Page 8 of A Gentleman Fallen on Hard Times (The Lord Julian Mysteries #1)

“I’m drunk,” Miss Longacre observed, stroking Atlas’s neck. “I’ve always wanted to be drunk. I do not want to be married.”

“Strong spirits have a certain appeal.” I assessed the belvedere, the rising sun, and the woods around us. “Though you shall pay for your excesses.”

“Will I have a sore head?”

She might well have a husband in the person of my dubious self. “And you will ache and be so thirsty you could drink a Scottish loch dry. Your joints might pain you, and your thoughts could be fuddled into tomorrow.”

“My thoughts are not fuddled,” she said, giving the f particular force. “I am quite certain that I refuse to be married off to some handsome bounder. I’m eighteen. Do you know how young eighteen is? My grandmama lived to be eighty-three, and she was probably knocking a few years off that figure for vanity’s sake. I want to live to be vain at eighty-three, though I’m no great beauty.”

If she recalled that speech tomorrow, she might be embarrassed by it, though I found her words touching. I well knew how young eighteen was, and yet, I’d buried many eighteen-year-olds in Spain and France.

Old enough to take the king’s shilling or buy their colors, but under English law, not old enough to marry without saying, Papa, may I?

“I like you,” Miss Longacre said, making a clumsy effort to braid a hank of Atlas’s mane. “You came here for Lady Ophelia’s sake, and you stayed for Miss West’s. When all those other louts were laughing about hysterical women, you were trying to find the scoundrel who bungled so awfully with Miss West. Mama says you are bad ton , but Papa says a ducal heir cannot be bad ton . We had a great row about that, among other things. I feel a touch queasy.”

How the hell—how the rubbishing hell—could I extricate us from this situation? Atlas began to crop at the sparse grass. Bad form to graze when he was under saddle, but he was also due for his morning oats.

I could pretend that Miss Longacre and I had simply gone for a pre-breakfast promenade in the garden, but anybody could see us emerging from the trees. That same person might have noticed Miss Longacre’s flask glinting up on the viewing platform. Worse yet, her condition would become obvious as soon as she opened her mouth, as would the fact that I had been private with an inebriated female first thing in the day…

Disorderly retreat came to mind. Leave Maybelle here to fall asleep while I quietly mentioned to Hyperia that somebody of the female persuasion ought to look for a missing hoyden in the vicinity of the belvedere.

Though somebody of the male persuasion might come along with nefarious intent. One woman had already been assaulted at this blasted house party. Then too, Hyperia was off charming Ormstead somewhere in the wilds of Kent. Given how eager Ormstead was to be charmed, she might be occupied for hours yet. I wasn’t about to rely on Lady Ophelia’s good offices.

“Miss Longacre?”

“You can call me Maybelle. You taught me the verse about the pintle past all understanding, not that I understand pintles in the general case.”

“Would you like to become my wife?”

She left off twiddling Atlas’s mane and studied me with earnest focus. “You aren’t bad-looking, for all that white hair, and you are a ducal heir. Mama would weep, or pretend to, but Papa would loooooove to have a ducal connection. He didn’t have to spell that part out. I’d be a duchess someday, if your brother failed to have a son. I’d be Lady Julian rather than Plain Miss Longacre, even if His Grace was froo… fruitful.”

“All true, but you’d be married to a man who’s rumored to be a traitor. To hear your mother tell it, I’m a bird dropping on the family escutcheon.”

“You too?” She giggled like the schoolgirl she’d recently been. “I’m a disgrace, a tribulation, and I forget what else Mama said. You and I could be bird droppings together.”

Bless her, she was truly unhappy being Plain Miss Longacre. “Do you seek merely to be Lady Julian?”

Her brows knit, as if the question required significant concentration. “You aren’t proposing, but if you did, I’d have to decline. Not because of the coward and traitor bit, which is nonsense. Prancing popinjays, the lot of them muttering such things. Ormstead served, and he’s not joining in the verbal assisin…ass a ssin… the gossip. I don’t want to die, you see.”

She leaned against Atlas’s neck, and I feared we had reached the lachrymose portion of the program.

