Cousin Cecilia by Joan Smith

house calls. Cecilia had the good fortune to find her favorite cousin, Sir Nigel Pincombe, at home and had no hesitation to open her budget to him. Besides being cousins, they were also near neighbors in Hampshire and were as close as siblings. During the visit, she got him aside for a private coze.
    “What I require is bucks who make a good first impression,” she told him frankly. “It matters not if they are betrothed or ramshackle or their pockets to let, so long as they can put a green light in the eyes of a pair of desultory suitors.”
    Sir Nigel shook his head and laughed. “Still up to your old managing tricks, Cecilia. Will I do for one beau?”
    She examined him objectively. He was tall, handsome, with dark hair, and a lively nature. “You will do admirably. Two or three more as presentable as yourself is all I require. And by the by,” she added with a sly look, “there is no need to advertise that we are cousins.”
    “Ashamed of me, are you?”
    “On the contrary, you are so dashing that I may claim you for my own special beau.”
    “Now that is a new ploy! Don’t tell me you have been hit with Cupid’s arrow!”
    “It is not a question of my actually throwing my cap at anyone. It is only that a certain lord is proving—difficult,” she said, choosing her word with care. “I shouldn’t mind letting him know I’m not firmly glued to the shelf.”
    He examined her with a disbelieving eye. “Even that is more interest than you have shown before.”
    “Well, perhaps he has pricked my pride,” she allowed, and laughed at her own folly.
    Nigel’s assistance made further calls unnecessary, and the ladies had time to lavish on the selection of Dallan’s snuffbox. This treat was saved for last. Cecilia’s opinion was sought, and she recommended the ugliest box in the shop. It bore on its lid a nude Venus, with cupids gamboling round. She was sure Dallan would like it excessively. In the evening she took her guests to an inferior comedy at Covent Garden, which they all, including herself, enjoyed immensely.
    They made another quick dash to the shops in the morning and left for Laycombe at eleven, reaching home in the early afternoon. Dallan called, as promised, on Thursday evening to pick up his snuff-box. He allowed that it was “a handsome little thing.” He didn’t think to thank Martha for her help in the half hour that he remained. George Wideman didn’t come at all, but he had an excuse. Mrs. Gardener had told them his papa was abed with the flu, and he was kept pretty busy at home.
    Wideman did make good his promise to present himself for the rout on Saturday, as did everyone else invited except Lord Wickham. Sally Gardener, having heard that he was invited but not that he declined, had a new jonquil gown made up especially for the occasion. She also came with two feathers stuck into her hair, a pair of fish-scale pearl beads down to her waist, and half a bottle of scent sprinkled over her gaunt body. The room reeked of lavender the whole night, even after Cecilia surreptitiously opened a couple of windows behind the drapes.
    High spirits prevailed, especially amongst the younger set who wasted no time in electing a volunteer to play the pianoforte for them while they romped about the room. Henley Dallan danced first with Martha, then, bowing at the waist, requested the pleasure of standing up with Cecilia. She found he did not improve on longer acquaintance. The tone of his conversation was an unpleasant blend of incredible compliments and casualness that their short acquaintance did not warrant.
    “It’s not a bad sort of party for a change,” he allowed. “I disliked to have to turn Wickham down. He’s off to Jack Duck’s to see the Egyptian dancer tonight.”
    Her ears perked up. “I understood he had company this weekend,” she said.
    “Ah!” He gave a knowing laugh. “Just so. I daresay he took his company to Jack Duck’s.”
    She already suspected his company was