Cupid's Dart

by Maggie MacKeever

  Marigold rose from the stool to pace back and forth across the faded rug. "I wouldn't have to start from the beginning if you had not lost my letter, which was very bad of you, because it took me the longest time to write it all down. Yes, and it was also very dear to post! Oh! This is all Leo's fault."

  Georgie blinked. Leo had been the first of Marigold's husbands, with whom she had eloped when she was fifteen. The union had been short-lived, due to the disappearance of the bridegroom during his honeymoon. "Have you heard from Leo?" she asked, with genuine interest.

  "Oh, that I had!" Marigold wiped away a tear. "Leo always knew what to do. If only you had met him you would understand. He was so dashing, so handsome, so—romantic!" Prettily, she cast down her eyes. "How different my life would have been had not poor Leo met up with foul play."

  How different Marigold's life might have been had she not been taken advantage of by a man of the world, amended Georgie, silently. Beautiful though she might be, Marigold's understanding was not powerful; she was heedless and stubborn and extravagant, a charming, gay butterfly with scant interest beyond the moment and what amusement it might bring.

  It was hardly for Georgie to censure anyone's conduct. Only a short time past she had herself been regretting that she was a respectable female. "What do you think happened to him?" she asked.

  Marigold pressed her hand to her lush bosom. "It is such a puzzle! I have wracked my brains until I cannot think! Leo would never have parted from me willingly, I vow." From her sleeve she plucked a lacy handkerchief and wiped away another tear. "You know that Papa cut me off after my elopement, for which I suppose I cannot blame him, because much as I doted on Leo, even I must admit that he was not the thing. Oh, but we would have lived a carefree life of dissipation, and he would have taken me to fascinating places, and shown me all manner of forbidden stuff." She paused, lost in wistful imaginings.

  Delicately, Georgie coughed. Reluctantly, Marigold returned to the present. "But it was not to be. Leo disappeared, and though I thought I should die from a spasm of the heart, clearly I did not. I knew nothing of Leo's family, or even if he had a family. And so unaccustomed was I to being purse-pinched that I thought it was only people who became deranged!" She fanned herself with the lace handkerchief. "I would have been in the basket altogether, had it not been for Mr. Frobisher. I did not know where else to turn. Why I didn't think of you I can't imagine, other than my senses were so overset."

  To say that the flesh crawled on Georgie's bones as a result of this suggestion might be an overstatement, but she did allow her embroidery to drop unheeded in her lap. "Mr. Frobisher would be the theatrical gentleman?" she asked.

  "Yes." Arms held out at her side, Marigold spun around, then sank into a graceful curtsey. "He set my feet upon the stage. It was vastly interesting, Georgie! I appeared in oh-so-many productions in the provinces." She smiled as she recalled how she had advanced from appearing most often as a supernumerary ordered to play whatever walk-on part was needed, dressed in whatever old costume might be left over in the theater wardrobe, to a leading lady of whom one unkind critic had written that she was "a pretty piece of uninteresting manner, with almost enough ability to speak her lines."

  Her smile faded. What did that critic know of acting? He had never trod the boards. Nor played to so discerning an audience as the one she played to now. Marigold raised a languid hand to her pale brow. "And then, just when things were going well, poor Mr. Frobisher suffered a dreadful accident."

  Georgie watched her friend's dramatic perambulations and wondered just how good an actress Marigold had become. That these confidences were leading somewhere, she had no doubt. "What manner of accident?"

  Marigold did not deem it of any purpose to speak of wheelbarrows and pigs and gentlemen who habitually took too much to drink. "A fatal one," she sighed. 'Truly I have tried to choose a companion for life. It is not my fault if something happens to them all. I met Sir Hubert when I was performing at Tunbridge Wells. He had gone there to nurse his gout. It was a most felicitous encounter. Sir Hubert was taken with me straightaway. And I vow I did not care a minute if he was quite old, no matter what anyone may say."

  Georgie had not realized, until presented with these disclosures, how very dull had been the events of her own life. Marigold seemed to be awaiting some response. "Good gracious," Georgie murmured. "How very bothersome for you."

  Had there been a tinge of irony in Georgie's voice? Marigold could not be sure. The ladies were interrupted then by a tap on the door. "Enter!" Georgie called.

