This invitation, apparently, was different. "How come you to know Lady Denham?" Georgie asked.
Andrew grinned, and patted the great head currently resting on his knee. "Lump jumped on her. Which is no more than she deserves for wearing so many curst feathers on her hat."
Too clearly, Georgie envisioned the event. "Oh, dear. And in return Lady Denham sent an invitation? How very odd."
"I suspect it is Miss Inchquist whom we may thank for the invitation," Andrew responded. "She had a handbag with tassels." He explained his meeting with Sarah-Louise.
Georgie eyed her pet with dismay. "What a dreadful creature you are." Delighted to have his mistress's attention, Lump panted and drooled.
Andrew pushed the dog's head away from his damp knee. "Don't make a piece of work of it, Georgie. No harm was done."
No harm? This from someone who claimed that attending social functions made him feel like a performing monkey? "What is she like?" Georgie asked.
"A regular Gorgon!" retorted Andrew, then saw his sister's startled expression. "Oh, you mean Miss Inchquist. An unexceptionable young female, I suppose you'd say. She has freckles, and is very tall. Lady Denham is a beldame." He popped another pea into his mouth. "It would be nice for Miss Inchquist if we put in an appearance, sis."
The Hallidays had passed muster. Though purse-pinched, they were still sufficiently respectable to associate with Lady Denham's niece, to whom Georgie must be grateful, because she had apparently caused Andrew to think about something other than corpses and fallen comrades. Perhaps he was developing a tendre. Not that romance wasn't frequently a painful experience in its own right.
Agatha had been following the conversation. "Have you thought," she interjected, "what you are going to do with Marigold?"
Andrew's pleasant expression was replaced by a scowl. "Marigold ain't coming along. Dash it, Georgie, I know she's a friend of yours, but damned if she isn't the most tiresome, totty-headed, rattlebrained female I have ever met."
Georgie glanced at Tibble, who had given up all pretense of silver polishing to eavesdrop. "Not windmills, maggots," she murmured. "We have it on excellent authority."
Marigold walked into the room then, perfectly on cue. "So this is where you are all hiding!" she said, and chuckled, because of course it was absurd to think that anyone would hide from her. "Why are you talking about maggots? Good gracious, are those peas? Because if they are, I won't eat them. I dislike peas of all things."
Agatha pushed aside her receipts. "I thought it was cauliflower that you disliked above everything," she said.
"Did I say that?" Marigold opened her eyes wide. "If I did, I was mistaken. I'm sure it was peas. Not that I like cauliflower either, so don't think you may feed it to me!"
Perhaps Mistress Pigwidgeon might like a nice dish of powdered mole and fresh horse dung. Agatha got up from the table before she voiced the thought.
Tibble's memory might not be what once it was but he could still sense which way the wind was blowing. He clapped his wig on his head and beat a hasty retreat.
Marigold observed this sudden exodus. "Well!" she said. "At least you are glad to see me, aren't you, doggie?" She dropped gracefully to her knees beside Lump, and gave him a great hug. Lump was much more accustomed to swats than hugs. He rolled a bewildered eye at his master.
Awkwardly, Andrew got up from the table. Lump leapt up also, causing Marigold to lose her balance and sit down smack on her backside. "Oh!" she wailed.
Apologetically, Lump licked her face. Marigold screeched and flung up her arms to protect her head. Andrew curled his lip at this arrant cowardice. "Down, Lump!" he commanded "I mean it, Georgie. She ain't to come along."
Chapter Nine
The Promenade Grove, located between North Street and Church Street, was a favorite meeting place of the ton. There, amid green lawns and avenues of elms and flowering shrubs, ladies and gentlemen gathered of a morning to sip tea or chocolate and listen to the strains of a military band, or in inclement weather to sit and read journals in the elegant saloon where concerts were held in the rain. In the evenings, the Grove was illuminated with swags and garlands and festoons of brilliantly colored reflecting lamps. This particular evening's entertainment consisted of an Italian soprano warbling sentimental songs.
