CHAPTER 13

"My lord, " said Deirdre quickly to Lord Wrotham, "may I join you in a moment? I need to speak privately with this gentleman." She simply had to keep Jonas and the Marquis from talking to each other. Jonas was the one person outside her family (and Mr. Hunt, of course) who knew her to be the author of "Dreams of July." His flushed countenance and bleary eyes made her suspect that he had been drinking and she was in a quake that he might blurt out the truth before she could stop him.

Lord Wrotham's quick frown was immediately replaced by a smoothly social smile. "Certainly, Miss Wheaton. I shall await you by the buffet table." He nodded coolly at Jonas, not requesting an introduction, to Deirdre's great relief, and strolled leisurely into the dining room.

"Jonas, I did not look to see you here," she said as soon as the Marquis was out of earshot. "I wish—"

"You wish I weren't here to queer your game with Wrotham, eh?" he broke in sourly. He gave her a lopsided smile which was at odds with the bitterness in his eyes. "That's evident."

"I was going to say that I wish to apologize for my abruptness the other day, and that I hoped we might still be friends," she corrected him rather tersely.

"Oh, I daresay!" replied Jonas with a high-pitched giggle. "How can you need me for a friend, when you are already thick as thieves with Southey and Byron, Miss Famous Poetess? Those high-and-mighty gentlemen won't give me the time of day."

"Shh! Jonas, keep your voice down. Of course I value your friendship. You have been drinking, have you not?" She tried unsuccessfully to pull him towards one of the alcoves.

"Not foxed yet, m'dear," he assured her, then scowled suddenly. "But if I were, it would be your fault, wouldn't it? So you've no call to be criticizing me!"

"Jonas, please!" Deirdre was becoming exasperated. There was one thing she had to discover. "Have you mentioned my poem to anyone?"

He snorted. "What, and further your ambitions, when you've blasted mine? No, you'll have to find another dupe to help you spread the word. Wrotham, perhaps."

Suddenly, his expression altered, as though he were remembering something. "Everything will change soon, though, my dear, and you'll find me as helpful as you could wish. You've tried to tear our souls asunder, Didi, but I won't let either of us suffer for it. You'll see." He nodded mysteriously.

"What… what do you mean to do?" asked Deirdre in sudden fear. He wasn't contemplating suicide, was he? She would never forgive herself for that!

"Nothing you'll regret, my sweet. Until then." He swept her a dramatic bow which almost overbalanced him, then made his way towards the exit.

No, it did not sound as though he meant to put a period to his existence, which was a relief, but just what did he mean? After a few seconds she shook her head. He was bosky. Perhaps he meant nothing, or would have forgotten it by morning. At least he was not spreading word of her identity as D—yet. She turned to join Lord Wrotham in the dining room, though much of her enjoyment in the evening had been spoiled.

Lord Wrotham asked no questions about her interview with Mr. Flinder, for which she was grateful, given that he must have witnessed at least a part of their confrontation. At the moment, she was too preoccupied in trying to unravel Jonas's riddling to worry as much about Lord Wrotham's apparent lack of curiosity than she might otherwise.

Deirdre had just begun to fill a plate from the sumptuous buffet when her already-divided attention was diverted further by the sight of Celeste apparently tete-a-tete with Sir Malcolm Digby on the far side of the room. Celeste appeared to be giggling and flirting, rapping Sir Malcolm across the knuckles with her fan as Deirdre watched. Glancing about, she saw no sign of Lord Ellerby.

"You must admit you have neglected me shamefully this week past, Sir Malcolm," Celeste was saying. She peered artfully through her lashes to see what effect she was having on the handsome baronet.

"I propose to make it up to you if you will but allow me, my sweet one," he replied suggestively. "Let us step out onto the balcony where we can be private and I shall explain."

Celeste glanced round. Where was Charles? The only reason she had approached Sir Malcolm in the first place was in the hope of provoking the too-proper Lord Ellerby to jealousy. She knew that he cared for her, but he had never so much as tried to kiss her, as several other of her suitors had— not that she had let them, of course! If Charles were to try, however... Wait! Was that him coming in from the main hallway?

