by Joan Smith
“Woolen? My dear, the wind will cut straight through wool. Does it have a fur lining?”
“There is some fur,” Cicely said vaguely, thinking of her muff. She was becoming embarrassed at having to borrow so many of her hostess’s clothes.
Montaigne noticed that Sissie was looking particularly lively that day. He assumed it was anticipation of the visit to Bond Street that accounted for it. It struck him that her vivacity made Meg’s set look like painted corpses. Their only color came out of the rouge pot.
When he helped Cicely on with her woolen pelisse, she pointed to the beaver muff. “I didn’t say where the fur was,” she admitted. “I feel like a cheapskate, always borrowing from Meg. Is it very cold out?”
“Not terribly cold, but windy. I have a fur rug in the carriage.”
“If it’s too chilly, I can throw it around me for a shawl,” she laughed. “Start a new style. Meg thinks she’s being original by serving her guests apple tart this afternoon. I don’t know where she got the idea that’s something new. We have it at least once a week at Elmdale.”
“The novelty is introducing a touch of country into the city menu,” he explained.
“Perhaps my country duds will set a new style,” she said, but her offhand manner told him she didn’t really care what folks thought of her wardrobe.
He was coming to realize it was morals rather than manners that interested her. A surprising number of the ton didn’t appear to know the difference. Any debauchery was acceptable, so long as it was executed with style.
“I think not, Sissie. You are unique,” he said, and bowed.
“The worst-dressed creature in London, you mean,” she scowled.
“On the contrary. You are the only lady who has the bravura to carry off that bonnet successfully.”
She studied him suspiciously. “I shall look that word up in the dictionary as soon as I get home. I thought it had something to do with music.”
“I shall save you the trouble. It was a compliment.”
“Oh, in that case I shall tell Anne. She put in the fur lining.”
He arranged the fur rug over her knees and they were off. Cicely was about to introduce the subject of his novel, Chaos, when Montaigne spoke on a different matter that also interested her greatly.
“I had a note from Murray this morning,” he mentioned. “He’s eager to see Georgiana. Has Gresham returned the manuscript yet?”
“Not yet. He hasn’t had it long. I cannot expect him to ignore his own important work. I am dying to know what Murray thinks, though. If Sir Giles doesn’t return it soon, I shall ask him for it. I’d like Murray’s decision before I leave London. If he takes it, I might buy a fur-lined cape. They look so cozy, and I need a new winter cape. Are they very dear?”
“You won’t get much under a hundred pounds.”
Her bright eyes blinked in astonishment. “Good Lord! That much, just for a couple of pelts?”
Montaigne’s lips moved in amusement. “They come all the way from Canada,” he explained.
“They must all be rich as Croesus in Canada if they get that kind of money for their furs. I have half a mind to skin a couple of foxes and let Anne make the lining herself. I daresay she could do it. She’s very handy with her needle.”
As they entered Bond Street, her chatter ceased. She gazed in stupefaction at the storefronts and the members of the ton who had braved the wind to go on the strut. “Can we get out and walk now?” she asked.
Montaigne drew the drawstring and they alighted. “You’re looking very sparkish today, Sissie,” he said.
“I did some thinking last night,” she said with a long, meaningful look at him. “About your Aunt Irma, who has never seen the duchess. Odd how she described her to a T. Even the mole on her chin.”
“Beauty mark!”
“I shall make a note of that. On a duchess a mole is called a beauty mark. Don’t try to divert me, Montaigne. I’ve figured the whole thing out.”
He felt a jolt of shock but assumed he could talk his way out of it. “I was mistaken about Aunt Irma’s not having met Debora. Auntie does come to town occasionally. I recall she was here last winter to visit a doctor, now that I think of it.”
“Along with your Aunt Ethel?” Cicely asked with a conning smile.
“Ethel?” he asked uncertainly. He had a vague memory of some confusion as to the imaginary lady’s name earlier.
