“Uncle John?” Rivenhall moved a discreet inch or so away from her.
“Well, yes. He had to be confined in a room at the top of the house with an attendant to make sure he didn’t hurt himself.” She sighed sadly. “Sure a pity.”
Rivenhall rose carefully to his feet. “Miss Courtenay—uh—if you will excuse me? I—er—I promised the next dance to—er—Miss Abercrombe-Finch.”
Gravely, she responded, “Of course, my lord.”
Rivenhall quickly made his escape. Jenny tried to take herself sternly to task for having made up such an absurd farrago of nonsense, but since there was a bubble of near-hysterical laughter trying to escape from her throat, she was not very successful.
Jenny was enjoying a few precious moments of rumination when her thoughts were fortunately interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Brummell. Jenny was fatalistically certain of his first words. She held her breath in suspense.
“Good evening, Miss Courtenay. I suppose you have heard the latest about the Cat?”
Jenny slowly released her pent-up breath. She gave Mr. Brummell an injured look. “Mr. Brummell, I did hope that you, at least, would have something intelligent to say tonight.”
The Beau looked startled, and then amused. “Why, thank, you,” he responded gravely.
Jenny’s cheeks pinked, and she cast Brummell an apologetic look. “I beg your pardon,” she murmured. “I think I shall scream if I hear another word about the Cat.”
“Never,” Brummell said solemnly, “apologize for what you say or do.”
She managed a faint smile. “Are you trying to turn me into an Original, Mr. Brummell?”
“I do not have to try,” the Beau replied. “You are an Original—refreshingly so, if I may add.”
Jenny blushed again and found, to her annoyance, that she had lost command of her tongue. Before she could regain it, Brummell spoke again.
“And now, Miss Courtenay, would you mind very much telling me why you appear to be as nervous as a cat?”
She gave him a resigned look, and wondered if he could possibly know how singularly apt his comment was. “I am not nervous, Mr. Brummell—you see before you a young woman on the verge of an hysterical fit. And please do not ask why. If I tried to explain, they really would have to lock me away like poor Uncle John.”
“I beg your pardon?” Brummell looked rather blank.
Beginning to feel more herself, Jenny smiled mischievously. “That’s what I told Lord Rivenhall,” she confided. “He could not get away from me fast enough. By tomorrow morning, all of London will think I’m mad.” She looked thoughtful. “And I’m not sure that they wouldn’t be far wrong.”
Brummell began to laugh softly. “I wondered what put the poor fellow into such a stew. He looked positively relieved to be dancing with Miss Abercrombe-Finch.”
“What I would like to know,” Jenny commented darkly, “is why no one has yet murdered the man.”
“Did you feel inclined to murder him, Miss Courtenay?”
“Inclined! I tell you honestly, Mr. Brummell, if the man had not left when he did, I would probably have strangled him with my bare hands.”
Brummell’s keen gray eyes were amused. “Nevertheless, Miss Courtenay, I do not believe that Rivenhall was the sole cause of your tension.”
More sure of herself now, Jenny nodded. “You are entirely correct,” she said cordially. “There are at least three other people here tonight who contributed to my tension.”
“And they are—?”
“Lady Catherine, who said that it was very exciting for poor Henry to be held up by the Cat; Lord Buckham, who said that it was the outside of enough to have thieves searching for traitors and what was he paying taxes for?; and Mrs. Abercrombe-Finch, who looked down her nose at me and said that she supposed I wanted the Cat to receive a medal, too.”
“And do you?”
“Want the Cat to get a medal?” Jenny tried to look blank, and hoped to heaven that she was actress enough to carry it off. “I know nothing about it.”
Brummell’s thoughtful stare made her slightly uneasy. Her suspicions proved to be unfounded, however, when he spoke. “I have a close friend whom you really should meet. You two would have a great deal in common.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. He—”
“Are you being a matchmaker, Mr. Brummell?”
The Beau appeared injured. “Miss Courtenay! How you could even think such a thing—”
“Quite easily, I assure you.”
