“I wouldn’t wish to be accused of vulgar curiosity.” Fitz raised his quizzing glass. “But both of them? There? In that very bed?”
Lord Mannering was in the process of tying his cravat, his chin pointed toward the ceiling, while James stood at the ready, holding a spare length of starched white cloth. “You forgot the dog.”
Fitz stared at the great carved bed. “I knew I shouldn’t have left.”
Nick lowered his chin. “Ah. You are suggesting a ménage a cinq. I didn’t realize you favored that sort of thing.”
“I ain’t suggesting anything of the sort. Don’t try and change the subject.” Fitz turned the quizzing glass on his friend. “You look like the devil, Nicky, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
If the marquess didn’t mind, his valet felt otherwise. James had already shaved his master and brushed his hair, persuaded him into fresh body linen, breeches and waistcoat. Nothing could be done to dispel the aroma of camphor that clung to his person, alas, save to plunge him into a hip bath, a venture that, considering the condition of his poor back, it was unlikely either of them would survive. The valet’s lip trembled. “Shame on you, Fitz,” said Nick. “You’ve upset James.”
The baron was stricken with remorse. He knew, none better, the value of a good valet, his own incomparable Franchise having made no small contribution to the vision that was Fitz this afternoon. His chin was smoothly shaven now, if not his upper lip, the growth there at this stage in its evolution rather resembling a fuzzy caterpillar; the rest of him clad nattily in a purple coat with large plated buttons, a chequered waistcoat, kerseymere inexpressibles, gleaming boots, and a stunningly violet cravat. “No offense, James! You’re a dashed good fellow, and I’m sure no one could have made Nicky look better than you have. It’s the little Loversall as is responsible for him not being able to stand up straight, and Lady Norwood for the bruises on his face.”
“I can too stand up straight,” said the marquess, and attempted to, and groaned.
Fitz had had the foresight to bring along his vinaigrette. He uncapped the bottle and waved it under his friend’s nose. “You don’t have to do this.”
Lord Mannering pushed away the bottle. “Yes, I do. My blasted fiancée was going to explain everything to her papa, and ask him for his advice. Therefore, we are going to the Park, and discover what she accomplished, if anything at all.”
As well as set tongues to wagging, thought Fitz, especially if Lady Norwood was also present to punch the marquess, or whatever else she’d done to inspire the besotted expression that occasionally crossed his face. Fitz glanced at the suit of armor that stood in the corner. What amazing things Ferdinand must have seen not only in the past few hours, but during his lifetime. Although perhaps “lifetime” was not the right word.
As Fitz was thus speculating, James assisted his master to don an excellently tailored dark green coat, designed to fit its owner like a glove. Since the garment’s owner was at the moment none too supple, by the time the jacket was smoothed across his broad shoulders, both he and his valet were perspiring gently, and Nick was as white as his bedsheets.
“You don’t—” Fitz said again.
“Yes, I do!” snarled Nick.
James rang for Jacob, and together they assisted the marquess down the stair. By the time they reached the bottom, Lord Mannering was perspiring rather more profusely, and both James and Jacob were looking pale. Mary waited in the hallway, bearing cane and gloves and tall beaver hat, the latter well brushed on the outside with a soft cloth, and wiped inside with a clean handkerchief. Fitz held out the vinaigrette. Nick swore.
The front door opened. A young gentleman with chestnut hair and hazel eyes walked into the hall, and stopped, and stared. “Hello, Unc! This is a surprise. I was going to go to ground, and here you’re hiding here first.”
“Don’t call me Unc.” Sourly, Nick regarded his nephew and heir. “Your mother thinks you’ve fallen in with bad company. And I’m not hiding here.”
“No, he’s just having assignations,” observed Fitz. “Hello, Colin. I like your coat. The paisley mixture, ain’t it? You have a piece of lint there, on your sleeve.”
