The Daring Debutantes Bundle

by M C Beaton

  “They have surely room enough in that great barracks of a place to serve our food instead of pushing us into a drafty tent in the garden,” pouted Lady Jane. The “drafty tent” was a smart red and white striped marquee capable of housing a hundred. “But then,” went on Lady Jane, “Maria Standish always was an ambitious woman. You know, if I don’t ask the Bloggs, then the Togs won’t come, and if I don’t ask the Fints, the Wints won’t bring the Mints to meet the Bloggs and the Togs. Shall we go in? I am still shaking after last night. Of course, your brave little friend, Miss Quennell, plunged all unheeding into the smoke but then, some of these country-bred girls have no sensibility,”

  “And you have an excess of it,” teased Lord Varleigh. Jane was wearing a flamboyant velvet gown in flaming scarlet which was intricately gored and flounced and ruched. She looked just like an elaborately wrapped Christmas present, he reflected with fond amusement. She had more than hinted the previous night that she wished to legalise their relationship, but as usual Lord Varleigh had shied away from the idea of marriage and had bought his mistress a magnificent rope of pearls by way of consolation. These now adorned Lady Jane’s bosom, almost hidden in the multitude of tucks and frills.

  Jane tugged at his arm and then looked up at Lord Varleigh in surprise. He was standing quite still, gazing across the lawns with an arrested look on his face. Jane followed his gaze. Annabelle Quennell was entering the gardens on the arm of Captain Jimmy MacDonald. Despite the chill of the day she only wore a silk shawl over her shoulders. The wind whipped at the lace overdress, sending it dancing and swirling round her body, revealing tantalising glimpses of the slim green dress underneath. She was wearing a frivolous little white straw bonnet with the brim lined with pleated green silk.

  The Captain and his two cronies, Major Timothy Wilks and George Louch, appeared to be teasing Annabelle in a rather heavy manner for she suddenly blushed painfully and looked down at her shoes. Lord Varleigh was sorry for the girl. The Captain was a good sort, but there was no denying his humor was fit more for a tavern wench than for a gently bred girl. He would have started towards her had he suddenly not become aware of the vise-like grip on his arm. He looked down at his partner.

  “I want to get out of this wind, Sylvester,” she pouted prettily, “and you stand gawking at our country maiden.”

  Lord Varleigh felt himself becoming irritated by Lady Jane for the first time. Her possessive manner smacked more of the wife than the mistress.

  Nevertheless he led Jane towards the marquee. It was arranged with flower-decorated tables, a long buffet with hundreds of delectable dishes, and in the center of them, in pride of place, the Standishes’ enormous silver punch bowl. Most of the guests were already sampling the hot punch as the tent, like the day outside, was unseasonably cold.

  Annabelle could only be glad that her fiancé had become engrossed in a conversation with his friends and had, for the moment, forgotten his heavy flirtatious manner.

  The Captain and his friends seemed capable of betting on the most ludicrous things. The latest was a proposed cricket match to be held by the Greenwich pensioners, the eleven on one side to have but one arm each and both their legs; and the other to have both their arms and only one leg each. This strange match was to be run by a nobleman and a would-be member of the Jockey Club. The gentlemen were loudly debating whether to back the “legs” or the “wings” and roaring with noisy laughter at their own wit.

  The talk of legs and the pressure against her own under the table made Annabelle wish Captain Mac-Donald would keep his own limbs to himself. No matter where she sat, he seemed to manage to press his legs against hers in the most embarrassing way. She suddenly felt his large hand on her knee and slapped it with the ivory sticks of her fan only to receive a reproachful look for her pains.

  Annabelle was unaccustomed to liquor, and the two glasses of punch she had consumed had immediately gone to her head. She even began to find some of the Captain’s jokes, which consisted of quite terrible puns, extremely funny and began to laugh very hard, wiping her streaming eyes with her lace handkerchief.

  “Why, I believe they are well suited,” said Lord Varleigh thoughtfully.

  “Who?” said Jane impatiently. She did not like to be interrupted when she was eating.

  “Annabelle Quennell and her Captain.”

  “Oh, I am glad your mind is at rest,” said Jane acidly and then murmured, “but I must find out the name of her dressmaker.”

