Come Be My Love Page 27

  He took the shilling and stuffed it in his pocket, nodding at his luck. I signalled to Tim to let go of his leg, and he was off as quickly as a darted beam of light.

  "You didn't ought to 'ave given 'im a shillin'," Tim objected.

  "I'd give a lot more to be rid of him, and his master, and all this notoriety. Fame is the breath of fools, Tim, remember that."

  XXV

  I saw no further sign of the pugilistic man after that. Every­thing seemed to be settling well. The first tension had passed, and though Love's Breath continued to be a topic of discussion, it was no longer the topic. I felt the heat of victory after a cri­sis has been surmounted. Darius had predicted that society would force me to flee. I had, however, stood my ground, and though I could not claim that the matter had been laid to rest, nevertheless there was quiescence after the storm. I refused to consider that that quiescence might be nothing more than the eye of the hurricane.

  Darius had never raised the matter to me, yet on the evening of Lady Framingham's ball I was of a mind to remind him of it. I felt especially pleased, for the new evening dress I wore, of white crepe over a jonquil satin slip, the sleeves piquantly cut in sharp pleats edged with jonquil satin in the Chinese mode, which was all the rage, had been favourably commented upon by my hostess as I entered. This in itself was a victory, for Lady Framingham had been among those who had taken to cutting me dead whenever the opportunity pre­sented itself.

  My pleasure increased when Darius asked me to stand up with him for the "Boulanger." It was the first time I had danced with him since that waltz at the election ball in Lin­bury, though unlike the waltz, the "Boulanger" did not allow for any private discussion, otherwise I might have reminded him that his dire warnings had been for naught.

  Lady Brentwood, dancing with our host, threw an inti­mate smile at Darius from across the floor, and because she ired me, I deliberately moved to block her view, yet I was determined not even she would put me out of sorts that evening.

  Nor was I overly dismayed at Sir Clarence grasping my hand too tightly as we met in the set, though the next time I encountered him I clasped my fist in such a manner as to make that impossible, ignoring his lazy smile as he recognized my action.

  I sat at supper with a large group, of which Darius was a part with, of course, the ubiquitous Countess of Brentwood, and Lord Grey, Tom Moore and other members of the Hol­land House set. Lady Framingham was noted for the elegance of her table; she had that night quite outdone herself by serv­ing fresh crab canapes, foie gras en chausson, terrine of oys­ters, each table being decorated with an enormous savarin saturated with strawberries and madeira.

  The vintage champagne that continually refilled the glasses became the source of a number of toasts—to the sov­ereign; to Wellington, our national hero; to the remembrance of Nelson; to our hosts and their fine entertainment; on and on until the wine itself, in all its excellence, became a subject to salute. The guests were merry, tongues were loosened but in good fellowship rather than backbiting. A sense of relaxation, of ease, pervaded, so that I felt no qualms even when Wilmott arose to lift his glass.

  "To the ladies, without whom our lives would indeed be barren!"

  His toast was greeted with a murmur of assent. "The ladies! The ladies!" and glasses were about to be raised when

  Sir Clarence lifted his hand to signify that he had not finished.

  "And to one very special lady known to us all. There is, I believe, not a gentleman amongst us, if truth will prevail, who would not willingly choose to offer himself to that lady, to be held by her in the manner that she has so clearly and so pub­licly described."

  He paused, and I felt every eye upon me. Though I wished they would not, I knew that my cheeks flushed hor­ribly.

  "I, for one, so offer myself most willingly. To Miss Mar­lowe!"

  Sir Clarence raised his glass to me from across the room. There was stunned silence as the assembled guests, glasses par­tially raised, looked to one another as though for guidance.

  I held my head high and replied in a deliberately crisp and cool manner. "I thank you, sir. I take your toast in the manner I am sure you intended—in all courtesy."

  But Wilmott would allow no alleviation of a situation that was rapidly growing more tense.

  "I hoped, Miss Marlowe, that you would take the toast in exactly the manner in which it was given."

