by Joan Smith
“I’ll have to send someone into town to have my own sent out,” he informed her. “I’ll send Agnes a note as well, to explain what happened. It will take a couple of hours. We might as well relax. Maybe we can get some cards to pass the time. I won’t suggest a walk.”
“I’ll suggest a straitjacket if you do!”
“Cards it is.”
“Good! This is my chance to make some money from you, to tide me over till the next quarter,” she said happily. “Let us call for more wine and enjoy ourselves in the interval.”
One bottle of wine had miraculously disappeared in the quarter of an hour in which the difficulty was being straightened out. When the servant came, Barbara suggested champagne would be a nice change.
Feeling somewhat culpable in the fracas, Clivedon nodded his agreement to this. Champagne was brought, along with a well-used deck of cards, which she took up.
They flew through her fingers as if by magic, while she shuffled and split like a Captain Sharp. “Before you suggest silver loo or all fours, let me inform you, it is piquet we are to play,” she told him. “Five shillings a point, and a guinea a rubber, to make it interesting?” she asked.
“That is likely to put you rather deeply in my debt before the two hours are up. Then, too, there is the matter of your being without funds,” he mentioned, smiling at her expertise.
“You, as my accountant, must know my credit is excellent, as I am never allowed to use it. Naturally I shall pay you interest, in the unlikely event of my losing.”
“Naturally, at ten percent, but it is the custom to pay one’s gambling debts without delay.”
“That comes as news to me. I am sure a hundred people at least owe me gambling debts which they do not hasten to discharge.”
“An Austrian custom, no doubt.”
“Also a French and Russian custom. One not unknown to John Bull as well, I might add.”
“You refer to the John Bulls who frequent Mrs. Duncan’s den, perhaps? Bad ton, Lady Barbara, and bad business too.”
“I only went once. How did you know it?”
“You know who my spy is.”
“She wasn’t there. Ah—Ellingwood! She got it out of him. He was there.”
“Trampling on you with all those left feet, was he?”
“No, he was losing his shirt at the faro table. I bet he didn’t tell her that.”
They played as they chatted. He was surprised at her clever calculation of the odds. She played well, and quickly, having an uncanny knack for the right discharge and guessing, or knowing, what cards he held. “That is your point,” he was soon obliged to acknowledge.
“Also my quint, I think?” she asked, laying out five hearts.
“You are lucky.”
“Luckier before you moved in your chair, hiding the reflection in the mirror behind you,” she said, laughing. “You to be taken in by that old stunt. I gave you more credit for bronze, Clivedon.”
“I didn’t look for a Greek’s tricks from a lady.”
“That depends on the lady. And besides, I didn’t have to tell you.”
He was down at the end of the first rubber, and realized he was not playing with an amateur. With more attention, he took the next one, but it was not easy. Luck as well had something to do with it. He had been dealt a good hand.
“Good gracious! We’ve drunk up the whole bottle of champagne!” she announced at the end of the second rubber.
“What time is it getting to be? My carriage should be here by now.”
He went to the proprietor, but it had not yet arrived, and he returned to play another around and order another bottle of champagne.
“I'm a little hungry after that long walk,” she told him. “Could we not have some sandwiches at least, Clivedon? The customary fare of we who don’t want our play interrupted. What a clever old gentleman he was, Sandwich, to have invented them.”
As they were drinking a good deal of wine, he thought it not a bad idea to eat something. Sandwiches were brought in, and they settled down in good earnest for another hand. The proprietor was soon there to announce the arrival of the carriage, but as they were midway through the set, they neither of them paid him much heed. They played on. As Babe drank, her discards became somewhat erratic.
“Damme! I discarded my club-guard, and there you steal my pique. I made sure I would pick up a king or queen.”
“I didn’t look for such carelessness from Captain Sharp. The wine is going to your head. Have some more.”
“That is my rubber,” he soon said.
“I’ll take the next one.”
