by Brenda Joyce
Eleanor came into the salon. Lizzie was glad to be distracted from her brooding. “What do you think? Do you like our holiday decor? I must confess, it is mostly Georgie’s fine handiwork.”
“The salon is very festive.” Eleanor smiled. She was, as always, magnificently dressed in black with more diamonds on her person than a duchess. Lizzie was never going to forget that in her greatest time of need, Eleanor had welcomed her with open arms, refusing to hold any grudge.
“Your parents are here. I saw their carriage driving up.” She smiled at both girls. Then to Lizzie, “Did you make that rum raisin cake I saw in the kitchen?”
Lizzie nodded. “Last night,” she confessed. “It is Papa’s favorite.”
Eleanor touched her cheek. “And at what time was this? Midnight? Two in the morning? Three?”
Lizzie looked away. She had come to hate the night. In those dark hours she was assailed by her loneliness, her memories and her love for Tyrell and his child. If she dared to sleep, there were dreams, wonderfully vivid dreams. Sometimes he made love to her and at other times he laughed with her, held her or teased her. Ned was often with them and they were a family. Waking up from such dreams was agonizing. The moment of utter comprehension—that she was in London, unloved and alone—was like the twisting of a knife in her chest.
“You are too thin,” Eleanor chided, “and wandering the halls all night long doesn’t help.”
Lizzie was aware that she had dropped a size or two in her gowns, as all had been taken in. But she had only to glance down at her voluptuous bosom to know that she was hardly a wraith. She smiled at her aunt. “And you worry far too much. Do not scold.”
But Eleanor lowered her voice, handing her a letter. “This just came,” she said with some disapproval.
Lizzie saw the postmark and her heart lurched with excitement. The letter was from Ireland. She flipped it over and saw that it bore the countess’s seal.
“Lizzie, I do not think this correspondence is helpful,” Eleanor said.
Lizzie looked up at her. “I must know how Ned fares.”
“He is well. He is very well. I really think you should insist that the countess no longer send you letters.”
“I miss him,” she said simply. She would brook no interference in her correspondence with the countess.
“You must let go,” Eleanor said firmly. “Darling, there is no other way for you to get on with your life.”
Lizzie smiled at her aunt. “I am getting on with my life, Aunt Eleanor. We have moved to town, we have had supper parties, and I have been volunteering at St. Anne’s Hospital,” she said. She had been working there for several weeks, attending the sick women and children, both by day and by night. “I could not be busier, in fact.”
Eleanor sighed.
The doorbell chimed, and Lizzie quickly turned from her aunt. Going to the salon’s threshold, she watched as Leclerc went to answer it. Standing there was Rory McBane, a very dashing sight.
Lizzie was surprised, for she had been expecting her parents. He held a bag, one clearly containing Christmas gifts.
Lizzie smiled. She had always been terribly fond of Rory. He was so witty and so charming, not to mention handsome. She had not seen him since last summer when he had been so upset with her for her one terrible lie. But so much had changed since then. She was genuinely pleased to see him and she walked forward, hoping he had forgiven her and they could put the past behind them. “Rory! How wonderful to see you—Merry Christmas,” she said softly.
Rory put the bag down and bowed. “Hello, Lizzie.” He straightened and studied her, not smiling. “It has been some time. Merry Christmas.” And there was an unspoken question in his eyes, one Lizzie understood.
He regretted their argument as much as she did. She smiled in real relief. “Thank you for calling.”
He smiled back. “How could I not call on my favorite relations?”
“Oh, you remain the most gallant of gentlemen!” And taking both of his hands in hers, she laughed. The sound actually startled her and she realized it was the first time she had genuinely laughed since leaving Ireland.
But he was no longer looking at her. His gaze had moved to some point behind Lizzie. “I do hope this means you have missed me,” he murmured.
Lizzie glanced behind her, not releasing him. Georgie and Eleanor stood on the threshold, Eleanor beaming with delight at the sight of her nephew. Lizzie turned, pulling him with her, aware of Georgie’s visible tension. “You are staying for supper,” she warned him.
