Cupid's Dart

by Maggie MacKeever

  And thus it also came about that Magnus Eliot met with Miss Halliday in a bedchamber, his clothing in disarray, and she in her nightrail. Under other circumstances Magnus might have enjoyed the encounter very well. However, they were not alone. Tibble and Agatha and Janie, each in nighttime attire, clustered around the bed. Tibble held a basin of cool water, while Janie wrung out damp cloths, which Agatha applied to Andrew's feverish brow. Lump, recovered now from his adventure with the apple tart, had to be restrained from leaping on the bed. Only Marigold was absent, not only because Tibble had omitted to inform her of this latest disaster, but because Agatha had liberally laced her negus with laudanum. "I've sent for a sawbones," Magnus said to Georgie. "You can't deal with this yourself."

  Georgie agreed. She had never seen Andrew so ill. "I don't understand. How did you come to—'" Her gaze flew to Magnus's face. "Oh, no."

  "He broke into my house looking for that damnable doohickey." Even in his current frame of mind, which was made up of equal parts annoyance and exasperation, Magnus could not help but appreciate the manner in which Miss Halliday's hair curled wildly around her head. She looked as though she had just got out of bed. Yes, and so she had, and Magnus would like to get back into bed with her, and not because he was so very tired.

  This was hardly a fit moment in which to be thinking of such matters, but Mr. Eliot was incorrigible. "It is very fortunate for young Lieutenant Halliday that I hold his sister in such high regard," he said, with a hint of his dimpled smile. "Else I would have had the young whelp up before the magistrates. He meant to rob me."

  What had Andrew been thinking? Georgie stared at the still figure on the bed. "He was also talking a great deal of nonsense about the Peninsula," Magnus added. He held out the dueling-pistol, which caused no small consternation in the room, and recalled to Tibble his desire to knock down a certain gentleman's applecart.

  "Stubble it!" said Magnus, and handed the gun to Georgie. "I assume this is yours. Your brother also mentioned twelve-pounders and limbers and caissons."

  Georgie sighed, and accepted the dueling pistol, which was one of a set that had belonged to her father. "Yes, I know. Corpses that stayed warm all night. Fiery lakes of smoking blood. I don't know what we are to do for poor Andrew. Nor do I know what to say to you about my brother's behavior, Mr. Eliot. Had Andrew been in his right senses he would never have tried to—to do what he did! I offer you my apologies, sir, in his behalf. And I thank you for returning him to us. If there is anything I can do to make it up to you—" Magnus's blue eyes twinkled. Georgie recalled to whom she was speaking. "Never mind!"

  Regardless of the audience, Magnus clasped Georgie's bare hand and raised it to his lips. "I am a marvel of discretion, my darling," he murmured softly, against her palm. "When the stakes are high enough." The doctor arrived then, and Mr. Eliot took his leave.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Upon his return to Brighton, Lord Warwick paused only long enough to remove his travel-dirt and take a bite to eat before proceeding to Miss Halliday's house. The streets were crowded with pedestrians and traffic, and his progress was slow. Therefore he arrived on Georgie's pristine doorstep in an exasperated mood.

  Tibble opened the door. Lord Warwick prepared to explain yet again who he was. Instead, the butler— whose wig was perched rakishly to one side—greeted Garth as though he were an old friend. "Lor', sir, it's that glad I am to see you! Master Andrew has come within ame's ace of turning up his toes. No need to go on the fidgets—he ain't gone off yet to kingdom come, for all the sawbones' brains are in his ballocks, or so Agatha says. I'm afraid we'll have the quacksalver back here for Mistress Georgie afore long, because she's fretting her guts to fiddle-strings. Maybe you can get her to take some rest afore she wears herself down to a nubbin." So saying, Tibble led the visitor to Andrew's bedchamber, and threw open the door.

  The room was small, dominated by a heavy wooden wardrobe and a large, carved four-post bedstead. Despite the warmth of the day, a fire burned in the hearth, and the windows were closed. The air smelled of juniper oil and peppermint. A young man lay sleeping—at least Garth hoped he was sleeping—on the bed. Georgie sat watching him from a chair by the window. Lump sprawled like a great deflated pillow in one corner of the room.