The Italians could keep the lady, Georgie thought, as she drew her shawl closer against the evening chill. A pity Marigold couldn't have come here in her place, because Georgie would much rather have stayed home with her new book. Andrew, at least, appeared to be enjoying himself, and was engaged in an animated conversation with Miss Inchquist, who was as he had said, very freckled and very tall, and dressed not at all to her advantage in a gown of white gauze striped with blue, and an Austrian cap. Perhaps lack of sartorial discernment was a family failing, for Lady Denham also made a startling picture in a dress of raw gold silk, a great deal of topaz jewelry, and a satin turban made up in the form of a beehive and finished with a bow at the top.
From the animated expression on Miss Inchquist's face, Georgie concluded that her brother wasn't going on about fiery lakes of smoking blood, or corpses piled so high they were still warm the next morning, or carnage so severe that Wellington himself had wept.
Was Andrew developing a partiality for Miss Inchquist? Lady Denham would wish to look higher for her niece. Georgie was hardly helping Andrew's chances by wishing very much to kiss a man rumored to have murdered his wife, and having as a houseguest a lady who had trod the boards.
Lady Denham was occupied with another member of the party. Georgie was free to glance about at the other visitors to the Grove. Not, of course, that she expected to see Garth. Nor did she wish to see him, and if she did wish to see him she might perhaps find him upon the beach, but then he would only once again scold her and refuse to kiss her and then walk away. If he wished to kiss her, as he said he did, then why then did he not? Scruples, one supposed. Georgie marveled that she had so few scruples of her own, because despite everything she wished for Garth to kiss her, and never mind that he had a wife.
Georgie smoothed her gloves. Here was a conundrum worthy of Marigold. Georgie thought guiltily of her friend, who had not reacted well to expulsion from this invitation, had wept and raged and stormed as histrionically as if she still trod the boards. Never before had Georgie seen someone wring her hands.
Marigold's sense of ill-usage, her strenuous expressions of outrage, had lessened only when Georgie finally pointed out that a lady attempting to outrun the constable would hardly be prudent to parade herself about out-of-doors. Marigold had reacted to this good advice as might have been expected, scolding Georgie for reminding her of the tiresome troubles gathered round their heads. Yes, and what Georgie was doing to alleviate those troubles, Marigold couldn't see—not that she liked to mention it, because she did not wish to nag, but it was because Georgie knew how to fix things that Marigold had come to her in the first place. Moreover, if Georgie came home from this pleasure outing to discover that Marigold had died of the dumps, it would only serve her right.
Just how was Georgie to fix her friend's predicament when Marigold turned hysterical if pressed for details? Georgie might die of the dumps herself—or become a Bedlamite—if she was exposed much longer to her friend.
If only she felt free to confide in Garth. No doubt Lord Warwick was with his great friend Prinny this evening, enjoying a party at the Pavilion, a card assembly, or a ball, rubbing shoulders with well-bred ladies and others not so well-bred, for Prinny had an eye from the ladies, from actresses to other gentlemen's wives. Having contrived to thoroughly depress her spirits, Georgie sighed.
* * * *
Although he was not speaking to Miss Inchquist of smoking blood and warm corpses—indeed, had not once this evening thought about going out of the world by the steps and a string—Andrew's conversation with the young lady might be considered provocative all the same. It was not his side of the conversation that invited censure, however. Andrew merely attempted to
acquaint his companion with the history of Brighton, while in low tones Sarah-Louise lamented the unfeelingness of her various relatives, and covertly searched her surroundings for a certain poetical profile. "I am very much afraid that they wish to marry me off!" she whispered, with a nervous glance at her aunt.
Miss Inchquist didn't wish to be married? Andrew made an innocuous comment about an ancient flint dagger discovered in the chalk cliffs. Then he lowered his voice. "Surely you are too young," he said.
This was an unfortunate response. Sarah-Louise's brown eyes filled with tears. "No, I am not! But my papa cannot approve, and so they have sent me here, and I do not know if I shall ever see Peregrine again. He is a poet, did I say? I don't know if you can understand this, but no one has ever written poetry to me before, or probably ever will again."
Lieutenant Halliday looked startled. He must think she was a little loony. Sarah-Louise flushed. "Pray forgive me. I should not be talking to you like this. I do not know what has come over me except that I have felt so very much alone."