"Perhaps for a moment, Sir Malcolm," she said, flashing a bewitching smile that she hoped Charles could see. "I would not wish my mama to notice our absence," she added, in the vague hope that this would deter him from actually attempting anything scandalous. Having become accustomed to Charles, she found that Sir Malcolm frightened her a little.

She allowed the baronet to lead her through one of the open French windows, glancing back over her shoulder to where she had last seen Lord Ellerby. He was not there! Perhaps it had not been him at all, she thought in sudden panic. Then, rallying her spirits, she straightened her shoulders. Surely, she was adept enough at the art of flirting by now that she could prevent Sir Malcolm from taking any unwonted liberties without assistance.

Lord Wrotham, meanwhile, had followed the direction of Deirdre's gaze and saw Celeste and Sir Malcolm as they stepped onto the balcony. Was that little minx playing Charles false? he wondered. It would not suit him to have his friend hurt, especially since he himself had been the one to introduce the two.

As though attuned to his thoughts, Deirdre said, "Oh, dear! Do you know where Lord Ellerby might be, my lord? I—I fear I do not particularly trust Sir Malcolm to be alone with my sister."

"Nor should you," replied Lord Wrotham curtly. "Do you go to play chaperon while I fetch Ellerby. He should be informed about this, I think." As he recalled, Charles had still been in the ballroom when they had quitted it.

Deirdre regarded him uncertainly, worried as to what he might say about Celeste to Lord Ellerby, for she knew that her sister truly cared for the Earl. However, she realized the wisdom of his suggestion —more an order, actually —and hurried to follow her sister, the crowd and her skirts hampering her movement. She had just reached the French windows when two things happened.

"Sir Malcolm! I thought you wished to tell me something! " she heard Celeste say in a high, unnatural voice. At the same moment, she was brushed almost roughly aside as Lord Ellerby strode past her onto the balcony. Unable to restrain her curiosity, Deirdre peered into the darkness where Lord Ellerby was bearing down on the couple a few steps away.

"Come, my sweet," Sir Malcolm was saying as he possessed himself of both of Celeste's hands. "You'll not convince me you didn't know— what the devil?" This, as Lord Ellerby grasped his shoulder from behind and spun him round.

"Charles!" gasped Celeste in obvious relief.

"I perceive you are annoying the lady," said Ellerby almost civilly, although his voice shook with anger. "You will offer her an apology and remove yourself from her presence."

Some men might enjoy a challenge, but Sir Malcolm was apparently not of their number. Nor, it seemed, had he any enthusiasm whatever for physical violence, which appeared to be in the offing if he refused Lord Ellerby's request.

"My pardon, Miss Wheaton," he therefore said obediently. With a mocking half salute to Lord Ellerby, he walked past him and back into the dining room, no doubt to pursue some other young lady who was not so well guarded.

Deirdre ducked back into the dining room when she saw Sir Malcolm coming towards her, and therefore missed the tender scene which followed out on the balcony. Suffice to say Celeste discovered that Charles could, when sufficiently provoked, behave in a delightfully improper manner.

"I... I see you found Lord Ellerby," said Deirdre to Lord Wrotham as she joined him at the table. He had filled plates for them both.

"It was not necessary," he replied. "He had already seen your foolish sister going out the door with that scoundrel, Digby. I saw no reason to impede his pursuit."

"No wonder he got there so quickly!" exclaimed Deirdre with a laugh. "And you must not call Celeste foolish, my lord."

"Oh? Is she not?" His eyebrows were raised alarmingly, but the deep brown eyes beneath them twinkled.

"Well," said Deirdre, trying not to smile, "perhaps she is, sometimes. But you should not say so!" Despite herself, she began to chuckle and Wrotham joined in.

"Most ungentlemanly of me, I agree. Now, shall we find a place to consume our repast in peace?" Deirdre followed him back to their seats, her spirits revived by his teasing, as he had perhaps intended.

