Fortune's fools Page 7

  With a little grimace, he shifted so that she was forced to rise. Standing in front of her, his hands clutched hers as she held the book.

  "Miss Beauchamp . . . Philippa, I. . . cannot betray my... I cannot."

  He took a step away from her and dropped his hands to his sides. He might as well have crossed a desert, for

  when next he spoke, his voice was dry and empty of all emotion.

  "The hero of the book is Sir Milton. He is a capital sort of fellow, modeled after my brother Max, who is also a capital sort of fellow. He is not the sort who would trifle with someone else's ... I must go. I do hope: you will think of Max while you are reading this. He is the very best person I know, full of all sorts of noble j ideals and qualities. He would never dream of betraying a trust. Never."

  "Mr. Darby ... Tristram?"

  "I must go. I... I should never have come."

  And then he was gone. Philippa sat down on the little chair and cried—small, tiny sobs that befitted a girl who was small and tiny. Inside, however, she was quite certain her heart was breaking, and she wished she were a complete ninnyhammer, because then she would not have understood what Tristram was saying.

  It was his brother who was courting her, not sweet, gentle Tristram. Tristram might be attracted to her, but he was not interested in taking her as his wife.

  At this realization, Philippa thought her heart really would break!

  That night, at the invitation of the Marquess of Cravenwell, Max and Tristram set out for dinner at White's, one of the most fashionable men's clubs in London. Gambling was the main activity, especially in the evening, but neither Darby brother was inclined to join in the play.

  As they entered the hallowed portals, Max said, "What the devil has you so peevish? You have been frowning ever since you came home this afternoon."

  "Why shouldn't I be cross? What is the meaning of this summons? I mean, does the dirty marquess want to inspect us? I should think he knows what we look like by now."

  "Perhaps he invited us to be polite," said Max, grinning unabashedly.

  Tristram could not help but smile at his brother's nonsensical comment. Then he spied the marquess and his father.

  "Devil take me! The old fool's playing cards with the marquess again!" exclaimed Tristram. "We will never see the light of day!"

  "I wonder if there is a way for us to disown him?" quipped Max. "There, that's better. Might as well grin and bear it. Come on, Tris."

  The viscount sat opposite the marquess, his nose in a hand of cards, a glass of brandy at his elbow, and a smile on his face.

  "Sit down, lads," he said, motioning them forward.

  "And be quiet," growled the marquess.

  "Do not be offended by your host's incivility. He is not accustomed to losing, especially to me," said Viscount Tavistoke with a chuckle.

  "Wouldn't be tonight except that he is having the most damnable run of luck," snapped the marquess.

  "Piquet always was your game, Papa," said Max, taking a chair on his father's right side while Tristram still stood, gazing^round the club.

  "Sit down, young chub. Hasn't anyone ever told you it ain't polite to stand over people when they're playing cards? Thought a son of Tavistoke here would know better."

  "And so he does," said the viscount as Tristram slipped into the fourth chair at the table.

  "Sorry. I wasn't looking at your cards, either of you. I just hadn't been here before, and..."

  "Well, you mustn't even think of drawing this place," said the rude marquess, jabbing Tristram in the chest with one bony finger. "It would play havoc with the members!"

  "I don't see why. It's nothing that isn't going on in a dozen other clubs at this very moment," said Tristram, glaring at the older man.

  "Oh, so this one's decided to take the bit in his mouth and run with it, has he?" said the marquess. "It would be well for you to remember, my boy, who is footing the bill for this second foray into the Marriage Mart—a second foray that would not ha» a been necessary if you had taken care of business the first time instead of drawing all your little pictures. That didn't get you very far, now, did it?"

  Tristram's chest swelled with indignation, but Max beat him to it by saying casually, "True, and it has made me wonder why, my lord, you didn't simply have our father put in debtor's prison after last Season. That was originally your plan, was it not?"

  It was the marquess's turn to glare, but he said nothing.