Andrew could sympathize. He'd felt that way himself. Not over a poet, of course, but the principle was the same. Miss Inchquist was a good sort of girl, and he thought it a pity she shouldn't be permitted to marry whomever she pleased. Although he still wasn't convinced she was old enough to be thinking of marrying anyone. Sarah-Louise clutched his arm. "He came," she breathed. "Peregrine!"
Andrew saw a handsome profile turned in their direction. The poet, no doubt. He looked like a poet, dressed in a startling array of colors, with a shockingly unstarched cravat, and dark hair tumbling dramatically over his pale brow. "Lieutenant Halliday, you must help us," whispered Miss Inchquist. "Please."
Much as he might wish to, Andrew could hardly refuse his companion's request, or her beseeching gaze. Since the Gorgon was eyeing them he said, "There are the remains of a Stone Age camp on the hill overlooking the racetrack. Saxons following a chief called Aella secured the hill and made it theirs. Brighton is first mentioned in the Anglo-Saxon chronicles of the seventh century as 'Beorthelm's-tun,' the town of Beorthelm."
'Twas an innocuous enough conversation, decided Lady Denham, although she didn't know that she cared to have her niece's mind stimulated by mention of half-clad barbarians. "I have monopolized you for too long," she announced to her companion. "Go and talk to Sarah-Louise. You will find her a good biddable girl. Everything that is proper. Exactly to your taste."
Carlisle Sutton wasn't at all interested in good biddable girls, particularly those who regarded him as if he were the greatest beast in nature. Neither was he interested in further boring conversation with his hostess, with whom he had been long acquainted, for she had been married to a distant relative, who was now happily deceased. His gaze fell upon the remaining member of the party, an elegant, lovely lady dressed in a yellow muslin gown trimmed with white ribbon. Her fair hair, which had begun the evening in a severely classical style, had partially escaped its moorings to curl around her face. She tugged at her gloves.
Here was someone who looked as bored as Carlisle felt. He excused himself from his hostess and made his way to her side. "There is a tiny village in the Rajasthan Desert that boasts a temple dedicated to the glory and protection of rats," he remarked. "Temple devotees believe the rodents house the spirits of their ancestors, and take care not to injure them, and provide them with a sumptuous meal each day."
Georgie blinked at her accoster, whom she already knew as Lady Denham's distant relative, recently returned from abroad. Mr. Sutton cut a fine figure in his corbeau-colored dress coat, white marcella waistcoat, evening breeches of black Florentine silk. There was something of the barbarian about him. She wondered if he was a reprobate. "You are not impressed with your surroundings," Georgie guessed.
Carlisle snorted. "No more than you, Lady Georgiana. I have observed you fiddling with your gloves. Shall we rebel against convention, you and I? You take off your mittens and I'll untie this damned cravat."
He looked as though he might well do so. Georgie laughed aloud, earning a startled glance from Sarah-Louise, who did indeed consider Mr. Sutton with horror, due less to anything he had done than because her aunt had started dropping very particular hints.
"Much better," said Carlisle. "You have a very nice laugh. I believe I would like to hear it again. Shall I tell you the strange tale of the Nabob of Oudh? Or describe the feat of fire-walking for the gods? You would not like to hear about Calcutta. It is a pestilential town with few decent roads."
Somewhat to her surprise, Georgie found that she was enjoying herself. Furthermore she definitely didn't wish to kiss Mr. Sutton, reprobate or not, which relieved her no little bit. "I think you could make any story amusing, did you wish to, sir," she said.
"Do you?" Carlisle, too, was enjoying himself, or as much as was possible for him to enjoy himself in this wretched country and this absurd Grove with its gawky trees and zigzag alleys and unskilled musicians performing in a wooden box. "Let us put it to the test. I will tell you about the cent-per-cent rascals of Leadenhall Street." He proceeded to do so, with such ironic vituperation that Georgie laughed again. "You seem to enjoy your life in India," she said.
"Queer in me, isn't it?" Carlisle winced as the soprano strove for a particularly ambitious note. "I only returned to this benighted country to settle my uncle's affairs."
