A Spirited Affair

by Lynn Kerstan

  The Earl looked down at the grey ball of fur on his thighs, suddenly reminded of his own particular hellcat. Jillian would like Robin, and Mary, and this room, and these cats.

  “Mary’s father is the local vicar,” Robin went on, “and her brother and I ran wild together until I was sent off to school. She was a snot-nosed brat and followed us around with the tenacity of a jackal. Every lark we got up to began with evasive tactics to get rid of Mary, but she was impossible to shake. Acted as lookout when we were loosing the squire’s pigs or some such nonsense, and never carried tales. I’d not seen her for years until she came to call with one of her plants. Naturally, I told the servants to send her packing, but she showed up every morning with another potted something-or-other, until my room looked like a bloody jungle. Then one day she pushed herself in and talked at me for an hour. It was the same for weeks after that—a plant, an hour, and out. I never said a word, but damn if I didn’t get used to her coming. Even started looking forward to it.”

  “And talking back.”

  “Snarling back. I wanted to swear at someone and there she was. Didn’t faze her a bit. Whoever said that women are the weaker sex got it all wrong. Before I knew it, she had me up in a chair, then downstairs and outside—Mary’s a fiend for fresh air—and our one hour turned to three and five and pretty soon the whole day. She bullied me dawn to dusk, until I started finding ways to help myself. I ought to have been grateful, but I only resented her. And I dreamed about her every night.”

  Mark’s hands clenched in grey fur and two yellow eyes glared at him.

  “Mary’s shy,” Robin said, “although you wouldn’t know it from what I’ve just told you. She never spoke about herself, and I figured she was a vicar’s daughter doing her Christian duty—tending the sick and all. Not her fault I fell in love with her, and I knew for a fact she couldn’t be leg-shackled to a man with no legs. But I couldn’t bear it anymore, being with her every day, wanting to touch her in ways I should not and could not, so I did the only logical thing and told her to go away. Robin Renstow, martyr. Patron saint of dolts and dunderheads.”

  “Is that what she said?”

  “That’s what she was thinking. But she said,” Robin’s voice lifted an octave, “If that’s what you want, Lord Kerrington. Thing was, I thought she’d at least put up a fight. Even had a noble speech all ready, but she was too sly for me. And now I’m going to tell you a horrible secret, Del, but if you breathe a word, I’ll wring your neck with my very strong hands.”

  Mark looked away. “If you’d rather not . . .”

  “I ought not. But I’ve been dying to tell somebody. Mary wanted to say goodbye at a farewell picnic, for old time’s sake, and she wheeled me out to a place by the river where we played when we were kids. First she fed me cold chicken and lemon tarts and champagne—a lot of champagne—and then, right there on the cool green grass, the wench seduced me. “

  “The devil you say!”

  Robin’s teeth flashed. “I didn’t think I could, except in my dreams, but I did. Pretty effectively, too, because a few weeks later Mary and the vicar came to call. Good man, Mary’s papa. Told me all about his father’s old musket, a souvenir of the colonial war, and how it could still take off a man’s privates with devilish accuracy at twenty paces. Next thing I knew, I was standing . . . well, sitting in the church, plighting my troth.”

  Mark bounced with laughter, and the cat batted a grey paw at him. “Of all things,” he said when he could speak again. “Netted by a vicar’s daughter the oldest way in the world.”

  “I never had a chance,” Robin complained. Then his voice grew very quiet. “Wish I could tell you I’m a pattern-card now, with all these benevolent influences, but I’d be lying. I can still feel my legs and they hurt like the blazes for all they aren’t there. Mary won’t let me drink the pain away, which I used to do, or take laudanum, which I still crave. But she sings to me, and rubs the stumps with her hands, and puts up with my bad moods. God, I’m a lucky devil. I wouldn’t give up my sweet Mary even to be whole again.”

  Mark released a long sigh. “You were always the best of us, Robin.” He felt his eyes blur again. “Don’t you miss them?”

  For the first time, Robin frowned. “Do you know, I actually envied them once—Trevor and Jamie and Rodger—because they died cleanly.” He tapped his forehead. “I was a sick boy, old friend. Life is everything. I wanted to throw it away because I couldn’t have it on my own terms, but they have nothing at all. Christ, yes, I miss them. And I intend to mourn them by living all the harder because they cannot. Besides, I still have you.”