“You said it was your Aunt Ethel, from Cornwall, who wrote the book. I asked Meg if she ever got to Cornwall to visit her aunt. She says she has no aunt in Cornwall. You didn’t coach her properly, Montaigne. You ought to have known she’d require hours of instruction. I’ve caught you dead to rights, sir. You wrote that load of mush.” She burst into whoops of laughter, right in the middle of Bond Street.
He took a close grip on her arm. “Behave yourself! People are looking at you.”
“Let them look. It’s you they’d be staring at if they ever knew the truth. Lord Montaigne, the clever parliamentarian—and anonymous lady who wrote Chaos Is Come Again.”
Montaigne felt as if a deep, dark pit had suddenly opened before him. Ridicule, laughter, utter ruin for his career. He’d never be taken seriously again. He could forget being a minister when the Whigs took power.
“Shut up!” he cried, then stared around in horror as he realized what he had said—to a lady, on busy Bond Street. A passerby gave him a rebukeful look and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Sissie.”
“I wager you never spoke to Eugenie like that,” she said, and laughed again. “The purple pools would turn to waterfalls if you ever raised your voice to her. Oh, Monty! How could you? I took you for a sensible gentleman.”
The clever parliamentarian resumed control. He ushered Cicely into the farthest corner of a shop devoid of customers to reason with her. He would appeal to her sympathy. Sissie was a good-hearted, sensible girl. She’d understand.
“It’s true I wrote the book,” he said and continued to speak earnestly and at length. “I was under some mental stress at the time. Things going badly at Whitehall, and me laid up with that painful busted ankle, unable to help. Just the worst time of year for a broken heart—spring. The doctor suggested I needed a diversion. I began the thing as a mental exercise to ease the stress. After it had grown into a hundred pages, I took the notion that I might make some money for the orphans if I finished it and sold it.”
She looked and listened, then spoke. “That might do if you had written a different book,” she said. “But what you wrote was that silly pudding of a thing about Debora. You’d be laughed out of town if it ever came out, Montaigne.”
“I know it well. You’ve got to help me, Sissie. I’ll— I’ll buy you that fur-lined cape you want.”
She drew in a sharp breath and turned on him like a virago. “How dare you try to bribe me! If you had told me the truth from the beginning, if you had trusted me, I could laugh and take it in good spirit, but to use me like this! Lie to me! Lumber me with that farrago because you’re ashamed to admit you wrote it yourself. It is really the outside of enough, Montaigne. I took you for an honest man. I thought there was one person in wicked London I could always trust.”
“Serpent’s tooth! You can trust me.”
“It looks like it! How do I know you’re even giving the money to charity?”
“I can show you the receipt. You’ve seen for yourself how badly the money is needed.”
She believed he was donating the proceeds to charity and admired him for it but was not through quizzing him yet. “Do you know, Monty, I wager you’d sell thousands more copies if people knew you had written it. Every M.P. would buy a book, and another to give to his friends.”
His face froze in horror. “Sissie, you wouldn’t! You can’t!”
“We shall see,” she said.
The proprietor came forward and Cicely began to look over his wares. She bought a new snuffbox for her papa, and a pretty little silver pin box for Anne. Montaigne
watched, planning how he could prevent her from revealing his secret. Why hadn’t he told her the truth from the beginning? He should have made her secrecy a part of their bargain. Too late now. He was faced with the galling knowledge that whatever terms she set, he would have to abide by them.
He forced a sickly smile and ushered her from the shop. “Where would you like to go next?”
“I have to get Anne’s blue stockings. She’d have my head if I went home without them. And a graduated beaker for Cook.”
Montaigne, who abhorred loitering about ladies’ shops, spent the next half hour doing just that. While Cicely pondered the wisdom of buying two blue pairs versus one blue and one dark green to go with Anne’s green gown, Montaigne’s mind was on his own problem. He couldn’t bribe Sissie with money, but perhaps he could perform some favor in regard to her own novel. If Murray hated it, for instance, he would offer to publish it for her.
They continued on for another half hour, visiting a dozen shops of all sorts. Montaigne had not realized the range of merchandise from all over the world that was available in London. If he had not been so upset, he would have been bored witless. He didn’t see how his afternoon could possibly be any worse, but when he saw the Morlands strolling toward them, he knew he was mistaken.