Georgie experienced not so much as a shiver of foreboding as a result of this remark. "Your uncle is deceased? I am sorry for your loss."
It was a different female who would be made to feel sorry. "There is no need," Carlisle replied. "My uncle died as he might have wished. He was quite old, and apparently in his dotage. There is some irregularity about his affairs."
Perhaps a little prickling of gooseflesh did visit Georgie then. "Oh?" she said.
Only a few days in this wretched country and already Carlisle was become mealy-mouthed. "To give you the word with no bark on it, the old fool married an actress."
Now apprehension did smite Georgie, with the force of a lightning bolt. "An actress," she echoed.
Well might Lady Georgiana look shocked. "Moreover, the little baggage has made off with something she should not," Carlisle continued. "Which I mean to get back if I have to track her to the ends of the earth."
Here was a faint ray of hope. "You do not know where she is?"
Hope, alas, was quickly dashed. "I know that she is in Brighton," Carlisle replied. "I assure you, Lady Georgiana, that I will find her out."
Unfortunately, Georgie could not doubt him. "Is it possible, Mr. Sutton," she ventured, "that this may all be some terrible mistake?"
"No mistake," Carlisle replied grimly. "I'm going to wring her avaricious little neck." He regarded Georgie. "You are not much like your cousin," he remarked.
Despite the abrupt shift in conversation, Georgie had not the least doubt of which cousin Mr. Sutton spoke. "You knew Catherine?"
Now it was Carlisle who was startled. "Knew her?" he repeated. "Past tense?"
How well had Mr. Sutton known Catherine, and when? Just because Georgie did not wish to kiss him didn't mean that another woman might feel the same, and Catherine had been a dreadful flirt. "You have not heard the gossip, then?"
Carlisle frowned. "I have little time for gossip. Has something happened to your cousin, pray?"
Perhaps Georgie could help to solve Lord Warwick's mystery. Perhaps as a reward he might kiss her again. "I dislike to repeat the story, but I might as well, since if I do not you will hear it somewhere else." She told Mr. Sutton of her cousin's disappearance, and of the rumors that had persisted ever since. "How was it that you knew Catherine, sir?"
Mr. Sutton did not think he wished to answer that question. Life in India had taught Carlisle to play his cards close to his vest. "You are very interested in Catherine," he remarked.
"Why should I not be? She was—or is—my cousin." Even to her own ear, Georgie sounded defensive.
Mr. Sutton smiled. "We return to the present tense
."
Why had Georgie thought she liked Carlisle Sutton? He was the most aggravating man. Or perhaps it was simply in the nature of gentlemen generally to be aggravating. Lord Warwick sprang to mind. "Sometimes I think if I knew where Catherine was, I would throttle her," Georgie admitted. "Although I should not say so. The truth is that we were not very close."
Here was more of that damnable English reticence. "Why not say so, if that's the way you feel?" Carlisle asked. "At any rate, I doubt Catherine was bosom bows with any attractive female. She would have seen you as a rival. No, I am not emptying the butter dish over your head. You are a lovely woman, Lady Georgiana."
How dispassionately he complimented her, as if he were merely stating fact. Georgie had been complimented before, and frequently, but not for a long time. She found herself sorry that she did not wish to kiss Mr. Sutton. "Thank you," she said. "Now Garth has come to Brighton. I cannot think how it will all end."
Lady Georgiana seemed unusually partial to her vanished cousin's spouse, which did not elevate that gentleman in Carlisle's opinion. "You are certain Warwick is here in Brighton?" he asked.
Of course Georgie was certain. She had not had a moment's peace since the morning she met his lordship on the beach. "I have spoken with him myself."
Having disposed of one wife, was Warwick already on the dangle for another? Carlisle glanced down at his companion, whose expression was remote. Lady Georgiana's yellow dress was obviously refurbished, and the pearls around her throat far from the first quality. Had the lady access to a fortune, she did not display it on her person.
Lady Georgiana's pearls put him in mind of another, far more valuable, necklace. Like Sarah-Louise and Georgie before him, Mr. Sutton surveyed the fashionable throng. His attention was caught by a golden-haired lady in company with a multicolored and singularly ugly dog.
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