Colin flicked away the lint. “Assignations, Nicky? Maybe it’s time we had a little uncle-nephew talk. I am nineteen.”
Lord Mannering put on his hat and picked up his cane. “To what happy accident do we owe so unexpected a visit, Colin?”
Fascinated, Colin gazed upon his uncle’s bruises. “Speaking of accidents, what’s happened to you?”
“I told you he was having assignations!” said Fitz. “And I’ll talk to you about them, if your uncle won’t. What would you like to know?”
At the thought of Fitz expounding upon assignations, Colin lost his powers of speech. Fitz patted his shoulder. “You think about it. My vast storehouse of knowledge is at your disposal whenever you wish. Colin’s got sent down from university again, Nicky. It’s plain as the nose on your face. What was it this time, performing monkeys? Short-sheeting the don’s bed? Boxing the watch?”
“No, it was a pig. In the chapel.” Colin grinned. “A large, rather smelly pig, which furthermore had been greased.”
Nick tried not to laugh, not because he had any desire to set an example for his nephew, but because laughing hurt. “Cabbage head.”
Colin was still staring at his uncle. “Nicky, what did happen to you?”
“Lady Norwood,” explained Fitz, before Nick could formulate a response. “She has a handy bunch of fives.”
Colin blinked. “She hit Nicky?”
Fitz took Colin’s arm. “That ain’t all she’s done to him. Come along, I’ll tell you about it on the way to the Park.”
Waiting in the street was an open barouche, drawn by two pair of white horses, the driver perched on his seat outside. Inside, two seats faced each other. The collapsible hood that extended over the back seat was folded down.
Nick was ashen by the time he settled on the dark leather. “I’m not sure this is a good idea,” said Fitz.
Gingerly, Nick stretched out his legs. “Since I don’t recall the last time I had a good idea, we might as well proceed.”
The driver flicked his reins, and the barouche moved forward. Colin settled down beside his uncle, with a vague notion of being handy in case of some catastrophe, such as Nicky’s fainting and being pitched off the seat. He inhaled and his nostrils twitched. “What’s that smell?”
Fitz had come equipped not only with his vinaigrette, but also with a lavender-soaked handkerchief and, just in case, a spare. This, he graciously extended to Colin. “Camphor. Among your uncle’s other misfortunes is a damaged back. As well as a fiancée.”
Gingerly, Colin accepted the handkerchief, which was edged daintily with lace. “Wish you joy and all that, but isn’t it a little sudden, Unc?” Conversation paused then, as the barouche swerved to avoid colliding with a pedestrian. The marquess groaned. Fitz offered his vinaigrette. Nick glared at him.
It was that rarest of occasions, a sunny London day, and a great proportion of the populace was taking advantage of the weather to crowd into the streets: town criers in cocked hats and flaxen wigs; postmen in red and gold; ruddy-faced countrymen and porters with their loads; housewives on their way home from market; bowlegged ostlers; sharp-eyed lads in dirty salt-and-pepper coats and battered low-brimmed hats. As Lord Mannering’s barouche wound its way through hackney coaches and fine carriages, carts drawn by donkeys and others by small boys, past a heavy dray laden with beer barrels, and around a bailiff’s wagon piled so high with household furnishings that it looked like it would at any moment collapse, Fitz explained to Colin how his uncle had been accused of attempting to ravish a damsel on her papa’s hall stair steps, although as it turned out she was trying to ravish him instead; and about the older woman whom he had ravished; and how the two of them had ended up together with him in a bed, along with a dog. Fitz considered it time Colin knew about such things. Nick gritted his teeth against the swaying of the cart, and tried not to groan.
“Are you trying to humbug me?” Colin inquired.
Fitz snorted. “I’d come up with a better tale than this if I was! Unfortunately, it’s all true. He’s in love with her, else he wouldn’t be behaving like a jackass. And she’s in love with him. Lady Norwood, that is.”
Despite himself, for he was quite out of charity with both his companions, Nick asked, “How do you know that?”