He laughed. “We shall see. Hello, Auntie. Will I receive as enthusiastic a greeting from you as I have from Lizzie?” He looked at Georgie.
Lizzie also looked at her sister, and she was pleased to note that Georgie had never appeared better. She wore a plain robin’s-egg-blue dress, had a white apron tied about her waist, and there were smudges of dirt on her cheeks and gold glitter on her nose. Her long, dark blond hair had come down earlier that afternoon, when she had decided to haul a ladder by herself in order to decorate the salon. The color of dark honey, it fell in soft waves about her face and shoulders. Although disheveled, Georgie had become a beautiful woman. And she was even prettier, Lizzie thought, because she was flushing.
Eleanor was berating him for his long absence. “It’s about time! How neglectful a relation you have become,” she scolded, but she was smiling.
He bowed. “Auntie, my most sincere apologies.” And straightening, he nodded at Georgie, a slight flush on his cheeks, as well. “Miss Fitzgerald.”
Georgie looked away, curtsying. “Mr. McBane.”
He quickly tore his gaze away and smiled at Lizzie and Eleanor. “I should love to stay for supper, as long as I am not intruding.”
“You are hardly intruding, is he, Eleanor?” Lizzie prompted.
Eleanor eyed her briefly. “You rascal!” she cried, finally kissing his cheek. “We have needed some good cheer in this house for some time now. It has taken you this long to find us?”
Rory grinned at her. “I have been very busy, Auntie, with my various affairs.”
“And I am afraid to ask what those affairs might be. I do hope you refer to business concerns?”
“Of course.” He laughed. He winked at Lizzie and she imagined he had had the audacity to refer to some torrid love affair.
Eleanor looped his arm in hers, leading him back into the salon. “The girls are expecting their parents and it will be a festive evening. You will stay.” It was not really a question.
He chuckled, murmuring, “I have missed you, too, Auntie.”
Behind his back, Georgie sent Lizzie a dismayed look. As the duo went into the salon, she strode to her. “Why did you invite him to stay for supper?” Georgie cried in a hushed voice. She seemed very distraught. “I am a mess!”
Lizzie smiled again. “You can change your gown before we dine. Can you not try to enjoy his company? We have not had any entertaining guests since we arrived—Eleanor’s friends are old and boring! And he is our cousin and my friend.”
Georgie gripped her hand. “Don’t you recall the last time we saw him? He was furious with us both!”
“Rory is clearly not furious with either of us now.”
Georgie hugged herself. “He is such a flirt! I cannot enjoy his company because I know he is a cad!”
Lizzie was amused. “You don’t even know him. He is no cad. He is far more interested in politics than women. You know, the two of you have quite a bit in common—”
“We have nothing in common!” Georgie cried passionately, her color increasing. “Nothing at all—I am certain of it!”
“Hmm. Someone does protest, overly so. Georgie, let’s be frank for a moment. He is handsome, charming and an available bachelor,” Lizzie pointed out, just in case her sister had not happened to notice those attributes.
Now Georgie appeared furious, indeed. “I hardly care how he looks! And I do not find flirtation charming! And what does that last comment mean? I like spinste
rhood!”
Lizzie felt like knocking her over the head with a very hard object, indeed. She had never seen her sister so dismayed and agitated. She had sensed last summer that Rory was quite attracted to Georgie, and now, given her sister’s extreme emotions, she could not help wonder if it was mutual. “Can you not at least admit that he is handsome?”
Georgie gave her a stubborn look, clearly refusing to admit any such thing.
Lizzie suddenly wondered if Georgie was afraid of a buck like McBane. After all, given his political passion, his good looks, his breeding, he was most suitable for her. And if he inherited Eleanor’s fortune one day, why, then it would be a perfect match, indeed.
“Well, I, for one, am glad he has come. And I hope he comes again. I am very tired of Eleanor’s elderly friends.”
Georgie’s angry expression vanished. She sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I lost my temper. I should change my dress—for Mama and Papa, of course.” She glanced into the salon where Rory was regaling Eleanor with some tall tale, a glass of cider in his hand. Lizzie followed her gaze. Rory McBane was truly a rakish devil, with his sparkling green eyes, his cleft chin and his engaging grin.
