Lady Fiasco, A Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt) Page 7

  “A whale would, indeed, be a wondrous sight. You are right, I’d much rather see a real wharf.”

  “I thought as much.” He tucked her arm in his, looking quite pleased with himself. Somewhat like a cat who had just cornered a mouse, which made Fiona wonder precisely what her cousin was up to.

  The ocean was majestic. The sun had already burned off the mist and presented Brighton with a dazzling morning. The air smelled fresh and the sun’s warmth felt pleasant on their backs.

  “Tell me cousin, what did you make of our Prince Regent?”

  She smiled up at him, then shook her head and chuckled. “He isn’t at all what I’d expected.”

  Marcus regaled her with tales of the Prince’s idiosyncrasies until they nearly reached the end of the creaking old pier. A warm breeze ruffled their clothing. Fiona turned her face to the soft wind and enjoyed the feel of it against her skin. “Is that not the most wondrous sensation? Wind, warmth, and water combined in perfect proportions. I would love to live near the sea, wouldn’t you?”

  She turned to find him standing closer than she realized. He wore the oddest expression, almost mournful, as if someone he cared for had just died. There was something else in his demeanor, something she couldn’t quite identify.

  It startled her when he reached out and tucked back a strand of hair that fluttered across her face. The back of his fingers brushed against her cheek. “Such a pity,” he said softly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “So young. That wild sweetness really ought to be tasted before... What I mean to say is it would be a shame to waste—” He leaned toward her mouth as though he meant to kiss her.

  Fiona was completely befuddled. Surely he wouldn’t. But his mouth was mere inches away from hers when Honore’s maid started coughing wildly.

  Fiona turned away from Marcus, blushing, but he put a restraining hand on her arm.

  Lorraine scurried to the edge of the dock. “Pardon me, miss, but you ought to come here by me.” She motioned for Fiona to join her. “Well, bless my soul! Would you just look at that. See there, Miss Fiona. It must be one of them whale spouts his lordship mentioned. Come an’ see if it isn’t. Look there. Way out there.” She hopped vigorously and pointed at the ocean.

  Marcus looked in horror at the plank on which the lunatic maid was bouncing. “No!” he shouted,

  “Yes, my lord. It is a whale. Come see for yerself, miss. If you was to look out this waaaaaaay...”

  The plank splintered and broke just as he had planned. Except the wrong female plummeted into the sea. Her scream seemed to last forever before he heard the splash. He walked to the ragged edge of the boards he had so carefully chiseled into a weakened state, and watched the maid sank under the dark water far below.

  “Wretched bad luck,” he muttered and glanced back at Fiona.

  To his amazement, her gloves and slippers lay on the pier and she was removing her bonnet. She handed it to him and stepped to the edge of the boards. His mouth still hung open as she jumped.

  “Wait!” he shouted.

  There was an answering splash as she hit the water. Leaning over the edge Marcus saw Fiona’s head bob up from the waves. She began paddling toward the maid, who had resurfaced and was shrieking like a cat in a bathtub.

  “She can swim,” Marcus muttered to no one in particular. People ran out onto the pier to see what was happening. A crowd began to gather around his shoulders. “I don’t believe it.” He pointed at Fiona and began to laugh hysterically. “Honore’s wretched pup can swim.”

  Fiona struggled to get her bearings in the rolling motion of the ocean. A wave lifted her up and carried her away from the pier. Her eyes opened wide with surprise, but she adapted and began making long even strokes toward the panicking maid. She swam as fast as she could, and prayed Lorraine could stay afloat until she reached her.

  Suddenly Lorraine’s head broke through the surface directly in front of her. Eyes bulging the frantic maid thrashed at the water sputtering and gasping for air. She lunged wildly at Fiona, wrapping her arms around Fiona’s neck in a death grip. They sank. Salt and slime and cold water gushed into Fiona’s mouth, suffocating her.

  She tugged at Lorraine’s arms struggling trying to release the maid’s strangle hold. But they sank deeper and deeper. In desperation, Fiona bit down as hard as she could on Lorraine’s forearm. Her arms jerked apart. Fiona slipped away, circled behind Lorraine, grabbed the maid by her hair, and swam for the surface.