  Max smiled and continued, "Why do we not quit our squabbling? Your note said you wished to know about our progress, and I am prepared to enlighten you."

  "Exactly," said the viscount, playing his final card with a flourish. "I think we are finished playing piquet for the moment. It is too pleasant an evening to argue."

  "What has you in such a good mood, Papa?" asked Max.

  It was the marquess who responded instead with a

  cackle, and said, "He's happy because he has taken my money and because Lady Anne cannot possibly appear to tell him to stop playing cards, blowing a cloud, or drinking his fill."

  "Demmed interfering female," muttered the viscount. "But let's not talk about her. Dinner, I think, and a bottle of their finest?"

  With another of his dry cackles, the marquess nodded, crooking his finger at a waiter and growling out his orders for their dinner.

  "Your sons are trying my patience, Tavistoke," he said over the first course of mulligatawny soup, a poached salmon, and roasted pears.

  "Have they not been trying mine for some thirty years?"

  "Only nine and twenty, Papa," said Max. Looking his father in the eye, he added, "I am certain the tables have been turned any number of times."

  The marquess chortled happily over this, saying, "This one is a bit too cocky, but the other one ..."

  "The other one has a name, my lord. You may use it or not, but I refuse to be spoken about as if 1 vvere not even here," said Tristram, rising out of his seat.

  "Ah, so he does have a backbone. Good! I was afraid he was nothing but books and drawing. Sit down, do."

  Tristram receded onto the soft leather chair, though he remained tight-lipped. The marquess, however, had returned his attention to Max.

  "So tell us, my boy, have you found a likely candidate?"

  Lowering his voice so that it did not carry to the other tables, Max said, "Miss Philippa Beauchamp."

  "Not Beastly Beauchamp," groaned his father.

  "Beastly? What the devil are you talking about, Papa? Miss Beauchamp is an angel, a perfect angel!"

  "But the mother, boy. Egads! How can we ever' stomach such a creature in our family?"

  "I am not marrying the mother," snapped Max.

  The marquess started to laugh and clapped Max on the back. "Good for you, my boy! The mother is a vulgar mushroom, but if you can land the girl, her father's like to pay a pretty penny. Well done!" Snapping his bony fingers, he signaled the servant, saying, "Champagne! We must celebrate!"

  With their champagne, they set upon the second remove of braised lamb cutlets, duck a 1'orange, a plum tart, and various side dishes. The marquess—and therefore the viscount—were in such charity with Max that they refrained from asking the same question of Tristram, who sat quietly, his eyes never leaving the plate [ that was put in front of him.

  "So tell me, my boy, when can we expect to see an announcement in the papers?" asked the viscount, rubbing his hands together as if already counting the marriage settlements.

  "I should think within a couple of weeks. Mustn't appear too eager, you know," said Max. "We are to join them at the theater tomorrow night."

  "Capital!" said the marquess. "You and I will attend, too, Tavistoke. My box is opposite theirs, so there's no reason we cannot enjoy the show."

  "We will be there to cheer you on, my boy." As if suddenly recalling that he had two sons sitting at the table, the viscount slew around and fixed Tristram with a martial stare. "What about you, Tris? What have you to say for yourself?"

 
; The words were slurred. His father was well past it.

  All he had to do was fob him off with some tale, but that was not Tristram's way. Honesty was forever his downfall.

  "Me, sir? I have nothing to report. I cannot tell you when or where I shall have something to report. I find this entire discussion reprehensible."

  "Here now," said his father.

  "No, let the boy speak," said the marquess, skewering Tristram with his beady eyes. "Tell us, my boy, what is so reprehensible about what your brother is doing? What any other gentleman or lady is doing here in London for the Little Season? Are you so far above all the rest of them?"

  Tristram turned scarlet and rose. "Not above them, my lord, but I will not be trotted out like a horse at Tattersall's. I will take my time and make my choice because it is what I want, not simply to please the likes of... Society."