Taking a deep breath, Georgie spoke quite calmly now. “Actually, I am glad that he is here. Tonight is the first time I have seen you laugh in months.”
Lizzie looked carefully at her. “He is witty.”
“No.” Georgie held her hand and looked her right in the eye. “You are very fond of him and he is very fond of you. Lizzie, any fool can see that. And that, I am certain, is why he is really here.”
It had become a festive evening after all, Lizzie thought. Supper had been a very sociable affair, with Mama holding court at the table, recounting her adventures in Ireland’s high society. According to Mama, she was best friends with the countess now. She was at Adare once a week, at least. The countess was the kindest, most gracious lady she had ever met, as well as the most beautiful. “And the way the earl treats her,” Mama gasped, well into a third glass of wine. She gave Papa a look. “You should take a lesson or two from him, Papa.”
Papa smiled warmly at Lizzie, who felt her heart turn over in response. To Mama he said, “Indeed I shall, my dear.”
Lizzie wondered if Mama had seen Ned. Of course, Ned was residing at Wicklowe with his father. But perhaps they had come to Adare to visit one time when Mama was also there? She felt her smile fade and she reached for her wine.
Eleanor, who had sat quietly at the head of the table, apparently enjoying Mama’s conversation, finally spoke. “It is good to see you so happy, Lydia.”
“Well, I do miss my girls,” Mama said quickly. “Raven Hall is simply not the same! Of course, I would never begrudge Lizzie and Georgie their time here with you, Eleanor. And Anna is doing very well, Thomas dotes upon her. I cannot wait until she has her child.”
“It’s a shame Anna could not be here with us,” Eleanor said.
“Oh, I cannot wait to see my darling girl,” Mama cried.
Papa turned to Rory. “That was an excellent cartoon in the Times.”
“Rory’s cartoons are amazingly clever,” Lizzie said.
Rory glanced at her with a smile. Mildly, he asked Papa, “Which one?”
“The one depicting the Houses of Parliament as a circus, filled with flame throwers, sword eaters and every possible kind of fool. And you drew the Speaker with hooves, horns and a tail.”
Rory chuckled, but Georgina gasped.
Rory glanced briefly at her. Then he smiled at Papa. “I drew him as the Devil, sir, enticing our Irish countrymen into selling their political souls.”
Eleanor sighed. “I see your radical views have not changed.”
“Radical views,” Georgina choked, her cheeks as red as beets.
Lizzie knew, without any doubt, where this new conversation would lead. She coughed. “Shall we take dessert in the salon?”
But Rory grinned at Eleanor, as if amused. “I almost caricaturized Prinny, so you should be pleased I exercised some small discretion after all, Auntie.”
Before Eleanor could reply, Georgie said, “Our countrymen are hardly selling their political souls!” She was aghast.
Rory faced Georgie from across the table, his smile intact. “I would beg to differ, Miss Fitzgerald, but I prefer not to engage in debate with a woman.”
Lizzie winced. Well aware of her sister’s passionate views, she sensed an interesting discussion.
Georgie did not even attempt to smile. “Why?” she asked swiftly, leaning on the table, quite forgetting her elbows. “Do women not have intellect? Do our opinions not matter? Or is it my opinion that hardly matters, Mr. McBane?”
Rory started. “Women do have intellect, Miss Fitzgerald,” he said swiftly. “Of course they do! And I am very sorry if I have ever given the impression that they do not. And your opinion certainly matters,” he said, but he clearly realized he had fallen into her trap. He was blushing now.
Georgie smiled at him. “I am relieved to hear that,” she murmured. “It is my opinion that your cartoon is seditious.”
Lizzie bit her lip, uncertain whether to be entertained or not. Rory’s eyes were popping while Georgie looked rather pleased with herself. In fact, very sweetly, Georgie smiled at her aunt. “Shall we adjourn to the salon for that rum raisin cake and brandy now?”