  Upon glimpsing her visitor, Georgie rose. "Garth! You have come back," she said, and then grasped Lump's collar before the hound could launch himself at the newcomer, whom he recognized as his liberator from the small tack room at the inn. "Lump, lie down!"

  The dog collapsed again into a dejected posture. Georgie hurried across the room and flung herself into Garth's arms. He held her to him and frowned at the goggle-eyed butler. Reluctantly, Tibble withdrew and repaired to the kitchen, where he would tell Agatha and Janie that Mistress Georgie was apparently falling arsy-varsy in amours with a lowly groom.

  Georgie clung to Lord Warwick as if he were the only stable force in an increasingly chaotic landscape. Andrew had been terribly ill, and she had been very much afraid. Through the night he had alternated between unconsciousness and periods of wakefulness that were almost more terrible, because he raved about the Peninsula. Fuentes, Almeida, Wallace and the wild Connaught Rangers, the sudden hailstorm at Albuera—all were as distinctly in Andrew's memory as if he were still there. And also as vividly in Georgie's imagination, alas, for she could have happily foregone the experience of going into battle with bayonet drawn, amid regiments with not enough men left alive to bury their dead. Nor would she herself ever have imagined a breakfast of beer and onions. She pressed her face against Lord Warwick's chest.

  If Georgie did not look, as Tibble might have put it, like a death's head upon a mop-stick, her gray eyes were still shadowed, and her lovely features drawn. "My dear," Garth murmured, "I am so very sorry that I had to leave you alone." This was clearly no fit moment to tell her of the reasons for that departure, though he longed to do so.

  This comment, unfortunately, reminded Georgie of the reason why Lord Warwick had left town, which in her mind had to do with Lady Denham's gardens, and the embrace they had shared there. Here she was, clutching at him like she was drowning. Did she not let go, Garth would probably leave town again.

  Georgie did not want Garth to leave town again, even if he was determined to keep her at arm's length. She removed herself from his chest.

  "There was nothing you could have done," she said. "Andrew has been prey to recurrent fevers ever since he came home from the Peninsula, though I have never seen him so ill as this. I confess that I have been frightened almost out of my wits." She gazed at the bed. "The doctor has bled him, over Agatha's protests. Agatha does not approve of the application of leeches. She prefers her own remedies, such as lemon water and sage tea and borage syrup, and heaven knows what else. The doctor was most insistent, and so I agreed. Andrew's illness is prone to recur when he is distressed. Garth, I cannot help but blame myself for this."

  "Don't be absurd." Georgie had not moved so far away from him that Garth could not draw her back into his arms. He did so, and smoothed down the wild mass of curls that tickled his nose. "It was good you had the sawbones in."

  It was also good that Georgie had so comfortable a chest to rest against. "That was Magnus Eliot's doing," said Georgie, and then could have bit her tongue, because she felt Garth stiffen. "Don't bother to tell me I shouldn't know Magnus Eliot, Garth, because as it so happens I do know him already, and Andrew was, er, with him when he became so ill, and Mr. Eliot was very kind."

  Garth had not reached the point of scolding, yet. He was still in shock. "Your brother was with Eliot?" Surely young Lieutenant Halliday wasn't such a flat as to fall into the clutches of a Captain Sharp. "Georgie, what has become of your family's fortune? Your father was a wealthy man. Although I know it is not my place to ask."

  "The money is in trust for Andrew. He will have the means to someday set up his own household." Reluctantly, Georgie stepped away from Garth. "If you are thinking Andrew a pigeon for Mr. Eliot's plucking
, you misjudge them both. For one thing, I have not yet told Andrew of the trust, because I know he will cut up stiff, and insist I share the money with him, which I will not do. For another, Andrew has no taste for gaming. If you must know the truth, Andrew was attempting a robbery. Mr. Eliot could have had him up before the magistrates, but instead he brought him home."

  "Attempting a robbery?" Garth sat down abruptly in the chair. "Let me guess. This is to do with the bird-witted Mrs. Smith."

  "Lower your voice." Georgie gestured toward the bed. "It was not Marigold's doing, precisely. Andrew came up with the notion all on his own, which makes sense if you think about it, because the idea of robbing Magnus Eliot is clearly the workings of an overheated brain, and that Marigold has a brain at all we have come to doubt." She sighed. "I should not have said that. Truly, I do not wish you to concern yourself with this nonsense, Garth. You have enough troubles of your own."