  “Only because I never got into the fight.”

  Robin slammed his fists against the arm of his chair and the marmalade sprang away with a yowl. “You don’t call what you did fighting? Where did you lose your wits, Delacourt?”

  “In the Tuileries.” His voice had a bitter edge. “Dancing and dining at Saint Cloud. Skulking around back streets dowsing for rumors.”

  “Dirty business, spying,” Robin said thoughtfully. “Not so matter-of-fact as charging a cannon. I know you wanted to buy colors like the rest of us, and I know why you did not. Only a bloody moron would be ashamed of that. You just got directed away from something you wouldn’t have been very good at into something you did very well.”

  “I got caught,” Mark pointed out.

  “So you did. And now it’s your turn to tell me. I heard you were in prison and came home, in bad shape. What happened?”

  “Dammit, Robin, it’s poor stuff after your story.”

  The Viscount chuckled. “I expect so. Hard to top a tale like mine, but farce always follows the tragedy, and I like a good laugh.”

  Twilight was closing on the room before Mark finished. He spoke for longer than he’d done in years, telling Robin things he’d never told anyone. It was almost like confession. He’d always felt guilty about seducing women to plumb their lovers’ secrets, about bribing and lying and exploiting people as devoted to their cause as he was to his. His loyalties had been torn apart in France, his spirit shredded to the point that capture, imprisonment, and torture were almost a relief. At least he could be an Englishman again, with a clear conscience and silent tongue, facing an ;nemy instead of a false friend.

  “So how are you now?” Robin asked into the .ilence that followed Mark’s description of his abrupt, surprising release.

  “Well, all in all,” he answered without expression. “I was too important to kill, and because I might be ransomed or traded, they didn’t do anything that would leave scars. Bad food, a cold cell, a bit of the rack now and again. I came home in pretty good shape, except for some trouble with my back. No lasting consequences.”

  There was a light knock at the door. “Dinner, gentlemen,” said Mary, peering in. “We keep country hours, Mark, so no more man-talk for a while.”

  The Earl stood, dislodging an irate cat, and bowed. “Your company will be a welcome relief, Lady Mary. I’m bored to tears.”

  Her lips curved. “No doubt Robin has been prosing away as usual. Let me show you to your rooms. We’ve a servant for you who swears he was once a valet, but I won’t vouch for it. We shan’t dress for dinner, though, so come downstairs when you are ready.”

  Mark stayed at Kerrington Lodge for a week, luxuriating in the unaccustomed pleasures of a happy home. Nevertheless, Jillian Lamb bounced into his thoughts at the oddest times. One night, unable to sleep, he found himself counting sheep—brown-haired sheep with big eyes and dimples. He was thinking about her over Sunday supper, toying with a wedge of cheese, when Robin clinked a knife against his glass.

  “Woolgathering, old rag?”

  “What?” Startled, Mark dropped the cheese on the floor and cats surged past his ankles in a race to claim it.

  Robin bit into a cracker. “Ah, Mary, mother of my child, I never suspected we
were such tedious old twits. Where are your manners, Delacourt?”

  “In London,” he confessed, “along with some unfinished business. I had better join them both, first thing tomorrow.”

  “Never so soon,” Mary protested. She always remained after dinner while the men enjoyed port and cigars, insisting with a tiny cough that she loved the pungent smoke.

  “Business can wait,” Robin said flatly.

  Mark grinned, welcoming a rare chance to catch Robin off balance. “Not this particular business. Her name is Jillian Lamb.”

  “But how wonderful,” Mary exclaimed. “You are in love.”

  That caught the Earl a long way off balance. He flushed hotly. “No. Certainly not. Jillian is my ward.”

  “Where in hell did you pick up a ward?” Robin demanded.