“My carriage has been waiting half an hour. We’d better go. That is two out of three for me. You owe me one guinea and five shillings, lady.”
“You’re not going to cry craven on me and quit! Paltry behavior, not to give me a chance to make it up.”
“It is getting rather late.”
“Fiddlesticks! Your sister knows of our accident and won’t worry about us. Let us order a new deck. This one sticks to my fingers. I’ll think it a low trick if you don’t give me a chance to even the score.”
As Clivedon had not the least inclination to quit, but only suggested it from a sense of duty, he was not difficult to persuade to continue. The next rubber went well for Barbara, and she was crowing to him that after a little too much wine, another glass had the unaccountable effect of clearing her head. “Which has disappointed more than one gentleman,” she added unwisely.
He looked up quickly, ready to lecture.
“Gambling partner, I mean, of course.”
“Nothing but a cigar will clear mine,” he replied.
“Well, for goodness’ sake, why didn’t you say so? Have one. Go ahead. It won’t bother me. I like it. I’ll have a few puffs myself, if you’ll let me.”
“I don’t carry any with me.”
“Stoopid! The servant will get you one,” she laughed.
A cigar was brought, while they continued playing steadily, with a good deal of inconsequential chatter. The excitement of the accident, the unusualness of playing cards with a lady cardsharp, and perhaps the wine as well robbed the afternoon of any aura of reality for Clivedon. It was like a few hours out of the world, where convention was irrelevant. When she asked to be allowed a few puffs, he handed the cigar over without even finding it very odd, though he smiled to see her puff daintily, with short, light puffs. When there was a knock at the door, he called, “Come in,” without even looking up, but only a glance to see the wine was gone.
“Bring us some coffee, if you please,” he called over his shoulder. “We’ve had more than enough wine.”
The stricken face of his partner caused him to look to the door, with still no horror that it might be anyone other than their servant. There, framed in the arch, stood Sir Edward and Lady Dailey, toplofty friends from the city, relatives to Agnes’s husband, and famous in a small way for being interfering gossipmongers.
“Oh my God!” he said, dropping his hand of cards onto the table, with a wildly staring eye to Barbara, who appeared to be turning bright red. While he watched, she exhaled, and smoke puffed from her lips, while she quickly batted it away with her fingers.
Then she smiled nervously and curtsied, saying “How do you do?” in a strange, high voice.
“Clivedon! What the deuce is going on here?” Sir Edward demanded, shocked to the roots of his white hair.
While he demanded, his wife’s eyes slewed around the room, taking in the empty wine bottles, the ashtray, the two decks of cards, and the crumb-laden plate, indicating a prolonged gambling session. Lastly she looked to the culprits, who did not realize till they looked guiltily at each other what an appearance they presented. Clivedon’s hair was tousled from having run his fingers through it, and his cravate hung loose, jerked out of its knot an hour ago for greater comfort. Barbara was equally disheveled, her gown dusty from the walk and her hair mussed, with a few fine strands pulled loose to fall around her ears.
&
nbsp; Lady Dailey’s silence was of the ominous sort. She was rehearsing what she would say as soon as she got back to town.
“There was an accident!” Clivedon said, in a choked voice.
“That is why I stopped,” Sir Edward replied.
“Good thing we did, too!” his spouse declared indignantly, finding speech at last.
Clivedon glared at her, and his shoulders straightened defiantly.
“I saw Lady Barbara’s phaeton being dragged into the wheeler’s down the road and heard she was here. I thought she might need a lift to town, but I see she is in no hurry to be rescued,” Sir Edward said, in meaningful accents. Lady Dailey nodded her head in emphatic agreement.
Barbara felt once again the sting of hot water. She cast a mute eye on her protector, astonished to see his anger melting into a glow of mischief. He was nearly smiling. “No, no hurry at all, thanks just the same,” he said. “As you see, we have been passing the afternoon pleasantly while awaiting my own carriage. It has just arrived, they tell me, and we shall be on our way.”