  He turned on his heel and stalked away, but not before hearing Max say quietly, "I should follow him. Good evening, gentlemen. Thank you for your hospitality, my lord."

  "See what you can do to straighten up that young cawker," the marquess snapped, his voice rising so that Tristram could hear him. "Otherwise, I'll not be responsible for the consequences."

  Max soon caught up with Tristram as he trotted down the front steps.

  He ignored Max's calls until, finally, he whirled and said through gritted teeth, "Just leave me alone, Max. You go on back to those two ..."

  "Whatever is the matter with you, Tris? You are usually more coolheaded than this. Don't let Cravenwell rattle you. He's nothing but a greedy old good-for-nothing, you know that. And we both know what Papa is,

  and what is behind his wanting us to both marry well. You should not let them ruin our fun."

  Tristram looked his older brother in the eye and then shook his head. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell his brother that he could not have Philippa Beauchamp, that Tristram wanted the beauty for himself. On the tip of his tongue, but it could go no farther. Max had laid his claim first.

  "You do not understand, Max, and I cannot explain it to you. Not now. Just leave me to work things out for myself, won't you? Until then, I will be better off on my own."

  To salve his brother's concern, Tristram offered his hand. After a moment, Max took it, gave it a firm shake, and held it.

  "You're sure?"

  Tris nodded, and Max released him, pausing another moment before turning back to White's with its leather cushions and clouds of smoke. Tristram watched him go, answering Max's final wave with a little nod before his brother entered the building and was gone from view.

  Turning, Tristram began the short walk home. How could he have let things go so far? Not that anything had happened—except that brief kiss. Tristram closed his eyes, remembering the sweet taste of her lips on his.

  Who would have thought that he would fall head over heels for a chit barely out of the schoolroom? One who was so shy she could barely muster two sentences in a row. One who was so securely under the thumb of that frightful mother!

  Philippa needed rescuing, and Max was the one to do the job. He was, after all, the brother who never shrank from daring deeds. How could he ever hope to compare

  with Max in that area? Not to mention that he would never stand in Max's way. Max had claimed her first, and honor forbade him from interfering.

  No, Max was the right one to rescue Philippa. When the time came, he would face down the dragon-mother like a knight of old. Sweet, innocent Philippa would be much better off with a hero like Max.

  Tristram entered the house and went straight to the sideboard to pour himself a large brandy.

  "Oh, I am sorry, sir. I did not hear you come in. Would you like something to eat, something to go along with that?" asked Barton, looking from the full glass to his youngest charge.

  "No, this is all I need. You can go to bed, Barton," said Tristram.

  "Thank you, sir, but I would be remiss in my duties if I did so at such an early hour. I will be available if either you or Master Max needs me."

  Tristram ignored the servant and sprawled on the sofa, putting his feet on the table before it.

  "Shall I just help you with those boots, Master Tristram?" said Barton, hurrying forward and lifting one leg to remove the offending footgear. When he was finished with that, he said, "I shall bring your dressing gown, sir. You will be much more comfortable in that."

  "Suit yourself," came the bald reply as Tristram finished off the contents of his glass.

  When Barton returned a few seconds later, Tristram had risen and returned to the sideboard to replenish his glass. He paused in pouring to allow Barton to help him out of his coat and into the silk dressing gown. When Barton turned him toward the sofa with a gentle shove, Tristram did not balk in the least. The brandy was

  already warming him from the inside, dulling the pain in his heart. When Barton handed him another glass, filled only halfway to the top, he accepted it with a smile.

  "Thank you, Barton."

  "My pleasure, sir. Call if you need anything else, Master Tristram."

  When he was alone again, Tristram took another pull on the heady liquid and muttered, "Would call in a second if I weren't past help. Dashed honor. It hasn't been good for much of anything up to now, and now it's just standing in my way."

  Another deep drink, and he moaned, "Oh, Philippa, my sweet, dear Philippa."

  "Get up, slugabed!"

  This pronouncement was accompanied by a flood of light as Max threw back the window curtains.