The instant Morland spotted them, he came rushing forward, dragging Debora with him. “By Jove, just the folks I was looking for,” he said and bowed. “Debbie and I have been talking over that house party, Miss Cicely. Demmed shame you can’t come to us for Christmas. Love to have you. And you, too, Montaigne. We’ve come up with a solution. We’ll have a do next weekend as well. You can come to us then. Won’t take no for an answer.”
“I’m afraid I’ll be busy. Government business,” Montaigne said vaguely.
“Pity,” Morland said and returned his attention to Sissie. “I know you ain’t busy, Miss Cicely, for we stopped at Fairly’s, and Meg has already accepted. Told us we would find you on Bond Street. Said you had nothing on for the weekend. It’s all set, then. Next Friday, just for a few days. We’ll return Tuesday or Wednesday, just as you like. Hastings. Meg knows where it is. Nowhere near Hastings the city. It’s much handier to Town. In Kent, near Maidstone. Only a hop away.” He remembered his wife and said to her, “That’s right, eh, Debbie?”
“We would love to have you, Miss Cicely,” she said dutifully. Her amethyst orbs turned to Montaigne. “I’m sorry you can’t join us, Montaigne.”
“Actually, Miss Cicely won’t be able to get away, either,” he said. “She is writing a Christmas pantomime for Palin.”
“Yes, she told us all about it,” Morland said. “Dash it, they can’t expect her to be on hand for days on end only for a pantomime. I’ll fix it up with Palin, if need be. Won’t take no for an answer.”
Montaigne turned a fiery eye on Cicely. “I’m afraid you must decline,” he said firmly.
This was too much for Cicely. “I should love to go, Your Grace. I’m sure my Aunt Ethel won’t mind,” she said, directing her words to the duchess, who was not curious enough to inquire what her Aunt Ethel had to do with it.
“Lovely,” Debora said. Her attention had already wandered to a shop window. She nudged the duke’s elbow and said, “Look, Dickie! Mademoiselle Francoise has some new bonnets in her window.”
Morland was so pleased with his success that he allowed himself to be led off to buy his wife yet another bonnet.
Montaigne leveled a cold stare on his companion. “Shall we go home now, Miss Cicely?”
“Certainly, Lord Montaigne, for I am feeling a little chilly without a fur cape. Did you see the gorgeous lining in the duchess’s? Russian sable, I wager.”
“I offered to buy you one!”
“We shall forget that piece of impertinence, or I shall have to be angry with you, and I don’t want to. I have had a splendid afternoon, and I thank you for not saying all the horrid things you have been wanting to say. I wonder what can account for it?” she asked innocently.
He realized then that she had known all along what a horrible time she was subjecting him to while she loitered over the graduated beakers. And she had enjoyed every minute of it.
“Wretch!” he growled.
“Feeling colicky, Aunt Ethel? Never mind; at least you won’t have to spend the weekend at Hastings.”
“And that’s another thing! You’re not going there!”
“And where should I go instead, if Meg and Fairly are going? I can hardly move into your bachelor establishment, or even a hotel, without a chaperon.”
“I’ll speak to Meg. She can make some excuse.”
“We are going, Montaigne. But there is one crumb of satisfaction in it for you. It is halfway to Elmdale. I shall finish up any business of the pantomime with Mr. Moore before I leave, and return home to Elmdale from Hastings. You won’t have to worry about my revealing any embarrassing secrets.”
Montaigne knew he had been bested. And on top of it all, he would now have to eat humble pie. Call on the Morlands and say he had arranged to get the weekend off. His friends and colleagues would have a fine time ranting at him for the indiscretion of spending a weekend with the Morlands, when gossip hinted of trouble between them. Whatever it took, he damned well wasn’t going to let Sissie attend one of the Morlands’ wild weekends with only the Fairlys for chaperons.