  She burst out of the depths and found they were underneath the pier. Waves slapped and pounded against the huge pilings. Fiona grabbed the nearest pillar with her free arm. Coated with slick green moss, it was far too slippery and too big for her to get a good grip. She searched for anything else to hold. The crossbeams were too high. There was nothing except the big pillars. She wrapped her legs and her free arm around the piling. She wouldn’t be able to hold on for long, but it gave her a moment’s respite. She held Lorraine’s head as high out of the water as she could. Lorraine coughed and sputtered and then turned, frantically clawing and trying to grab Fiona again.

  Fiona jerked on Lorraine’s hair.

  “No!” She shouted over the noise of the waves. “Listen to me! Or we’ll both die.”

  The little woman’s eyes flickered with a faint light of sanity.

  “Lie back in the water. Try to hold your breath. I’ll pull you to shore.” Fiona glanced toward the beach. It looked so far away. Lorraine darted a glance in the same direction. Her eyes opened wide with panic. Fiona smelled the stench of vomit rising in the maid’s throat, and looked away.

  The next wave rolled towards them and she knew it would knock them off the piling.

  “Lie back!” she shouted. The wave hit. Fiona plunged through the roller towing Lorraine by the hair until they were prone in the water. It took her a few moments before she could start side-stroking properly. She put her arm around Lorraine’s neck, trying to keep the woman’s head above water, and laboriously swam toward the shore.

  Their clothing billowed and dragged against the water, slowing them. Breakers tugged them under instead of carrying them forward. Salt burned her eyes and nose. Still she swam through the waves thinking only of reaching the shoreline. Lorraine stopped struggling. The poor woman had either already drowned, or she was finally cooperating.

  Fiona kept swimming.

  At long last, she heaved herself and Lorraine onto the beach and collapsed. A throng of cheering onlookers ran toward them. Fiona glanced up, surprised to see such a crowd, and then flopped face down on the beach, exhausted. A cry went up amongst the spectators to send for a doctor.

  Fiona lay in the sand, draped in seaweed, her tattered gown clinging to her body, her straggled hair filled with sediment. She didn’t care. Her only interest was in breathing, heaving air in and out of her aching lungs. Vaguely, she registered the sound of Lorraine retching and moaning on the beach next to her. Spectators stepped aside as a shout went up, “Make way for the sawbones! Let him through.”

  “Right here, Doc. This maid fell from the pier, an’ like as not she’d have drowned if it weren’t for that lady there.”

  “Miss, are you—”

  Fiona waved him away. “Her. Take care of her.”

  “You must both come to my surgery. Salt water in the lungs can cause pneumonia, or consumption, not to mention all manner of aquatic infections.”

  Lovely.

  “My maid, sir.” She pointed as forcefully as a bedraggled woman collapsed on the seashore could. Finally, Doctor Belligerent gave up and went to tend Lorraine. Fiona wanted left alone, to rest and regain her breath.

  A moment later, she noticed the toes of two very polished boots standing directly in front of her face. The owner of these boots squatted down and pulled a string of seaweed from her hair. He gently brushed the sand from her cheek.

  She lifted her head and squinted up into the face of Lord Wesmont. “Perfect,” she moaned and her cheek flopped back onto the san
d.

  “Good morning, Miss Hawthorn. I thought that might be you.” He chuckled, obviously, pleased with himself.

  Chapter 9

  An Ogre in Brighton

  Fiona was too tired to struggle when Tyrell deftly picked her up and began carrying her away from the beach, apparently following the surgeon to his house. By the time they reached the boardwalk, she felt much better.

  Fiona studied Lord Wesmont’s stern profile as he carried her. “I’m quite capable of walking now.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Then, you should set me down.” She intentionally didn’t remove her arm from around his neck. There was no hurry.

  “I can’t oblige you on that score.”

  “Why not? Seawater is ruining your coat.”

  He shifted her in his arms and, finally, looked at her. “Because Miss Hawthorn, what little clothing you had on is now torn to shreds and plastered to your lovely body with the very seawater you mentioned. Make no mistake, my dear, your elusive charms no longer elude me. I would prefer not expose them to this mob you have attracted.”