  Tibble tottered into the room, gingerly carrying a tray. Georgie quickly rose and rescued it from his trembling hands. "I know you wasn't wishful of being interrupted," he apologized. "But Miss Agatha would have it that you'd care for some refreshment."

  Georgie was grateful to see that her cousin's notion of appropriate refreshment was a beverage stronger than tea. "Thank you, Tibble," she said, and watched her butler make his unsteady way out the door, en route to the kitchen, where he would report that Miss Georgie's hair, always an excellent barometer of her emotions, currently made her look like an owl in an ivy bush.

  "My cousin's own ratafia. It is very potent." Georgie presented Marigold with a glass. Ratafia was a sweet cordial customarily flavored with fruit kernel or almonds. Not one to hedge her bets, Agatha made use of both.

  Marigold downed more of the beverage than was prudent. "I should have cared about his age," she muttered, and resumed her pacing. "Because he died before changing his will, and left me not so much as a brass farthing, the old coot." She caught her friend's shocked look. "That is, the old dear! You mustn’t think that I am a fortune hunter, Georgie. Sir Hubert was most amiable, and most boring, and I vow I made him a good wife. Perhaps too good, I fear! The fact of the matter is that I should have been provided for. That I was not—it was a monstrous, shabby thing."

  Georgie wondered just how Sir Hubert had gone to meet his Maker. She did not like to ask.

  The waters at Brighton were prescribed not only for asthma and ruptures and deafness, but also for agitated nerves. Perhaps Marigold could be persuaded to drink the wretched stuff. "Why are you calling yourself 'Mrs. Smith'?" Georgie demanded. "Let us have the straight of the story without further roundaboutation, if you please."

  Marigold's chin quivered. She drained her glass. "If only my poor Leo was here!" she wept. "He would understand how it is that one can do something that one shouldn't and it seems an excellent notion until the piper must be paid." Did Georgie look the least bit sympathetic? Marigold peeked over the edge of her handkerchief, and took a deep breath. "And I'm sure I'm willing to give back the Norwood Emerald, but I no longer have it in my possession, which is entirely Sir Hubert's fault for being such a miserly purse-pinch."

  The Norwood Emerald? What the devil was the Norwood Emerald? Georgie wished that she hadn't drunk her cousin's ratafia. Or alternately, that she might drink some more. Carefully, she set down her glass. "Marigold, you haven't—"

  Here was the telling moment. The pièce de résistance, the coup de grâce. Marigold sank down on her knees in a supplicating posture. "Oh, Georgie," she whispered. "I do not wish to go to gaol!"

  Chapter Six

  Marigold's forebodings were not without foundation. At nearly that same moment, another conversation was taking place in the private room of a local inn. The chamber was small but comfortable, with a low-beamed ceiling, huge fireplace, shuttered windows, and sawdust on the floor.

  This meeting was not of a social nature. Carlisle Sutton had journeyed all the way from Calcutta, India, to deal with the irregularities of his late uncle's estate. He frowned at his uncle's man of business, a self-effacing, bespectacled individual who wore a brown jacket and buff pantaloons, and was the very picture of subdued efficiency, save for the height of his shirt points. "A bit young, ain't you?" he asked.

  Mr. Brown was indeed young, all of four-and-twenty, a matter for which he felt apologetic, though one that would soon enough
be rectified by time. "Sir Hubert was kind enough to allow me to continue to handle his affairs," he responded stiffly, "after my father died. I do not believe he ever had any complaint about the quality of our service to him, sir."

  Carlisle lounged against the fireplace. He had not meant to set up the young pup's back. "Then we will hope I also have no complaint. Tell me about this marriage, if you please. It sounds like a deuced havey-cavey affair."

  Havey-cavey was not the half of it, as Mr. Sutton would soon learn. "I believe your uncle met the lady," Mr. Brown said delicately, "when she was performing in a pantomime at Tunbridge Wells."

  Carlisle had been attending Mr. Brown with only a small part of his mind; the rest of his considerable intelligence had been focused on Calcutta, and the business that awaited his return. Now he stood bolt upright. "Tunbridge Wells? Pantomime? My uncle married an actress?" he exclaimed.

