Lady Fiasco, A Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt) Read online

  Blinking like a dazed child, she placed her hand on his forearm and relied on him to guide her as they crossed the circle and changed positions with another couple. She glanced up and caught sight of the strong handsome lines of his profile. For the first time in her life, she felt as if she were drowning.

  If only he was an ogre. If only she hadn’t loved him since she was five years old. If only he loved her. But he didn’t. She was drowning, and the only way to save herself was to get out of the water and get away from him.

  Chapter 11

  Does Running Away Ever Solve Anything?

  “Damned unsettling that’s what it is. She twists me up inside. Muddles my thinking. Turns me into a mindless sop.” Tyrell muttered to himself as he tromped through the dark streets of Brighton on his way back to the Ship Inn. He’d chosen to walk rather than hail a hackney in the hope that a brisk walk would cool, what he surmised, must be brain fever.

  But it didn’t help. He stopped at the door to The Ship and rubbed his temples with both hands. Something had to be done.

  He yanked open the door and rattled the bell for the proprietor. When the man didn’t appear at once, he rang the bell louder. The host stumbled to the desk with his nightcap askew and a candle in his hand.

  “Tally my bill, sir. I’m leaving this place.”

  “But my lord, you took the room for the entire week. I’ve turned away several—”

  “I’ll pay you for the week.”

  “But, my lord, it’s three-thirty in the morn. Surely, you can’t mean to—”

  “I most certainly do. I mean to leave as soon as I can rouse my blasted valet and get packed.”

  “Won’t he be delighted,” muttered the host. “I’ll gladly send an accounting to your estate, my lord, if you—”

  “No. I’m going to London. I plan to find some small corner of the world uncluttered by memories of raspberry-stained lips or troublesome imps with long eyelashes. You’d best settle with me now. I intend to find a gutter somewhere and crawl into it. Moreover, I may never crawl out.”

  The innkeeper rolled his eyes and minced away, mumbling, “A suitable abode for his lordship, I’m sure.”

  Tyrell glowered for a moment at the innkeeper’s back, before climbing the stairs to awaken his valet. He should wait for morning, but he knew that if he stayed he would be in eminent danger. The exact nature of that danger eluded him. The image of Fiona’s blushes threatened something fragile inside him. He had to protect himself. She had him out-gunned. A simple touch of her fingers on his sleeve had the power to unnerve him.

  He nodded to himself, while climbing the stairs. Facts are facts. She had all the heavy artillery lined up on her side of the field. A hasty retreat was sometimes the best battle plan. Particularly, if the foe threatens to shatter one’s unreliable stone heart. The sooner he got away from here—away from her—the better.

  * * *

  The following afternoon Fiona sat in a wicker chair staring vacantly at the pages of a book. Honore came into the sitting room and flopped into the chair next to her. “I grow weary of Brighton. What say you, we remove to London?”

  Fiona nodded without enthusiasm. “Any plan that suits you, Aunt, suits me.”

  Honore snorted indignantly. “What banality. You aren’t still upset about that silly episode last evening are you? Everyone thought it a great lark. Prinny’s friends are not so hen-witted as those rustics in your part of the country. No one here believes you are cursed, or jinxed, or anything of that folderol. On the contrary, it was the greatest fun they’ve had in days. Prinny spinning through the air like an acrobat truly was...”

  Fiona did not want to think about last night. So she ignored her aunt and stuck her nose back in her book.

  Honore crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “Whatever are you reading?”

  Fiona glanced up, “Miss Hannah More’s latest sermon. I had hoped it might improve my mind.”

  “Is that the reason for this humbug attitude of yours?” she bristled. “Throw that Methodist drivel into the fire. I won’t have her turning you into a mope.”

  “It’s August. There isn’t a fire anywhere in sight.” Fiona looked about the room pretending to search for the missing blaze.

  Honore squinted. “Hand it to me then, I’ll throw it out the window.”

  Fiona closed the book and held it in her lap. “I’m well aware of your propensity for tossing things out of windows. But you mustn’t blame Miss More for my bad temper.”

