Cupid's Dart

by Maggie MacKeever

  "Oh," said Sarah-Louise, in a little voice. "I must have misunderstood."

  "Yes, you did," retorted Andrew. "I was asking Marigold why you would wish to elope."

  "Oh," Sarah-Louise said again.

  Mr. Inchquist and Lady Georgiana looked at one another. "As I live!" Mr. Inchquist remarked. Said Lady Georgiana, "Which reminds me, where is Mr. Sutton? He did not accompany you here."

  Quentin was still watching her brother and his daughter. The girl had some gumption after all. "Sutton said he had some business to attend to. I hope you will forgive my boldness, Lady Georgiana, but your brother is not well?"

  Mr. Inchquist's boldness was quite understandable, considering that his daughter and Andrew were casting sheep's eyes at one another. "It is only a fever that he brought back from the Peninsula, and which sometimes recurs," Georgie said. "The doctor thinks those episodes will grow less and less frequent with the passage of time."

  "The Peninsula," Quentin repeated judiciously. "Connaught's Boys. The Devil's Own. Nothing wrong with that. But still—"

  Georgie interrupted. "Mr. Inchquist, you have seen us at our worst. Under normal circumstances, we are so unexceptionable as to be positively dull. All this muddle is the fault of Marigold—"

  Now Mr. Inchquist interrupted. "The lady behind the couch?"

  "I was not here to see it," admitted Georgie, "but that sounds like Marigold. She would have been hiding from Mr. Sutton, because she was married to his uncle, and has something in her possession that he wishes her to return. Except that it isn't in her possession anymore."

  Mr. Inchquist was fascinated. "Extraordinary," he said.

  Extraordinary, indeed. "You know how you do not wish to talk about the circumstances in which you found your daughter?" said Georgie. "That is how I feel about Marigold. As for my brother, I should perhaps explain that he is not exactly on the brink of poverty, despite the simple way we live. He has his prize money, of course. As well as properly in Devonshire. My uncle is overseeing it until such time as Andrew wishes to shoulder the responsibility. Additionally—" She explained her father's trust.

  Quentin frowned at her. "And what of yourself?"

  "I have my dowry," retorted Georgie, who was wearied beyond measure by all this fuss about finances. "My father discussed it all with me before the papers were drawn up."

  Lady Georgiana's papa would have assumed she'd marry, and thus be provided for. Quentin wondered why she had not. Thought of daughters recalled to him his own, who showed signs of growing positively fickle, he thought.

  Andrew was experiencing a similar notion. "Then who did you wish to elope with?" he inquired. "If not Teasdale or Sutton, who else was dangling after you?"

  Sarah-Louise blushed even brighter at the notion that someone should dangle after her. "No one!" she protested. "I am not—That is—Oh, g-gracious, it was you! Not that you were—Of course you couldn't—A great freckled beanpole like myself! But I—Oh, drat!"

  Andrew was moved by this pretty speech. "Of course I do!" he said. "But I cannot—" And then he spoke a great deal of nonsense about honor and unworthiness, and she had grown very precious to him, and he would much rather she was a beanpole than a nonpareil, and curst cripples who did not dare think of such happiness.

  Again, Mr. Inchquist and Lady Georgiana exchanged glances. Georgie was relieved to see that Mr. Inchquist looked amused. "Tell me, boy," he interrupted. "Would you like to marry m'girl?"

  Now it was Andrew who flushed. "More than anything!" he said. "But—"

  Quentin held up his hand. He was a gentleman who believed in cutting to the chase. Someone needed to take the responsibility of Lieutenant Halliday off his sister's shoulders. The boy needed stiffening up. A wife and family would do that for him. And a determined papa-in-law. Quentin had never shied away from a challenge. "No buts! If not for you, Sarah-Louise might have come to such grief as would make it impossible for her to honorably marry anyone. And she's showing signs of turning into a shocking flirt, so we had better get her married off. Don't poker up, puss! I spoke in jest. Are you sure you wish to marry this young man?"

  Sarah-Louise's cheeks had by this time achieved the rosiness of a ripe tomato. "Yes, Papa," she said.