  Mark filled his wine glass while he gathered his wits. Where in hell indeed? “Miss Lamb is a little wildwoman who turned up on my doorstep a month ago. Literally on my doorstep, waiting in the rain for me to get home because the butler wouldn’t let her in. For my sins I inherited the worst batch of servants ever foisted on a household, along with the daughter of a man who collected art for the Old Earl. He must have been in his cups when he agreed to sponsor her, because that female’s tongue could quarry marble. In fact, the only good thing I can say about her is that she bit Jaspers. The butler, I mean.”

  “Del never did make much sense,” Robin explained kindly to his wife. “Can we go back to the doorstep?”

  “I like the part about biting the butler,” she objected.

  Mark described it all, or at least the details he felt he could, and the more he talked, the funnier it all seemed. He couldn’t think why he’d been so frustrated, nor did he care for the way he’d conducted himself at times. The words odious toad came suddenly to mind and he laughed aloud. “Miss Lamb,” he admitted, “considers me something of a stick in the mud.”

  Robin was all attention. He’d not seen his friend so animated since the two of them smuggled a lightskirt into the don’s bed. “And so you are. But what have you in mind to do with this unexpected legacy?”

  “I’d fire that butler,” Mary put in caustically. Mark lifted an eyebrow. “Exactly what Jillian said, but impossible, of course. Jaspers has been with the family since I was in short coats. For now, Miss Lamb is with my Aunt Margaret for some grooming and polishing.”

  “Fine woman, Margaret,” said Robin, puffing his cigar. “Hard to believe she’s related to you.”

  “Nothing alike, are we? Well, Margaret will see to Miss Lamb’s debut, on a small scale. She cannot aspire to much, but she has an ample competence from her father and I’ll add a dowry. A large one, because the man who takes her on will require an. incentive. She’ll eat him alive if he’s not up to snuff.”

  “Not an Incomparable, I gather.”

  “Barely civilized. No accomplishments, hair like a bush, swears like a dockhand, runs sheep and milks cows for a living.”

  Robin winked at his wife. “Don’t like her much, eh?”

  “What’s to like? She’s a bad-tempered, misbehaved rustic, of an age to be an ape-leader if not for her fortune. Under ordinary circumstances I’d write her off as hopeless, but Margaret needs something to keep her occupied and may even pull off a miracle. It will take at least that. If she fails, Miss Lamb can always go back to the barnyard. That’s what she wants, anyway. Can’t understand why I won’t send her home with an allowance and leave her in peace.”

  “Why don’t you?” inquired Mary.

  “The chit doesn’t know what she wants. How can she, stuck all her life on a sheep farm? Jillian Lamb needs a husband, and I intend to buy her one.” Mark drained his glass and poured himself another. “Lord, I wonder what I’m going to find when I get back.”

  “So do I,” Robin muttered past his cigar.

  “You’ll let us know what happened when you come for the christening,” Mary said pointedly. Mark looked a question at her.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that, Del.” Robin’s voice was uncharacteristically serious. “We both want you to stand godfather to our son or daughter. Don’t say no because I won’t permit it.” Mark felt something warm in his chest. “It will be an honor,” he mumbled.

  “Two months,” Mary told him. “A June baby. Promise you’ll be here.”

  “Of course. And I’ll follow up with regular visits to be sure my godchild is properly raised.” Groaning dramatically, Robin patted his wife’s swollen belly. “I won’t have a child of mine brought up by the Coltrane definition of proper, old prig.’But you are welcome any time to see that she’s happy.”

  “You want a girl?”

  “You bet I do. Three at least, and sons to match. But first I want a curly-headed moppet to bounce on my knee . . . what there is of it.”

  There was no sarcasm in that, and Mark understood just how healed his friend already was. When he drove away the next morning, with a picnic basket on the seat next to him and Robin’s firm handshake still warm on his flesh, he realized that he was envious of this man with no legs, this man he’d expected to feel sorry for.

  Chapter Sixteen

  MARK GUIDED HIS curricle through the crowded twilight streets, down Cromwell Road and past Hyde Park, still fighting the temptation to head directly for Grosvenor and see what Margaret had wrought with Jillian Lamb. He’d been away nearly three weeks, and his curiosity was almost more compelling than his sense of the proprieties. Still, it would not be the thing to spring upon them unannounced. Megs deserved a chance to’spruce up the girl for inspection, and after a long day on the road he could do with a bath and shave.