The final two performers were noticeably inferior to the first, but Deirdre could not bring herself to be disappointed. Lord Wrotham continued to instruct her in the finer points of music, and as she listened, a ballad rose unbidden in her mind, which she promised herself to put down in writing before going to bed that night. She longed to recite it to Lord Wrotham, to hear his opinion, but she dared not. Not yet. First, she must find the courage to tell him the truth about herself, and to confess that she had deliberately misled him during their walk in the Park.

* * *

Myron Gates glanced up and down the street before knocking at Jonas Flinder's modest residence on the fringes of fashionable Mayfair. He hoped no one had noticed his increasingly frequent visits here, for when Flinder went through with the plan they were concocting he wanted no shadow of suspicion to fall on himself. It was possible Wrotham would call him out, if Flinder were beyond his reach.

"Bid you good day, Myron!" Jonas greeted him when he was shown into the study that also served as a parlour in the small house. Lord Mallencroft actually provided his sons a very generous allowance, but Jonas proudly claimed he had never felt the need for luxurious accommodations, preferring to live in the near-squalor which seemed to inspire so many of the artists he admired.

He kept a very respectable cellar, however, which was a large part of the attraction for Myron Gates.

As usual, the two men spoke of trivialities until they were well into their second bottle. Although heavy drinking was a fairly new pastime for Jonas Flinder, it was one to which he had taken with enthusiasm.

"Never mind the race," said Jonas suddenly, interrupting a lengthy recital wherein Myron had received an erroneous tip on which horse was likely to win. "Let me tell you what Miss Hoity-toity Didi Wheaton had to say to me t'other night."

"You spoke to her?" asked Myron in alarm. "What did you say?"

"Nothin' of cons'quence. It's what she said I was goin' to tell you. Now what was it?" He paused for a long moment, deep in thought. "Ah! Asked me to spread the word about her poem, that's what she did. Said she wanted to be my friend." He snorted. "She knows full well that's not what I want. Know what I think, Myron?" He leant confidentially towards the other man.

Myron bent as far as his girth would allow and was rewarded by a belch in his ear. Drawing back in distaste, he said, "Well, what is it? I can't stay much longer, I'm expected at my club."

"P'raps I'll join you," said Jonas, unaware of his crony's dismay. "Anyway, I think she was hinting that she's regretting her decision now. She wants me, Myron, I'm sure of it!" He gave his companion a bleary wink.

Myron personally thought Jonas's theory most unlikely, especially considering the fact that Wrotham was all but in her pocket, but forbore saying so. "That should make your plan all the easier then, don't you think?"

Jonas nodded sagely. "My very thought, Myron! We do think alike, do we not? At any rate, given her obviously tender feelings for me, I 'spect I can do without any ropes or gags. Wouldn't contribute to our marital bliss later, I shouldn't think. Once she's in the coach, she'll understand it's for the best, and there'll be no trouble, no trouble at all. Thought I might bring along some wine— champagne, perhaps!— instead."

Myron decided his appointment at the club could wait. "Is that quite... prudent, Jonas, do you think? Suppose you've misjudged her? It's a long way to the border, and she might contrive to escape if she's not bound."

"Escape me? I tell you, man, she loves me! She as much as told me so! Wrotham ain't her sort at all. She left him quick enough to talk to me. You should have seen how eager she was to send him on his way!"

Myron was beginning to wish heartily he had never met Jonas Flinder, but as he had, and as he had started this scheme, it was obviously up to him to see that it was carried out correctly.

"Very well, Jonas," he said cautiously. "Tell me, how do you plan to lure her into your coach? The ball for her and her sister is less than a week away, you know, and it is high time your preparations were made. Where will you spend your first night on the road?" Even if they never achieved the border, Myron thought, if it became known they spent a night together, Miss Wheaton would be effectively ruined, and no longer a threat to his inheritance. Wrotham would never marry her after that!

* * *

"So you see, Beata, I believe I may have been wrong about Lord Wrotham detesting all poetry." It was two days after the musicale, and Deirdre had joined her sister for breakfast and advice. "The question is, how am I to tell him the truth now?"