  “Humph.”

  “You may be pleased to know, Miss More would dislike a milk and water miss as much as you do. She writes against having a care-for-nothing attitude. She finds fault with rote religiosity and insists that God wants genuine love from his people. Moreover, she applauds passion—”

  Honore waved Fiona’s lecture aside. “Enough! If I want a sermon, I’ll go to church. If that book isn’t bedeviling you, then what?”

  “I can’t say.” Fiona lifted the volume and inspected the binding. “Perhaps, I, too, would like to leave Brighton.”

  Lord Alameda stepped through the open drawing room doors. “What’s this Honore? Planning your retreat?”

  Both women looked up at him with a start. “Folderol! I retreat from nothing.” Honore snapped her fingers at him.

  Fiona lifted her chin. “Neither, do I.”

  “Oh. Begging your pardons.” Marcus bowed. “I thought I overheard—”

  “Eavesdropping is a shabby practice, Marcus. Beneath your dignity.”

  “Come down from your high horse, Honore. As I stepped into the room I merely heard you say you wished to leave Brighton.”

  “I do. We both do.” She rose and slapped her hands to her sides. “It’s time to go home to Alison Hall. We shall leave in two days’ time.” She stood, brisk and business-like, a general issuing orders to her troops.

  “Two days? I had hoped I might accompany you back to London. But, two days is such short notice.”

  “You are welcome to travel with us, Marcus. However, now that you mention it”—she tapped her finger against her cheek—“two days seems excessively long. We leave on the morrow. Early.”

  Marcus grumbled, but inclined his head in reluctant acceptance.

  “Good.” She turned and walked out of the drawing room, shouting for Lorraine to begin packing.

  They embarked on their travels too early the next morning to agree with most aristocratic temperaments. Marcus staggered into the coach as if he had not slept at all that night. At least the early hour assured them of little traffic on the roads. The miles rolled rapidly by, with only brief stops at hostelries to change the cattle. Marcus drowsed and made irritated noises on the seat across from Fiona. Honore, on the other hand, sat jubilant as a small child on her first journey. She was going home.

  “A delightful day to travel, is it not?” She rapped Fiona on the thigh. “You’ll love Alison Hall, my dear. It is unlike any other house in the world. Wait till you see your rooms. I redecorated them for you in yellow and green, all the colors of summer. I’m certain you’ll enjoy it.”

  “You redecorated rooms for me? You did this before you even knew I would agree to visit?” Fiona looked at her aunt in amazement.

  “Of course.” Honore pinched her brows together. “Don’t be absurd. I planned for you to become my protégé. So, naturally, here you are.” Honore folded her hands in her lap.

  “But Aunt, you couldn’t have known for certain that I would decide to come home with you.”

  “Fiddle-faddle. Last Season, I noticed you when you were in town with that tiresome female your father married. I knew right away that you belonged with me. I’m childless. You have no mother. What could be simpler?”

  Marcus twitched uncomfortably in his seat.

  Honore grinned and patted Fiona again. “Consider the stir we’ll make, Fiona. We will storm London together! Like Cosmas and Damian.”

  Obviously perturbed, Marcus exhaled loudly and sat up. “You do know that Cos
mas and Damian were beheaded?”

  “Never mind, I can never keep all those Greek heroes organized.” Honore waved at the air, swatting at bothersome Greek mythology as if it were an invisible fly.

  Marcus shook his head. “For pity sake, Honore. They were not Greek—they were Arabian martyrs. Arabian brothers. The blighters were stoned, burned, and who knows what else. But in the end, they were beheaded.” He smirked at Honore and turned to Fiona. “It sounds as if Honore is promising you a delightful stay in London.”

  Honore kicked her foot against Marcus’s calf. “You’re in a decidedly foul mood.”

  “Yes!” he snapped. “You may credit it to the inhumane hour in which you chose to depart.”

  “Oh fustian. Be happy. We are almost home.”

  * * *

  Hours later, the coach rolled up in front of Honore’s London town house. Fiona stared out of the window in wonder. The facade of her aunt’s townhouse resembled a Greek temple. Steps stretched across the entire face of the building and six sleek columns rose skyward, leading the eye up to the third-story dome.

