The Indomitable Miss Harris

by Amanda Scott

  “Did you enjoy the dance, my lord?” she asked with a giggle that lurched rather unexpectedly into a hiccough.

  Landover’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement. “I did. Shall we return to our party now?”

  But Lady Sharon ignored the polite suggestion. She tossed her head flirtatiously and nearly stumbled as a result. “No hurry, my lord. The musicians are resting.” She smiled at Gillian, who was watching her in fascination. “How nice for you, Miss Harris, that Landover extends the field of his duties as your trustee to such pleasurable ends. I hope you don’t expect him to extend them further than this, however.”

  Gillian gasped and darted a look at Landover. His lips had thinned to a hard line, and his jaw was stiff with anger, but he maintained careful control over his voice. “People are beginning to stare, my lady, wondering why we stand like fenceposts. Let us return to your mother.” He placed a hand firmly on her upper arm, and Lady Sharon immediately leaned against him, gazing adoringly up into his stern face.

  “How considerate you are, Landover,” she crooned. “How thoughtful. What a lovely husband you will make, to be sure. And, of course,” she slurred musingly, “there’s all that lovely money. Just how much lovely money have you got, my dear?” There was a pregnant silence. Then, suddenly, her ladyship seemed to hear the echo of her own words and to feel the strong aura of disapproval they had engendered. The adoring look faded to one of shock just before her eyes glazed over entirely. She might well have crumpled to the floor at his feet had Landover, acting swiftly and with commendable presence of mind, not managed to scoop her into his arms. He strode quickly away with his burden, making only the brief statement that her ladyship had been taken ill.

  “Ill, my aching back,” commented one wag near Gillian. “That wench is drunk as a lord.”

  Word seemed to flit from one end of the room to the other, and Gillian saw Lady Edgware, a deep scowl on her plump face and that lethal lorgnette poised as though she’d like to strike someone, hurrying in Landover’s wake. Gillian went to join the others in her party but kept silent as they exchanged indignant comments with one another. Once she thought her brother looked at her a bit searchingly, but then he turned away again to reply to something Sybilla said to him, and Gillian could not be sure.

  Landover returned some moments later. He smiled at his sister. “Her mother has taken her home, and there’s little doubt the poor wretch is in for the trimming of her life. ’Tis a pity, too, for I’m as certain as can be that it wasn’t her fault.”

  “Well, you certainly cannot be expected to offer for her now, Landover,” Lady Harmoncourt said indignantly, “though who would have thought” that sweet child would have said such vulgar things to you—for we heard all about it, I can tell you, and I’ve not a doubt in the world that everyone else has heard by now as well. ’Tis clear enough she was under the influence, not that that excuses her, of course. But where do you suppose she got the drink?”

  “Some prankster, no doubt,” replied Landover. “Her cup was left sitting there in the open, you know. ’Tis possible that whoever did it didn’t even know whose it was. Any number of these young cubs have flasks in their pockets. You know that as well as I do, Abigail.”

  And there the matter was left to rest, but Gillian didn’t breathe easily until she had reached the sanctuary of her own bedchamber, where she slipped off her dress and wrapped a fleecy robe around herself to let Ellen brush her hair. They were chatting desultorily about Gillian’s evening when suddenly the bedchamber door was thrust open without ceremony, and Sir Avery stood glaring upon the threshold. He gestured briefly toward the maid.

  “Send her away, Gillian. I want a word with you.”

  Ellen gasped indignantly at such an intrusion, but Gillian realized there would be no denying him. “It is all right, Ellen,” she said quietly. “I can manage now. Go on to bed.”

  “Yes, miss.” She eyed Sir Avery askance. “Are you quite sure, Miss Gillian?”

  “Quite sure. Good night.”

  Her brother advanced toward her, scarcely waiting until the maid had shut the door before he pounced. “Just how much of that vodka did you give her?” he demanded.

  “About half a cup,” Gillian responded, watching him warily.

  “Good Lord, Gillian!” he expostulated. “How did you dare? I’ve a good mind to haul you straight off to Landover. I suppose you realize that poor girl’s reputation is utterly ruined! She won’t be able to show her face in town for months.”