Fitz leaned forward, the better to speak to the fascinated Colin. “She called him a satyr, toad, goat, lying cur, dastardly rat, and lustful slug. Not to mention pond scum. In my experience, only true affection inspires a woman to such heights.”
“You forgot maw-worm.”
Fitz ruminated. “I don’t remember her calling you a maw-worm.”
Nick sighed. “That was the time before.”
“I say!” said Fitz. “You don’t mean to tell me that you and Lady Norwood, ah—”
“Several times. Both then and now.”
“One hesitates to ask”—Fitz didn’t—”but when was then?”
“Before she married Norwood.”
“In that case, why did she marry Norwood?”
Nick looked his most sardonic. “My dear Fitz, the lady is a Loversall.” He clasped his hands on the handle of his cane and leaned slightly forward in the hope that this change of position might ease the strain on his back. “I hesitate to mention this, but Zoe called me a swine.”
Fitz shrugged. ‘That don’t signify. She ain’t in love with anyone but herself.”
“Narcissus!” Colin was pleased to make a contribution to the conversation. “Narcissus was punished by Nemesis for his cruelty to Echo and the other nymphs, and fell in love with his own reflection in a pond, and pined away, and died.”
Said Fitz, disapprovingly, “Sounds like a blasted Loversall.”
“Hera took away Echo’s ability to speak after Echo kept her distracted while the nymphs Zeus had been dallying with escaped. See, I have been tending to my studies, Nicky,” Colin concluded. “What’s a Loversall?”
“I believe you,” protested Nick. “It’s your mother who thinks you’re preoccupied with things such as greased pigs. More to the point is me escaping from the nymph with whom I didn’t dally, I think.”
Colin shook his head. “And you called me a cabbage head! I may have got sent down, but I’m not a penny the worse for it, which is more than can be said of you. I am sadly disillusioned, Nicky! Here I thought you were up to all the rigs, and it turns out you’re as great a jingle-brain as anyone else.”
“Maybe worse,” mused Fitz. “Remember that dog in his bed.”
Colin snickered. Fitz grinned. “I’m glad the two of you are finding such amusement in my predicament!” Nick snapped.
“Never mind,” soothed Fitz. “We’re going to stick as close as court plasters lest you tumble into worse trouble yet." He regarded his friend’s pale, set features, and decided a diversion was in order. The remainder of their journey to the Park was enlivened by his explanation of the intricacies of the violet cloth wound around his throat, which had been laid first on the back of the neck, the ends brought forward and tied in a large knot, the ends then being carried under the arms and tied in the back, thereby making a very pretty appearance, and giving the wearer a languishingly amorous look.
All the beau monde promenaded in Hyde Park on this fine day, as a result of which the ducks had retreated to the safety of their shelters, as had the cows and deer. The Prince Regent and the Duke of York; Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire; the Ladies Cowper, Foley, Hertford, and Mountjoy; the Earl of Sefton and the Ladies of Molyneux—all these worthies were known to Lord Mannering, as he was to them, and all were eager to say hello, and to comment on his upcoming nuptials—although only Prinny dared chuckle and chide him for getting caught—and then to murmur among themselves that the marquess looked less like a man about to contract a marriage than one who’d just been told he’d got a case of the pox.
On the pathway just ahead, a young lady held court. She was dressed in a pale brown riding habit, and a hat with a jaunty plume, and mounted on a pretty chestnut horse. Flocked around her were admiring gentlemen of various ages, as well as several women whose noses appeared to have been put out of joint.
She shimmered, and sparkled, and shot out rays brighter than the sun. “That” said Fitz, “is a Loversall.”
Zoe rode over to the barouche, causing her abandoned admirers to glower and mutter among themselves. “Hello, Lord Mannering. I’m glad to see that you can walk. Or sit, anyway! You look especially fine today, Baron Fitzrichard. I have a gown the same color as your cravat.” Her curious gaze moved to Colin. Her eyelashes fluttered. “And who is this?”