  Mr. Brown understood this reaction, having experienced a similar horrified astonishment upon discovering the theatrical background of his octogenarian employer's bride. He held out a playbill, and a miniature portrait in an ornate frame. "It shouldn't be too difficult to find her, sir. Not many females look like this."

  Mr. Sutton perused the playbill, which announced the presentation of a pantomime at Tunbridge Wells, featuring in the role of Columbine one "Miss Mary Macclesfield." Then he contemplated the miniature. There had been nothing wrong with his uncle's eyesight, conceded Carlisle, as he studied a lovely, roguish lady with periwinkle eyes and guinea-gold hair. Unfortunately the same could not be said for Sir Hubert's common sense. Had he wed the wench in a Hindu ceremony, she would have taken seven steps around the holy fire, propitiated the goddess Parvati, and then had her nose pierced. Himself, Carlisle was at the moment feeling partial to the four-armed goddess Kali, with her earrings of corpses, necklace of skulls, and protruding, blood-dripping tongue.

  As Mr. Carlisle brooded over the miniature, Mr. Brown covertly regarded him. Although Mr. Brown had known Sir Hubert for several years, he had not before met Sir Hubert's nephew, who spent the majority of his time in India. Carlisle Sutton was a ruggedly-built, harsh-faced man of middle years with icy blue eyes, bronzed skin, and long, sun-streaked brown hair drawn back in an unfashionable queue. He looked as though he would be far more comfortable in uncivilized native dress than in the brass-buttoned blue coat, colored waistcoat, buckskin breeches, and Hessian boots he currently wore.

  A sojourn with seven hooded cobras, mused Mr. Sutton, as he gazed at the miniature. Confinement in the dread black hole of Calcutta. Exposure to viciously stinging Kashmiri red ants. Not that Carlisle was in general predisposed against ladies who trod the boards. He had known a number of pretty actresses very well himself. Hopefully another forty years would not turn him into such a cod's head as his uncle, who admittedly deserved a great deal of credit for attempting the amorous congress at his age, a startling testimonial to the salubrious effects of Tunbridge Wells, or perhaps not so startling, considering that Sir Hubert had expired in the marriage bed.

  "Why should we have to look for her?" he asked. "You must know where she is."

  Mr. Brown adjusted his spectacles, which were forever sliding down his nose, and wondered how Calcutta employers dealt with servants of whom they had complaint. "The lady was most distressed to learn that your uncle had neglected to alter his will in her favor, sir. She apparently decided to, ah, take matters into her own hands."

  The pup was as nervous as a cat on hot coals. Carlisle saw his longed-for return to Calcutta recede further and further into the distance. "What matters?"

  Manfully, Mr. Brown screwed up his courage. "The Norwood Emerald, sir."

  With these words, Carlisle's forbearance vanished. He cursed. "The Norwood Emerald was smuggled out of India in the early 1700s. It took five years to cut. The family has refused countless offers from connoisseurs eager to purchase the gem, most recently an offer for thirty thousand pounds. Hell and the devil confound it! My uncle must have been in his dotage to allow such a bauble to fall into the hands of a Cyprian, no less."

  Although it might be unwise in him, Mr. Brown found himself compelled to defend the lady. "I don't think she is a Cyprian, exactly. I have the impression that she was of good birth."

  Mr. Sutton snorted. "She was an actress, you nodcock. Don't fly into the boughs! I meant you no insult."

  Perhaps he was a nodcock, reflected Mr. Brown: he had liked Sir Hubert's young wife very well. "I am sorry to tell you that the lady has vanished, and the emerald with her, sir. We traced her here to Brighton, and then she gave us the slip. However, I have every reason to think that she has not left town."

  The Norwood Emerald stolen by an enterprising bit of muslin! Carlisle seethed with rage. Sir Hubert had served his own turn in the service of the East India Company, as had numerous members of the family ever since the early eighteenth century, when an enterprising Norwood—the same Norwood who had smuggled out the missing emerald—began to buy cloth and ship it to Java in exchange for spices which were then sold in London. Soon that first Norwood had owned his own ships, and after twenty years' diligent service and even more diligent trading, had amassed an estate of some several thousand millions, and began to perform small services for the royal family, and to marry his children into the aristocracy.