“Miss Courtenay,” Brummell said severely, “it is very impolite of you to interrupt.”
“Oh, I do beg your pardon. Pay no attention to me, Mr. Brummell; I have had a very long and trying day. Please—go on with what you were saying.”
“Thank you. Where was I?”
“You have a friend who would have a great deal in common with me. Poor soul.”
Ignoring her murmured comment, Brummell said politely, “Thank you. As I was saying, you really should meet my friend. You have exactly the same sort of humor he has.”
“I am glad that someone has humor like mine.”
Ignoring this quite unnecessary comment, Brummell went on. “You may have already met him.”
“I can recall meeting no one even remotely like myself. Who is he?”
“The Duke of Spencer.”
Jenny felt the room begin to spin gently around her. Hounded, she thought. I will be hounded to my grave. How I ever thought I could get away with this—
“Miss Courtenay? Are you feeling all right? You look dreadfully pale.”
“No, Mr. Brummell,” she replied with admirable restraint, “I am not all right. In fact—I think that I had better go home. If you would be so very obliging as to tell one of the footmen to call a cab for me? I have no desire to worry Lady Beddington.”
“Nonsense. I’ll escort you home myself.”
Meekly, Jenny allowed Mr. Brummell to lead her from the room.
Chapter Ten
Mr. Brummell, when he chose to exert himself, was easily the most charming man in London, and he proved this by soliciting Lady Jersey’s kindness on Miss Courtenay’s behalf.
“Well, of course, Miss Courtenay. You do look rather pale, my dear. Allow Mr. Brummell to escort you home, and I shall see that Lady Beddington is not worried.”
Jenny smiled weakly and followed the Beau out to his carriage. Once safely ensconced within—and away from that dreadful party—she realized unhappily that she had allowed her panic to force her into an unwise retreat. Mr. Brummell would be sure to wonder why she had been suddenly taken ill—especially since she had been joking with him only a few minutes before.
Hoping to forestall the inevitable questions, Jenny said swiftly, “Mr. Brummell, I cannot thank you enough for your concern. It must have been the heat or—or something.”
Her voice broke slightly as Brummell directed an extremely mocking look at her. “Unworthy of you, Miss Courtenay,” he said softly. “We both know that you were not overcome by the heat; I thought the room was rather cool, myself. Nor are you physically ill—unless it is with nervous tension. You did, however, become deathly pale when I mentioned the Duke of Spencer.” His glinting smile flashed in the carriage. “I wonder why?”
“Oh, that.” Try as she would, Jenny could not contrive an explanation—other than the truth—to account for her reaction to Spencer’s name.
Fortunately for her, Brummell’s mind was apparently not on the Cat at all. “Yes, Miss Courtenay—that. Can it be that you have met Spencer?”
His words gave Jenny the germ of an idea, but she needed time to formulate it more thoroughly in her mind. “Well—I wouldn’t exactly say that we had met . . .”
“Then what exactly would you say?”
“We—clashed.” Jenny tried to pull the tangled threads of her story together. “I have a dreadful temper, you know, and he—”
“Also has a temper,” Brummell supplied helpfully.
Since
Spencer had shown no sign of a temper in her presence and had behaved with perfect calm (except for the one regrettable lapse when he had kissed her), Jenny had no way of knowing that the duke did, in fact, have a temper, and she was grateful for Brummell’s statement.
She smiled at the Beau. “Yes, it wasn’t very important, but we had a—somewhat violent—difference of opinion, and I stormed off in a temper.”
“I see.” If Brummell thought her story a thin one—considering her deathly pallor at the mention of the duke’s name—he did not say so.
“You can see my position, sir. Spencer is a very important man, and if I offended him . . .”
In an odd voice, Brummell responded, “I shouldn’t have thought that you would care for that, Miss Courtenay.”
Jenny realized her mistake immediately. She had stepped out of character, and Brummell was far too astute to miss such a lapse.