“My nephew, Colin Kennet. Colin, this is Miss Zoe Loversall.”
“The heir!” said Zoe, and dimpled. “You poor thing. I am sorry to cut up your hopes. But it may not come to that, you know, for your uncle is quite old.”
She was vivid, luminous. She had dimples. She was terrifying. Colin looked at his uncle. “Old?”
“She refers to the siring of children,” Nick said sourly. “Heirs. That sort of thing.”
Fitz flicked his handkerchief. “Should you require further enlightenment, Colin, you need only ask.”
Zoe regarded the baron’s handkerchief, and then one that Colin clutched forgotten in his hand. She sniffed the air. “Lavender-scented handkerchiefs? Is that the new rage?” Fitz contemplated his handkerchief, and gave it an experimental twitch.
Nick had wondered how Colin might react to Zoe. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that the boy looked thunderstruck. “Your aunt isn’t with you?”
“When I last saw Aunt Cara she was having that ugly tree of yours carried out into the garden.” Zoe moved her flirtatious gaze from Colin to his uncle. “I wonder if it would be possible to speak with you privately, my lord.”
“No!” Not for all the tea in China. “I have no secrets from Colin and Fitz.”
“Very well, then!” Zoe urged her horse closer, and leaned forward confidingly. “Beau is deaf to reason. He’s being obstinate. Unless we are very clever, it will be St. George’s, Hanover Square, with or without a wedding list—we have all refused to make one up, you see, but that won’t stop Beau!—and Aunt Cara will have her heart broke. I think you should elope. Then I can be the one to nurse a broken heart.”
On general principles, Lord Mannering didn’t care to do anything his fiancée wished. “Thereby destroying both your aunt’s reputation and my own. I think not. Perhaps I’ll just cry off instead.”
“You can’t!” cried Zoe, loud enough to cause several curious glances to be cast in their direction. She lowered her voice. “I won’t let you. I’d look the veriest pig-widgeon if you did.”
“You’d look the veriest pig-widgeon if he eloped with your aunt,” Fitz pointed out.
“That’s different!” protested Zoe, with a pretty pout. “If he eloped with Aunt Cara, everyone would assume her tumultuous passions had got the better of them both.” She dimpled at Colin. “It’s a family trait. And if Aunt Cara won’t agree, he’ll just have to carry her off.”
“With his back?” interjected Fitz. “Not that Lady Norwood ain’t a fine figure of a woman. I wouldn’t mind carrying her off myself, if I were inclined toward that sort of thing, which I ain’t, but it wouldn’t resolve this fix.” The marquess clenched his teeth, due not to any unease caused by the baron’s suggestion, but to the agony that this excursion was causing his abused spine.
“I wish you would elope,” said Colin. “Because I’ve decided I don’t want to be your heir. What if you were to pop off tomorrow? I never thought of it before, but look at the condition you’re in. I’m only nineteen! That’s too young to become a marquess. Come to think of it, I may always be too young to become a marquess.”
Zoe stared at him in astonishment. “How very ungrateful of you!” she said.
“Oh?” inquired Colin. “And it’s not ungrateful of you to entangle my uncle in this muddle when it’s clear as noonday that who he really wants is your aunt?”
Zoe could hardly stamp her foot since she was on horseback, and there was nothing throwable within her reach. She had to settle for a sneer. It was a masterful sneer, of course, complete with twitched nose and curled lip. “You, sir, are very rude!”
Colin shrugged. “And you’re a flirt. Uncle Nicky should cry off. He can hardly make you look a greater pig-widgeon than you make yourself.”
Zoe stared at him with open-mouthed astonishment. Nick twisted painfully sideways on the seat to regard his nephew and heir. Elegantly, Baron Fitzrichard wafted his handkerchief—the Fitz flourish, he would style it—and said: “I believe I’ve just hit upon a scheme.”