  He made the insult impossible to ignore. Apart from scur­rilous rumour and unscrupulous newspaper accounts, it was the first time I had ever been attacked publicly and by name. Before I could decide whether discreet silence or immediate withdrawal was preferable, Darius was on his feet, his face white with rage, crossing the room to forcibly remove the glass of champagne from Wilmott's hand, slamming it down so hard that its golden, bubbling content spewed across the table.

  "Miss Marlowe, as a poet, has the right to express herself as her heart and her pen dictate, without the fear of insult and injury from scum like you, Wilmott. You will retract your statement, sir. You will apologize to this lady immediately for your unhappy and unwise suggestions, and then you will leave and we shall try to forget that you and your despicable tongue exist."

  Like lions engaged in mortal combat, they eyed one an­other. Geoffrey, at Wilmott's elbow, was the only one who seemed to derive any amusement from the situation, for a smile hovered at the corners of his lips. I could only put it down to the amount of champagne he had consumed, for there was nothing even vaguely amusing about the scene.

  Wilmott was silent. He had not, I was sure, foreseen this turn of events, but then none of us had.

  "Well, sir, I hear nothing. You saw fit to wrong a lady who had done harm to none of us, yourself included, though many have chosen to malign her. You will apologize or you will answer to me."

  "It was never my intention to harm the lady. I simply wished to succumb to her. To succumb can hardly be consid­ered an insult." There was more bravado than mockery in Wilmott's reply.

  "To use the name of a lady in such a context demands either immediate apology or satisfaction; you have your choice."

  "Oh, no!" The cry was wrested involuntarily from my lips, the only sound in the sickening silence. Wilmott seemed to struggle with himself. I resolved that however brief his apol­ogy might be, however inadequate Darius might consider it, I would insist on accepting it so that he could no longer pursue the matter. I would return to Hans Place to decide, once in that place of refuge, whether I ever wanted to leave it again.

  But before Wilmott could speak—and I was sure he in­tended to—Geoffrey interrupted softly, "I know you'll not al­low your actions to be dictated by Bladen, so although he is my cousin, I agree to act as your second."

  And whatever words had been on Wilmott's lips died unspoken.

  "If your silence indicates that you refuse to withdraw the malicious remarks you have directed at Miss Marlowe, you leave me no alternative. My seconds will call upon you to arrange time and place so that this matter may be settled between us. The choice of weapons is yours."

  With a whispered aside to Lord Grey, who had risen and stood behind him, Darius left the room.

  Whereas before there had been silence, after Darius's de­parture a steady hum broke out that rapidly became a roar.

  In the glance that was exchanged between Lord Grey and Lord Russell, I saw the all-too-evident political implications of Darius's action. The custom of duelling to settle arguments, ever since the duel between Prime Minister Pitt and Tierney, who led the Whig opposition, had been a matter of much disfavour. It had been completely suppressed in the army and the navy, and though it occurred from time to time, it never did so without an outcry. No matter what happened, Darius could only suffer. Lady Bladen's last words reverberated through my head: "I trust he will do nothing foolish, for I am convinced that his place in the history of our country is as­sured."

  "Darius will never act foolishly," I had asserted.

  To think that he had acted so unwisely—and t
o think that I had been the cause of it. It didn't bear considering. I made no protest as Lord Grey led me from the room.

  XXVI

  "It must be stopped—it must be stopped!"

  I could see only the outline of Lord Grey's face in the dimness of the carriage. He had been asked by Darius to see that I got home safely, and not wishing to entrust me to Mr. Hillaby, who was busy attending his hysterical wife, he had insisted on taking me himself. Once outside, however, I had demanded to be taken to Great Stanhope Street rather than Chelsea, so that I might try to reason with Darius.

  The footman, on my arrival, immediately recognized me and addressed me as Miss Cox-Neville, to Lord Grey's conster­nation. I insisted on seeing Darius and seeing him alone. Nor would I take the footman's word that he would receive no one. I hurried down the hall to the study. There I found him at his desk earnestly engaged in writing. He looked up in astonish­ment at my abrupt entrance and in askance at the footman who trailed close on my heels.