* * *
Chapter 13
Over the next days, Montaigne was kept busy at Whitehall, arguing bills the Tories were trying to ram through without sufficient debate before the Christmas recess. Despite his busy schedule, he called several times at Berkeley Square. On each occasion, Miss Cicely and Lady Fairly were out. When he finally found them in on the fourth day, he hardly recognized Sissie. Her long hair had been shorn. What remained covered her head in a cap of bouncing curls. Her toilette was different, too. The navy gown she wore was modest enough, but it was not the sort of gown he was accustomed to see her wear at Elmdale. It was less ornate and more stylish.
She arose and turned all around. “What do you think? Will it do?” she asked with a certain eagerness that pleased him.
His first angry instinct was to say she looked wretched, but a second look told him the new style suited her uncommonly well. The saucy coiffure added to her gamine charm. “Very nice,” he allowed.
“Do you really like it? Meg’s French modiste made it for me. And the coiffure is called the Cheribime. Anne thought, when we saw it in the Ladies Magazine, that it would suit me. It’s easy to care for. I don’t have to put papers in at night.”
“That’s—er, convenient,” Montaigne said uncertainly. He was more interested to discover what important business had kept her away from the house all week. “I hope you haven’t forgotten business in all the rush of becoming a dasher.”
The ladies had been having an informal tea in the saloon when he arrived. Meg poured him a cup and passed him a piece of gingerbread.
“I’m pretty well finished with Moore. We’ve been shopping, visiting milliners and modistes, and, in the evening, darting about to parties,” Sissie announced, with such a beatific smile that Montaigne hadn’t the heart to chastise her. She had come to London to see how the ton behaved, and she was seeing it firsthand. “It’s been so lovely!” she said, her dark eyes glowing.
“We discovered the party at Hastings is going to be very grand,” Meg told him. “Close to a hundred guests. Every spare room full. Naturally for such a grand visit, Sissie had to buy a few things and have a new gown made up for the ball.”
“Ball?”
“Yes, the Morlands are having a grand ball at Hastings,” Meg said. “It is the half-year anniversary of their wedding. Dickie is keeping it a secret from Debbie, but he is having a special ball for her on the Saturday. He has been here half a dozen times discussing it with us.”
Montaigne’s lips thinned and his nostrils flared. He shot a scowling look at Sissie, who ignored it. “Surely it is himself who should be making the arrange
ments. I wouldn’t have thought it would take half a dozen visits, in any case.”
“It’s more than just the ball, actually,” Meg explained. “There is to be a musical evening as well. He has hired London musicians to perform. Sissie is helping Dick write new words for ‘Greensleeves.’ He’s going to sing it at the concert, as a sort of tribute to Debora. Of course he cannot practice it at home, or she’ll hear him, so he drops in here mornings. I play the pianoforte for him.”
At least Meg was here to play propriety, for what that was worth. “Where were you last evening? I stopped by after the session, around nine.”
“Last night? Now, let me see ... Spencer’s musical evening, was it? No, that was the night before. Oh yes, of course. Cousin Sabina had us to dinner, and one of those tedious games evenings after. Not even cards, but word games.”
“I won first prize,” Sissie said. She lifted an old-fashioned painted chicken-skin fan to show him. “Second prize was a box of bonbons. I would have preferred that.”
Montaigne had declined Sabina’s invitation, hoping to take Cicely to a livelier do. If she must be jauntering about without him, a musical evening and one of Cousin Sabina’s games evenings were exactly the outings he could approve.
“Excellent. That would be good research for you, Sissie.”
“Yes, I want to know the boring things as well as the exciting ones,” she said earnestly.
“If you’re free tomorrow morning, we can begin the tours of London,” he suggested.
“Thank you, Montaigne, but Mr. Witherspoon is taking me to Bedlam tomorrow,” she replied.
“And this evening?” he asked, reining his temper.
“The Morlands have invited us to Drury Lane with them.”
“You are seeing a great deal of the Morlands!”
“More of Dick than Debora, actually,” Meg said. “She has been feeling poorly, but she will be with us tonight.”
Fairly arrived and occupied Meg’s attention with some new gossip he had picked up at Brooks’s. Montaigne took the opportunity for some private conversation with Cicely.