  "That's settled, then." Quentin announced. Sarah-Louise and Andrew stared rapt at one another. Mr. Inchquist turned back to Lady Georgiana, who looked dazed. "I'll warrant they'll rub along as well together as two ducks on a pond. More important, he'll do right by my girl. I wouldn't see her married to someone who would not." Now that they were practically related, he did pat Lady Georgiana's knee. "I had not wanted to mention it earlier, but Amice said something about some sort of scandal, not that it will signify. We have just narrowly avoided a scandal of our own. I was curious merely as to what she spoke about."

  "Scandal?" Georgie wondered for a moment if Lady Denham knew she had sat on Magnus Eliot's lap. "She must have been referring to Garth. Lord Warwick was married to our cousin Catherine. Or is married to her. She has disappeared."

  "Oh, if that's all!" said Quentin. "And you had it right the first time. The only remarkable thing is that Warwick waited so long to apply for a divorce. Naturally, there will be talk, but there already was talk, so it seems to me that he's done the right thing."

  Garth had applied for a divorce? Georgie was nigh speechless. In her agitation, she pushed Lump off her lap and onto the floor.

  Lump whined. "Quiet!" said Mr. Inchquist, so sternly that Lump sat abruptly down. Quentin regarded Lady Georgiana with some concern, so strange was her expression. "Ma'am, are you unwell?"

  "Divorce!" Georgie managed to whisper. "Mr. Inchquist, are you certain of this?"

  Quentin was more than certain. He had just come from Town, and the ton was all abuzz. "Sure as the devil is in London," he said cheerfully, as Agatha returned to the drawing room with additional teacups.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Wearied and more than a little exasperated by the day's events, Carlisle Sutton returned to his lodgings to find his uncle's widow waiting there. Again she wore boy's clothing. Carlisle glanced at the window, which was closed. "The innkeeper let me in," said Marigold. "I said I was your nephew."

  She looked like no one's nephew that Carlisle could imagine. Her hair was tumbled down around her shoulders, because she had taken off her cap. "You surprise me," Carlisle said. "I thought you had skipped town."

  Marigold's breast heaved. Or it would have heaved, were it not bound up so tight. "Pray do not make this more difficult than it is already!" she snapped, because she had worked herself into a fidget while waiting for Mr. Sutton to return, and now was trying not to notice that he was taking off his coat. "I have decided that I must not be always looking to other people to get me out of scrapes. So I have come to take my medicine."

  Carlisle tossed aside his coat and loosened his cravat. "You look as though you expect to swallow something very sour. I promise it will not be so bad."

  Marigold did not think it would be bad at all. That was not the point. "I am perfectly aware that I must redeem your uncle's necklace," she said stiffly. "It is the only honourable thing for me to do. I am also aware that I shall never be able to lay my hands on twenty-five thousand pounds."

  It was not money that Carlisle wished to lay his hands on at that moment. "You look hot in that jacket," he suggested. "Why don't you take it off."

  Mr. Sutton appeared a trifle warm himself. He was unbuttoning his shirt. "And," Marigold continued with determination, "I am also aware of your terms."

  She looked very stubborn. Carlisle folded his arms across his chest. "Are you come here to quibble, Miss Macclesfield? I had thought more of you than that."

  The man thought nothing of her, and well she knew it. Marigold wished he would fasten up his shirt. "My name is Marigold, not Miss Macclesfield! I did not come here to quibble, but to do what I must. Still, I wish you to know that I am not a Paphian girl!"

  How absurd she was, and how absurdly charming. Carlisle replied, "Who s
aid you were? On the other hand, nor can you claim to be an untried maiden— Marigold."

  Marigold was offended by this assessment. "That was different. I married them first!"

  Carlisle frowned, and drew his shirt closer around him. "You can't wish me to marry you," he said.

  Marigold stared at him in horror. "Good God, no! I meant only that this is all very strange."

  Matters were to become even stranger. There came a knock at the door. "Sutton, I know you are in there. We must talk."

  Marigold grabbed her cap and jacket, and scuttled under the bed. Carlisle opened the door. Magnus Eliot stood in the hallway. "Do I interrupt?" he asked. "The innkeeper said you had a guest."

  Mr. Eliot's voice was heavy with innuendo. The innkeeper had not been deceived by Marigold's costume. "What brings you here, Eliot?" Carlisle inquired.