  "It's not his fault—I insisted on seeing you, Darius. I re­fuse to leave until I talk to you."

  "Very well." He signalled to the footman to leave, and when the door closed behind him, he went on. "There is noth­ing to be said, Alex; nothing will change my mind, if that is your intent."

  "But what on earth possessed you? How could you do such a thing!" I stormed. "It is a foolish act. It must be stopped. Wilmott's words meant nothing to me, but your re­sponse will ruin you whatever the outcome. I cannot allow it."

  "The choice is not for you to make, to either allow or disallow it. You have told me that you make your own deci­sions. So, too, I make mine, based on my own judgements. I judged Wilmott this evening to have gone far beyond the pale of propriety. Since he chose not to respond by civilized means to make amends, then less-than-civilized methods must be em­ployed to make him guard his tongue. Those methods are possibly the only ones he understands."

  "But Wilmott is not worth it, Darius. Do, please, con­sider—I beg of you. Settling the matter in this fashion cannot possibly have the consequences for him that it will for you. Your career is at stake, and win or lose on the field of honour, that career will be at an end. You have credited me with common sense in the past—do, now, use some of it yourself. Think of your country if not of yourself. What good can you do for England if you are dead—or alive, for that matter, for you will be forced abroad if you kill him. He is not worth the sacrifice. What he did does not demand it."

  "Wilmott is a scurrilous, insulting blackguard. He will go on being a scurrilous, insulting blackguard until someone teaches him a lesson in his own terms."

  "He is above all foolish, and I am beginning to think you equally foolish if you don't extricate yourself from this quag­mire. I am sure he does not want it. I could see in his face that you caught him off guard. Everything happened so quickly; you didn't give him time to back down. I am convinced that he does not wish to fight. I am sure that he can be made to apologize if he is approached in the right manner."

  "The choice was his. I asked him to apologize publicly if he did not wish to meet me."

  "Publicly, privately—what does it matter? Men and their foolish honour. Can honour set a leg or mend a wound? Falstaff was right: honour's nothing but a scutcheon—I want none of it."

  "Then it is well that I fight Wilmott and not you, Alex. For goodness sake, don't cry."

  "I'm not going to cry," I said, tears falling down my cheeks.

  "Here, take this." He held out his handkerchief to me and I took it distractedly without making any attempt to stem my tears' flow.

  "I'm only crying because you make me angry, that's all," I sobbed, pulling compulsively at the handkerchief in my hands. "Go and waste your life, it means nothing to me. Go and kill or be killed—death must have his day, I suppose."

  "I promise I shall not entrust my elegy to anyone but you, Alex, but it won't be required yet—not yet."

  He took the crumpled handkerchief from my hands and gently wiped my cheeks. "Do please go home and get some rest."

  At that moment the door behind him burst open to reveal Lady Brentwood, closely followed by the embarrassed foot­man, who hastened to excuse the intrusion. "I'm sorry, my lord, I couldn't . . .

  But Darius waved him away as Lady Brentwood began. "I had to see you Darius, but. .." she suddenly caught sight of me, "but you I had not expected to find here. Have you not made enough trouble for one night?"

  "Althea, no recriminations, I beg of you. That was why I proscribed visitors this evening, though my proscription seems to have acted as an open sesame to my door."

  "But you cannot refuse to listen to your friends at such atime. Lord Grey is waiting patiently to see you, and Lord Russell has gone to fetch Lord Holland." <

  "Good lord! Can't a man settle matters after his own inclination!"

  "You are not just any man, Darius, and what you pro­pose to do may forever ruin you. Your friends are, of course, affected out of consideration for you personally. But apart from that, many people are relying on you to take over the reins of leadership for which they have groomed you. How often have you been mentioned as the party's brightest hope, the man other men will follow. And what have you done with all the trust that was placed in you this evening? You have tossed it away, not over some monumental matter but over . . ." the look she threw me was filled with contempt, "over a trifle."

  "Althea, I shall tell you as I've just told Alexandra. I run my affairs as I see fit . . ."