  But Lord Varleigh had caught the undertone. He raised his quizzing glass. “Yes, Miss Quennell has a very individual style and a good sense of color,” he remarked.

  “Never mind her—have you heard the latest on-dit,” said Jane. “’Tis said, on Sunday two pairs of turtle doves took flight from Ingleton to Gretna Green; but by the nimble exertions of some pouncing hawks, the cooing pair were overtaken near Shap and very impolitely conducted back to their respective homes!”

  “If you mean young Honeywood and the Clermont girl, then why not say so?” said Lord Varleigh in a bored voice. “I detest the sleazy innuendo of the scandal sheet.”

  Lady Jane hunched a ruched, tucked, and embroidered velvet shoulder on him and began to talk loudly to a young man at the next table.

  Lord Sylvester Varleigh found his gaze straying back to Annabelle. The girl was getting quite bosky and should not have been allowed on the Town with only Captain MacDonald as escort, affianced or not. But she had style, unusual in a girl unaccustomed to the intricate world of high fashion. Now Jane appeared most attractive in the bedchamber, after she had divested herself of her too elaborate toilette. He had a sudden vivid picture of Captain MacDonald and Annabelle in the bedchamber and shook his head to dispel the image.

  Annabelle caught his glance in her direction, and the sudden look of distaste on his face, and sobered almost completely. She became aware that her face was flushed and that her hair was coming down at the back. The Captain was interspersing his now very racy conversation with frequent demands for more punch. Annabelle remembered her godmother’s warning and tugged at the Captain’s braided sleeve. “Do you not think,” she queried timidly, “that you have had enough to drink?”

  The Captain gave her an outraged look, and his friends stared at her with their mouths open. “Had enough to drink?” echoed Mr. Louch in a high penetrating voice which carried round the marquee. “Had enough to drink. Jimmy could drink that whole punch bowl and walk from here a sober man.”

  Annabelle looked at the punch bowl in amazement. It was the size of a young bath, made of solid silver and embellished with various embarrassing scenes from the Greek myths such as the Rape of Iphigenia.

  “Hey, Captain,” yelled an officer from the next table. “Lay you a monkey you couldn’t do it.”

  “Done!” roared the Captain. He raced from the table and mounted to the buffet table by way of an empty chair, and before the cheering guests’ eyes, he plunged headfirst into the punch bowl so that only his glossy Hessians could be seen waving in the air. A small tidal wave of punch slopped over the side and straight onto Lady Jane’s lap. She began screaming and screaming while the guests roared and cheered. Lord Standish pushed his way through the crowd of the Captain’s admirers to try to pull that gentleman from the punch bowl while Lady Standish led the now weeping Lady Jane towards the house to find her a change of clothes.

  “By Jove, Miss Quennell!” howled George Louch exuberantly. “You’re a lucky girl to have a man like that. What a capital gun!”

  Am I too prim, thought Annabelle desperately? Why should I always feel so shocked and embarrassed? Everyone else seems to admire Captain MacDonald. Perhaps I have not tried hard enough to understand him.

  “It is time to go home, Miss Quennell.” At the sound of the familiar voice Annabelle looked up and saw Lord Varleigh beside her chair. His normally hard gray eyes were warm with sympathy. Without a word she put her hand on his arm and they walked towards the entrance to the marquee. Annabelle turned back briefly. The
Captain was sitting in the middle of the table with pieces of cinnamon and lemon in his hair like some exotic headdress. He had started to roar out a bawdy song and was being frantically hushed by Lord Standish. Then the Captain looked to where Annabelle was standing with Lord Varleigh, and his eyes suddenly looked very sober and alert. “Heh!” he cried. “Heh!” But Lord Varleigh had firmly led Annabelle from the marquee.

  “I am afraid it is an open carnage,” he said as they waited for the curricle to be brought round. “But I shall wrap you up in plenty of rugs.”

  Annabelle did not relax until they had left the Standish mansion well behind. She dreaded the Captain coming in pursuit of her. Perhaps Lord Varleigh dreaded being pursued by Lady Jane. To her horror she realised she had voiced this thought aloud, and Lord Varleigh glanced away from the management of his team to look at his companion with a certain tinge of amusement. “No, my dear Miss Quennell, I am the pursuer, I assure you. I shall be meeting Lady Jane again this evening so she will be quite content to exist without my company until then.”