  So he did, and Georgie was chief among them. Soon enough his name would be again on every tongue. Garth had made up his mind that the devil might fly away with the gossips, so far as he was concerned. Georgie, however, was another matter. He did not wish that she should see her dirty linen aired in public, as his had been and was about to be again. But while he was trying to shield her from the consequences of their relationship, she had involved herself first with Carlisle Sutton, and now Magnus Eliot.

  Magnus Eliot! Garth had no doubt why Mr. Eliot had refrained from having Georgie's brother dragged off to gaol, and it wasn't from the goodness of his heart. "If Mr. Eliot has something that belongs to Marigold," he reasoned, "why doesn't she just ask him to give it back?"

  Georgie shook her head. "Now you are not thinking, Garth. Marigold and Magnus Eliot? Speak of a pigeon for the plucking! I have gone to great lengths to prevent that meeting taking place. And it is not that he has something that belongs to her, exactly."

  If Mrs. Smith did not know Magnus Eliot, how came he to have something that was hers? Before Garth could ask, Andrew tossed and mumbled on the bed. Among other incoherent utterances, Garth could have sworn he heard, "Twenty-five thousand pounds."

  Georgie had heard it also. She flinched, but Andrew said no more. "Is this whatever-it-is why Mrs. Smith has gone into hiding?" Garth asked.

  If only Mrs. Smith had hidden herself better on previous occasion. "Indirectly," Georgie said. "She is avoiding Carlisle Sutton. You already know that it was Mr. Sutton's uncle to whom Marigold was wed. Thank God he has not discovered that she is staying here. Pray ask me no more questions! I have already said more than I should."

  Garth did not consider that Georgie had said half enough. There remained, for instance, the matter of her feelings for himself. He would have liked to hear her say that she had missed him just a little bit.

  Not that this was any fit moment to press her about such trifles. "You are very loyal to your friend." Garth rose from the chair. "A great deal more loyal, I think, than she would be to you."

  Georgie could not refute the truth of this statement. "Just because Marigold is faithful only to herself doesn't mean I have leave also to go back on my word."

  Garth did not respond, but walked closer to the bed, and stood gazing down at Andrew. Lump raised his head and snuffled. The fire crackled in the hearth.

  Georgie could not like Garth’s silence. She wished, unfairly, that he would tell her that her troubles were nothing in comparison with his own. Or alternately that he would take her by the shoulders and force her to confess precisely what those troubles were. Too, though she had taken the time to change out of her nightclothes, Georgie had not slept and was consequently very tired.

  "Has the cat got your tongue?" she inquired. Then she had to persuade Lump that he must lie back down, because there was no feline intruder in the room with them. "Or is it that you have nothing to say if you cannot lecture me?"

  There were a great many things Lord Warwick wished to say to Georgie, none of them appropriate in that moment, unless it was to comment that she was behaving like a fishwife. He refused to be drawn into a brangle so that she might vent her spleen. "I wish that you might confide in me," he said merely. "Since you cannot bring yourself to do so, I will impose myself upon you no longer. Clearly you have more urgent matters with which to contend. Should you change your mind, you know where you may find me." He paused at the doorway, hoping that she might ask him not to leave. Georgie said nothing, and he walked out of the room, to go downstairs and vent his own spleen by scolding the remaining members of her household for allowing their mistress to wear herself to the bone.

  Georgie stared at the empty doorway. Why had she not confided in Garth when she had the chance? If anyone could untangle this coil, it was Lord Warwick, but pride had stopped her tongue.

  Georgie could not forget that every time Garth kissed her, he then drew away. This time she had not let him kiss her—now that she thought on it, he had not seemed to wish to kiss her, which further deflated her spirits—and he had gone away all the same. The fact that she had sent him away was quite beside the point. A gentleman who cared about her even just a little bit would not have paid attention to her nonsense. Georgie stomped on a burning ember that had fallen on the rug.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  As a result of Lord Warwick's scolding, Marigold was feeling guilty. She did not lack a conscience, merely needed periodic reminding of what was and was not right. Lord Warwick had reminded her of these things so forcefully that Marigold had decided, despite all they had in common, that she and his lordship wouldn't suit. It was a pity; Warwick was a handsome gentleman, and so very rich that he wouldn't miss a paltry few thousand pounds. He was also so damnably high in the instep that one would never ask him for a loan. At least Marigold would not. Perhaps Georgie—