  Honore leapt out of the coach before the footman could let down the steps and rushed through the open door.

  A woman’s voice boomed in greeting. “O’ me pet! Ye’re home!”

  Fiona stepped timidly through the front door in time to observe Honore embracing a large Amazon-like woman whose square chunky features were framed by fire red hair tucked under a white cap. Apart from the green and blue tartan plaid draped over her husky shoulders, she was garbed entirely in crisp starched white.

  “Let me have a look at ye,” cried the woman. She grasped Honore by the shoulders and turned her around. Clucking her tongue she asked, “What hae ye done to yer hair? It’s as purple as a plum.”

  “It’s red, Mattie, deep red. I wanted a change.”

  “Nae, child, that’s not red. Red be this color here on me old head.” She bent down and pointed at her hair. Then planting both hands on her hips, she frowned. “Tha’s purple hair, Luv. Purple as an old lady’s bruise. It ain’t natural fer hair.”

  “Piffle. I don’t give a fig for natural. Don’t dust up over it. Come and see what I have brought us.”

  “Ah. The Lass has come wi’ ye, hasn’t she? An’ this be her.” Mattie motioned for Fiona to draw nearer. Both women paced around her as if appraising a new piece of furniture.

  “Did I not tell you, Mattie? She’s a rare one, isn’t she?” Honore clapped her hands together.

  Mattie nodded. “Aye, but not so like ye as ye supposed. Nay, but she’s a fine looking gel. Aye, she’ll do.” Mattie opened her arms and gathered Fiona into a powerful embrace. “Welcome, child. Ye may call me Mattie.” The cook crushed Fiona against her bosom.

  Such unabashed affection made Fiona smile. She’d never been hugged so enthusiastically. It was easy to understand Honore’s remarkable attachment to her cook.

  Behind Fiona, boots clicked on the marble floor. Mattie dropped her arms from Fiona and stepped back. “What’s this? The black-hearted devil has returned?”

  “A pleasure to see you too, Mattie.” Marcus bowed.

  “Fie!” She whipped around to Honore. “I thought ye packed this cur off tae Spain.”

  “Portugal.” Honore examined something trapped under one of her fingernails and shrugged. “As you say, the rascal has returned.”

  Marcus laughed and planted a loud sloppy kiss on Mattie’s cheek. “Don’t you know, my dear, the devil craves his own. I couldn’t bear to be parted from your delightful company. Nor your cooking.”

  “Fah!” She brushed her cheek dry. “Ready with more lies than a selkie.” With that, she whirled around and marched imperiously out of the room.

  Honore stamped her foot. “Now look what you’ve done, Marcus. You’ve upset her.”

  He shrugged, donning a helpless expression. “What did I say?”

  From the wall, a silent onlooker stepped forward, an ancient man, whose white hair contrasted his black attire. He did not wear a powdered wig. A wig would have been superfluous. His own white hair was far more impressive. He moved with deliberate poise. Fiona half expected to hear him creak as he bowed to Honore. “Welcome home, my lady.”

  The very correct butler bowed so low Fiona could see his pink scalp underneath the waving white hairs.

  “Thank you, Cairn. This is my niece, Miss Hawthorn. You may have her things taken to the green apartments in the east wing next to mine.” Honore shook out her dusty carriage dress. “Lord Alameda will be returning to his rooms in the west wing.”

  Honore placed her arm around Fiona’s waist and led her up the marble staircase. “Come my dear. Come see your new home.”

  Honore’s house was the antithesis of the Brighton Pavilion or Fiona’s home at Thorncourt. There were no heavy tapestries, or conflicting patterns. The walls were oyster white, except for a life-size frieze of Greek water bearers in the foyer. Light reflected everywhere. The walls of the circular foyer rose to high domed ceiling, containing six oval windows, each adorned with stained glass images of naked cherubim. The balustrades on the great winding stairway were carved of white marble with large mock Grecian urns atop each post.