“Is that a cigar you are holding, Lady Barbara?” the wife demanded.
“Yes,” she answered, dazed.
“I never heard of a lady putting a cigar in her mouth.”
“I never heard of one putting it anywhere else,” Clivedon pointed out.
She quickly handed it to him. “She was holding it for me while I added up our score,” Clivedon continued. “But if it offends you, Lady Dailey, I shall put it out at once. Or were you about to leave?” he suggested pleasantly.
This clearly formed no part of her plans. He butted it, and turned back to Barbara. “Well, do you know, we are even-steven? Two rubbers each. We’ll finish it off this evening, shall we? Sudden death. We really must be getting on. Very kind of you to stop by, Lady Dailey, Sir Edward. Thanks awfully, but we don’t require a lift to town.”
As he spoke, he took the lady’s arm and steered her to the door. She went, speechless, with just one last roving look over her shoulder to make sure she hadn’t missed any orgiastic detail.
Clivedon closed the door and leaned on it, casting a long, unreadable look on his companion, while she wondered whether she was in for a scold or, with luck, some intimation that he too was at fault this time. “Let that be a lesson to me,” was all he said, then he smiled, shaking his head, and walked to the table to look at her hand.
“Go and comb your hair. We’re getting out of here before they have half the town landing in to see the debauch. I give you that rubber, by the by. You were in a fair way to taking it. Had the king, eh? I thought so. Next time, however . . .”
“But aren’t you angry?” she asked.
“Angry? Why should I be? We did nothing wrong. I personally have not so enjoyed myself for weeks, and don’t intend to let the pleasure be robbed from the day by a pair of clapper-jaws like the Daileys. But mind, I don’t want you to make a habit of leading me astray, Babe,” he added, with a quizzing smile.
Chapter Eleven
Clivedon was at pains to describe the afternoon in his own terms to his sister before she should hear the other versions that were bound to be circulating around town. “It was unfortunate, but you could hardly be expected to sit idle for several hours. Surely there is nothing wrong in having a glass of wine and a hand of cards,” she answered reasonably. “I am surprised you should have been smoking in a lady’s presence, Larry, but if Barbara did not object, I don’t see why Lady Dailey should.”
“Barbara didn’t object. In fact, she was—holding my cigar for me when they arrived.”
Agnes laughed. “What of that? They cannot think she was puffing a cheroot, I suppose! But really, their talk is always colored out of all recognition. No one will think anything of it.”
“If the lady were anyone but Barbara, no one would. That’s the devil with having a bit of a reputation. Every little thing she does is magnified to seem like a crime.”
“At least it was you she was with. Had it been friend Gentz, that would be a different matter. The world will not suspect there was more to it than an accident and a game of cards, when Clivedon was her companion.”
Clivedon did receive a few jibes. He found a surprised stare pretty effective in setting down the impertinent. Lady Barbara was offered a few cigars, but never when she was with her guardian, and she did not see fit to tell him of it. Camfreys insisted he would arrange to have a cigar named in her honor, and in the old days it would very likely have been done, but when the suggestion met with horror, he made a joke of it and forgot it. The affair did not become serious enough to interfere with a more important step in Babe’s reformation that Clivedon was working on.
Before she was totally respectable, she had to appear at Almack’s and be seen to be not only permitted but welcome in that social holy of holies. His own and Lady Withers’ influence with the patronesses was to be the lever to raise Barbara to these heights. She was still a member at least, which had happily surprised him. Lady Jersey and Lady Cowper were invited to tea at Cavendish Square, where Barbara sat in her most demure gown, between her respectable relations. Another set of patronesses received a visit to their box at Covent Garden, and not less than four of them had the unexpected pleasure of standing up with Clivedon at balls that week. “We haven’t seen you at Almack’s lately, Clivedon,” Lady Jersey reminded him on this occasion.
“I plan to attend Thursday,” he told her. “Now that I am Lady Barbara’s guardian, I must escort her to such places,” he explained, not allowing any trace of strain to creep into his words.