“You appear in good health to me, miss.”

“I am very healthy, except for my lamentably high spirits and my unguarded tongue, and I forget what else Mama doesn’t like. My finishing governess said I have a good bosom.”

I hurt for her, being assessed as if she were a heifer fattened for market. “You have an independent spirit, and in a young woman, that’s often terrifying to those responsible for her wellbeing.”

“I don’t feel terrifying. I feel terrified. Ginny died, you know, and the doctor said it was God’s will. Then Portia nearly died—bled for ages, went through fevers and everything—and then she did die, even though the fevers had let up. God’s will again. God’s will seems to require a lot of needlessly dead women. God is apparently keen on slaughtering all manner of fellows on the battlefield too—the same God for the French, the British, and all those other nations—despite the generals being the ones giving the orders. My will is to stay alive.”

She looked up at the bright blue sky above the canopy of maples. “Sorry, God.” She stuck out her tongue and made a rude noise.

What a charming drunk. “Is that why you offend anybody who looks like a marital prospect?”

She sighed, let go of the horse, and perched on a handy boulder among the rhododendrons. “I want to at least like the fellow if I’m to perish in bloody agony having his brats. Mama has a chart, with columns and rows. The bachelor names go down one side, and the columns include family standing, titles-if-any, number of properties, acres, wealth, ties to trade. Mama should have been a general. Your name is not on her chart, my lord, and you should thank your lucky stars.”

As interesting as this discussion was, and as sad and endearing, the risk of discovery grew with each passing minute. Guests would seek the back terrace after breakfast, wander the garden before the day became too hot, and travel to and from the stable, orangery, and river path in dedicated pursuit of idleness.

Atlas continued to crop grass, while I tried to think like a reconnaissance officer, rather than like a cad who’d interrogate a captive when she was half seas over. Now wasn’t the time to ask Maybelle why she’d lied about Hyperia’s assailant taking off for the stable.

Now was the time to get the lady safely back to her boudoir.

The solution came to me as Miss Longacre drained the last drop from her flask.

“Then you don’t seek to become Lady Julian?”

“I don’t seek to become Lady Anybody, or Mrs. Anybody. When I’m one-and-twenty, I come into funds of my own, and there’s nothing Mama and Papa can say to it. They want me to think only of my settlements and forget what will come to me if I’m not married. I’m eighteen. I’m not stupid.”

She was frightened and determined and an all-around fine young woman. “You’re a bit tipsy, is all, and you sought the age-old and notoriously foolish comfort of the bottle, or flask as the case may be, but if you don’t seek to marry me—my most grievous loss—then we must get you up to your rooms with nobody the wiser. Neither the other guests nor your parents are to know, do you understand?”

She scowled at her empty flask, which probably wasn’t hers, but rather, Lord Brimstock’s spare. “I don’t understand anything. Why can’t Mama just leave me alone?”

I withdrew from my breast pocket the small notebook and pencil I always carried with me—old habits died hard. I printed my message, because facile literacy among the stable lads was not a foregone conclusion, and tucked the note into the bar from which the left stirrup leather hung, such that an edge of white paper peeked out from between folds of saddle leather. I loosened the girth a hole, and ran up both stirrups and secured them so they would not flap against Atlas’s sides.

I then tied up his reins so he’d not inadvertently get a foot caught and led him to the edge of the trees.

“Go get your oats, my boy. Don’t tarry for more grass. Go where they can get this saddle off you and give you the proper brushing you deserve before you once again roll in the dust. Are we clear on your mission?”

Atlas swished his tail, as much of an affirmative reply as I was likely to get. I brandished my riding crop before his face.

“Go,” I said, stepping back and pointing in the direction of the stable. “Shoo! Begone!”

Atlas trotted off a few steps, looked back at me, and then seemed to get into the spirit of the undertaking. Most equines enjoyed a good game of “loose horse,” and Atlas was no exception. He was soon off down the bridle path by the river at a pounding trot and even kicked up his heels for good measure.

We waited barely fifteen minutes before Canning appeared, looking tired, but his usual good-humored self.

