The Innocent Abroad

11

The Innocent Abroad

    The weather was warming and the talk was all of the Grand Horticultural Fête. Or very nearly all. Miss Buffitt’s name was being mentioned now and then.

    The Fürstin von Maltzahn-Dressen had become conscious of considerable annoyance with Lord Geddings. He must know that Wellington wished for the thing; she herself had tacitly intimated she wished for the thing; so why was he not paying more attention to Anna? And less to Peg Buffitt! Eventually she was driven to drop the lightest of hints in Wellington’s ear, as Geddings and the Buffitt chit were seen to be disporting themselves in the waltz.

    “G. seems quite struck by my sister-in-law’s little cousin,” she murmured. “Pretty child. I wonder if one should drop him a hint that the family has nothing, and the father is… odd.”

    The famous hook-nosed face gave nothing away, as His Grace followed the progress of the dance. Eventually he said: “Odd in what way, Fürstin?”

    Fanny replied in her usual husky drawl, not permitting even a trace of malice to creep in: “One gathers, in the most entertaining of ways, Duke, provided always that one is not so closely connected as to make his eccentricities an em-bar-rass-ment rather than an amusement. Reputed to be an inventor.” She waited.

    Sure enough, this appealed to the practical side of His Grace’s nature. “Inventor of what?”

    The Fürstin allowed herself a little titter. “Oh, well, that is where the oddness comes in, alas! Of nothing useful at all, one hears. The complete eccentric.”

    He sniffed.

    Fanny would, as she herself was to recognise sourly, have been well advised to have left it at that. Instead she pursued: “Reputed to live off the sleeve of an admirer of his wife’s. Somewhere in Lincolnshire: now, what was the name? Monday, I think. My nephew Jack was quite cut up to find the family living rent-free at the man’s expense.”

    After a moment His Grace said slowly: “Used to know a fellow called Monday.”

    “Yes? Jack says he is a very good sort of man,” she cooed. “The Buffitt fellow seems to be taking gross advantage of his good nature, and has done these past thirty years. The meanwhile producing a positive quiverful, as such people do. The poor child has nothing.”

    “I think you said that, ma’am.” He looked thoughtfully at Geddings. “Not a happy man. Probably should never have advised him to sheer off the little Contessa. Did it for the best, mind you.”

    “Of course, Duke!” she gasped.

    “Needs a hostess,” he muttered, frowning.

    This was familiar, not to say safer ground, and the Fürstin returned thankfully: “Well, naturally: a man does better with an establishment of his own.”

    “Mm. Not to say a quiverful of brats. Well, that’s all food for thought, ma’am.” To her horror, he then gave one of his stiff bows, the face expressing nothing at all, and walked away.

    Lady Reggie Bon-Dutton had, indeed, concluded that Miss Buffitt was throwing out a challenge to herself, in more ways than one. She was very angry about this, but did not for the moment see there was anything she could do. In addition Mr Beresford, since that visit on her return from the funeral at Dallermaine, had not been near her. She bided her time, simmering.

    An opportunity came sooner than she had thought. It was a large party, the P.W. was escorted not by her husband but by his cousin, that stout gourmet, Mr Tobias Vane, and after a while was observed to be keeping about as much of an eye on the young girls in her charge as might have been expected. Some of the younger guests were dancing in one of the larger salons but the main purpose of the evening was cards, in which most of the older persons were duly absorbed. Miss Buffitt, who had been noticed earlier to be limping badly, was now observed to be sitting by the wall by herself. Lady Reggie rustled over to her, and sat down by her with a sigh.

    “So hard on the feet, these affairs, are they not, my dear? One remarked you were limping, earlier,” she said kindly.

    Peg went rather pink. So far none of her London acquaintance had remarked in her hearing on the limp. “Um—yes. I—I did too much walking this morning, after a ball last night. My foot is aching, rather.”

    “Understandable,” she smiled.

    Peg had not been introduced, but this was unmistakably the lady of Mr Greenstreet’s wonderful portrait. After a moment she ventured: “I think I have seen your picture at the Royal Academy, ma’am?”

    “Oh—that!” she said with a shrug and a laugh. “My husband insisted on it. Quite pretty, is it not?”

    “I think it is very pretty indeed, and much the best of this year’s offerings!” said Peg earnestly, her eyes shining,

    Her Ladyship blinked a little. “Er—well, thank you, my dear!” She licked her lips, eyeing her sideways. “Why do you not suggest your Cousin Beresford has your likeness taken? Or I am sure Lady Stamforth would be glad to offer on his behalf.”

    “I could not possibly ask it of either of them!” gasped Peg.

    “No? Given their, let us say, past history,” she drawled, “I should have thought she would be only too eager to do anything for him.”

    “I—I know he has always admired her,” said Peg uncertainly.

    Lady Reggie gave a trill of laughter. “Well, yes! We all find your being able to ignore it so superbly quite admirable, my dear!” She patted her hand, and nodded kindly.

    Peg was very flushed. She gnawed on her lip.

    “Never tell me you did not know! Goodness, have I put my foot in it?” she said archly. “Well, my dear, it was quite some years back, when she was still Lady Benedict, and a widow. But in spite of the looks and the fortune, he could not offer her one of the oldest titles in England, could he? And so she took S. One would say ‘poor boy’, were one not quite sure that he had already been well recompensed for his—er—devotion.” She gave a little laugh, rose, and rustled away, smiling serenely.

    Peg sat there with her ears ringing and her heart beating furiously.

    Mr Valentine had come into the room in time to observe the end of this encounter, but not in time to put a stop to it. Hastily he made his way over to her. “What did that cat say to you?”

    “Nothing,” said Peg through trembling lips.

    “Hell,” said Mr Valentine under his breath. He drew up a chair very close and seated himself on it so as to screen her from most of the room. “Look, whatever she said about Jack, ignore it utterly. She’s jealous at being cut out by a girl less than half her age and prettier than she ever was, that’s all!” He endeavoured to smile encouragingly at her.

    Peg’s jaw had sagged. “What do you muh-mean, cut out?” she faltered.

    “Uh— Oh, my God,” he muttered. “Wasn’t that— What did she say?”

    “She—she was nasty about him and Lady Stamforth,” faltered Peg.

    Mr Valentine cleared this throat. “Oh. That all.”

    “All? She implied the most disgusting— And Lady Stamforth would never!” she cried.

    “No, out of course she wouldn’t. Not that type. Very respectable woman. Likes to flirt a bit, that’s all.”

    “Yes. She—she has been very kind to me,” said Peg in a small voice.

    “Out of course she has!” he said encouragingly, patting her hand.

    “Buh-but that lady said that was why,” she said painfully.

    “Eh? Rubbish!” said Mr Valentine angrily. “Look, it was all jealous spite. