Fair Fatality Page 19

  Twenty-one

  * * *

  Miss Valentine solemnly paced Lady Blackwood’s morning room, a book tucked under one arm, Confucious at her heels. With an expression of grave disapproval, she gazed upon the relief panels of dancing nymphs, the ox-skull frieze, the gilt suite with light frames and straight turned legs, the dowager’s massive eagle-headed chair. Surreptitiously, she aimed a defiant little kick at that article, which caused Confucious to growl at her, which caused her in turn to glare.

  “Do be quiet!” Sara snapped. “Or I vow I shall do something for which we will both be sorry, you — you misbegotten cur!” Belatedly, she recalled who was in the habit of referring to Confucious in those unappreciative terms. Folly to have thought even for a moment that he might care for her, to mind so much that he bestowed particular attentions on other females. The ultimate betrayal lay in that fetching bonnet which Jevon had bestowed upon his petite amie, and which Sara had eyed several times in the past, avariciously. So costly a confection had been beyond the resources of her slender purse. That Jevon should have bestowed her bonnet — in which terms Sara thought of it, as if longing were the father of ownership — upon a Paphian girl made her disillusionment complete.

  “Oh, damn!” Miss Valentine uttered rebelliously, and seated herself on a tapestried sofa. Confucious snarled. Sara bent and lifted him onto the sofa beside her. Confucious followed his tail around in a circle three times, then settled down comfortably to snooze, in the process of which he twitched and groaned and drooled profusely upon Sara’s skirts.

  Those skirts were flower-strewn muslin this day, and flounced; Sara’s sleeves were frivolously puffed, and her neckline cut lower than was suitable for a hired companion, especially one with a head cold. Having thus reminded herself of her affliction, Sara sneezed. To complete her dissatisfaction with life in general, she could not even find her favorite handkerchief. If only she were a female of sufficient enterprise to kick over the traces! Sara thought once again. But she was not. She was instead a wretched spineless worm who would forever scuttle hither and thither in response to another person’s will, as she was doing this very moment. Georgiana met with her every morning in this chamber, to lay out the various menial chores with which Sara was to fill her day. Other companions did nothing more onerous than dealing with correspondence, or reading aloud from some improving tome, or perhaps mending a piece of fine lace. She must perform all manner of diverse chores — from preparing for the preservation of the dowager’s complexion a recipe comprised of white flowers and cucumber water and minced pigeon-meat, to cleaning and pressing the dowager’s wardrobe — as if she were a lady’s maid.

  Even lady’s maids might be presented with the occasional bonnet by an admirer, thought Sara, and sneezed again. She would never have more bonnets than those she purchased for herself, in lieu of prudently saving up her wages for a rainy day. A sad lot was that of Miss Sara Valentine. Neither fish, fowl, nor good red herring was she. Looking rather grim, Sara opened her book and began to read.

  This volume, Culinae Famulatrix Medicinae by Dr. A Hunter, was a very improving tome, and combined such exotic recipes as “Balnamoon Skink” (a Scotch version of chicken-in-the-pot) and “Brado Togado” (Indian shrimp and spinach), with a variety of philosophical observations. Thus Miss Valentine learned that an artful woman was a saint in the morning and a glowworm at night; and that a lady less than well endowed with native wit should learn to dance well, so that what she lacked in the head might be made up by her heels. Furthermore, observed Dr. Hunter, beauty fades. A wise woman laid in a stock of something to take its place. Feeling distinctly out of charity with Dr. Hunter, Sara flung Medicinae across the room. As she did so, the morning-room door was flung open. She started guiltily.

  But it was only Jaisy, who espied Miss Valentine and beamed. “Capital! I had hoped I’d find you here alone because I am very wishful of speaking with you. Sara, you have had a hairs-breadth escape!”

  Escape was a matter that had much occupied Miss Valentine’s mind of late — escape from a life of unremitting drudgery. “I have?” she inquired doubtfully.

  “Oh, yes?” With the utmost disrespect. Lady Easterling seated herself in the dowager duchess’s chair. “You will not credit it — I cannot myself! It beats everything! — but he did offer you attentions that were rather too pointed, and you must immediately perceive that he would net have done so did he not seek to lead you into a ruinous entanglement!”

  As if her head were not already sorely abused by this miserable cold, now Jaisy must set her conundrums that made her brow ache. “I do not immediately perceive anything!” wailed Miss Valentine, as she raised her handkerchief to her reddened nose.

  “Pooh!” Lady Easterling cast her friend an arch, reproving glance. “You needn’t try and bamboozle me! Nor need you feel that it was very stupidly done of you to so nearly be taken in, because I’m sure no one knows better than Jevon how to cut a wheedle! Although it has me quite in a puzzle why he should try and play off his tricks on you!”

  Though Miss Valentine was not certain that she comprehended all the ramifications of the conversation in which she was engaged, she had no difficulty in recognizing an insult. “Jaisy, I thank you!” she snapped into her handkerchief, and with such hostility that Confucious stirred. “Next you will tell me that I am grown a positive dowd!”

  “Well.” Lady Easterling cast an appraising glance at her companion’s gown. “Don’t cut up so stiff, Sara! I didn’t mean you was an antitode! But you have been left on the shelf and you ain’t the sort of female Jevon usually engages in flirtation. Depend upon it, he did intend to offer you a slip on the shoulder, which is very shabby conduct even for the most hardened flirt in London, which Jevon definitely is!”

  “Jaisy, please! You are making a great piece of work about nothing, my dear.”

  “Am I, Sara?” Of course Sara must be chagrined by Jaisy’s knowledge other sad unsteadiness of character, most recently demonstrated by monstrous unmaidenly conduct. Should Jaisy repeat to Sara Jevon’s nonsense about a partiality? On the whole, Jaisy thought not. Already Sara had exhibited an appalling eagerness to follow Jevon up the garden path. Better that she be persuaded to forget him immediately. “Poor, poor Sara! And to think that before Jevon led you astray you was always so painstakingly discreet.”

  Uncharitably, Miss Valentine wished that she retained possession of the Medicinae still, so that she might now hurl it at Lady Easterling’s lovely pea-brained head. “Jevon led me nowhere!” she protested, in tones garbled by mingled rage, frustration and head cold. “I beg you will let the subject drop.”

  If Jevon had not led Sara up the garden path, then Sara had led Jevon, reasoned Lady Easterling; and there was a want of modesty about such conduct which she could not condone. Jaisy might be a rag-mannered baggage with a fondness for the Fancy and all sorts of sporting talk, but in comparison to Sara, Jaisy was a veritable candidate for sainthood. Any degree of scruples possessed by Miss Valentine, Lady Easterling sadly realized, wasn’t worth the purchase of a guinea. “I didn’t mean you should fall silent altogether!” said Sara, around another sneeze.

  Lady Easterling collected her errant thoughts, and with a determined expression applied herself once more to her task. “It is you, Sara, who are doing it rather too brown! You need not try and spare my feelings; a man who is set on marrying an opera dancer is capable of any infamy, even if he is my own brother, and so I freely admit! Nor need you fear I deplore your lack of judgment as concerns Jevon. I am very pleased that you are taking it so well — I’d be fit to blow my brains out if I learned I’d been offered false coin — but there! And I always thought you was a biddable female!”

  Miss Valentine inhaled deeply, coughed and strove for patience. “Jevon did not offer me false coin. And what is this nonsense about an opera dancer? You must have got it wrong!”

  “I did no such thing!” Lady Easterling retorted, so belligerently that Confucious raised up on his haunches, eage
r to observe a regular rowdy-do. “I had it straight from Carlin, and Jevon told him so himself! If you knew what Jevon was about, and didn’t send him to the rightabout, you are as cork-brained as he is, Sara! No, no, do not try to deny it!” she added, as Miss Valentine tried to speak. “It is too late to try and turn me up sweet! I see just how it is with you, and the only solution is that you must marry immediately.”

  Sara picked up Confacious, who had been inspired by Jaisy’s indignant outburst to spit and snarl, and cradled the dog in her arms. He did not make a comfortable bundle, but squirmed and growled and treated her to great gusts of malodorous doggy breath. “I must?” she echoed faintly.

  “Yes.” Lady Easterling was pleased to make even that infinitesimal degree of progress. “You will understand why I must take back my former offer to take you away with me; I cannot provide shelter — and bonnets! — to a female who is likely to be offering to kiss Carlin the moment my back is turned. You cannot expect it of me! Nor can you deny this habit you have developed of kissing every gentleman in sight! Jevon! Arthur! Sir Phineas!”

  “Sir Phineas!” echoed Miss Valentine indignantly. “I never!”

  “Excellent,” retorted Lady Easterling. “He is a great deal too old! You had much better have Arthur, because I don’t mean to! Don’t misunderstand me, Sara, I wish you very well, just like I do Jevon, but I am also tempted to wash my hands of him?” She withdrew a missive from her sleeve and waved it for emphasis. “And I have also told him, if he goes through with this marriage to an opera dancer, that he will be disinherited by both Georgiana and me — but don’t be taking notions, Sara, because if Jevon, er, takes you under his protection, the result will be the same. You had much better have Arthur, because clearly you must have someone!” On this Parthian shot she rose, shook out her skirts and exited the morning room, leaving Miss Valentine too flabbergasted to even sneeze in farewell.

  In the hallway, she found Arthur, contemplating his reflection in the looking glass. Very noteworthy that reflection was today: Mr. Kingscote wore a bright yellow coat with padded breast, huge plated buttons, skirt-tails that reached below the knee, and French riding sleeves; lime green pantaloons of ribbed kerseymere, a frilled shirt and cashmere waistcoat, and Hessian boots. Lady Easterling accorded this vision a great deal less approval than the vision accorded itself. “I hope you’re pleased with yourself!” she said scathingly.

  Arthur knew no reason why he should not experience a degree of satisfaction, such a Tulip of fashion was he. Lady Easterling’s expression, he noted, was not especially appreciative. Arthur turned this way and that, craning his head to observe his reflection from several improbable angles. “Have I a crease? A thread? Not a smudge?” he inquired anxiously.

  Sara preferred this jackanapes, this cawker, to Jevon? Jaisy could make no sense of it. However, Sara must have whom she wanted — and since Jevon would only play fast and loose with her, the fact that Sara wanted a basket-scrambler like Arthur Kingscote was, if incomprehensible, also for the best.

  At least she could do a bit to secure her Sara’s happiness. “You are a cruel man, Arthur Kingscote!” announced Jaisy, and sighed. “I would not have thought you a man who would treat a lady in this cavalier fashion, who would encourage her to set her cap at you and then leave her to wear the willow. Oh! It is very sad.”

  What was this? wondered Arthur. He thought Lady Easterling had made a dead-set at Lord Carlin. Could he have been mistaken? Had Arthur so bedazzled her that she realized Carlin was, in comparison, dull stuff? Though Arthur didn’t fancy Jaisy in the slightest, it was no small compliment that she’d taken a marked fancy to him. Arthur exchanged a smug, meaningful glance with his reflection. Not only was he a man of fashion, but a gay blade, forsooth! But comment was called for. “You honor me. Lady Easterling!” he said, with what he considered a gentle leer.

  “Moonshine!” retorted her ladyship irritably. “I wish you would not grimace at yourself while I am trying to speak. You have behaved very scaly to Sara, Arthur. I can tell you that to win the admiration of someone like Sara ain’t nothing to cavil at!”

  “Sara?” Arthur was so astonished that he left off gloating over his own reflection and stared instead at Lady Easterling. “You’re all about in the head!”

  “No, Arthur, I am not.” Sara must have the man she wanted, Jaisy reminded herself once more, cork-brained as the choice might seem. “Sara has taken a marked fancy to you; she as much as told me so! If you were not such a gudgeon, you would have seen she was casting out lures!”

  The only lures that Arthur Kingscote was qualified to recognize were those dangled at the end of fishing lines, but he would have served as fish-bait himself before admitting to such abysmal ignorance. “Oho!” said he.

  “Cawker!” responded Lady Easterling. “Well, Arthur, what do you mean to do about it? Only the greatest beast in nature would leave poor Sara to wear the willow, as you have done.”

  “No, no!” Arthur protested, horrified. “I assure you, nothing of the sort! Tell you what, I’ll go talk to Miss Valentine. Set the record straight, you know!”

  “Capital!” All was up to Sara now; Jaisy had done her reluctant best to promote this singularly inappropriate romance. “I knew you would not hold it against Sara that she has been a trifle, er, indiscreet; she will cut all the others now that her affections have become settled on you. Don’t dawdle, Arthur! She is waiting in the morning room.”

  During her ladyship’s revelations, Mr. Kingscote’s self-esteem had grown by leaps and bounds. He had hitherto underestimated himself, he now understood. No simple country bumpkin could have won the heart of a woman of the world, an adventuress living on her wits, a scheming temptress like Sara Valentine. Clearly she had misinterpreted his attempts to persuade her to help him avoid marriage with a female whom he feared would regularly assault his person; perhaps she thought his request for assistance in duping the dowager duchess a very clever ploy. And so it would have been clever, had it been a ruse, realized Arthur, as with a firm and masterful stride he approached the morning-room door. Behind him, Lady Easterling rolled her eyes heavenward, and then proceeded down the hallway.

  Briskly, Arthur applied himself to the doorknob, stepped into the room. What a dashing young blood was he, he decided, as he permitted himself a peek into a Venetian mirror. Complete to a shade, and up to all the rigs, as Lady Easterling might have put it. Scant wonder that he had attracted the interest of a woman of the world, and without even trying. This was only the first of many splendid adventures, he fancied, among the frail and the fair. Then he realized that he was being studied quizzically by the frail one herself. “Good day, Arthur!” she said cordially. “You are looking positively top-of-the-trees!”

  Ah, she sought to cloak her tender sensibilities behind a mantle of bright banter, and Arthur must show her that there was no need for masquerade. There was but one reasonable course of action now. Adventuress though she might be, Miss Valentine was also very ladylike. Or perhaps she was too modest to make him overtures. As a gentleman, his duty was clear. He must sweep her off her feet. With that admirable resolve, Arthur strode boldly across the room, plucked Confucious from the sofa, carried the snarling dog at arm’s length to the doorway, deposited him in the hallway and quickly shut the door. Then, once more, he strode boldly to the sofa and sat down beside Miss Valentine. “Arthur,” she said, bewildered. “What are you about?”

  “You know!” responded Arthur, with what he intended as a kindling glance. “And I’ll wager you will like it excessively! But enough of talk!” Upon which observation he clamped one arm around Sara’s shoulders and pulled her inexorably toward him.

  This was not the first time a young man had tried such tactics; Sara placed her hands on Arthur’s chest, her arms held rigid, and glared. “Release me this instant, you fool! You go beyond the line of being pleasing! Release me and we shall both forget that you have made an exhibition of yourself.”

  Naturally she would put up some preten
se of coyness, Arthur decided; and she would never forgive him if he failed to persevere. Therefore, with his other hand he pushed aside her outstretched arms and, before she could protest further, crushed her against his chest. Hanged if he’d realized this pursuit of dissipation would be such curst uphill work, he thought, as, rather grimly, he set about kissing Miss Valentine.

  Since there was little she could do about it, her arms pinned at her sides, Sara endured that embrace. In all honesty, she admitted that she had not struggled against it as energetically as she might. Despite the unflattering opinion held other by Lady Easterling, Miss Valentine had in all her life been kissed by but one gentleman, and the revelation that he had intended to offer her a slip on the shoulder had affected Sara like a slap in the face. Therefore, she allowed Arthur Kingscote to embrace her, due to no addle-pated notion of thus taking her revenge, but because she wished to learn if anyone else could kiss so well.

  Alas, if Arthur Kingscote was a fair example, no one could. At last he released her, and Sara drew back. Belatedly she realized that Confucious, exiled in the hallway, had set up a frenzied barking that must have drawn the attention of every member of the household to the morning room. That barking now had stopped.

  “I say, Sara!” said Mr. Kingscote, who was much less acute. “That was jolly good fun, was it not?” Miss Valentine did not reply. Slowly, she turned toward the doorway.

  Arthur, too, became aware of the ominous quality of the silence then. Even Confucious had ceased to snarl and howl. He, too, looked at the doorway. Lady Blackwood stood there, like an avenging angel, bearing aloft not a flaming sword but a very triumphant-looking Pekinese.

  Abruptly, Mr. Kingscote’s delusions of grandeur vanished like a puff of smoke. The dowager’s malevolent expression left no doubt she was thoroughly incensed. He would be cast off without a farthing, and his impecunious family likewise.