“To be sure,” the lady replied, astonished. “Lady Barbara is going to come back to us, is she? So long as you bring her, it will be all right,” she allowed.
This was by no means a welcome, but he had at least given warning that she would attend, to divert the impact of her arrival. When the two entered the door on Thursday evening, they were accompanied by Lord and Lady Withers. Before they were three steps inside the hall, Lady Angela, never giving up the chase, dashed towards them, with her mother and Aunt Chloe in tow. Ellingwood too stepped forward with the greatest alacrity to claim a dance.
There were plenty of interested looks at the dasher, but this was only to be expected. There were, as well, enough distinguished friends to give an appearance of a welcome reception, and Clivedon and Agnes were on the alert to see that no gentlemen but acknowledged prudes got near her, at least for the first while. By then the excitement of this rare bird’s presence had worn off, and the whole party, including herself, relaxed.
There was another person present who claimed quite as much attention as the infamous Babe. This was Lord Romeo Rutledge, the younger son of the Duke of Stapford. He had been in Greece and Italy for the past fifteen years, in an effort to strengthen a pair of weak lungs that had affected him since childhood, and was just lately returned. He had left a sickly boy of ten, white-faced, hollow-eyed and studious. He returned still a trifle on the slim side, but with his eyes restored to a youthful luster, his hair bleached golden by the Adriatic sun, his soul full of the glory of Greece and the splendor of Rome, and his mouth full of the literature of each. He was a dreamer, an idealist, an artist, and an outstanding Adonis. He was also single and a pretty eligible catch, for though but a younger son, he was of noble blood, and it was not supposed that old Stapford would leave even a younger son quite penniless.
Lord Romeo had been in the country already for six months, but till the present had got no farther than Taunton. In that most unlikely of spots, he had discovered a serving wench of classical beauty, whom he had been painting and pestering, till her father, a publican, had taken the idea of sending her away to the country to be rid of the moonling.
Lord Romeo then packed up his pigments, and meandered on to London to seek another model. The ladies were all eager to meet him, but could not but be disconcerted to be told, with an innocent, searching smile, that their nose was too big, or their eyes too close together. There was no polite preamble to his verdicts. H
e came, he looked, he decreed. He cared not whether the body before his eyes was that of a princess, a duchess, or an upstairs maid. If physical perfection fell short of the Greek ideal, he had no use for the woman.
He had been staring at the doorway, alert for a model, for half an hour before Lady Barbara entered. His eyes widened upon observing her. For the occasion, her long blond hair was dressed à la Grecque, framing her classic face. Her white gown was draped in a vaguely Grecian line, and had as an edging a Greek key pattern done in gold. To match this, she wore gold-strapped sandals on her feet. From head to toe, she was designed to please him. Lord Romeo thought he was having a vision, after the manner of a desert traveler thirsting after water. He could not quite credit that Aphrodite or Venus had been reincarnated in the nineteenth century.
He walked with a palpitating heart to a good vantage point and stood stock-still, staring at her. He watched transfixed as she stood up to dance with a mere mortal, then, reassured that she was real flesh and blood, he got hold of a score pad and pen from the cards room and sat to sketch her. His hand trembled, but he knew it was not the makeshift nature of his drawing equipment that was at fault. Just so must the hand of Praxiteles have shaken when he modeled his Aphrodite of Cnidus. He was too distraught to do the goddess justice. He sat another quarter of an hour gazing at her, while several persons stared at him, nonplussed at his foolishness.
When he saw the vision being walked to the edge of the dance floor, he arose, trancelike, and wafted towards her. He came to stand face to face with her, not so much taller than herself, for he was of small but perfectly proportioned stature. He looked into her eyes for about fifty seconds longer than was seemly, then spoke. “I am Romeo of Athens.” His voice was low-pitched, well-modulated, a soothing voice. He did not bow, scrape a leg, or offer a hand, but just stood, gazing.