Coolly, she said, “In the normal way, I would not care for Spencer’s opinion. Lady Beddington would, however, and I have no wish to upset my godmother.”
This appeared to satisfy Brummell, who nodded and remarked, “Perfectly understandable.”
“So you see, sir,” she teased, “your attempts at matchmaking were defeated at the outset. I doubt that the duke will wish to have anything to do with me.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Nick never disliked anyone merely because of a quarrel. If I know him, he probably liked your spirit.”
Jenny, who had a very good idea of the duke’s opinion of her, merely shook her head ruefully and lapsed into silence. Her thoughts were on Spencer, and she wondered tiredly if he would come up to her at the next soiree and announce loudly that she was the Cat. She had been surprised, though relieved, to have avoided him for as long as she had. At least, she told herself that she was relieved. If the truth were known, she was more than a little disappointed. Where had the man been for the past two weeks?
Brummell unconsciously picked up her train of thought. “I wonder where Nick is?” he murmured absently. “I haven’t seen him in several days. He’s had something on his mind for the past few weeks, and has been spending a great deal of time at the War Office.”
“Perhaps he’s searching for traitors,” Jenny remarked, and immediately wished she had kept silent.
“Like the Cat?” Brummell frowned thoughtfully. “You could be right, but I have never heard him mention it.” He stiffened suddenly, and Jenny had the unwelcome impression that he had been struck with a thought. “When I first noticed that he had something on his mind,” Brummell said slowly, “I also noticed that he had begun asking questions about the Cat.”
“Indeed?” Jenny silently cursed the Beau’s mental abilities; they were far too acute for her peace of mind.
“Yes. He was coming to every ton party and searching the faces of all the young ladies as if he were looking for some particular feature. I wonder . . .”
Jenny knew that she was courting disaster, that she should encourage him to drop the subject, but she had to know what he was thinking. “You wonder, sir?”
“I wonder if Nick knows more about the Cat than the rest of us do,” Brummell said thoughtfully.
“Could he?” Jenny knew that she would have to tread very carefully. If she wasn’t careful, Brummell would begin to connect her reaction to Spencer’s name with the duke’s apparent search for the Cat.
“If he had been held up by the Cat, and had become interested in her,” Brummell answered, “he certainly could. He would leave no stone unturned to find out as much as he could about her.”
“You think that happened? That he was interested?”
“It is possible. From all accounts, the Cat seems to be ladylike in voice and manner. Nick could have taken a fancy to her.” After a moment, he went on slowly, “I wonder if Nick believes that the Cat takes off her mask and dons a ballgown? Lord, wouldn’t London be in an uproar if that were the case?”
The amusement in his voice did nothing for Jenny’s peace of mind.
Noticing her silence, Brummell tried to read her expression. He was unsuccessful; the carriage was too dim. “Miss Courtenay? Are you perfectly all right?”
Jenny was thankful for the darkness of the carriage. When she could command her voice, she murmured, “I beg your pardon, sir, but I feel rather faint. I cannot imagine what has come over me. I do not, in general, faint at the least provocation.”
“That I can well believe.”
Brummell’s remark was perfectly innocent, but to Jenny’s overworked imagination it seemed to have a decidedly sinister tone. If Brummell, of all people, should suspect—
The Beau reached to lower a window. “Perhaps some fresh air will help. I do believe,” he continued in a demure tone intended to cheer her, “that you require rest, Miss Courtenay.”
She uttered a somewhat shaken laugh. “You could be right, Mr. Brummell.” A sudden thought occurred to her. “Mr. Brummell—I have just realized that by tomorrow morning all of the ton will know that you escorted me home. That will never do, sir! They will be expecting an announcement, and I shall be horribly pitied when you do not come up to scratch.”
As he began to chuckle, she went on sternly, “And do not tell me that you make a habit of escorting young ladies home; you have not that reputation.”
He inclined his upper body in a half-bow. “Since you are so brutally honest, Miss Courtenay, I shall be frank and say that I do not care one jot for what people may say. I may not wish to marry you, but I do enjoy your company very much, and I mean to make the most of it before some young buck snatches you away and teaches you to be a lady.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “It would ruin you.”
