, this could only be trouble. "Do treat it gently. It must be lost and afraid in such unfamiliar surroundings."

  Max set his brandy glass on a teetering pile of books to refill it again. "I'll find a woman for you. You've been without one for far too long, clearly." He glanced around the messy room with a significant arch of one eyebrow. "It's time I did something about this appalling oversight. You're always helping me out, cousin, and I feel excessively guilty that I have not done the same for you. A creature light of skirt and bereft of virtue is just what you need. A professional to make you feel merry and sociable again. Shouldn't cost too much."

  Ah. And there it was. Harry was amused. So money was the real purpose for this concerned visit after all. "If that was what you wanted, Max, you might have just asked, instead of taking this circuitous route."

  "What do you mean?" His cousin's face was the very picture of innocence offended.

  "To whom do you owe money this time?"

  "It is not for me."

  "No." Harry chuckled and readied his pen in the inkpot. "It never is."

  "Just enough to bring her in a discrete private carriage will do. You wouldn't want her sent on the mail coach, surely. People might talk."

  And so, with a hefty sigh of good-natured bemusement, Harry wrote out a cheque, certain this money was going toward another gambling debt. He really didn't mind, as long as it kept Max out of his hair for another six months, and he knew his cousin would never go to Lady Bramley for assistance once he'd spent through his monthly allowance. "Your mama would appreciate a visit," he muttered, handing over the cheque. "She tells me she hasn't seen your face since the new year."

  "She always wants to see this face, but as soon as she lays eyes upon it, the good lady is reminded of why she wanted it gone before."

  "Even so, it wouldn't be too difficult to drop in. She does seem rather in want of her sons' company."

  "Let Mandrake visit her. He is the favored son."

  "But your brother, I am told, is much too busy with the country estate. It might be your chance to get back in her favor somewhat, if you spared a little more time for her. I cannot imagine your daylight hours are so very full."

  His cousin merely took the cheque, tapped the side of his nose in a curious gesture and then staggered out, whistling a jaunty melody. No doubt on his way back to a game of Faro.

  Harry soon put this conversation out of his mind, but later that night he woke abruptly and found that some of Max's warblings remained trapped between his ears, where they echoed back and forth.

  Do you not feel the need for female company, Harry?

  Getting old before your time.

  You cannot live a chaste dull life just because Amy Milhaven—that unfaithful creature— broke your engagement and married elsewhere.

  But it was not Miss Milhaven's fault. The fact that he ever became engaged to her in the first place was a surprise— to him as much as anybody else. He was not made for the sport of gentle wooing and had no great interest in marriage. But Amy Milhaven happened to be in need of rescue when they met and Harry, in one of his lighter moments, decided to help her. The lady's desertion later, while he was lost at sea, could certainly not be blamed for his current avoidance of female company. No, it was his own unpredictable mind at fault. Unfortunately, Harry often forgot he was back in the "civilized" world these days and that caused severe problems when he went out into Society, where any properly raised females might be found.

  So why not take unpredictability out of the equation, by building for himself a safe "companion"— one he could control? A companion who could not be injured, outraged or offended by anything he said or did. Or by his occasional lapses of memory.

  Always up for a challenge when it came to the science of design and invention, Harry went down to his study immediately and got to work.

  His creation could sit quietly, listen to his complaints without arguing or lecturing, and, possibly, play the pianoforte to entertain. Most of all, she would stay where she was put and not suddenly decide one day to up and leave him.

  Men the world over would thank him for such an invention.

  Perhaps he would give this automaton some facial features. A further challenge, for he had never given one of his machines a face before, but he supposed she ought to have something for him to look at. Females were meant to be decorative, if at all possible.

  Harry took a fresh sheet of parchment and sketched out the shape of a face, then added the necessary features carefully with charcoal. It took him several attempts before he had what he wanted, but when he was finally satisfied, the face peering up at him from the grey smudges was so realistic that he knew he must have seen her before somewhere. He could imagine those gently bowed lips parting to exhale a hasty apology. Thoughtfully, he placed his charcoal-coated thumb on her cheek and pressed down to leave a shadow. Yes, that completed the image and almost brought it to life.

  Miss Hathaway. Who else would haunt his thoughts but that wretched magnet of calamity?

  Smirking, he briskly marked three words along the bottom of the paper.

  The Wickedest Chit.

  Soon consumed with his latest project, Harry did not realize he'd forgotten to get dressed that day, until Parkes entered the study the following morning to see if the fire was lit.

  Fortunately she wasn't a screamer.

  Chapter Six

  "Now, what have we to work with?" Lady Bramley muttered, peering through her lorgnette and once again taking in the awfulness of her young charge. "You've nothing much to recommend, so I've been told." She lowered the lorgnette and tapped it to her cheek. "But there is nothing I enjoy better than a challenge, as my nephew would tell you. It was he who put this idea into my mind, no doubt mischievously hoping I might leave him alone in the meantime. As if I am incapable of putting my thoughts to more than one thing at a time."