  “Fiddlesticks,” Gillian retorted. “She may choose to absent herself for a week or two, but it will be little worse than a nine-day wonder, especially in view of everything else that’s occurring right now. No one else knows for certain that she was not merely stricken ill.”

  “Be that as it may,” her brother returned angrily. “I’ve a good mind to put you across my knee or, at the very least, to make you confess the whole to his lordship, for you had no business to do such a thing.”

  Since he seemed truly displeased, she was conscious of a small tremor of fear, but she repressed it, facing him squarely. “That girl had it coming, Avery. Her behavior was despicable, and she condemned herself with words straight from her own mouth. I couldn’t have planned it better had I written a script and forced her to read from it.”

  “But she would never have said such things if you hadn’t got her tipsy.”

  “Fiddlesticks. She wouldn’t have said them then if she hadn’t been thinking them all along. I am not going to pretend that I’m proud of what I did, but I’m not sorry for it either. She would have made Landover a dreadful wife!”

  “You might have let him decide that, my girl. Dash it, he hadn’t even offered for the chit yet!”

  She shrugged.

  “Well, I still think you ought to tell him what you did,” Sir Avery repeated stubbornly. “Dash it, Gill, I had to leave my silver flask behind in that dratted plant for fear he’d find it on me and think I was the guilty party. You cannot do such things without being willing to take the consequences.”

  “Very well, Avery.” She stood up purposefully. “Is he downstairs, or must you fetch him for me?”

  “What?” He seemed completely taken aback.

  “Landover. Where is he? I shall confess to him right now. He will no doubt make good his threat to pack me off to Sussex, but at least I’ll have your charming company on the way.

  “What do you mean?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Well, I shall certainly have to tell him where I got the vodka, shan’t I, and he is scarcely like to approve of the source.”

  “Here now, Gill, let’s don’t be hasty!” he asserted, back-pedaling rapidly. “Perhaps I ought to have thought about this more carefully. Can’t deny the chit had a lesson coming. No doubt it will all blow over soon.”

  He blustered a bit more but soon took himself off, leaving his sister to breathe a sigh of relief. She sat down again, casting a rueful glance at her reflection in the looking glass. “She did deserve it,” she whispered softly to the face staring into her own. But even saying the words aloud did not ease the remorse she was feeling. Somehow the fact that Sir Avery knew what she had done made her even more ashamed of herself than she had been before. Lady Sharon didn’t deserve to become a marchioness, but she had done little to deserve such a severe setdown. While she finished preparing for bed, Gillian did her best to convince herself that there had been no other way to accomplish the purpose, but when she climbed into the high bed, a whisper of doubt remained to prick at her conscience.

  The next few days were busy ones, what with the Ascot races, a dinner at Carlton House, and various activities arranged for the entertainment of the visiting sovereigns, but Lady Harmoncourt did not allow grass to grow under her feet. She soon had a replacement for the disappointing Lady Sharon in the person of the Honorable Miss Clara FitzWilliam.

  Miss FitzWilliam was a slender, flaxen-haired beauty in her second season, noted for her choosiness. Despite her reputation, however, it
seemed possible that she might consider the wealthy marquis a suitable mate. At any rate, when Gillian was introduced to her at a supper preceding a gala night at the Covent Garden Opera, Miss FitzWilliam seemed perfectly content to have Landover as her escort. Gillian’s own escort for the evening was Lord Darrow, and the other two places in Landover’s box were occupied by Mrs. Periwinkle and the Honorable Mrs. Robinson, Clara’s chaperone for the evening. The Harmoncourt box, adjoining Landover’s, contained Lord and Lady Harmoncourt, their daughter Sybilla, a pretty young friend of hers, and Sir Avery Harris, as well as his friend Mr. Willoby. The latter confided to Gillian over the partition that opera wasn’t really his dish, but that Sir Avery had insisted he lend his support to the occasion.

  The opera house was full to overflowing. In the pit, several people actually fainted, and many young bucks were weaving long before the curtain went up and the singing of “God Save the King” was begun. The Regent was accompanied in his box by the Tsar and the Duchess Oldenburg as well as the King of Prussia, and all joined a large portion of the audience in singing the chorus.

