A Christmas Gambol Read online

  “I’m sure you’ll manage,” Meg said rather astrin­gently. Cicely had certainly put away a good lun­cheon. “I see Perkins has fixed up your hair. Very nice.” She peered to see how that cluster of curls had been arranged. It looked quite striking. Sissie had rich, glossy hair the color of a peeled chestnut.

  “We practiced while you paid that duty visit to Fairly’s aunt this afternoon. Perkins had to use eight pins and two combs. I’ll have the megrims be­fore the evening is over.”

  “Beauty does not come cheap. The price includes suffering. You might put that in your book, Sissie.” The price also included a quick visit to the chemist’s shop that afternoon for a bottle of tonic guaranteed to put the roses back in Meg’s cheeks. The visit to Aunt Fairly was merely the pretext.

  “It’s a good thing beauty is a luxury,” Sissie said. “A lady need only suffer as much as she wants to. For myself, I’d as lief be plain. But not in London, of course,” she added.

  Lord Fairly was waiting on nettles to greet Miss Cicely. There was little of more interest to him than a young lady. He had met Sissie at his wedding at the abbey. Wildly infatuated with his bride at the time, he had not paid much heed to the local beau­ties. His practiced eye now told him he had missed out on a prime chick. Miss Cicely was something special. Her luxuriant curls, arranged in a fashion­able flounce on top of her head, provided a dramatic contrast to her peaches-and-cream complexion. And the eyes! Lord, they were like stormy lakes. He sus­pected there might be an interesting body as well beneath the shawl she clutched around her.

  “So this is little Sissie Caldwell!” he said, deciding to call her Sissie from the beginning, to hasten things along. “A pleasure to see you again, Sissie. By Jove, you look splendid. You will take the shine out of them all. Kind of you to spare us a few days.”

  Sissie had already been warned that Lord Fairly did not know the whole of why she was in London. He thought she had actually written Chaos Is Come Again, and while he had not read it, he knew it was a great success. It seemed strange to Cicely that Meg should keep secrets from her husband, but Meg made little of it.

  “It is kind of you to have me, milord,” she said, making her best curtsy.

  “Time for something wet before dinner, eh, Meg?” he said, reaching for the sherry decanter.

  While he poured the drink, Cicely settled in to observe a Society couple at home. She was familiar with Fairly’s appearance—tall, slender, blond, blue-eyed, and handsome, with more the air of a dandy than a Corinthian. His blue velvet jacket nipped in a little too tightly about his waist and bulged suspiciously large at the shoulders. His cravat, too, was larger and more intricate than the norm. He fiddled with a quizzing glass that hung on a black cord. He left off playing with it only to draw out a snuff box. He made a great business of taking snuff.

  Fairly’s appearance had not changed, but Cicely found his manners less pleasing than before. He hardly glanced at Meg, nor did he compliment her on her lovely gown. Meg seemed equally disinter­ested in her husband. She didn’t ask him if he had had a good day, as Cicely and Anne always inquired of Papa, even if they knew he had only been out checking up on his hops. They all sat down for a glass of sherry.

  “Did you have a good day, Lord Fairly?” Sissie in­quired, to give Meg the hint she had forgotten.

  “Dash it, call me Fairly,” was his reply. “Meg tells me Monty has stolen you away from us for Murray’s dinner party tomorrow evening. Demmed shame. I should like to take you to a ball. ‘Pon my word, I believe Monty has his eye on this little lady, Meg.”

  “Don’t be an ass,” Meg said.

  Cicely stared in consternation. Was it possible she had timed her visit during a lovers’ quarrel?

  Fairly ignored the insult entirely. “At least we shall all be at the theater this evening.”

  “Sissie is going with Monty,” Meg said.

  “Pity. Ah well, it’s impossible to talk at the theater anyhow. We shall all get together for a tidy little dinner after at the Clarendon.”

  “Will it not be late by the time the play is over?” Sissie asked.

  “Devil a bit of it. If we eat up our mutton quickly, we might catch a few dances at some do or other as well.”

  Cicely thought a play and dinner were quite enough for one evening, but as a guest, she didn’t say so. She was beginning to understand why Meg looked so hagged.

