A Suspectible Gentleman Part 8

None of the alluring faces and figures which floated across his mind's eye tempted him, and in any case he was leaving for Cheve again as soon as his face was presentable. The search could wait until he returned to town.

The carriage stopped outside the Haymarket Theatre. It was a shabby building, nearly a century old, and by daylight the gilt decoration of the interior was tawdry. According to rumour, Mr. Morris wanted to tear it down and rebuild in the modern style. Among gentlemen, the on-dit went on to explain the manager's novel plan for acc.u.mulating capital for his venture: he promised the best roles to those of his actresses with wealthy protectors who could be persuaded to pay for the privilege of seeing their lights-o'-love star upon the stage. This being understood, Adam brushed through the encounter with a minimum of unpleasantness. Mr. Morris looked complacent as he tucked into his desk drawer a bank draft for a considerable sum.

"At this rate," he admitted cheerfully, "I'll be pulling the old place down in approximately the year 1820."

"I hope you will put up a plaque with the names of your benefactors," said the viscount dryly. "Now, if you have no objection, I shall borrow your office for a private word with Marguerite."

"By all means, my lord. She's rehearsing on stage right now. I'll call her off and give her the good news. Not more than half an hour, now." He grinned and winked.

"Ten minutes should suffice." Adam felt in his pocket for the bracelet.

"My, that's quick work!" With obvious admiration for his mistaken notion of Adam's purpose, the manager went off.

Marguerite rushed in, clad only in a number of diaphanous veils over skin-coloured tights. She flung her arms about Adam's neck and planted a smacking kiss on his sore cheek.

"Darling," she crooned. "You have made me so happy."

He extricated himself with some difficulty. "I'm glad, pet," he said. "It's by way of being goodbye, and I have..."

"b.l.o.o.d.y 'ell, wotcher mean goodbye! 'Aven't I bin true ter yer all this toime? Found yerself anuvver girl, 'ave yer, so poor ol' Margrit gets left in the lurch." Hands on hips, she blazed at him, her face so red with anger that the patches of rouge were invisible.

"Be a good girl, now, pet," said Adam patiently. "I have another gift for you." He pulled the velvet case from his pocket, took out the bracelet and clasped it about her wrist.

"Cor lumme!" She held it up to the window to admire it. "That's somefing like, that is. You're a dear, Adam, and I'm sorry I kicked up a dust. I'll be sorry to lose you, and that's the truth, but all good things come to an end."

Silhouetted against the window, her charms were displayed to magnificent effect. The viscount was unmoved.

"You will find someone else in no time. With your abilities, you should hold out for a duke."

This pleased her. "So will you," she a.s.sured him, kissing his other cheek, "and the rhino's got nuffing to do wiv it. Bet I know who you've got your eye on, too. You've up and taken a fancy to that country bit, I wager."

"Sarah?" Adam's laugh was incredulous. "You are all about in your head."

"Take me for a flat? Thick as inkle-weavers, you was. 'Ave to be a discreet arrangement, what wiv 'er living at that parson's 'ouse. Won't do to flaunt her about like."

"Miss Meade is a thoroughly respectable young woman," he said angrily.

"That's how we all starts," she pointed out.

Adam stormed from the theatre in a fury. Marguerite had no idea what she was talking about, he fumed as the carriage bore him home. As if he could possibly desire his old friend Sarah, let alone have designs against her virtue!

He'd be d.a.m.ned if he'd ever form a liaison with an actress again. A vulgar lot they were, and appallingly temperamental into the bargain. He took out his handkerchief and scrubbed at his unhurt cheek. The doxy had probably left rouge all over him.

No more opera singers, no more lonely wives-it was beginning to look as if he should not be encouraging Peggy to marry her sweetheart. Still, he had never really been attracted by the ingenuous girl, he had just not been able to bring himself to hurt her with a rejection. Nor had he any intention of frequenting houses of ill fame. Most of their inhabitants, in his opinion, belonged in his charitable inst.i.tutions.

Since he had no intention of becoming a monk, that left marriage as the only solution. His mother was right. He needed a wife.