  “Oh,” said Annabelle, wondering why she felt a pang of disappointment. After all, it was not as if she wanted Lord Varleigh for herself. Or was it?

  With a start she noticed they were turning into the courtyard of a smart posting inn and, for a moment, wild thoughts of abduction and seduction flew through her brain.

  “Do not be afraid,” said her companion, reading her mind with irritating ease. “I have just heard the noisy sounds of pursuit and feel sure you do not wish to meet your beloved in his present condition.”

  She eyed him doubtfully as he swung her down from his curricle. But then she heard unmistakable roars and tantivies coming closer on the road outside.

  She peeped round the shelter of the curricle in time to see a smart phaeton, driven by the Captain, streaming past at a tremendous rate. Mr. Louch and Major Wilks were crammed on either side of him and hanging onto their tall hats for dear life. A slice of lemon rolled into the courtyard of the inn. The gallant Captain had obviously not waited to change.

  Annabelle felt strangely embarrassed when she found herself seated alone with Lord Varleigh over the tea tray. But he settled comfortably back in his chair, entertaining her with an easy flow of conversation until she relaxed.

  At last he said, “You must forgive the impertinence of the question, Miss Quennell, but is your proposed marriage with Captain MacDonald an arranged one? There does not seem to be much regard on either side.”

  “More tea?” queried Annabelle sweetly.

  Lord Varleigh’s thin brows snapped together, and then he laughed. Of course the very correct Miss Quennell would not discuss her engagement. He also longed to ask her why she had worn such an outrageously indecent gown to the opera but felt sure she would simply give him another setdown.

  But Annabelle had thought of a safe topic of conversation. Had Lord Varleigh received her note of thanks for the book he had sent her? Indeed he had. He was amused to learn it was the first novel she had read.

  “Mama would never allow me to read a novel,” said Annabelle, “although she always insisted I was reading romances on the sly. Miss Austen’s book seems all that is proper. Now the tales of the ancient Greeks are sometimes very scandalous, but Mama never objected to those.”

  “Which translations did you read?” asked Lord Varleigh, noticing that Annabelle had an intriguing dimple in her cheek when she smiled.

  “Oh, I read them in the original,” said Annabelle blithely, unaware of Lord Varleigh’s start of surprise. “Papa is a great scholar. I have been fortunate in my education. Oh, I had forgot. Godmother told me not to mention books in the presence of any member of the haut ton in case I was labelled a blue stocking.”

  “There is no fear of that. You are too beautiful,” said Lord Varleigh simply and then cursed himself. His compliment had the effect of causing a closed, tight look on Annabelle’s face, and she began to look at the clock with obvious impatience.

  “Come,” he teased. “I will take you home. But you must get in the way of receiving compliments, Miss Quennell. With your face and figure…” He allowed his eyes to roam insolently over her. To his surprise she did not blush or simper but stood looking at him with thinly veiled impatience.

  “If you have finished taking your inventory, may I suggest we leave,” snapped Annabelle. “And may I also suggest, my lord, that you save your intimate glances for Lady Jane Cherle!”

  THE Dowager Marchioness was in a tearing fury, and the reason for her bad temper had not yet arrived home. She had sustained a visit from Captain MacDonald who had complained bitterly that Annabelle was causing no end of talk by leaving the breakfast with Lord Varleigh. The Captain was obviously “well to go” as he himself would have put it, and Lady Emmeline unfairly thought Annabelle had been encouraging him to drink, or at the very least keeping insufficient control of him.

  She promised the Captain she would deal with her goddaughter when Annabelle arrived home and sent him packing. She was fully recovered from her fright of the night before and felt the need to take some action. Calling for Horley, she informed that long-suffering lady’s maid that they were going out for a promenade and told her to take that look off her face and fetch the umbrella immediately.

  For the hundredth time Lady Emmeline vowed to buy herself a new umbrella. Her old one was heavy and cumbersome but, for all that, seemed nigh indestructable. Heavy scarlet silk covered tough iron spokes and the umbrella felt as if it weighed a ton.