  Fairly continued, “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. To­morrow I shall take you on the strut on Bond Street, stop at Hyde Park to show you off. And you too, Meg,” he added as an afterthought.

  Meg displayed no interest in the outing. “In No­vember? No, I thank you. Sissie mentioned wanting blue stockings.”

  “Blue stockings, eh?” Fairly smiled, trying for a glimpse of the ankle he assumed they would adorn. “I hope that don’t mean you are a bluestocking, Sissie. One of those dashed clever ladies who speaks Latin, what?”

  “No indeed. The stockings are for my sister. I as­sure you I don’t know Latin. What I should like to do tomorrow is to see the slums,” she said. She felt uncomfortable with Fairly looking at her in that strange, leering way, which she kindly attributed to an excess of wine. She suspected the glass he held was not the first one he had indulged in.

  “Ha-ha! Slums. By Jove, you are an Original, Miss Sissie. We can do better than that.”

  “But I particularly want to see the slums.”

  His eyes opened wide in horror. “Good God! You ain’t a do-gooder, I hope?”

  “It is research for a novel,” his wife informed him.

  “But no one wants to read about slums,” he said. “It don’t do to make a fuss about that sort of thing. A friend of Hannah More, are you?”

  “I have never met her,” Cicely assured him. “I don’t write about religion.”

  “Thank God for that. Too much religion around to suit me. It is well enough for the ladies; Sunday gives a man enough religion to last the week. Slums, eh? Well, why not, if it would please you.”

  It was a relief when dinner was announced. Ci­cely was busy making a mental inventory of the courses and removes. She also noticed that both Fairlys enjoyed a fairly liquid dinner. They drank more than they ate, which was strange, because dinner was a veritable feast. It proved impossible to wield her knife and fork without letting go of her shawl. Fairly noticed it and smiled in satisfaction. With his wife at the end of the table, he didn’t say anything, but he was busy composing compliments to be delivered on a more convenient occasion.

  Of course he realized that he couldn’t seduce a young lady under his own roof, nor did he particu­larly want to. Appearance counted for a good deal with him. He liked to be seen about town with beau­tiful women. It flattered his vanity to do so, since he had so few other claims to fame. His empty nursery was a constant slur on his manhood.

  As soon as dinner was over, Montaigne called for Cicely. He blinked to see such a stylish young lady waiting for him. Meg’s servants had worked won­ders to turn Cicely into a fashion doll.

  “Very nice, Sissie,” he said, his eyes traveling slowly from the tip of her chestnut curls to her kid slippers.

  “Don’t look so shocked, Montaigne,” she said pertly. “It’s still me under all the fine feathers. Meg fixed me up. Don’t I look nice?”

  “Charming, but as you have expressed an interest in learning your way about Society, I shall risk of­fending you and say that even an Incomparable does not crow over her own beauty.”

  “No need to take a huff. It’s only the gown I meant.”

  “The gown never looked lovelier,” Fairly said, with no notion of offending its former wearer.

  As there was no time to spare, they all left at once. Fairly’s carriage led off.

  “How is the visit going so far?” Montaigne asked when he and Cicely were settled in his carriage.

  “It’s been an eye-opener. I had no idea the ton lived the way they do.”

  “Is Fairly pestering you?” He hadn’t thought Fairly would
be interested in Sissie, but of course that was before Meg had turned her into a dasher.

  Her blunt “He’s an ass” reassured Montaigne that Cicely was in no danger from Fairly. “Meg said so herself, so I am only agreeing with her.”

  “The sort of ass who likes pretty ladies.”

  “Is there a sort of man who doesn’t? That’s only natural—as long as he keeps within bounds.”

  “And does he keep within bounds?”

  “I’m not sure what the boundaries are in London.” Then she looked at him in alarm. “Good gracious, I hope you’re not suggesting he might molest me?”

  “I would not use such a harsh word as ‘molest.’“

  “That’s a relief. I feared I would have to push my dresser in front of my bedroom door at night. It wouldn’t surprise me much if he tried to get me be­hind a door to sneak a kiss. I’ll yell my head off if he tries that. Are he and Meg on the outs? They hardly said a word during dinner.”