  "Arghhh," groaned the figure in the bed, pulling his pillow over his head.

  "Come along, Tris. We have people to see. I have an appointment with our charming Iseult next door. You should come and meet her, too."

  The mumble that came out from under the pillow was indecipherable, and Max pulled the pillow away, tossing it on the floor.

  "You are the one who started all that Iseult nonsense. The least you can do is come with me to pay a proper call. I think you will be delighted by Miss O'Connor."

  "I very much doubt it," grumbled Tristram, glaring at his brother and holding his head. "Go on alone. I'll meet her later."

  "No, you will not. I expect you to be up and dressed in the next twenty minutes."

  * * *

  "Papa! I cannot believe you would do such a despicable thing! And you were not even going to tell me!"

  "Kate, do not raise your voice to your father," said Mrs. O'Connor, reaching out to restrain her daughter.

  Kate leaped to her feet, out of her mother's reach, and faced her father squarely.

  "I cannot believe you were going to sell Early Girl and not even tell me! Why not sell one of the others?"

  "I know you are upset, Mary Kate, but it cannot be helped. You have no idea what this Season is costing us. I have to sell your mare if we are to continue here. If there were some sign that you had encouraged some suitable young man and I could see the end in sight, perhaps I would not be forced to do so," said the man, running a hand through his sparse red hair.

  Her breasts heaving, Kate pursed her lips. She had no answer for her father. She had not encouraged any of the young men she had met because she did not wish to marry them, did not wish to find an English husband and live in England, but she could hardly tell her father this. He would be furious.

  As her tears began to flow, her father said sorrowfully, "There now, my pet, do not cry so. You'll see. 'Twill all be worth it when you meet that special young man."

  "Oh, Papa," wailed Kate, hurrying from the room. "You ... you don't understand anything!"

  She ran up the stairs to her bedroom and shut the door. Sitting on the side of the bed, she kicked at the carpet and dried her tears. She had long since learned that it did no good to go against her father when he made plans to buy or sell a horse. It was business to him, and that meant it did not concern her.

  But this was Early Girl, her own mare. Since they had won Thunderlight, she had dreamed about the beautiful colts he and her sweet mar
e would have. The thought of losing her was intolerable!

  Rising, Kate straightened the habit she still wore and went quietly down the stairs to the front hall. Her father had forbidden her visiting the stables since they arrived in London, but she had to see Early Girl one more time.

  Kate could hear her parents still conversing in the drawing room. Silently, she opened the door and slipped outside only to find herself chest to chest with her neighbor.

  He took a step back and swept off his hat, saying, "Good morning, Miss O'Connor. I have come to pay you that call."

  Kate burst into loud, wet tears.

  Completely disconcerted, Max turned to Tristram, who was only then joining him on the steps.

  "My dear girl, let us go back inside," said Tristram, taking her by the elbow.

  She wrenched away from him, putting one gloved hand on Max's chest and whispering, "I ... I cannot go back inside now."

  "Then she'll have to come with us," said Max, taking her arm and leading her down the steps, along the pavement, and, after a quick glance around the small square, up their steps and safely inside.

  "Dear me!" exclaimed Barton.

  "Just find some, uh, whatever it is you give a lady in these circumstances and pour her a glass, Barton," said Max, leading Kate to the sofa and sitting down by her side.

  Her sobs had been replaced by little sniffles, and he

  offered his handkerchief to her, giving her shoulder a bracing pat.

  "There, there," he said.

  "Oh, Mr. Darby, I ... I am so sorry," she said, giving him a watery smile. "I thought I had myself quite in hand."

  "Nonsense. You have nothing to apologize to me about. We are happy to help in any way we can," said Max.

  "No, you do not understand."

  "Perhaps you could enlighten us, Miss O'Connor," said Tristram.

  Her glance showed that Kate had forgotten all about his presence. Barton arrived with the promised beverage, handed it to Max, and then backed away.