  The applause was tremendous, but just as the sovereigns were seated, there was a fresh burst, and heads began to turn toward the box opposite the Regent’s. “By Jove!” muttered Darrow. “’Tis the Princess of Wales!” And sure enough, there she was, glittering with diamonds and sporting an outrageous black wig. Gillian thought there must be diamonds everywhere, and just as she realized she was staring, the Tsar of Russia rose from his seat and bowed. The King of Prussia quickly followed his example, and the Regent, perforce, bowed also.

  “A moment of triumph for her highness,” chuckled Landover, but the chuckle ceased abruptly when the princess, upon taking her seat, noticed Gillian and nodded to her regally. Gillian had no choice but to return the nod. “I did not know you claimed the princess’s acquaintance, Miss Harris.” His tone was harsh.

  “I have met her briefly, my lord,” replied Gillian carefully, not daring to meet his eye. “I can only be flattered that she should remember the occasion.”

  Mrs. Robinson, a rather fluffy soul, chose this moment to observe that she thought it a great pity the Regent and his wife were not upon better terms. “Why, I have heard it said,” she went on in her fluting voice, “that these foreigners mean to negotiate a reconciliation between them.”

  “Why on earth should they do that, ma’am?” asked Gillian, gratefully diverted.

  “Why, to strengthen Prinny’s popularity, my dear.”

  “Quite right, if true,” observed Mrs. Periwinkle. “‘For how can tyrants safely govern home, unless they purchase great alliance?’ And Prinny will make a much sounder ally if he is more popular with his own people.”

  “I heard he was actually hissed going home from Clarence House today,” confided Miss FitzWilliam in tones that indicated such a thing could never happen to so superior a being as herself.

  “Dear me!” Mrs. Robinson clicked her tongue. “So embarrassing for him.”

  “’Tis a pity he and the Tsar don’t get along better than they do,” added Mrs. Periwinkle.

  “Indeed, yes,” agreed her friend, “but the Emperor of Russia is, I am told, rather flippant in his conversation sometimes, which Prinny cannot like. Why, just the other day, Alexander lectured the Regent on toleration, and Prinny replied that it might be very well in his imperial majesty’s dominions to admit people of all degrees into offices and power, but that if he was thoroughly acquainted with our constitution and habits, he would know that it could not be. I give Prinny full credit for so wise and spirited an answer.”

  Gillian’s gaze encountered Landover’s at last, and she had all she could do to keep from dissolving into laughter at the absurdity of the Tsar of Russia lecturing anyone, but particularly the head of a constitutional monarchy, on the subject of toleration. By the twinkle in his eye, she knew Landover to be similarly afflicted, but fortunately the curtain going up on the first act saved anyone from having to reply to Mrs. Robinson.

  At the first interlude, Landover suggested to Miss FitzWilliam that she might like to accompany him to pay their respects to the Regent. She accepted at once, favoring him with a brilliant smile. Gillian sighed.

  “Would you care to stroll a bit, Miss Harris?” Darrow inquired. “We’ll not trouble the Regent, but I confess I’d not mind stretching my legs a bit.”

  She agreed, and they walked out into the corridor together, nodding and greeting a friend or acquaintance as they met them.

  “I noticed your merriment at Mrs. Robinson’s observation,” Lord Darrow murmured when Gillian remained silent for a few minutes. She looked up at him quickly, her color rising, but then she returned his infectious grin.

  “I am afraid she’s a bit of an eccentric, but Miss FitzWilliam seems to be nice.”

  “Oh, Clara’s well enough,” Darrow shrugged. “She’s a cousin of mine, you know.” Gillian stared, and he seemed suddenly defensive. “Well, I can’t help it, can I? Never could see what all the fuss was about. Known the chit from the cradle, after all.”

  “Is there fuss?”

  “Lord, yes! Since the day she emerged from the schoolroom. It’s not as though she were an heiress, either, although my uncle will see she’s dowered well enough. But what it is that keeps the young fools bowing and scraping is more than I can tell you.”