  Fiona felt her cheeks flaming red under his gaze.

  He took a quick breath. “What possessed you to don this mockery of a gown? Under the best of conditions, it is scandalous. Wet, it is a travesty. Your father would horsewhip you if he saw—”

  “You needn’t lecture me. I thought the same thing myself. My aunt insists it is eminently suitable. She has relegated the better part of my wardrobe to the trash bin. Apparently, my gowns reminded her too much of baked goods, so she had her maid rip them up.”

  Tyrell took a deep breath obviously struggling not to lose his temper. “I cannot fathom your stepmother entrusting you into Lady Alameda’s care. I have been on the Continent for nearly five years, and even I have heard of her reputation.”

  “And it disturbs you?”

  He merely raised an eyebrow.

  It occurred to her she hadn’t asked him the most important question. “Why are you here?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Here? In Brighton? So far from your home.”

  He still didn’t respond. She noted the stubborn muscles of his jaw buckled even tighter. That pleased her, and the more wicked side of her character decided to see if she couldn’t vex him just a little more.

  She toyed innocently with his lapel with her free hand. “I can scarcely believe you’re here because you crave the Prince’s society. You couldn’t possibly find the peace and solitude you’re so fond of, here in Brighton. Especially, not at this time of year. Hmm.” She tapped a finger against her lips. “I doubt you’re interested in his raucous parties. Unless, you’ve suddenly developed a love of dancing?” She smiled coquettishly and waited for a reply.

  His stern countenance assured her no reply would be forthcoming.

  “No? Well, of course, there are any number of unattached females here. Perhaps you’re here hunting for a wife?” She wriggled up in order to get a good look at his face. “Oh, but my wits have gone wandering. Aren’t you the same fellow who would rather be hung at dawn than get leg-shackled?”

  He stopped short and exhaled sharply. “You are an impertinent young woman, aren’t you? I’ve half-a-mind to drop you on the street and go about my business.”

  “I wonder why you haven’t?”

  “Devil if I know.”

  She suppressed her pleasure at having aggravated him. “It still begs the question, my lord. If you were to go about your business, what business might that be?”

  He exhaled with a grumble and continued down the wooden walkway. “Very well, if you must know, I am here to apologize to you. I owed you that much for my behavior at the lake, but now I expect I have paid even the balance sheet.”

  She jerked her arm from around his neck and glared at him.

  “Paid even the balance sheet? How typically presumptuous of you.”

  Just then, they stepped through the doorway of the surgery. The doctor instructed Lord Wesmont to set Fiona in a chair and then shooed him out to the sitting room. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest and smoldered.

  The physician hovered behind her thumping on her back. “Just as I thought. Your breathing is much too rapid and shallow. Lung fever—that’s what comes of swallowing seawater.”

  Lorraine moaned from her position on a pallet.

  “I assure you, Doctor, I am quite all right. Do attend to my maid.”

  * * *

  Marcus burst into Honore’s apartments at Brighton Pavilion, outraged.

  “She dove off the pier! Swims like a confounded duck. Rescued that idiot maid of yours who fell into the drink. What sort of niece do you have, that goes around diving in after servants?”

  “Sit down, Marcus. Have some brandy. Explain yourself in a rational manner.”

  He dropped into a chair and swirled the dark liquor in the bottom of the glass she handed him. “Hardly the thing for a well-bred lady to do, is it?” He gulped the contents of his glass and told her the story—at least the part that wouldn’t land him in prison. “She should’ve let the maid drown. But no, your filly jumps into the sea and pulls the wretched creature to shore.”

  Honore stared at him. “Where are they now? Surely you didn’t abandon them on the beach?”

  “No. No. Some nob was there shouting orders like he was a demmed general. He had the situation well in hand.”

  “You left my niece in the hands of a stranger? Who was he?”

  “For pity sake Honore. I know a gentleman when I see him. It was Lord Somebody-or-other. Seemed to know the gel.”

  “Lord who? Exactly.”