  With a memory of countless dull dinners at the Fairlys’, Montaigne replied, “No. When they come to cuffs, Meg takes her meals in her room.”

  They drove on a while in silence. Montaigne was reassured by Cicely’s sensible plan if Fairly tried any tricks. At the theater, he stopped to greet a few guests and present Cicely to them. When they entered their box, Cicely was surprised to see Fairly and Meg ensconced there, along with the Montagues.

  “I had a word with the page,” Fairly explained. “Since there were only the two of you in the box, we decided to join you.”

  “But what of the Wartons?” Cicely asked, startled at such casual treatment of friends.

  “They invited the Sinclairs to take our seats,” Meg said. “The Sinclairs had come alone. Their guests begged off at the last minute.”

  Cicely was familiar with the grandeur of the the­ater from her one visit to the Christmas pantomime, but she had never attended in the evening before. The candlelight, the glitter of jewels on marble throats, the raised fans and opera glasses were all noted. There was a greater feeling of excitement than in daytime. The ladies were given the seats at the front of the box, the better to ogle the audience. She took particular note of the ladies’ conversation and was shocked by it.

  “I see Lord Kingsley is with his wife, for a change,” Lady Montague said. “He will send her straight home after, of course, and go to dinner with his chère amie. I don’t know why Lady Kingsley puts up with it. I really don’t.”

  “The reason is pretty obvious,” Meg replied. “That’s a new set of diamonds she’s wearing.”

  Lady Montague lifted her opera glasses and stud­ied the diamonds. “So it is. How does he afford it? He gave his light-skirt a set of emeralds last week.”

  “They say he has squandered his wife’s portion as well as his own.”

  “Then his wife must find herself a wealthy pa­tron,” Lady Montague said. The ladies joined in a cynical little laugh.

  Montaigne, listening from behind, was not shocked by the conversation, but it struck him that it would certainly sound outrageous to a simple country girl like Sissie. In fact, it was outrageous, and her pursed lips told him she was soaking in every scandalous word.

  The play was to be King Lear. Cicely thought that serious tragedy merited discussion. To her amaze­ment, just as the curtain was opening, Lady Montague asked, “What are we seeing tonight, Meg? Do you know?”

  Meg had no idea. She inquired of her husband, who was equally ignorant. The play, for them, was not a place to see Shakespeare performed, but for them to be seen. It was Montaigne who knew the play. When Meg was told, she groaned.

  “Not Shakespeare! What a bore.”

  Cicely met Montaigne’s eye and just shook her head.

  The ladies amused themselves during boring King Lear by ogling the gentlemen in nearby boxes and perusing the audience to see who was there. They poked each other in the ribs and chattered about what the ladies were wearing. They were the first ones to leave their box at the intermission and the last ones to return. During their promenade, they were greeted by a dozen rakes and rattles. Lady Fairly presented them all to her guest. Cicely didn’t even attempt to take part in the conversation, but she stored it all up for consideration later.

  She could hardly credit that her old friend had sunk so deeply into vice. In her opinion, the talk went beyond broad to encroach on the licentious. Montaigne had some thought of rescuing her, but she had come to London to learn, and he would let her learn the wicked truth about Society. He looked forward to hearing her views during the second in­termission. Before he could approach her, that jack­anapes Fairly was at her side and swept her away for a promenade along the corridor.

  “We ought to bring Meg with us. Some of those gentlemen are not at all the thing, milord,” Mon­taigne heard her say.

  Then he was accosted by Lady Dearborne and for­got about Sissie.

  “Demme, I wish you would call me Fairly,” Fairly said to Cicely.

  “What about Meg?” As she looked around, she saw one of the rakes had his arm around her waist.

  “Meg can take care of herself. She has no need of me.”

  “Have you two had a falling-out, milord? I don’t mean to be a Nosey Parker, but Meg is my best friend, you must know. I couldn’t help but notice you two don’t behave as you used to.”

  Fairly was perfectly aware of the value of sympa­thy from a young lady. He played the role of wronged husband to the hilt. “She has no time for me, now that she has garnered her own court around her. I am good only for paying the bills. And they are mighty steep bills, too, I can tell you.”