  Georgiana remembered again the startled face of Commander Thrasher just seconds before she knocked him off his feet at the garden party. He must think she had not grown up much since the incident of Viscount Fairbanks and the burning wig. So this was his idea.

  "You ought to act with more decorum," her friend Emma would have said. "You are no longer a dizzy girl."

  Of course, nobody could ever accuse Emma Chance of acting like a dizzy girl. She was the most sensible, solemn young woman ever abandoned by her parents, and only drawn into Georgiana's mad schemes because she was too nice to refuse and determined never to let her friends get into trouble without her. It was likely she also hoped to somehow prevent the worst happening.

  On the other hand, Melinda Goodheart, the third member of their little band, always went along w
ith anything that promised entertainment and would gladly suffer punishment later as long as she had her fun first. Georgiana had fallen into the role of ringleader most often because she was usually the one who came up with a plan. She grew bored too quickly with no mission at hand and so was always on the lookout for another to undertake.

  For Georgiana it was not so simple to do what she "ought", when there was usually nothing worthwhile to gain from it. What she wanted was not a husband, but adventure, and that was not likely to come her way if she went through life afraid of her own shadow, and quietly, politely agreeing with everybody. One had to know what one wanted, even if it was something others believed to be out of the realms of possibility, and one should also know how to make the most of an opportunity, whether it came in the shape of a discarded fishing rod, a passing fishmonger's cart, or a benevolent lady's whim to play Ovid's Pygmalion.

  She looked at Lady Bramley. "You and I have something in common then, madam," she said brightly.

  The woman drew back, frowning.

  Georgiana explained, "We both enjoy a challenge."

  The little dog, clutched under Lady Bramley's free arm, eyed her across the room, its shiny black nose twitching and ears sharply pricked. Without a doubt, the animal recognized the owner of those juicy ankles that escaped his jaws once before. He licked his snout with a flourish, warning her that he looked forward to their next encounter.

  Meanwhile his mistress continued as if Georgiana had never spoken. "You are very fortunate to be taken under my wing."

  "Yes, your ladyship."

  "I am told you can neither play nor sing."

  "I can do both, madam, but not with any degree of skill greater than a very meager average. In the case of singing, people are more likely to ask me to stop, rather than entreat me to begin. But I do enjoy it. I always think that if a girl has no chance of pleasing others, she should at least please herself."

  "Neither have you much ability with a needle or a paintbrush, and your dancing is only adequate."

  "Unfortunately I would rather sew to my own pattern and paint from my own imagination, which tends not to dainty flowers and idyllic scenes. As for the dancing, at least I have plenty of enthusiasm and I do markedly better after a glass or two of wine."

  Her ladyship looked askance.

  "Miss Melinda Goodheart's father sent her a jug of his homemade wine wrapped up in new woolen stockings every Yuletide," she explained. "It quite enlivened our spirits."

  The lady's gaze moved up and down, swift and merciless in its critique. "Your skin is very freckled. Tsk, tsk. Have you no parasol to keep the sun off?" She pointed with her lorgnette. "And stop slouching. Shoulders back. You're not pulling a plow." Finally, her assessment of Georgiana's appearance complete, she turned to the need for other improvements. "A young lady of nineteen has no occasion to slide down a banister. Even if the house is on fire, she should walk with composure and grace, remembering always that her demeanor sets an example for others."

  "Madam, I fear in my house such an elegant lady would be trampled in the stampede. With so many children to get out, speed is rather more important than manners in a fire."

  The woman across the room peered at her through that little round glass lens again. "Your father owns a newspaper, is that so, young lady?"

  She replied that yes, her father ran a publishing house and a newspaper.

  Lady Bramley shook her head. "I suppose we'll have to make the best of it."

  "Oh, dear." Georgiana chuckled. "I hope not, madam. I don't believe in settling."

  "I beg your pardon, girl?"

  "It's something of a Hathaway family trait to strive for more and better than that to which society believes us worthy or capable. So we don't believe in making do." She shrugged. "We believe in aiming for more. It makes us restless and, on the whole, a rather disagreeable bunch."

  "Then you are a revolutionary."

  "Am I? I simply believe there is enough good fortune to be shared and enjoyed by all, your ladyship. And I believe that if one has the will to work hard and earn that good fortune, one should not be held back by the circumstances of birth, or gender. It should be a person's ability that counts and the goodness of their heart, not their sex or the roots of their family tree."

  Lady Bramley leaned back, letting her lorgnette fall to the end of its chain. "You believe in a vast deal, for someone not yet twenty."

  "Yes." She sighed heavily. "But somebody has to have hope and imagination or we'd all be stuck in place. Nothing would ever change or move forward."