“Does my lord expect me to believe that the best rider on the premises had a mishap that resulted in torn breeches?” he said.

Miss Longacre stepped out from around the back of the belvedere. “Canny, you have come to rescue me!”

Canning looked from me to the young lady, who was doubtless starting to regret her folly. “I’m not the rescuing sort, miss.”

“Yes,” I said, “you are. Miss Longacre thought to enjoy the view from up top, but isn’t feeling quite the thing. She doesn’t want the other guests to see her under the weather. If you could discreetly fetch her lady’s maid here—avoid the garden paths, keep to the trees—I will wait with Miss Longacre until the cavalry arrives. On that happy occasion, I will be nowhere in evidence, because I was never here and neither were you or Miss Longacre.”

Canning was doubtless brimming with questions, but he was also very good at his job. “I’ll fetch Miss Belvoir, my lord. She’s an early riser and quite loyal to Miss Longacre.”

He decamped at a jog, and the longest twenty minutes of my life ensued. Anybody could take a notion to explore the belvedere on such a fine morning. Anybody might notice that Miss Longacre and I were both late to breakfast.

“Where did you get the flask?” I asked her when Canny had been gone for about ten minutes. The vessel was plain pewter, no embossing and too capacious to be a lady’s article for the hunt field.

“I found two flasks under my pillow when I went up to bed at nearly three in the morning. I refilled that one in the library. Might have spilled a bit. Came out here when the birds started up. Such a pretty sound, birdsong.”

“And it did not strike you as odd that somebody would leave a quantity of spirits under your pillow?”

“Yes. Very odd, but I’d been arguing with one of the fellows—not Brimmie, not Banter. Somebody else was braying at me as if I haven’t a brain in my head when all I asked for was a finger of brandy. One of the other gents got to sermonizing over cards. ‘Ladies should never take strong spirits,’ sayeth he. We survive patent remedies that are mostly brandy, take rum punch at Christmas, and enjoy a toddy with no ill effects, so why the stupid rule about ladies and strong spirits, which isn’t really a rule, but just a saying used to keep us from tippling as all the fellows do?”

“Somebody gave you an opportunity to test your logic.” And was that somebody watching from nearby as I wrecked his scheme to snabble a rich wife?

“I did not proffer logic,” she said, putting a hand to her belly. “I argued facts. Women imbibe strong spirits—ladies do—but men pretend we don’t, and we pretend we don’t. I’m truly not feeling quite the thing.”

“You would not be feeling quite the thing if you were a man who’d drained three flasks on top of wine with dinner and cordials over a very late night of cards. You are exhausted, in need of a quantity of water and lemonade, and you’d do well to become close friends with your toothpowder or a bushel of parsley. Don’t let anybody talk you into laudanum or a patent remedy this morning. Sleep, time, and harmless liquids. A pot of China black when you’ve had some rest, and you’re sure it will stay down.”

Voices drifted through the woods, so I retreated to the shadows at the bottom of the staircase.

“You’re very kind,” Miss Longacre said as Canning appeared some distance off with an older lady at his side.

“I’m not even here, Miss Longacre. If you recall nothing else about this adventure, please recall that, lest you become Lady Julian and responsible for the whole burden of a ducal succession which I am duty-bound to take seriously.” Or I should have been.

That seemed to sober her as nothing else had, and she was soon trundling off in the clucking company of her lady’s maid.

“You can come out now,” Canning said, “and I have a message for you from Lady Ophelia.”

I emerged from the dank confines of the belvedere’s foundation. “Hold your fire, for God’s sake. Whatever Lady Ophelia wants, it can wait. That was a very, very near miss, for me and for the young lady.”

Miss Longacre and her maid had broken from the trees and were strolling arm in arm across the park. For all anybody knew, Miss Longacre was taking the morning air—the maid’s shawl obscuring her evening attire—before tucking into her breakfast. I wished her well and wondered what Hyperia would make of Maybelle’s entirely valid reservations regarding marriage.

“Miss Longacre’s lot isn’t easy,” Canning said, swatting a leaf from the toe of his boots. “Lady Longacre is ambitious for her daughter, and Lord Longacre hasn’t sense enough to curb his wife’s determination. Miss Maybelle needs some time to find her feet, is all.”