  No. Georgie would never ask to borrow money she had no hope of paying back. Perhaps Lord Warwick would just give Georgie the money if he knew she needed it. Marigold toyed with the idea, then cast it aside. Georgie was too frugal to fall so deeply under the hatches, and Lord Warwick was most unlikely to haul Marigold's own coals out of the fire. He had made it very clear that he thought this entire muddle was entirely her fault, which was most unfair of him, because it hadn't been Marigold's idea that Andrew rob Magnus Eliot. Although now that she thought on the notion, it had a certain appeal. If she could steal the accursed emerald, she could then give it to Carlisle Sutton without having to part with twenty-five thousand pounds. Or she could take the emerald and keep it for herself and make a speedy departure from town. An enterprising lady could live for quite some time on the proceeds of a bauble worth twenty-five thousand pounds.

  As Marigold thus cudgeled her brain, she paced around Georgie's drawing room. She was not alone in the chamber. Andrew was ensconced on the uncomfortable striped couch, with a blanket over his legs, and an assortment of Agatha's medications—flea-wort mixed with rosewater and a little sugar candy, good to cool the thirst; sage tea with which to gargle; syrups of borage and endive—set out on a table nearby. Lump was stretched out on the rug in front of the sofa. Not trusting Magnus Eliot's sawbones, Lord Warwick had sent over his own man, and if that worthy didn't pronounce Andrew as fit as a fiddle, he assured them that the worst was past.

  Marigold took leave to question that opinion. Andrew in his convalescence was as cross as crabs, driving everyone to distraction with his demands and his fidgets, with the exception of herself, because she wasn't listening to a word he said.

  Of those words, there were plenty. Andrew had taken it upon himself to relate to his companion the entire history of the Peninsular War, not because he wished to elevate her mind, but because he hoped if he bored her to distraction, she might go away. Andrew was tired of being fussed over by well-meaning people, and although he could not help but be grateful to them for their efforts, he wished they would cease to try and coddle him. He was a grown man, was he not? Even if he had made a cake of himself as regarded Magnus Eliot. Now he would have to thank Mr. Eliot, as well as beg him not to
encourage Georgie sitting on his lap.

  Like Lord Warwick before him, Andrew had no doubt as to why Magnus Eliot had brought him home instead of before a magistrate. He paused in his explanation of how Napoleon had driven Queen Marie out of Portugal, thereby dominating the Peninsula himself. "I shall never understand females," Andrew remarked.

  Not unreasonably, Marigold thought Andrew still spoke of Queen Marie of Portugal, and so did not comment. She stepped over Lump, and sat down in a straight-backed chair. Marigold could not deny that her presence here had caused Georgie a great deal of trouble. Maybe she should just disappear.

  Marigold was not listening to him. This circumstance irritated Andrew even more. "There's no point you being here if you're going to sit there air-dreaming. Because to say the truth, I'd just as lief be by myself."

  So would Marigold rather be by herself, but Georgie had gone to fetch some medicine, and Marigold had promised in her absence to tend the invalid. Personally, she thought everyone was making a great fuss over nothing. No one enjoyed perfect health all the time.

  "Yes, and so would I!" she retorted. "But neither one of us is going to get what we want in this instance, because I vowed to Georgie that I would not leave you alone. You know, it is no wonder you are in such low spirits if all you think about is such dreary stuff as piles of warm corpses and bloody lakes. I do not scruple to tell you that if you continue to go on like that I shall be sick of the mulligrubs myself."

  Andrew was startled that anyone would remonstrate with him about his reminiscences. "You wasn't there!" he said.

  "No," retorted Marigold, "but I have been a great many other places, and not all of them were nice! And though I may not have seen my comrades fall in battle, I have lost three husbands. And I was fond of them all, in my own way. Though I know you think I am a shatterbrain, it is not true that I don't care. I care about Georgie and about you, because you are her brother, even though I know you don't like me above half." She looked at Lump. "I even care about that confounded dog. It is very selfish to be always thinking of oneself, Andrew, and I should know, because I have been told it often enough. It is plain to me that between the two of us, we are worrying Georgie half to death, and though I do not know what to do about it, it still makes me feel very bad."