  "Good heavens! Who wants anything to change? I certainly do not."

  "I think you do, madam, or else you would never have taken me in as a project. It seems you're as big an optimist at heart as I."

  Apparently the lady was not accustomed to being debated very often. She studied Georgiana with a mixture of faint alarm and increasing curiosity, while her little dog bared its fangs, grumbling quietly.

  Georgiana smiled. "Worry not, your ladyship. I have a feeling that we'll get along tremendously."

  * * * *

  The letter had arrived at Woodbyne Abbey one dewy morning in early June. Along with Harry's other correspondence, it was laid on a tray and taken in to his study, left there for his perusal when he felt inclined.

  "Post has come," Parkes had announced with sarcastic grandeur, sweeping open the window drapes which were still closed from the night before. Too busy with the left-handed sketches of his new invention, Harry had not yet been to bed.

  Without looking up, he demanded, "Anything important?"

  "How would I know?"

  "Could you look? God gave you eyes for a reason."

  "Only you know what's pressing to you. I'm sure I don't know how your mind works. No one does. And a good thing too, no doubt." He heard her feet stomping back across the floor, pausing to step over books, wine glasses and plates of uneaten food.

  Since Harry had already lost interest in the conversation, whatever the post contained that day — indeed, its very existence—was promptly forgotten.

  Consequently, it was almost a week later before Harry, casually reaching across the desk with his good hand, found two letters buried under an inkstand on his desk.

  By then it was, once again, too late to stop the disaster he suddenly discovered headed his way. Just like Miss Hathaway's posterior.

  Fumbling for his trusty mallet, he hastily struck the gong by his desk. He was still striking it violently, when Parkes finally arrived in answer. She was getting slower, he noticed peevishly, and looking more worn and faded about her edges once she did appear.

  "Parkes!" he exclaimed, spitting out paper from where he'd ripped both missives open with his teeth. "What is this about my aunt coming here for an extended visit? Why, by the devil's own arse, is she coming here? What can the woman be thinking?"

  "Pretty language indeed from a gentleman and a knight of the realm!" The gaunt, grey woman gingerly took the first letter from his hand as he thrust it at her. "I'm sure I don't know why your aunt is coming here. Why would I know anything that goes on?" she muttered. "I'm always the last to be told."

  "Lady Bramley seems to think I require company. That I've been left peaceably alone far too long, so she's coming here to interfere. All because of a wrist sprain? No, no she has some ulterior motive in mind, to be sure." He fell back into the reassuring, well-worn embrace of his father's old leather chair. "She'll just have to be sent away again. What the deuce does she think she's playing at coming here? Inviting herself along just as bold as you please."

  "Well, if the mountain won't come to Muhammad, as they say.... She's certainly a determined lady."

  Harry looked around in desperation at this gloriously untroubled lair in the center of his easy, bachelor existence. Morning sunlight touched the various tilting piles of blissfully disorganized mess with a fond, indulgent kiss. He thought of his study as a Captain's cabin, his secure retreat in this leaky old hulk known as Woodbyne Abbey.

>   Parkes read out loud, "I look forward to a pleasant summer sojourn in the country with my nephew. Pray, do not go to any bother, as I shall stay no longer than a month— or so— and can bring my own entertainment." She made the throat scraping sound that meant she was amused. "Just as well, since she won't find anything mildly entertaining here."

  "Hmph, that's what you think. Wait until you read the other note."

  The housekeeper picked up the second letter, this one much shorter and scrawled in a hasty, unsteady hand.

  "Package ordered and on its way. The name is Mrs. Swanley, an artiste of remarkable skill." She put her head on one side to read the signature. "Yours affectionately, M.B."

  "Cousin Max is sending me a woman."

  "Now there's a thing. What would you want with one of them?"

  Snatching the letters back from her, he snapped, "Good God. Max truly meant it when he wanted that money from me. I thought it was just an excuse."

  "Money?"

  "For the dratted woman. This," he gestured irritably at the note, "Swanley...person."

  "You mean you paid for her?"

  "Apparently, yes. Max thought I was in need of a woman and that he should get her for me. A professional, you understand. A Cyprian. A creature of the demimonde."

  "And where would he get that idea?"

  "Where does Max get any of his ideas? Somewhere between Brighton and Hell. We must stop the wench at once."

  "How do you suppose we stop her? Call up the militia?" Parkes sighed wearily. "This letter is a week old. She'll be well on her way by now."

  "She cannot come here."

  "But she's coming. And now, so is your aunt. This is a fine farce. Better than a comic opera. I suppose you'll be hiding one or the other in a cupboard or under the bed." There was a definite spark of mischief in her eye before she walked away.

  He roared, "I'll turn them both around again at the damnable door and to Hell with 'em!"