  “Don’t take that tone with me, mother dear. I’m not a schoolboy you can take to task. It was Lord Westerly or Wesmont—something like that.” He snatched the brandy decanter and refilled his glass.

  “So, Wesmont ran her aground already, did he?” Honore chuckled and leaned back in her chair.

  Marcus watched her over the rim of his glass. “At any rate, the chit was covered stem to stern with seawater and sand. Lord Whoever-he-was picked her up and carried her off like an infant. I might add, your niece didn’t put up much of a fuss. Naturally, I wouldn’t have ruined my coat for a snip of girl who doesn’t know how to conduct herself properly.”

  Honore tapped her foot impatiently. “Where do you suppose he took her?”

  “I neither know nor care.” Marcus caught her disapproving stare. “He probably hauled her off to a surgery. There was an annoying little sawbones trailing behind his high-and-mighty-lordship, stuttering out a dire prognosis of lung fever.”

  Honore chuckled, “Oh, Fiona will be well enough once she gets dry. Of that, I’m certain. Swims like a fish. But, perhaps I ought to retrieve her from the physician.”

  “Yes, well, unfortunately, your abigail is no fish. Last I saw, she was an interesting shade of gray. Bound to feel miserable. Better for everyone if Fiona had let her drown. Really Honore, how can you countenance the girl’s behavior?”

  “If my maid had drowned I’d have your head on a platter. Where do you imagine I’d to find an abigail half as agreeable as Lorraine?”

  Marcus sniffed. “Really Honore, you ought to be more concerned about the scandal your niece has created, than about your silly twit of a maid.”

  Honore snapped a shortcake in half and popped it in her mouth. She waved her hand, signaling him to silence. “What scandal? You’re kicking up the dust over nothing.”

  “I am not. It’s all over Brighton by now. Prinny is bound to hear about it.”

  “More than likely.” She pushed a crumb from the corner of her mouth. “If he hasn’t, I’ll make certain he does.”

  “Whyever for?”

  “I should think it would be rather obvious. The girl is a heroine. He’ll probably give her a medal, or a knighthood, or some such.” Honore popped the other half of the shortbread into her mouth.

  “Fah. You are all about in your head. Women can’t be knights.”

&n
bsp; “Pity.”

  “More’n likely he’ll send the pair of you packing for making a spectacle of yourselves.”

  Honore laughed. “Balderdash! You mistake him. Our Regent enjoys a little excitement, especially when it reeks of bravado. He’ll admire her for it. Mark my words. It’s the best thing that could’ve happened to her.”

  Marcus shook his head. “Eccentric behavior is one thing coming from you Honore, but the beau monde will not tolerate it coming from a debutante.”

  “Ha! They tolerated it well enough coming from you.”

  “I’m not a deb.”

  “No, but you’re a foreigner.”

  “I am not a foreigner!” He thumped his glass down on the side table. “You know perfectly well my mother was English. For pity sake, I was raised in England. You raised me. I do wish you would stop using that tired old quip when you run out of arguments. We both know Fiona has over-extended her credit. Nothing for it, but to send her back to the country where she belongs.”

  “Nonsense. Can’t you see? She’s wasted in the country. Let Prinny decide the matter. Apart from that, I have no doubt that her credit can stand today’s adventure and tenfold more.” Honore stood up and shook out her skirts. “After all, she’s not just any debutante, she’s my protégée.”

  “So, she is.” Marcus seethed. “I nearly forgot.”

  * * *

  “Will she recover?” Fiona leaned next to the doctor while he fussed with a listening cone at Lorraine’s back.

  “Yes, as nearly as I can tell through this wet dress,” he answered sourly. “Provided she doesn’t get pneumonia, or lung fever, or consumption. I’ll need to observe her closely.”

  A commotion sounded in the hallway and her aunt burst into the room with Lord Wesmont standing behind her.

  “There you are my dear!” Honore swished across the floor and laid her gloved hand against Fiona’s cheek. “I’ve been worried half out of my mind. Marcus told me the most alarming story-and now I see it is all too true. How dreadful for you. Come dear, I’ll take you back to the palace. My carriage is just outside the door.”