Dancing the Maypole by Cari Hislop Page B

months…or I’ll tell your helpful brats the identity of
your dream mistress. There’s no telling what sort of help your
brats would concoct if they knew her name.”
    “That’s
blackmail!”
    James Smirke
laughed as he put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and loudly
kissed her on the cheek. “I think the new lavender coat, and
trousers with the white waistcoat embroidered with lilacs.”
    “No,” said
Agnes. “I think he needs a more memorable appearance. Lend him your
yellow waistcoat, the one I embroidered with the large fighting
cock.”
    Peter gasped in
horror. If Isabel saw him, she’d think he’d lost his mind. “I
refuse…”
    “As you wish,”
said Agnes. “Your brats will enjoy helping you persuade…”
    “James!”
    “What?”
    “Your wife is
b-b-blackmailing me into looking like a foolish fop-doodle.”
    “How could you
think my Egg would do anything so cruel? She’s helping you out of
the kindness of her golden heart. Heaven knows you need it.”
    Peter bit back
his opinion on his sister-in-law’s heart. “I don’t need help!
Looking like a f-f-fop-doodle won’t win the lady’s good opinion.
She’ll snub me!”
    “Agnes snubbed
me numerous times. Look who lost the war of love!” James pursed his
lips in triumph as he admired his wife’s profile. Isn’t she
lovely?”
    Peter’s eyed
his marble sister-in-law with revulsion, “Quite.”
    “You’ll like
the waistcoat once you put it on. It’ll put you in a fighting
mood.” James crowed like a rooster as he lifted his left hand and
made a claw, making the five youngest Smirkes guffaw with
laughter.
    “The mood to
court or k-k-kill?” snapped Peter.
    Agnes ignored
Peter’s sarcastic question. “Don’t worry about being seen. Bath
society is still thin, but if you happen to meet my cousin Isabel
out shopping do invite her to tea tomorrow. If she wishes to visit,
she will.”
    “Papa?” Peter
sighed in defeat and turned to glare at his fourth son. “May I have
an advance of next year’s Christmas money?”
    “What for?”
    “I want to buy
Mademoiselle de Bourbon a lovely fan,” said Cosmo.
    Peter’s coal
black eyes nearly burst into flames. “Avoid Mademoiselle d-de
Bourbon!”
    “Why?”
    “Because…her
father said so.”
    “He’s hardly
going to shoot me because you insulted his daughter. Aunt Agnes
says Mademoiselle has several lovely silly nieces in need of
sensible husbands. The investment of a fan might help me find a
wife.”
    The prospect of
seeing brown eyes caused Peter’s body to hum with pleasure. “I’ll
c-c-call on her and give her your regard. If her father starts
shooting, you’ll be able to attend my funeral relieved I went in
your place.”
    “She won’t see
you,” said Cosmo. “Why would she want to?”
    “Mind your own
b-business.” Scowling, Peter abruptly left the table ignoring his
brother’s teasing wink.
    “What’s wrong
with Papa? He hasn’t had a pleasant word to say all week.”
    “Your Papa’s
been celibate too long.” Peter cringed as his brother reply floated
after him. “He needs to wake up and find a real woman in his
bed.”
    “James.”
    “Yes Egg?”
    “They’re his
children.”
    “They’re
men…”

    *

    Peter entered
his bedchamber and leaned against the closed door. Safely alone, he
carefully extracted the fan from his sleeve. Unfurling the now
familiar image, he stared at the gory scene willing his brain to
remember being introduced to Isabel for the forgotten dance. “Have
you finished moping and feeling sorry for yourself Peter Augustus?”
Peter’s heart threatened to burst as he started in fright. Looking
up he found his romantic agent sitting on the bed looking
exasperated.
    “What the
d-devil? Are you trying to frighten me to d-death? Go away!”
    “Hmm…still
moping.” The agent sighed as if bored by the prospect of waiting
another two weeks.
    “I’m not
moping,” said Peter.
    “You’re hiding
in your room like a friendless hermit