A Christmas Gambol by Joan Smith Page B

surfeit of bows. She would still be the prettiest girl there. When had Sissie Caldwell blossomed into a beauty? Even Murray had been warm in his praise of her looks.
    “She could set the ton on its ear,” he had said. “Byron’s handsome phiz does his sales no harm, you must know, Monty. Only see how she is prying the smiles out of that mummy, Gresham.”
    It was an intriguing notion, not only for the increased sales, but for some research of his own. The Christmas recess would soon begin at the House. He would have time free to write. He had written one novel about a watering pot. Murray wanted another book. Cicely would be a completely different sort of heroine: a country girl, green as grass, but bossy, opinionated, interfering, intelligent, managing. No, no one would ever buy it ... would they? Of one thing he was certain: he would not make Sir Giles its hero.
     

Chapter Nine
     
    Montaigne was well aware that a lady required advance notice to prepare herself for a party. He planned to invite Sissie to Lady Radcliffe’s rout when he took her to Bond Street that afternoon. By ten, he felt a nagging concern that he was leaving it too late. Gresham was seeing her at eleven. The wretch would probably invite her to some dull literary lecture in the evening. He dashed off a note as he sat in the House, and handed it to one of the pages to deliver to Berkeley Square at once.
    He was on edge all that morning, without quite knowing why. Gresham was a bumptious bore, but he was not a lecher after all. At the midmorning break, the party whip drew Montaigne aside and said, “Whatever is ailing you, I suggest you attend to it, then return to the House and perform your duties properly. Brougham expected you to speak against Eldon’s bill. You left him with only Danville to refute those ridiculous statistics.”
    Such an impertinence would normally have received a sharp rebuke from Montaigne, but on this occasion, he knew he was at fault. “It was only the first reading. I shall deliver my attack in good time,” he replied.
    He took the whip’s advice and left early to visit Berkeley Square. Sissie had not yet returned from her outing, but Meg and Fairly were at home, sitting on the sofa, holding hands. This display of conjugal affection was not entirely a new thing. The Fairly marriage was one of extremes; they tended to swing from billing and cooing to shouting and throwing the crockery at each other.
    “You are the first person we have allowed in to see us all morning,” Meg announced. “We have had to turn a dozen callers from the door, because of Fairly’s condition.”
    “Not coming down with the flu, I hope?” Montaigne inquired.
    “Ninnyhammer,” Meg said. “It is his sprained elbow, from fighting off that vicious band of brigands yesterday at Seven Dials.”
    “I thought it was his nose.”
    “That, too. Have you prepared his speech for the House?”
    “I didn’t agree to write it!” Montaigne said testily. “Merely to give some advice.”
    The idea of Fairly’s actually wasting an afternoon in Parliament was beginning to lose its luster.
    Meg said, “You should have seen us at Lady Amelia’s rout last night, Monty. The whole world was attending on us. I swear the hostess could scarcely make up two sets for the cotillion. Mr. Weber thinks it ought to be written up as a play. We are trying to decide whether to attend Covent Garden this evening, or Lady Radcliffe’s rout.”
    “If Fairly cannot dance, then surely the play—”
    “But could anyone see the sling when we are just sitting in a box? Of course he would rest his arm on the ledge, but it is rather dark.”
    “Ah, then in that case, the rout would be better medicine. I plan to take Sissie to Radcliffe’s.”
    “She didn’t say so,” Meg said.
    “Did she not get my note before she left?” he asked. Meg didn’t know. “I plan to ask her, at any rate. That’s why I am here.”
    He poured himself a glass of wine and tried to make