He spent the next couple of days lurking in his house while his black eye faded. There was a certain amount of paperwork to be done for his charitable foundations, and when that palled he repaired to his library. He came across a copy of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, and on a whim he looked up the description of the knight in the Prologue. Regretfully he had to acknowledge a poor fit. Generosity and courtesy he could lay claim to, and perhaps truth and honour, but as sole heir to a viscountcy with five females dependent upon it, he had not been permitted to fight in his sovereign's war. Wisdom eluded him, as he was painfully aware, and as for a maidenly modesty ... He laughed. That, at least, Sarah would not expect of him.

He hoped she did not recall the description of the knight's son. The squire was a lover and a l.u.s.ty bachelor. He had loved so hotly, apparently, that till dawn grew pale he slept as little as a nightingale. If Sarah started quoting that at him, Adam would not know where to look.

Once again decked out in rice powder and a broad-brimmed hat, he sneaked into the gallery of the House of Lords to hear Lord Lansdowne's speech. It seemed the least he could do. He managed to dodge most of his acquaintances, garnering a few peculiar looks in the process.

By the third day his eye had faded to an interesting shade of mustard yellow. Desperate for exercise, he ventured to Gentleman Jackson's saloon. Such things as black eyes were understood there, though in general the bucks of the ton avoided hitting the visible portions of each other's anatomy. A round with the Gentleman himself, a rare honour, restored the belief in his own ability which had been bruised by Billy's successful attack.

The bout finished, he wandered over to watch Lord James Kerridge sparring in a desultory manner with Mr. Frederick Swanson. He remembered that he had told his mother he would bring a couple of friends to her house party. Kerry and Swan would do very well, he thought.

Informed of this treat, Lord James demurred.

"Dash it, Adam, I ain't in the petticoat line," he objected.

"So much the better," pointed out Mr. Swanson. "It's Adam who has to find a bride. He don't want compet.i.tion. Come on, Kerry, your brother ain't asked you down to the Hall till August and July in town is deuced dull. No female is going to chase you while Adam's available, so you won't have to talk to them."

Lord James allowed himself to be persuaded, and the next morning the three gentlemen rode out of London. A variety of vehicles followed at a slower pace, bearing grooms, valets, and luggage.

It was a fine day. Adam was pleased to leave the city, pleased with the company of his friends, and determined to be pleased with the eligible maidens awaiting him at Cheve. If he could not make up his mind among them, he would ask Sarah's advice.

She would laugh at him, but that was all right. He liked to hear her laugh, and to see the teasing twinkle in her grey eyes.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Sarah was rolling gingerbread dough when three large young men erupted into the kitchen.

"Sarah, I have a deal to tell you," cried Adam without ceremony, then he paused and looked round a trifle nervously. "Is Billy here?" he demanded.

"No, he went home. You are safe." She smiled at him, happy at his arrival though she wished he had not found her hot and sticky and engaged upon a domestic task. "I have a great deal to tell you, too, but will you not introduce your friends first?"

"This is Lord James Kerridge." Adam waved his hand at the tall, well-built gentleman with the slightly vacant face.

Lord James blushed crimson, bowed awkwardly, and muttered something indistinguishable.

"And this is Swan-Mr. Frederick Swanson."

Mr. Swanson was short, round, and exquisitely dressed. His face was also round, with an incongruously large nose, but his eyes held an expression of humorous intelligence.

"Delighted to make your acquaintance ma'am," he said. "You must excuse poor Kerry here. Scared to death of females."

"How unkind in you to draw attention to it," Sarah retorted, then clapped her floury hand to her mouth in dismay. "Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. We have just been introduced and I am treating you as if I had known you as long as I have known Adam." To her relief, she saw he was amused and not offended.

"Pray don't stand on ceremony, ma'am," he urged, "but I would not have you think ill of me. Kerry looks to me to make his excuses."

Lord James nodded vigorously. "'S true," he blurted.

"I must talk to you," said Adam with some impatience, "and without these two gudgeons listening in. Take off your ap.r.o.n and come into the garden."

"The fire is ready," Sarah objected. "I must put the biscuits into the oven."

"Tell us what needs to be done and we'll see to it,'' offered Mr. Swanson gallantly. "Looks like great fun."

Lord James nodded. Sarah cast a helpless glance at Adam, who shrugged. As she hunted up a pair of clean ap.r.o.ns for the gentlemen, she tried to explain in a few words the art of making gingerbread men.

Adam untied her own ap.r.o.n, turned her round and wiped a dab of flour from her chin. "Come on," he said with a grin. "We'll make 'em eat the ones they spoil."

