London? The one
you introduced us to this afternoon?” asked Lady Alice, in all innocence.
The three girls took one look at the new arrival, another at
Kate, then tried politely to hide their laughter. Kate turned a fulminating
glance in their direction, which only served to send them into gales of
giggles. Even Lady Alice had to bite back a smile.
In truth, Kate couldn’t blame them. If she hadn’t been so
astounded by the ostentatious display, she would have joined them.
"No,” she lied.
One of the manservants from the inn came up to Kate and bowed.
“Your ladyship, Mr. Dalrymple has requested your company for the first dance.”
“Oh, I am sorry. Please inform Mr. Dalrymple my dance card is
full.”
Before the last words were out of her mouth, Carolyn had
whisked away Kate’s reticule and pulled out her dance card. The small
rectangle was innocent of any scribbled names of hopeful gentlemen.
“It doesn’t look full to me.” Carolyn smirked at her sister.
Kate knew that look of old, when Carol felt secure that any retribution would
come tomorrow, long after Caro had had time to enjoy her first grownup ball
without Kate hissing, “Behave,” if she, Caro, so much as she flirted with a
gentleman.
Kate rose with outward good grace, glaring a warning to her
sister over her shoulder as she walked to Mr. Dalrymple’s lair. On reaching
the invalid’s side, the servant pulled out the chair for Kate and fussed over
the disposition of the brandy glasses, then left with the other servants by the
back door. Now the couple was alone, but with everyone in the room watching
them avidly from the corners of their eyes, various degrees of envy, curiosity,
or unholy glee in their expressions.
Outwardly serene, Kate plastered a smile on her face as Mr.
Dalrymple, a vision all in black more suited to a funeral than a ball, lounged
back against the cushions. He made a dramatic picture, the only colour in his
toilette the crimson of the scarf tied around his head, which contrasted
hideously with his bruises. He signaled for a waiter.
“Unless you care for brandy,” he said, gesturing at the
decanter.
“Certainly not!” Kate returned primly. “A lady, Mr.
Dalrymple, does not imbibe brandy, certainly not at a public function.”
Mr. Dalrymple waited until the waiter had placed a glass of
lemonade on the table next to Kate and left.
“I have it on the highest authority that ladies will do any
number of things when a gentleman’s back is turned.”
“How fortunate, then, that there is not one present.” Kate
glared at him frostily.
Mr. Dalrymple choked on his brandy. Kate reddened. “I meant,
that I am not addressing one. A gentleman, that is,” she added. “By the by, I
am so sorry to see how your condition has deteriorated since this morning.
Your greasepaint needs another coat of powder. It’s beginning to look a trifle
shiny.”
The sufferer lifted a limp hand to his brow, adjusting the
crimson silk to cover most of his cosmetically-enhanced contusion.
“Yes, I do seem to have had a relapse.” He allowed his head
to loll back against the pillow. “Would you care to know why?”
"Not in the least,” Kate fibbed, wondering furiously what
he was up to. Surely spies crept about under the cover of darkness and were at
pains to conceal their spy--er, activities.
The invalid, undeceived by her taradiddle, grinned. “If I
were well enough to dance and do the pretty, I’d have no time to investigate.
This way, people will go out of their way to entertain an invalid. “A
hero-invalid.”
Behind her fan, Kate rolled her eyes in a way which would have
had caused Lady Alice to faint had she seen her niece.
Mr. Dalrymple continued smoothly, though his mouth quivered.
“I plan to know everything which is going on in this village by the supper
break.”
“It is news to me that a man who captures a criminal only to
be bashed on the head, allowing the criminal to escape, is a hero,” returned
Kate,
you introduced us to this afternoon?” asked Lady Alice, in all innocence.
The three girls took one look at the new arrival, another at
Kate, then tried politely to hide their laughter. Kate turned a fulminating
glance in their direction, which only served to send them into gales of
giggles. Even Lady Alice had to bite back a smile.
In truth, Kate couldn’t blame them. If she hadn’t been so
astounded by the ostentatious display, she would have joined them.
"No,” she lied.
One of the manservants from the inn came up to Kate and bowed.
“Your ladyship, Mr. Dalrymple has requested your company for the first dance.”
“Oh, I am sorry. Please inform Mr. Dalrymple my dance card is
full.”
Before the last words were out of her mouth, Carolyn had
whisked away Kate’s reticule and pulled out her dance card. The small
rectangle was innocent of any scribbled names of hopeful gentlemen.
“It doesn’t look full to me.” Carolyn smirked at her sister.
Kate knew that look of old, when Carol felt secure that any retribution would
come tomorrow, long after Caro had had time to enjoy her first grownup ball
without Kate hissing, “Behave,” if she, Caro, so much as she flirted with a
gentleman.
Kate rose with outward good grace, glaring a warning to her
sister over her shoulder as she walked to Mr. Dalrymple’s lair. On reaching
the invalid’s side, the servant pulled out the chair for Kate and fussed over
the disposition of the brandy glasses, then left with the other servants by the
back door. Now the couple was alone, but with everyone in the room watching
them avidly from the corners of their eyes, various degrees of envy, curiosity,
or unholy glee in their expressions.
Outwardly serene, Kate plastered a smile on her face as Mr.
Dalrymple, a vision all in black more suited to a funeral than a ball, lounged
back against the cushions. He made a dramatic picture, the only colour in his
toilette the crimson of the scarf tied around his head, which contrasted
hideously with his bruises. He signaled for a waiter.
“Unless you care for brandy,” he said, gesturing at the
decanter.
“Certainly not!” Kate returned primly. “A lady, Mr.
Dalrymple, does not imbibe brandy, certainly not at a public function.”
Mr. Dalrymple waited until the waiter had placed a glass of
lemonade on the table next to Kate and left.
“I have it on the highest authority that ladies will do any
number of things when a gentleman’s back is turned.”
“How fortunate, then, that there is not one present.” Kate
glared at him frostily.
Mr. Dalrymple choked on his brandy. Kate reddened. “I meant,
that I am not addressing one. A gentleman, that is,” she added. “By the by, I
am so sorry to see how your condition has deteriorated since this morning.
Your greasepaint needs another coat of powder. It’s beginning to look a trifle
shiny.”
The sufferer lifted a limp hand to his brow, adjusting the
crimson silk to cover most of his cosmetically-enhanced contusion.
“Yes, I do seem to have had a relapse.” He allowed his head
to loll back against the pillow. “Would you care to know why?”
"Not in the least,” Kate fibbed, wondering furiously what
he was up to. Surely spies crept about under the cover of darkness and were at
pains to conceal their spy--er, activities.
The invalid, undeceived by her taradiddle, grinned. “If I
were well enough to dance and do the pretty, I’d have no time to investigate.
This way, people will go out of their way to entertain an invalid. “A
hero-invalid.”
Behind her fan, Kate rolled her eyes in a way which would have
had caused Lady Alice to faint had she seen her niece.
Mr. Dalrymple continued smoothly, though his mouth quivered.
“I plan to know everything which is going on in this village by the supper
break.”
“It is news to me that a man who captures a criminal only to
be bashed on the head, allowing the criminal to escape, is a hero,” returned
Kate,
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