Jenny gave a gasp and burst out laughing. When she could control her voice, she said in mock offense, “Mr. Brummell! Are you saying that I am not a lady?”
He appeared to consider the matter. “I would not go so far as to say that—however, you are decidedly unlike any other lady of my acquaintance.”
The carriage drew up at Lady Beddington’s town house just then, and Jenny silently congratulated herself on having survived an extremely difficult evening. Now, if she could only reach the door without betraying her secret. . . .
Brummell escorted her from the carriage to the door of Lady Beddington’s house. Halfway up the steps, he said suddenly, “I think that Nick knows who the Cat is.”
Jenny stumbled, and would have fallen without the Beau’s firm grip on her elbow. She murmured some excuse and wondered what, in God’s name, she had done to offend the Fates that they should torment her so.
Brummell looked concerned. “Miss Courtenay, I do hope you are feeling more the thing tomorrow.”
“I—am sure that I shall, Mr. Brummell.”
“Good night, Miss Courtenay.” He bowed.
“Good night, Mr. Brummell—and thank you.” She smiled at him, opened the door, and went inside. As soon as she had closed the door behind her, Jenny leaned back against it and wondered if she were going mad. In a detached manner, she considered the possibility. It wouldn’t surprise her a bit if she ended her days in Bedlam.
After a moment’s thought, she felt slightly cheered, however. Brummell, at least, had not guessed her secret. She smiled rather wearily to herself and headed toward the stairs—and a well-earned rest.
Brummell directed his coachman to take him to his rooms, climbed inside the carriage, and began to laugh softly. He felt no sense of compunction at having taken shameless advantage of Miss Courtenay’s nervous tension. The truth was that he had not enjoyed himself so much in years.
There were those among the ton who claimed, not without reason, that Beau Brummell’s sense of humor was more malicious than mischievous. He was famous—or infamous—for creating situations which became vilely uncomfortable for all involved, and then leaving his victims to shift for themselves. Needless to say, he had made many enemies.
However, such was his power that even his enemies dared not raise their voices against him. By the
mere lift of an expressive eyebrow, he could forever blight the hopes of any aspirant to society. He was a close friend of the Regent, and since it was commonly believed that the old king could not last much longer, many people maintained that Brummell would soon become the power behind the throne.
There was, however, a side to the Beau that very few members of the ton had ever seen. To those he cared about, he was a good and loyal friend, who could be counted on not to make mischief when the case was serious.
Brummell had liked Jennifer Courtenay from the first moment he saw her, and he had neither the desire, nor the intention of disclosing his suspicions to society. He was well aware that the disclosure—even if he were wrong—would brand her as an outcast.
His plans for her were somewhat involved, but he had no desire to ruin her. In fact, he had every intention of helping her in whatever way he could. For one thing, he was certain that she and Spencer would be perfect for one another. But he had no intention of poking his finger into that particular pie. Spencer was well able to handle his own love life.
He could, however, make Jenny’s social appearances a little less trying. If he professed himself bored with the subject of the Cat, society would quickly follow his lead. Jenny would not be forced to endure another night like this one.
That, at least, he could do for her. Brummell frowned slightly as he realized that he would have to dance attendance on the Regent for the next day or two. He felt irritated as he realized also that he would most probably be absent when Jenny and Spencer first met.
Well, it could not be helped. He had no wish to offend the Prince; he might possibly need the royal goodwill at a later date. If Jennifer Courtenay was the Cat, her name would have to be cleared sooner or later.
He could be wrong, of course, but he did not think so. He was an excellent judge of people. Besides, there was no other logical reason to account for her extreme tension this evening, nor her deathly pallor at the mention of Spencer’s name. She certainly did not want to meet Spencer.
Brummell wondered about that. He had an odd feeling that the duke was probably the only one of the Cat’s victims who stood a good chance of being able to identify her without her mask.