  “Well, you must admit she’s very beautiful.”

  “Is she? Hadn’t noticed. Not my style,” he added with a pointed look. Gillian only blinked at him, and he seemed to search for something further to say. “Guess she’s maybe thinking a marquis is better than a measly viscount. Never know, though. Fearfully fickle wench, when all’s said and done.” They reached the end of the corridor and turned back only to be stopped by an elderly gentleman who wished to exchange a few brief pleasantries with Darrow.

  “Which viscount?” Gillian asked as soon as they were moving again. Darrow glanced down at her in puzzlement for a moment before he reconnected with her train of thought.

  “Linden,” he replied. “Son of the Earl of Fairleigh. Going to be an earl one day himself, of course, but Clara will no doubt prefer being a marchioness to being a mere countess. Thing is, I think Linden is in love with her, so she’d best have a care. She tends to toss her head a lot when he’s in the vicinity, but I think she’s rather fond of him, too, despite her baser instincts.”

  “Why should she have a care?”

  “Linden’s got a reputation as a rake, and he’s certainly got a bit of the devil in him,” Darrow replied. “I just think he’s likely to become dangerous if she continues to taunt him, that’s all.”

  Gillian fell silent, digesting the information he had given her. If Miss FitzWilliam only wanted Landover because his title made him a superior catch to her other suitors, then she was quite as contemptible as Lady Sharon.

  She watched the other girl when they all returned to the box and noted that there was little warmth in the brilliant smiles she lavished on her escort. She noted also, however, that Landover seemed to be regarding Gillian herself through narrowed eyes. Somehow she had managed to incur his displeasure again, but she couldn’t imagine how she had done it this time. It was not until they had returned to Landover House that she found out. When she and Mrs. Periwinkle began to climb the stairs ahead of him, he suddenly spoke her name brusquely. Gillian turned.

  “I wish to speak with you,” he said. “In the study.”

  “Surely not at this hour, Landover!” protested Mrs. Periwinkle. “The girl needs her sleep. Tomorrow she will be up even later than this, what with the Marquis of Stafford’s dinner and the Earl of Cholmondeley’s ball!”

  “Nevertheless, I would speak with Miss Harris now,” he said firmly. “I shall not keep her overlong.”

  Gillian glanced at her companion, hoping Mrs. Periwinkle would think of a way to postpone what looked like being another uncomfortable interview. But the older lady merely shrugged.

  “Have a good night then, my dear. I shal
l see you in the morning.”

  Gillian replied suitably, then turned with reluctance to follow Landover into the study. “What have I done now, my lord?” she asked as he shut the door.

  “It has to do with your so-called ‘brief’ meeting with her highness of Wales,” he answered grimly.

  “Oh, that.”

  “Indeed. You might have mentioned that you had paid her a morning call.”

  “Well, it wasn’t exactly like that, you know.” She looked up at him candidly, but her nerves seemed a little on end. Particularly when he moved toward her. “I … I didn’t precisely pay her a morning call.”

  “I know exactly what you did,” he retorted. “I have had it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  “The horse’s m—Surely you don’t mean her highness’s!” He shook his head, but she noted with relief that her misunderstanding had afforded him a touch of amusement. “Then who?” Landover continued to regard her, but quizzically now as though daring her to use her head. Suddenly she realized what he meant. “Good gracious! Not the Regent! He knows?”

  “He knows.”

  “But he has forbidden the Princess Charlotte to visit Connaught House. Was he livid?”

  “He was not pleased. He, too, noted her highness’s nod to you and demanded to know if I have been encouraging the connection. I informed him quite frankly that I have not.” He placed both hands upon her shoulders, and for a moment she feared he meant to shake her again. But his hands were gentle, and there was a disturbing warmth in his eyes when she gazed contritely up at him. “It would have been helpful, child,” he said quietly, “if you had informed me of the visit yourself.”

  VIII

  GILLIAN TREMBLED, AFFECTED MORE by his gentle distress than she would have been by his anger. Her shoulders seemed to burn where his hands touched them, and her breath caught raggedly in her throat.