  The door opened again. This time it was Lord Holland, closely followed by Lord Russell and a thoroughly anxious, thoroughly distraught footman.

  "It's all right, Hill. I know it's not your fault, though we might as well post a sign and invite the world inside, for it seems everyone is determined to be here to tell me what to do."

  "Everyone wishes to tell you what not to do, Bladen. Rus­sell here, and Grey who is outside consuming your best brandy, we all refuse to leave until we have thoroughly been over this whole thing with you and outlined the consequences. I won't be dragged all the way over from Kensington in the middle of the night to be told you'll see no visitors."

  "I am well aware of the consequences, sir, nor would I have had you dragged here on such a fruitless mission had I been forewarned of it. However, since you have come, I shall talk with you," Darius consented. "Alex, you must go. I shall arrange for a carriage to take you back to Chelsea."

  "She may have the use of mine," Lady Brentwood in­terposed.

  "But is that quite safe?"

  "My groom is always armed, nor can I remember you ever having exercised yourself over my safety in riding abroad."

  "Althea, you know what I mean, after all this business," he entreated.

  "Of course I do, Darius. Now do go along and don't keep these gentlemen waiting any longer. I shall see you after­wards."

  She smiled brilliantly until the door closed behind them, and then she turned on me. "I hope you are quite satisfied, Miss Marlowe, or is it as Miss Cox-Neville you will go down in infamy as having ruined one of England's most gifted and aspiring statesmen."

  "I don't give a tin farthing for my name," I retorted. "His is the only name that concerns me, just as it does the rest of you."

  "Then why did you not think of that before, when he pleaded with you not to allow your precious poetry to be pub­lished? He knew something like this must result. It is for that reason he has insisted on accepting every invitation to which he supposed you would be a party, for that reason he has stayed close to you at this time, for that reason he has pre­vailed upon me to side with you. Yet how have you repaid his consideration—you never thought of him, only of yourself and your own glory or fame or whatever it is you sought for your­self."

  "It wasn't that. My own glory, as you choose to put it, was not the reason I opposed his intervention in my life. Cer­tainly I never believed any disaster such as this would be a consequence."

  "It would seem that he is unlikely to intervene in your or anyone
else's life again. I hope that satisfies you. He will be labelled a harum-scarum hothead who throws everything over for some lightskirt. His chances of rising to cabinet rank, even to that of first minister, must be forever dimmed. Thank God Wilmott is not noted for his marksmanship, though whatever happens Darius will be forced out of England in all likelihood. But he will not go alone, that I vow."

  "Lady Brentwood, my concern is every bit as great as yours. I have tried to reason with him without avail. Why do you not speak to him? He will listen to you."

  "If he listened to me, do you suppose I should still be Lady Brentwood? No," she sighed, "he will not listen to me."

  For the first time I saw her not simply as a rival but as another woman, albeit one who shared my caring for the same man, and that her caring, though I might wish to deny it, was also deep and sincere. Yet I had no time to waste on such reflections. Something must be done, but what? Darius in­sisted on challenging Wilmott. He would not be dissuaded from it, nor would he seek conciliation. But what if Wilmott could be made to apologize publicly. For one moment he had seemed on the point of doing so, if only Geoffrey had not most unfortunately intervened. Geoffrey . . . that was it!

  I picked up my wrap.

  "Wait, I must call my carriage."

  "That's all right, Lady Brentwood. I won't be needing

  it."

  "But where are you going?"

  "Out of Darius's life—forever."

  XXVII

  "Why Darius chose to make all that fuss is simply beyond me. True, the toast might not have been in the best of taste, but it is Wilmott's humour. He is not necessarily a paragon of pro­priety, everyone knows that. Darius himself might have ex­pected it. No reason for him to go off like a rattlepate and then act so sanctimoniously and cause all this fracas."

  "I know, Geoffrey, it was foolish. I suppose there are some who cannot quite understand or appreciate Wilmott's hu­mour, but that matters little at this point. What does matter is the challenge. This duel must not take place tomorrow, and you can see that it does not. You will help, won't you Geof­frey—please!"