"It will appear odd, I admit," said Beata. "If only you had not made a point of telling him that you were not literary. You can hardly say, 'Surprise! I am not only literary, I am the mysterious D that everyone is talking of.' I think you will have to build up to it gradually— throw out hints, as it were."

Deirdre thought hard for a moment, then said decisively, "I had best tell you everything, Beata. Not even Mama knows this, but Jonas Flinder made me an offer last week."

"Flinder? Oh, the poetic one you mentioned. Gracious, Didi, you did not accept him?"

"No, no, I refused him. But he did not take it well, I fear." Deirdre still felt somewhat guilty over that, though she did not know what she could have done differently.

"No doubt he'll recover," said Beata lightly. "And I can't imagine Mama would be upset, now that Wrotham is showing you such marked attention. Where is the difficulty?"

"Jonas knows that the sonnet in the Examiner is mine. He had already read it before it was published. He has not told anyone yet, because he thinks that is what I desire. But if he finds I am keeping it a secret, I fear he may bruit it about simply out of spite!" He had not left her on a spiteful note at Lady Heatherton's, but he had obviously been drinking heavily and Deirdre placed no reliance on anything he had said.

Beata became thoughtful in her turn. "In that case," she said at last, "I think it would be best if you told Wrotham the truth at once. He strikes me as the sort who would find it impossible to forgive deception, particularly from one he has trusted. If he discovers the truth from someone else, Lord Wrotham may very well wish to have nothing further to do with you!"

* * *

At the same moment that Deirdre was receiving this excellent advice from her sister, Lord Wrotham was striding purposefully towards Penrose House. He had stayed home last night for the sole purpose of deciding what to do about Miss Deirdre Wheaton, and had come to the conclusion that she was essential to his happiness.

Charles's news that he had been accepted by Celeste the previous night strengthened his resolve to offer for Deirdre. Celeste and Charles planned to announce their engagement at the Wheaton sisters' come-out ball the following week, and Wrotham realized that there was no particular reason he and Deirdre could not do likewise. Observing his friend's euphoria could not help but encourage such thoughts.

So now he was on his way to offer for Miss Wheaton. He had come to believe, quite apart from the physical attraction he felt for her, that they would deal very well together. In fact, he could not imagine going through life without her. She had been very attentive to his musical instruction at Lady Heatherton's the other night, and no doubt would be equally eager to learn the intricacies of the literature and poetry so dear to Lord Wrotham's heart.

His enthusiasm received a set-back when he was informed by Celeste a few moments later that her sister was from home.

"I'm sorry, my lord, but she has gone to spend the morning with Mrs. Jameson, our sister. Would you care to leave a message for her?"

"Yes. Yes, I believe I would. I'll write her a brief note if you have any writing-paper about you." He intended to ask her to walk with him in the Park early that afternoon, before the fashionable hour. The tranquil paths would be the perfect setting for a proposal, he thought.

Celeste glanced about. "There is no paper here, my lord, but Didi always keeps a prodigious amount in her desk. I'll run up and fetch some, if you'll but wait a moment." She darted up to the second floor to rummage briefly in Deirdre's writing-desk before returning with a handful of paper.

"Here you are, my lord. Will this do?"

"More than adequate, I assure you," he replied with a smile at Charles's flighty fiancée. "I did say a brief note, you know. But what is this?" Among the blank sheets he had been handed were two or three covered with writing. Looking closer, he discovered it to be a lengthy —and remarkably good —ode, tragic in nature, in which the love of poetry and the love of a man (unnamed) seemed somehow in conflict. He had only time to glance over it before Celeste reached across to take it from him.

"Oh, I'm sorry, my lord. Didi's desk is always in such disarray. I suppose this is one of her little poems. She is forever writing them."

"Is she?" asked Wrotham, an arrested look on his face.

Celeste did not notice, but prattled on, oblivious. "Oh, yes! Didi fairly lives for her poetry. Did she not tell you?"

Wrotham's expression now became extremely thoughtful. "No. I am afraid she did not."

* * *