She followed him out.

Mr. Swanson, wielding the rolling pin with surprising skill, looked out of the window to see them wandering down the garden. Close, though not touching, they were obviously lost in their discussion.

"Smelling of April and May, the pair of them," he commented.

"Viscount Cheverell won't choose his bride from a country parsonage." Lord James shook his head for a change. "Great gun, never high in the instep, but knows what's due to his name. Lord, he's one of the biggest catches on the Marriage Mart. Imagine the kick-up if he picked a girl with no family, no fortune, and not even beauty to compensate."

"Miss Meade has a great deal of countenance, which is more important than beauty," said Mr. Swanson obstinately, but he was afraid his friend was right. As younger son of a marquis, Kerry had been brought up to such considerations.

Both of them would have been astonished if they had overheard the conversation in the garden. Two of Adam's mistresses had been quickly disposed of. Sarah was glad to hear that Henry Goudge was safe, equally glad, though surprised, that Adam had parted from Marguerite. She told him of her provision for Peggy.

"She seems to have settled down at Goody Newman's. I sent Mrs. Hicks over this morning to make sure all is going well. Billy will be back in a week or two to establish residency before the wedding."

"Shall I have to go into hiding?"

"He promised not to-hmm-'tip you a leveller' next time he sees you." She grinned at him. "Your eye is back to normal, I see."

"It was devilish embarra.s.sing, I can tell you. I don't think Wrigley will ever let me out of his sight again. I didn't care to compromise my dignity by talking to Jem at the George on the way to town, but I spoke to him last night as we pa.s.sed through, and he has agreed to marry that girl of yours."

"Nan? That is splendid! But I fear it's too late for a double wedding. I do not doubt Nan is too big by now for public display."

"Yes, they had best get hitched quietly, elsewhere. I shall see to it."

"Now, were there any other loose ends we had to tie up?"

"Jane. Mama told me you were responsible for that rapprochement. The billing and cooing is enough to turn my stomach."

Sarah laughed. "Pray do not blame me for that. All I did was refuse to help."

"As I ought to have done years ago. How wise you are!"

"I daresay a little of Jonathan's understanding may have rubbed off. He will be home any minute. I cannot think what he will say if he finds your friends in the kitchen. I must go back."

They found Jonathan, Kerry and Swan sitting round the kitchen table eating burnt gingerbread men. Sarah rushed to take the second tray of biscuits from the oven. They were done to a turn, but she gasped as she looked at them. The gentlemen had allowed their artistic talents full play. There were fish, and stars, and crescent moons, and one creature that might have been a horse, unless it was an elephant.

"I hope you don't mind, ma'am," said Lord James shyly.

"They are wonderful," she a.s.sured him. "The children will be fascinated. I cannot think why I never made anything more original than a one-legged man, and that was only because I ran out of dough."

Kerry and Swan beamed at her.

"I'd better drag them away before they eat the lot," said Adam. "Our guests will be arriving throughout the day and I promised my mother I'd be there to greet them. I shall see you later, Jon. You and Sarah are bidden to luncheon and dinner tomorrow, I collect."

"Yes," agreed the vicar. "Sarah thinks Lady Cheverell expects to need her by then to help part your squabbling sisters."

"Jonathan! You were not supposed to repeat that to Adam!" said Sarah indignantly. "I hope they will manage forty-eight hours without a fight," Adam said, laughing, "but we shall be glad of your presence anyway." Lord James and Mr. Swanson murmured agreement, and they left. * * * * Sarah lay awake half that night trying to decide what to wear to Cheve House the next day. She finally settled on a round gown of smoky blue-grey muslin. It was very plain, but she knew that this year's London fas.h.i.+on was for the simplest, sheerest muslins and she hoped she would not look too shabby compared to the Lancing girls and their protegees. She would take with her an evening gown of amber jaconet, to change into before dinner. As she had few evening engagements, it was very little worn though it was three years old, and she had a necklace of amber beads to add a finis.h.i.+ng touch. Shortly after noon, Arthur hitched Dapple to the gig. It would never do to arrive at Cheve on foot on such an occasion, and besides, a fine but penetrating rain was beginning to fall. Jonathan handed Sarah in and pa.s.sed her a large black umbrella. As he took the reins and joined her, she opened it, glad that there was no wind.