  Honore smiled at her niece’s wide eyes. “As you can see, my dear, Alison Hall is very comfortable.”

  “Comfortable understates the fact, Aunt. It is breathtaking.”

  Honore lifted her chin and made a smug noise that indicated she agreed. “After Francisco died I was restless. I commissioned Alison Hall to distract myself from the grief. I believe it turned out rather well.”

  Honore ushered her into the most handsome apartment Fiona had ever seen. A huge Turkish carpet covered the floor. It was forest green, with cream and rose in the design. Everything else in the room had simple clean lines. The windows ran from the floor to the ceiling, and filled the room with sunshine. Fiona turned to her aunt and hugged her.

  Honore sputtered. “Come now, must you always turn into a watering pot? I declare, you’ll smother me.” Her smile belied her words as she patted Fiona’s shoulders. “Tomorrow, when you are rested we’ll send for the dressmaker, and we shall see about turning you out in a style that becomes you.”

  Chapter 12

  Ghosts in London

  Tyrell chose not to hail a hack. Instead, he walked down the streets of London like a man possessed. He’d spent a restless night, waking up from nightmares in a fevered sweat, and then unable to get back to sleep, because her confounded face kept dancing up in front of him like a relentless specter. A good walk was what he needed, and a drink at White’s.

  By the time he reached the corner of Piccadilly and Fleet, his vehement strides relaxed into a more rational pace. He glanced occasionally into the windows, and perused a few of the entertaining caricatures.

  Fleet Street was home to scores of printers whose shop windows displayed half a dozen new caricatures for sale each week. These lampoons provided the browsing masses with political and social commentaries and a lively dose of humor. They also furnished the printers with a handsome source of additional income. Patrons purchased the cartoons to amuse their friends and acquaintances. At two pence apiece, they were a bargain. The more scandalous the lampoon, the better.

  Lord Wesmont strolled from window to window. While he didn’t actually laugh, a wry grin formed on his face as he perused a caricature of the Prince Regent drawn as a big whale spouting water from his mouth. The whale was eyeing the buxom Lady B___. Portrayed as a fish with enormous breasts, she was floating alongside the Prince George whale. Her husband, Lord B___, sketched as a skinny little fish with cuckold’s antlers on his head, swam precariously underneath the whale’s upraised tail.

  Tyrell noticed a large crowd gathering in front of Laurie and Whittle’s print shop. He overheard loud guffaws as someone read out a verse in a mocking singsong voice. Shoppers chuckled and pointed at a caricature set prominently in the window, he strained to see what drew so much attention. When, at last, he caught a glimpse o
f the cartoon he felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach.

  “It can’t be.” He muttered. He pushed and shoved through the crowd to get closer to the drawing. Planting both hands on the glass, he blocked everyone else’s view. He didn’t care about the complaints from the crowd behind him. He stared at the caricature of an all-too-familiar face.

  It could not be.

  It should not be.

  Nevertheless, it most assuredly was Fiona Hawthorn. It had to be, because in one corner stood the Dowager Countess Alameda with a lecherous jackanapes crawling under her skirt. Tyrell closed his eyes and then reopened them, but the cartoon remained.

  It featured Fiona center stage with Prince George, who had obviously been dancing with her. The Regent was drawn comically flipping through the air in one direction, while Miss Hawthorn was flying backward in the opposite direction. Count A___, clearly identifiable as Count Alameda, held out his arms in anticipation of catching her. Tyrell hated the way the cartoonist depicted Lord Alameda leering at Fiona’s bosom while waiting for the young lady to come flying into his arms.

  “Blast his eyes,” he snarled out loud.

  The woman next to him giggled. He glowered down at her and she clamped her mouth shut. Then Tyrell read the limerick captioning the drawing.

  Beware the Duchess of Disaster

  She ought to have a dancing master.

  She wounds our soldiers on the ballroom floor,

  And if that’s not enough, there’s more.

  Britain is in jeopardy, Ladies and Gents,

  For now Lady Fiasco trips our Prince!

  A lovely young girl, as Count A___ observes,