“Like a filly new to training. Slow and steady makes for a trustworthy mount, while precipitous action can have permanent negative consequences.”

Canning swatted at another leaf. “She’s not a horse, my lord.”

And I, thank the celestial powers, would not be her husband. “Do you know of a Portia or a Ginny?”

“Her cousins, they were like older sisters to her. They were close, though Portia and Ginny made their come outs one and two years ago, respectively. That was before my time, but the staff says Maybelle took their passing very hard.”

Dead before they’d reached their legal majority. No wonder Maybelle was reluctant to enlist in the ranks of dutiful wives.

“Keep an eye on Miss Longacre, Canning, to the extent you discreetly can. While at cards, she took up the cause of women’s right to drink strong spirits, and some fool thought to test her by putting two loaded flasks under her pillow. She refilled at least one of those flasks and will have a very, very sore head.”

Canning’s genial features lost their good humor. “For God’s sake… Too much liquor can be deadly, especially to the untried. That was a cruel and stupid thing to do.”

“Also daring. Miss Longacre doubtless sleeps in the family wing, and her lady’s maid, a chambermaid, a footman bearing coal, or her own mother could have intruded into her bedroom and found the culprit setting his bait.” Unless the culprit had chosen his moment for when the family was embroiled in their argument.

“If it was a he,” Canning said. “Some of the young ladies are none too fond of Miss Longacre. She has few friends.”

“Because she had her cousins.” As I had had Harry. “This is the damnedest house party I have ever attended.”

“It’s about to get damned-er, my lord. Lady Ophelia is asking to see you directly.”

“Any idea why?”

“She wants you to escort her on some calls. Says it would be impolite to come all this way and not drop by to see friends in the area.”

Hyperia had given me my congé, or tried to, but that was before I’d found the young lady of the house three sheets to the wind and bellowing vulgar verse to the heavens.

“I suppose I will find my godmother at the breakfast table?”

“With Brimstock on one side, Cleary on the other, and Banter sitting across from her. One has to admire her ladyship, albeit from a safe distance.”

“Be glad you can maintain that safe distance, and my thanks for your assistance—again. You would have made a fine officer.”

Canning guffawed, saluted, and marched off, and I was left to reflect that his diction was matched only by his discretion. He was probably loyal to the house, too, damn the luck, else I’d have tried to woo him onto my London staff.

As I made my way to my room, I passed an open parlor door. Miss Maria Cleary sat alone, her chair angled so she was in profile to me and facing a window onto the park. The morning light was such that I saw in her face the reflected beauty that she’d once claimed. Delicate features, thick hair gone as white as my own, regal bearing.

And yet, her head trembled slightly on a slender neck, her mouth was slack, and her shawl hung limply around her elbows. She was a ruin, while Ophelia, her contemporary, was a fine and lustrous antique.

Miss Cleary caught sight of me and beckoned. “Do come in, sir. Are you one of Mendel’s friends?”

I might dodge a senior officer’s orders, but I would never be rude to a lady. I entered the room and bowed. “Miss Cleary. Lord Julian Caldicott, at your service. I am acquainted with both Lieutenant Daniel Cleary and Mr. Mendel Cleary.” I was acquainted with Miss Cleary, too, though she had aged considerably since before the war.

Five years ago, she’d given Ophelia a run for her money in the darling-senior-flirt steeplechase.

“The Caldicotts are tall,” she said in a soft quaver. “Ophelia is tall. She is not a Caldicott.”

According to family rumor, she halfway was, on the wrong side of the blanket a couple generations back. “Ophelia is my godmother. I’m her escort for purposes of this gathering.”

“Do sit. I abhor a fellow who looms. Mendel looms and hovers. Like his father, that one.”

I wanted to be anywhere but with this sad old lady, but then, so did apparently every other guest on the premises. They were assembled in merry pin down in the breakfast parlor, and I did not particularly want to be with them either.

“Mendel is devoted to you,” I said, wanting to give credit where due. “How was your journey from Town?”