  "A conversation with Warwick." Magnus stepped into the room. "Apparently I have something that rightfully should be yours, and his lordship would be most grateful if we dealt with the matter between ourselves." Which removed Lady Georgiana from the equation, to Magnus's regret. Had the lady been a little more wicked, or he a little less—but one might as well wish for the moon, as Lord Warwick had succinctly pointed out.

  Carlisle Sutton would have liked to be privy to that conversation. "You want me to give you the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds. I believe that was the figure. Have you brought the gem with you?"

  Magnus reached into his pocket and removed a jewel case. "You are welcome to the bauble. It has recently come to my notice that having the thing in one's possession is an invitation to thieves."

  Beneath the bed, Marigold squirmed and tried not to sneeze. If only she could see! She scooted forward on the dusty floor just a little, and then a little more. Perhaps the gentlemen were so rapt in their conversation that they would not notice her. Slowly, carefully, she lifted up the bedspread and peered out. And then she scrambled out from beneath the bed, and leapt to her feet. "Leo! What the devil are you doing here? And where the devil have you been?"

  Mr. Eliot, for his own part, regarded Marigold with appreciation. "The beautiful ninnyhammer. I should have guessed. Don't eat me, Marigold. I didn't plan that matters should turn out as they did." He glanced at Carlisle Sutton. "Did I do you so great a disservice, after all, by shabbing off?"

  So great was Marigold's agitation, so deep did her breast heave, that the buttons on her shirtfront popped. Marigold clutched at the edges of her garment. "You played fast and loose with me," she said, with immense dignity. "You broke my heart!"

  Magnus eyed Marigold, and then Carlisle Sutton. "Hearts heal," he observed. "I suppose I should inquire, Sutton, if you are harboring intentions of a dishonorable nature toward my wife."

  "Your wife?" Few things had the power to startle Carlisle, but he stared now at Marigold. "You are married to Magnus Eliot?"

  Marigold looked from one man to another in bewilderment. "I was married to Leo. And then to Mr. Frobisher and Sir—Oh!" She paused, appalled. "If Leo is still alive—"

  "Then you weren't married to those other gentlemen," Magnus said cheerfully. "Damned if you haven't become shockingly loose in the haft, Marigold."

  "Of all the unjust things to say!" Marigold rested her hands on her slender hips, leaving her shirt to gape open as it would. "Who is this Magnus Eliot? You told me your name was Leo!"

  Magnus shrugged. "I lied. It is a habit of mine. Precisely why I lied in this instance, I cannot recall. Now that you remind me, my middle name is Leo, although I have not used it in some years. As for the last name I used—what was it, do you recall?"

  Certainly, Marigold recalled. "Flitwick!" she said.

  Magnus's dimple flashed. "Ah, yes. Now I remember. What a delightful honeymoon we had, before I was forced to disappear."

  "Before you took a powder!" Marigold grabbed her jacket and yanked her little pistol out of a pocket. "And left me with the reckoning. What a hateful wretch you are, Leo. Or Magnus! Pray tell me why I shouldn't shoot you dead."

  With one swift movement, Magnus divested Marigold of the pistol and drew her into his arms. "Because you are my wife. Remember?" Wickedly, he smiled. "Marital difficulties can be much more easily resolved. I'll make you a different bargain, Sutton. I'll give you the emerald. You give me back Marigold."

  Marigold struggled. "Damn you, Leo! You can't mean to take up where we left off."

  Of course Magnus did not. A wife would be most inconvenient in his line of work, unless she was sharp enough to help him in the gulling of lordlings, which Marigold demonstrably was not. For that matter, Magnus doubted that Marigold was in truth his wife, since the marriage had taken place under an entirely spurious name. But females were contrary creatures, bless them, and as soon as he told Marigold that he did not want her, she would wish he did. "Why not?" he said, therefore. "You are my wife."

  Her poor Leo, so cherished in memory, revealed as this odious loose-fish? Marigold kicked and flailed. "I don't wish to be your wife! You abandoned me, you cad. Indeed, I do not think I ever wish to set eyes on you again in all my life. Now unhand me, at once!"

  Magnus did so, abruptly, not because of Marigold's words but because she had kicked him in a tender spot. Marigold swore again as she landed on the floor.

  "Do you know, I don't think I wish to be married to you, either," remarked Magnus, as he rubbed his injured shin. "You have turned into a termagant. Now, Sutton, about that emerald."