Despite this protection, her pelisse was damp by the time they drew up at the front door of Cheve House. A groom ran up to take charge of pony and gig, and Gossett himself welcomed them in the entrance hall.

"Her ladys.h.i.+p will be very glad to see you," he said in a conspiratorial voice as a footman bore off their wet coats. "She had hoped to send everyone out to walk about the grounds this afternoon."

"It would seem that you were not over pessimistic," Jonathan murmured to his sister, "if Lady Cheverell is already in need of leaven for her party."

Following Gossett into the large drawing room, Sarah was overcome by a momentary feeling of panic. She was not sure she could bear with equanimity the sight of Adam paying court to three beautiful and elegant young ladies. As if he guessed her thoughts, her brother laid his hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. She raised her chin and made her curtsy to her hostess.

Lady Cheverell did indeed look pleased to see the Meades. She drew Sarah down beside her and whispered, a mischievous sparkle in her faded blue eyes, "Only wait and see, they are just as I predicated."

Aloud, she added, "You know my girls, of course, and their husbands. And I understand you have met Lord James and Mr. Swanson."

Bows and nods and smiles and words of greeting were exchanged. Sarah responded with automatic courtesy, her eyes on the only two members of the company with whom she was unacquainted.

Beside her ladys.h.i.+p's eldest daughter, Louise, sat an elfin wisp of a girl in white muslin. Her pale blonde ringlets were arranged in the simplest of styles, her eyes were demurely downcast, and altogether she looked to be scarce out of the schoolroom. Louise, now Lady Edward Merriwether, introduced her as Miss Lydia Davis.

The elf rose and curtsied, gaze fixed on the floor, and murmured something in a shy little voice.

"I am happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Davis," Sarah said, while Jonathan went up to the child, bowed over her hand and seated her again.

The other stranger was at the pianoforte. Her golden hair, very similar in shade to the Lancings', was done up in an elaborate coiffure of knots and bows. Though she was a trifle sharp-featured, her expression was lively and intelligent. She was wearing blue, but Sarah could see little of her dress because of the instrument.

Adam stood behind her, apparently having been turning the pages of her music. His second sister, Mary, presented her as Lady Catherine Carr. She did not trouble herself to rise, but bowed politely before turning to speak to Adam. He searched through a pile of sheet music, found the one she had requested, and set it on the stand. Then, to Mary's obvious chagrin, he deserted Lady Catherine to pull up a chair beside Sarah.

"What do you think?" he asked in a low voice.

"How can I possibly judge when I have barely met them?" she said with some asperity. "Where are Eliza and her beauty?"

"Mama told you her theory then." He grinned. "Eliza and her beauty, judging by last night's performance, are preparing to make their entrance."

At that moment the drawing room's double doors swung open. In the doorway, arm in arm, appeared two contrasting visions of loveliness. Eliza, the youngest of the Lancing girls, had the family's corn-gold hair, along with a startling perfection of face and figure. Her companion's ringlets were so dark as to appear black which, with her creamy complexion, suggested an Irish ancestry. Her gown, of primrose yellow almost transparent mull muslin, accentuated her dramatic colouring.

The pair posed until every eye was upon them, then moved forward in a graceful glide that Sarah knew had taken Eliza, at least, an age to perfect. Eliza's young husband, Lord Moffatt, came forward to greet her with adoration in his eyes, and the gaze she turned on him was sultry, also much practised. That honeymoon, it seemed, was not yet over.

"Miss Brennan," said Adam, "allow me to make you known to Miss Meade and her brother, who is our vicar. Sarah, Jonathan, this is Eliza's friend Miss Vanessa Brennan."

Miss Brennan swept a superb curtsy while her violet-blue eyes examined Sarah and dismissed her as compet.i.tion. Sarah thought it was more habit than anything else that made the girl flutter her eyelashes at Jonathan. In a way it was flattering to have the three young ladies, the least of whom was undoubtedly an honourable, presented to her as she sat beside Lady Cheverell. On the other hand it made her feel as if she were already a dowager herself.

Adam was the next recipient of the eyelash flutter, and he followed Miss Brennan to the French doors where she pointed out something in the dripping garden. Jonathan had returned to Miss Davis's side and was endeavouring, without much success, to coax a word out of her. Sarah turned to Lady Cheverell.

"Don't tell me Adam is already conquered by Eliza's beauty," she remarked.