apprehension skip down her spine. The viscount had—for reasons Callie certainly did not understand—just warned his friend “off.” Gauthier must also have felt the new coolness in the room, and only inclined his head to her once more before returning to his friend and his snifter of brandy.
“If you’ll sit?” the viscount said then, his tone letting her know his was not a question, but a command.
Once Callie had taken up a seat beside Lester, who seemed to be suffering a chill, he was shaking that badly, Simon Roxbury stepped to the middle of the room so that his back was turned to no one, and began to speak. “Now, if I have everyone’s attention, I should like to begin at the beginning and see if we can sort our way out of this. Armand? You might want to call for pen and paper so that you can take down notes. This should make a tolerable farce, and our good friend Sheridan badly needs a new theatrical success.”
“Don’t be insufferable, Simon,” his mother warned. “For one thing, it won’t do you a spot of good. How and why Miss Johnston got here is of no real concern—all that matters is that she is here. This gel’s the one, and I have to keep these stays on a while longer if I’m to beat you to the altar. I can feel it, I’m convinced of it. Strangely, I’m not at all put out by the notion, which just goes to show I have your happiness foremost in my heart, Simon. I’m such a good mother. Ride astride, don’t you, gel? Never mind. Of course you do.”
“Mother—” Simon began warningly, then snapped his jaws shut, as interrupting the viscountess was about as thankless a task as trying to empty the Atlantic Ocean with a teacup.
“And you know, Simon,” she continued, undaunted, “this will mean shedding yourself of that cat, Sheila Lloyd, which I can only consider a bonus, don’t you? Yes, I’m quite pleased, all in all. Quite pleased. Bones—ring for Roberts, will you? My dish is empty.”
Simon’s low curse was nearly drowned out by Armand Gauthier’s burst of laughter and Bartholomew Boothe’s fit of coughing, but Callie was beginning to sense the viscountess’s meaning. The meaning of several things she had said since Callie’s entrance into the drawing room. She shot to her feet, her cheeks burning with indignation. “If you people think to kidnap me off the street, then set me up as some sort of mistress to this insufferable prig, why, I—”
It was now the viscountess’s turn to choke. She did so quite stupendously, turning a ghastly purple before a sharp slap between her shoulder blades—delivered by Lester Plum, who might not have been the sharpest arrow in the quiver but who had considerable experience saving his beloved father from the man’s piggish gulping of any food within sight—dislodged a nearly whole sugarplum from her gullet. “A—a mistress !” the older woman got out at last, using the sleeve of her gown to wipe at her streaming eyes. “God, gel, he already has one of those. It’s a wife I’m talking about!”
Wife? Callie mouthed the word silently as her rump hit the chair cushion with a thump, her legs having all but collapsed under her. “Pretend I’m insane, Lester said,” she muttered to herself. “And it’s a good thing I didn’t do that—for no one in this madhouse would have noticed!”
A sudden thought strikes me,
let us swear an eternal friendship.
—George Canning
Chapter Five
A firm believer in the adage that, theatrically speaking, no more than three characters should have lines in any scene, Simon took advantage of the chaos that reigned in the Portland Place drawing room to motion with a dismissive shake of his head that the presence of his two friends was no longer required.
“Only because of the great love we bear you,” Armand murmured silkily as he and Bartholomew exited the room. “And only because we expect a full recounting of every word and gesture tonight at Lady Bessingham’s.”
That left
“If you’ll sit?” the viscount said then, his tone letting her know his was not a question, but a command.
Once Callie had taken up a seat beside Lester, who seemed to be suffering a chill, he was shaking that badly, Simon Roxbury stepped to the middle of the room so that his back was turned to no one, and began to speak. “Now, if I have everyone’s attention, I should like to begin at the beginning and see if we can sort our way out of this. Armand? You might want to call for pen and paper so that you can take down notes. This should make a tolerable farce, and our good friend Sheridan badly needs a new theatrical success.”
“Don’t be insufferable, Simon,” his mother warned. “For one thing, it won’t do you a spot of good. How and why Miss Johnston got here is of no real concern—all that matters is that she is here. This gel’s the one, and I have to keep these stays on a while longer if I’m to beat you to the altar. I can feel it, I’m convinced of it. Strangely, I’m not at all put out by the notion, which just goes to show I have your happiness foremost in my heart, Simon. I’m such a good mother. Ride astride, don’t you, gel? Never mind. Of course you do.”
“Mother—” Simon began warningly, then snapped his jaws shut, as interrupting the viscountess was about as thankless a task as trying to empty the Atlantic Ocean with a teacup.
“And you know, Simon,” she continued, undaunted, “this will mean shedding yourself of that cat, Sheila Lloyd, which I can only consider a bonus, don’t you? Yes, I’m quite pleased, all in all. Quite pleased. Bones—ring for Roberts, will you? My dish is empty.”
Simon’s low curse was nearly drowned out by Armand Gauthier’s burst of laughter and Bartholomew Boothe’s fit of coughing, but Callie was beginning to sense the viscountess’s meaning. The meaning of several things she had said since Callie’s entrance into the drawing room. She shot to her feet, her cheeks burning with indignation. “If you people think to kidnap me off the street, then set me up as some sort of mistress to this insufferable prig, why, I—”
It was now the viscountess’s turn to choke. She did so quite stupendously, turning a ghastly purple before a sharp slap between her shoulder blades—delivered by Lester Plum, who might not have been the sharpest arrow in the quiver but who had considerable experience saving his beloved father from the man’s piggish gulping of any food within sight—dislodged a nearly whole sugarplum from her gullet. “A—a mistress !” the older woman got out at last, using the sleeve of her gown to wipe at her streaming eyes. “God, gel, he already has one of those. It’s a wife I’m talking about!”
Wife? Callie mouthed the word silently as her rump hit the chair cushion with a thump, her legs having all but collapsed under her. “Pretend I’m insane, Lester said,” she muttered to herself. “And it’s a good thing I didn’t do that—for no one in this madhouse would have noticed!”
A sudden thought strikes me,
let us swear an eternal friendship.
—George Canning
Chapter Five
A firm believer in the adage that, theatrically speaking, no more than three characters should have lines in any scene, Simon took advantage of the chaos that reigned in the Portland Place drawing room to motion with a dismissive shake of his head that the presence of his two friends was no longer required.
“Only because of the great love we bear you,” Armand murmured silkily as he and Bartholomew exited the room. “And only because we expect a full recounting of every word and gesture tonight at Lady Bessingham’s.”
That left
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