But Rory leaned across the table toward Georgie. He was no longer smiling. “You accuse me—at the supper table—of sedition?”
“I do, sir. You malign the good names of our countrymen, the men who speak for us on all important matters in the Parliament of the Union. That is slander—that is sedition!”
Rory was momentarily speechless. Lizzie had never seen such a comical expression of disbelief upon his face.
“But of course, you can defend your point of view, if you wish to debate me. Unless you fear to be bested by a woman,” she added with casual negligence.
Lizzie choked with laughter and tried to hide it behind her hand.
Papa and Mama exchanged astonished glances. Mama said, “Georgina May! We are adjourning to the salon.”
Georgie stood up with a careless shrug looking far too smug.
Rory leapt to his feet as well, but Lizzie did not think it the automatic behavior of a gentleman. “She is determined to engage me in a debate!” he cried to no one in particular.
Georgie did have the good sense to hesitate. “I am not afraid of debating you, sir,” she said softly. “And I am still waiting for you to rebut.”
He gaped at her incredulously.
“Or you could concede defeat.” Georgina smiled sweetly.
And Lizzie saw the extent of Rory’s struggle not to be provoked. “Miss Fitzgerald, I know of no gentleman who would genuinely debate a lady. You are very determined, but I will not humor you!”
Georgie rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Humor me? I think not, Mr. McBane.”
He shook his head, leaning on the table now. “Perhaps you are too witty for your own good,” he said tersely, and their regards locked.
Mama was staring with fascination at them both, as was Lizzie. Papa, however, stood. “I am ready for that brandy,” he said. “And I do agree, a gentleman should not debate a lady.”
Lizzie was relieved that the near crisis was over. She put her arm firmly around her sister. “We are going to take cake in the salon,” she said, but now she was intrigued; oh, yes. Georgie, who had definitely held her own, seemed very agitated, and Rory was staring at her with extreme speculation. She had never seen him look at any woman that way.
Georgie nodded and mumbled, “Excuse me,” suddenly hurrying from the dining room. Lizzie turned to Rory, but found him watching her sister out of narrowed eyes. In that moment, she recognized the hunt even as it began. How he suddenly reminded her of Tyrell. “Please forgive her,” she said. “She is very politically minded—and very outspoken. I am sure she did not really mean to accuse you of slander. She is as impassioned as you, I think, on the su
bject of Ireland.”
Rory tugged on his cravat, perhaps loosening it, and faced her. Finally, he smiled. “There is nothing to forgive. And your sister is not the first to take offense at my cartoons. Perhaps one day I can persuade her to my side.”
Lizzie had to laugh. “I truly doubt that. No one is as—” She stopped, having been poised to tell him just how stubborn and opinionated her sister was.
“No one is as what?” he pressed sharply.
“No one is as clever as my sister,” Lizzie said sweetly, smiling. But Lizzie knew that she must be the clever one now.
He did not guess her thoughts, for his gaze had already wandered into the other room.
They had finally adjourned to the salon. Rory and Papa were sipping cognac and discussing the horse races; Mama was seated with Georgie and Eleanor on the sofa, taking Georgie to task for being so outspoken and so politically opinionated. Georgie was refusing to speak at all, clearly not interested in defending herself. Lizzie did not mind. It had turned into the most pleasant evening she had had in months. Tyrell’s image instantly came to mind, but she would not become aggrieved now. She forced his image aside and went over to the two men. She smiled at them both.
“Papa? I know you must want a smoke. I am certain Aunt Eleanor would not mind if you used the terrace.”
Papa smiled fondly at her. “Dear Lizzie, you are as thoughtful as ever. I am fine.”
She turned to Rory. “Do you wish to smoke?”
“I do, but my dear, it is freezing outside.” His green eyes sparkled as he smiled at her. He was now relaxed, his long legs crossed, his expression one of his usual mild amusement. His regard wandered to the sofa where the three women sat.
“It was uncalled for, Georgina, to entrap your cousin—your very own cousin—in such a manner,” Mama was saying.
Georgie murmured some indistinct, noncommittal reply.