  As she stood on her doorstep, several heavy spots of rain began to fall, driven by the rapidly increasing force of the wind, a fact that Horley pointed out with a sort of gloomy relish. But Lady Emmeline was determined to exercise. Exercise cleaned the liver and purged the bowels, she told Horley. She also remarked that Horley’s perpetual long face was due to the disorder of her spleen.

  Feeling slightly refreshed after this lecture, Lady Emmeline unfurled her enormous umbrella and stepped briskly out onto the pavement … and straight into— What appeared to the terrified Horley—to be an absolute rain of bricks. Bricks fell from the heavens like the thunderbolts of Jove and smashed down on her ladyship’s doughty umbrella. The Dowager Marchioness was knocked to the ground by the weight of the bricks and fell screaming onto the pavement—unhurt, thanks to her umbrella—but terrified out of her wits.

  It was at that moment that Annabelle arrived home, just in time to see the extraordinary sight of her godmother lying flat out on the pavement in a pile of bricks with her dress indecently hitched up, displaying her fat little calves bulging over a tight pair of glacé kid half boots. Lord Varleigh helped the shaken lady to her feet, and Lady Emmeline’s wrath erupted.

  “How dare you, sirrah,” she roared in Lord Varleigh’s surprised face. “My goddaughter is affianced—affianced d’ye hear?—to Captain MacDonald, and I will not have her traipsing around the countryside with a man who is little better than a rake.”

  “Control yourself,” said Lord Varleigh coldly.

  “And you” went on Lady Emmeline, rounding on Annabelle, “you ungrateful baggage. I bring you to London. I arrange a marriage for you with the finest young man…”

  “That money can buy,” said Annabelle, nearly as furious as her godmother.

  “Don’t be impertinent,” roared the Dowager Marchioness, oblivious of the gathering crowd of spectators. “If I have any more of your nonsense, you will be packed back to Yorkshire in disgrace and not one penny of my money will you see.”

  “Your money cannot buy everything,” shouted Annabelle, pink with mortification.

  “Quite right,” roared Lady Emmeline. “It can’t buy poverty.”

  The avidly listening crowd cheered this sally, and Lady Emmeline’s wrath fled like the black clouds above.

  “Well, well,” she said mildly. “Come into the house—you too, Varleigh. We should not be bandying words in public.”

  Begrimed with brick dust and with her bonnet and red wig askew, Lady Emmeline led the
way into the house.

  “What on earth happened to you, Lady Emmeline?” asked Lord Varleigh, holding open the door of the drawing room for her.

  “Strangest thing,” said Lady Emmeline, plopping herself down on the sofa. “Bricks—great whopping bricks—came falling out of the sky. I’d better send a man up to check the chimney stack. See to it, Horley. And as for you, Varleigh,” she went on without checking for breath, “I’m sorry I let off at you like that. What exactly happened? Jimmy said you just upped and offed with Annabelle.”

  Lord Varleigh told her of the episode of the punch bowl, and Lady Emmeline laughed appreciatively. “What a man!” she gasped when she could. “Course, now I see you did the right thing, Varleigh, and I’m grateful to you. Jimmy’s a good lad. He’ll calm down once he’s married.” She rang for the butler and demanded that the brandy decanter be brought in, and Annabelle judged from the disapproving height of the butler’s eyebrows that this was an unusual request.

  Annabelle wondered what Mrs. Quennell would say if she could see her eldest daughter, the hope of the family, sitting quaffing brandy in the company of an elderly lady covered in brick dust and an aristocratic lord whose heart was well known to belong to one of the most dashing matrons of the Town.

  Horley soon came back to inform the startled party that the chimney stack had been found intact but that there were signs someone had been hiding up on the roof for, it seemed, the sole purpose of throwing bricks at Lady Emmeline should she leave her mansion.

  Lord Varleigh sat very still, his glass halfway to his lips, Annabelle was remembering Mad Meg’s prophecy and feeling shaken, but Lady Emmeline only gave her infuriating giggle. “Why,” she said, “I vow it was nothing more than some Tom or Jerry up there for a lark.”

  Annabelle had to admit that the Tom and Jerry sportsmen of the well-known cartoons were very close to real life. Was it strange that someone should throw bricks at an elderly dowager in a world where dropping live coals on a sleeping person and stealing a blind man’s dog were considered the veriest demonstration of Corinthian high spirits?