  Mr. Sutton had been little less enterprising during his own sojourn in India, although he was of an irascible, argumentative nature that made him highly unpopular with the Court of Directors at Leadenhall in London, to whom he spoke out with embarrassing regularity against such things as the forced cultivation of Indian opium, and the plunder of Bengal. He couldn't care less for the ignorant secretaries of the Indian Board who didn't know whether the Mahrattas were Mahometans or Hindus. Between the natives and the climate, most foreigners found India a miserable country. Carlisle liked it very well.

  He set the miniature and the playbill on a table. "You will find her, Mr. Brown. And when you do, you will send me word." With that command, Carlisle clapped a tall beaver hat onto his head, and strode out into the hall.

  Mr. Brown paused to wipe his damp brow. Then he collected the playbill and the picture and retired to the taproom, there to inspect the landlord's stock of sack and canary, ale and stout, and initiate his inquiries over a well-earned pint.

  Mr. Sutton stepped into the courtyard of the inn, which styled itself The King's Hand, and was one of several establishments in which Charles II was said to have tarried whilst in flight to France. Carlisle had not wanted to return to England, and put on these curst uncomfortable clothes that made him feel trussed up like a chicken for the pot, and be subjected to the various humbugs that being rich as Croesus entailed. Here in Brighton he was, nonetheless, and in Brighton he would remain, even though he hadn’t the slightest interest in the town's fashionable pursuits. Even the extravagancies of the Prince Regent could only seem tame to someone who had rubbed shoulders with a Rajah, a Scandial, a Holkar, and a Peshwah.

  What Carlisle found most interesting about Brighton was its mention in the Domesday Book, with 4,000 herrings paid as rent. Since he must be here, he would probably inspect the shipping and the harbor, and ride out to view the remains of the old Saxon camps. He called an ostler to bring round his horse.

  Marry at haste, repent at leisure. The Norwood Emerald must be returned where it belonged. Carlisle contemplated a horse trough filled with clear, fresh water, the ground below it sprinkled with fresh hay. Had Mr. Brown spied his employer at that moment, he might have glimpsed in those normally cold eyes a certain bloodlust. Mr. Sutton's complicated nature thrived on adversity.

  It would not be difficult to drive the thieving wench out into the open. Even after so long an absence, Carlisle had access to resources not available to the earnest Mr. Brown. Not as stimulating as a tiger hunt, perhaps, he thought as he swung into the saddle, and certainly not so dangerous, but "Miss Mary Macclesfield" would provide him a diversion all the same. And when the chase was over, the little trollop wo
uld come to rue the day she first heard the name Norwood.

  Chapter Seven

  The following morning, because it was her habit—unthinkable that it should be for any other reason—Miss Halliday took her energetic pet for a stroll on the beach, and even went so far as to engage him in a game of fetch with a piece of driftwood. Georgie greatly enjoyed the seaside, though not so much that she might venture out in one of the storms that periodically encroached upon the shore and tore away great pieces of land. She held in great respect a force of nature that swept away embankments as soon as they were built. She liked to watch the packet boats sail to and from Dieppe, and the fishing fleet, to hear the murmur of the water against the shore, and inhale the bracing air.

  That air, just now, was very chill and damp. Georgie pulled her shawl closer round her shoulders and trudged through the sand. Fortunate that Marigold was not an early riser, else even this little bit of solitude would be disturbed with laments about an unkind fate. Georgie did not recall her oldest friend being so prone to melodrama. That would be the influence of the theatrical Mr. Frobisher, no doubt. Georgie wondered which of Marigold's husbands might be held responsible for her current foolhardiness. "Blast and damn!" muttered Georgie, and kicked at an inoffensive seashell.

  A large shape loomed up out of the fog. Georgie jumped. "I see that you are again unchaperoned," Lord Warwick remarked.

  Georgie gestured, as Lump emerged from the fog with the driftwood in his jaws. "Not precisely. I wondered if I might find you here."

  "I have grown accustomed to taking solitary walks." Garth smiled to see the riotous blond curls that escaped her bonnet. "You look like some water nymph sprung up out of the mist."