  “Oh, dear! Why do you not talk to her, milord?”

  “I have tried a dozen times. We only end up com­ing to cuffs. I have given up trying. We are virtually strangers.”

  “So that is why she has not become enceinte!”

  Fairly cast his eyes down and tried to look heart­broken. “Things are not as I would wish. I am happy you have come, Sissie.”

  “I’ll try to talk some sense into her.”

  “I fear that is a vain hope, but it will do me a world of good to have a sympathetic someone, an old friend, in whom I can confide my misery.”

  As Fairly hardly knew her, Cicely assumed it was in her capacity as his wife’s old friend that he was confiding such intimate sorrows to her. It seemed her novel was writing itself. Her hero’s hair changed from black to blond on the spot, and a new character was added to the plot. The heroine and hero must have a close friend who would act as solver of their marital woes. But first the friend had to discover the exact nature of their differences.

  “I want you to tell me all about it, Fairly,” she said, holding his hand and gazing soulfully into his eyes. “I shall stand by you and try to bring Meg to her senses. And since you have confided in me, I shall take advantage of a friend’s prerogative and suggest that you are not totally innocent, either. You drink a deal too much and are not at all consid­erate of Meg.”

  Fairly blinked in astonishment. This blunt stat­ing of the truth with the bark on it was not what he expected or wanted.

  “Demme, I am only drowning my sorrows,” he protested.

  Cicely gave him a chiding smile. “That is for cow­ards, sir. I expect a more manly response from Lord Fairly. Sorrows are not kittens, after all, that are so easily disposed of. I’m sorry to speak so bluntly, but sympathy doesn’t butter any parsnips. We must get to the root of the problem.”

  Montaigne, watching from the sidelines, disliked to see Sissie holding Fairly’s hands. That wretched Fairly was taking advantage of her. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves, excused himself from his companion, and headed toward them.

  When Cicely spotted his advance, she said hastily, “We shall speak of this again. Let us go back to our box now.”

  Fairly turned away to greet some other friends. It was Montaigne who accompanied Cicely to the box.

  “I see the jackass continues to bray loud and long,” he said, hoping to hear what she had b
een discussing with Fairly.

  “Even a jackass can have cause for complaint,” was her unsatisfactory reply.

  “It looked remarkably like flirtation from where I was standing.”

  “When did you have time to notice? You were flirt­ing your head off with that fat lady in the puce gown.”

  “Lady Dearborne is not fat!”

  “Oh, pardon me. That well-padded lady in the ugly puce gown. Married, I assume, as you call her Lady Dearborne? Not that that would make a hap’orth of difference at Vanity Fair.”

  “You are mistaken. It makes a good deal of differ­ence. Until a young lady is married, she must be­have with circumspection.”

  “Is that a dig at me and Fairly?”

  “If the shoe fits...”

  As they then met up with the Montagues, Cicely was unable to give him a setdown.

  When the play resumed, Fairly thought over what Cicely had said, not with any view to improving his behavior, but to inventing ruses to engage her sym­pathy. He considered places they could go together to enjoy a flirtation without jeopardizing her reputation—though still enhancing his own. This visit to the slums had potential. He might arrange for some ruffians to accost them. He could play the hero, safe in the knowledge that the pistol pointed at them was not loaded. It would do his flagging reputation the world of good for a tale like that to make the rounds. Yes, by Jove, the future looked bright.

  When the play was over, the party went to the Clarendon Hotel for a sumptuous dinner. Mon­taigne sat on Cicely’s right side. Fairly managed to grab the seat on her left and spent a good deal of time gazing into her eyes and murmuring out his troubles, especially when Meg carried on with Lord Montague.

  Montaigne found he could hardly get a word in edgewise. His temper began to fray. He was not accustomed to being ignored when he took a young lady out, yet to compete for her attention with Fairly was beneath his dignity. He set up a flirta­tion with Mrs. Warton instead.

  Cicely found it all very grand and very decadent—and very useful research—but her eyelids were becoming too heavy to take much note of things. She was extremely tired after her long day and wanted only to return to her lovely bedroom and go to sleep.