  With some reluctance, he steered his way to Coltrane House and dispatched a footman to warn Margaret he’d be around at nine o’clock. Foxworth was nowhere to be found nor was Marcel at home, so the Earl nibbled cold chicken while he shaved himself, hurried through a bath, and dressed for a quiet evening call on a relative.

  The footman returned just as he was pulling on his greatcoat, with a message from Lady Margaret’s butler. The Baroness and Miss Lamb were dining with the Duke and Duchess of Argyll, after which they would be attending Countess Lieven’s ball.

  He stared at the note, unable to believe he’d read it correctly. What could Margaret be thinking to catapult that little fireball into society after only three weeks! By now Jillian might be ready for a private tea party or an evening at the theatre, but Ashburnham House? Lady Lieven would eat her alive.

  HASTILY, MARK redressed in formal knee breeches, cursing the absent Foxworth as he struggled with several failed cravats and into his tight, black superfine coat. By the time he arrived somewhat breathlessly at Dover Street, the receiving line had melted into the crush that marked a successful party and made it virtually impossible to locate anyone. Elbowing his way upstairs to the ballroom, he scanned the perimeter for Margaret’s tall presence and discovered her chatting happily with a cluster of friends. There was no sign of Jillian. He edged through the crowd, nodding at acquaintances, his gaze wandering casually over the dance floor.

  Suddenly the air went out of his lungs with a loud whoof. The Earl backed into a marble pillar, feeling as if someone had punched him in the stomach.

  He’d not have known her at all but for her smile. The rest belonged to a stranger . . . an incredibly lovely stranger sparkling like a hummingbird in a jonquil-yellow gown, floating gracefully from partner to. partner as the intricate dance whirled her around the room. Could that be Jillian’s hair, threaded with bright ribbons, an artful mass of soft curls where a bristly bush had previously held root? He couldn’t believe his eyes.

  Mark leaned against the pillar with his arms folded across his chest to watch and, he admitted to himself, recover from the shock. How could Margaret let her wear that dress? It was cut yards too low, exposing her charms for all the world to see. Dar
ryl Kelton was certainly getting an eyeful, practically salivating as he bent over Jillian’s creamy, swelling breasts.

  Two clenched fists itched to blacken two insolently roving eyes.

  As Jillian swept into the arms of another ogling pervert, Mark decided sourly that the Turks had the right idea. Females were meant to be draped from head to toe, except in the bedroom. Covered up and locked up, never loosed to frolic half-naked in public places, enticing overheated males to swoop in for a closer look. Jillian Lamb’s new wardrobe would get a thorough going-over, he vowed, by a man who knew exactly how men thought.

  When the dance ended, five men thinking exactly what he knew they were thinking huddled around her, and he saw her examine the card suspended from her wrist before smiling brilliantly at Viscount Malmsley. The young man beamed from ear to ear, as if he’d just won the Newmarket Stakes.

  Oh, no, you randy stallion, the Earl muttered under his breath. He moved in behind her. “I believe,” he said peremptorily, “that the next dance is mine.”

  Jillian froze, as if sensing a gun at her back, and then turned slowly to look up at him. Her eyes were unnaturally wide, searching his face for the answer to some question of her own. He thought she looked afraid.

  When Malmsley began to protest, the Earl shut him off with an icy stare and the hapless youngster scurried away. So did the others, leaving him alone with the astonishing Miss Lamb. Distantly aware of the music, he held out his hand. “You do have permission to waltz?” he inquired archly, wondering if she even knew how.

  “Yes, My Lord,” she murmured, resting a gloved hand on his shoulder. “Lady Jersey granted leave some weeks ago, at Almack’s.”

  Almack’s? Weeks ago? She was at Almack’s weeks ago? More befuddled than ever, the Earl swept her among the circling dancers, surprised at the ease with which she matched his steps. Jillian was airy as thistledown. Her head barely reached his shoulder, and her waist was so small he couldn’t resist tightening his fingers to measure it. Small and warm, like her hand. Through his glove and hers, he imagined he could feel her pulse, and Mark remembered the night her hands had felt so good on his back. “Is anything wrong?” she asked.