  Carlisle had been following these proceedings with no little fascination, and more interest than he would have imagined. "I have a suggestion. For a consideration, I will take her off your hands."

  Did Mr. Sutton not take Marigold off his hands, she would cost him a great deal more than twenty-five thousand pounds. Magnus held out the emerald. "I wish you joy of her," he murmured, and made Marigold a mocking little bow.

  The door closed behind him. Carlisle looked at Marigold, who still sprawled where she had fallen. "Lady Georgiana has been hiding you all along," he said, as he pulled her to her feet.

  Marigold brushed dust off her clothing. "Are you angry with Georgie? You should not be. I gave her no choice." Though Mr. Sutton had not removed his shirt, he had not fastened it, either. Marigold stared at his chest. "Am I mistaken, or did you just buy me from Leo?" she asked.

  The notion was not particularly shocking to a gentleman who had spent a great deal of time in India. "Not precisely," Carlisle murmured. Marigold's shirt had lost all its buttons in the scuffle, and consequently afforded a most tantalizing view. "Or maybe just a little bit. Unless you should dislike the idea."

  He pushed the shirt down off her shoulder. His touch sent shivers up and down her skin. "You are very wealthy, are you not?" Marigold inquired. "Because a fallen woman—which apparently I am, although I did not know it, so I am not entirely certain that it counts—should think about such things."

  "Very, very wealthy." Carlisle picked her up into his arms.

  Heavens, but it felt good to be carried in such a manner. Neither Sir Hubert nor Mr. Frobisher—And Leo—

  The devil with Leo. That was then and this was now. Still, Marigold wished a certain reassurance. "I shan't go to gaol?"

  How blue were the eyes that regarded him so warily. How golden was her hair. How pretty the plump breasts that he was releasing from their binding.

  Carlisle had captured his tiger. He didn't think he would be able to behead her for some time. "I was thinking more along the lines of India," he said.

  Marigold's eyes widened. "India?"

  "India is a country of many contrasts." Carlisle ran his fingers through her hair. "Calcutta. The jungle. Camels and monsoons and peacocks. Would you like to ride an elephant, do you think?"

  Marigold thought that what lay on the road ahead might be very interesting indeed. "What an excellent idea. I believe I should like that above all things." And then she gasped, because Carlisle had clasped the emerald around her neck.

  "I've long had a desire to see you wear
ing this," said Mr. Sutton, "and nothing else."

  Marigold giggled, and pulled off her boots.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The hour had grown somewhat advanced by the time Lord Warwick presented himself at Miss Halliday's front door. Tibble opened that portal. Garth prepared yet again to explain who he was. Before he could do so, Tibble spoke. "Warwick!" The butler beamed. "I got it right, didn't I?"

  The old man's air of triumph was disarming. "Indeed you did," his lordship replied gravely. "Now may I come in?"

  Tibble's smile faded. "You aren't really a groom, are you?" he asked.

  Once again, Garth reflected upon the strangeness of Georgie's household. One would grow used to it, he supposed. "As a matter of fact, I am a marquess. Now will you please stand aside?"

  "A marquess?" The smile returned to Tibble's face. "Then that's all right! You'll find Mistress Georgie in the drawing room." Tibble did not lead the way, as his lordship already knew it, but instead hastened to the kitchen to impart these tidings before he forgot what Warwick had said he was.

  Georgie was in the drawing room, exactly as predicted, although Lord Warwick had not expected to find her sitting beside Lump on the faded rug. She was frowning over a letter. The hound's great head was in her lap. Lord Warwick cleared his throat.

  "Garth!" Georgie scrambled to her feet. Lump opened one eye, recognized Lord Warwick, wagged his tail, and went back to sleep. All this jauntering about—and eating things one shouldn't—took the juice out of a fellow. Lump needed to rest and regain his strength.

  Georgie stepped over her recumbent pet and held out the letter. "You have been very busy. It would appear that now I am in your debt."

  Lord Warwick did not take the proffered letter, but instead closed the door behind him. To insure that it stayed closed, he wedged a chair beneath the knob. Then he turned back to Georgie, who was watching him with considerable interest. "Magnus Eliot asked me to bid you his farewells."

  "Oh? Mr. Eliot is leaving Brighton?" Georgie inquired cautiously, as she eyed the barricaded door.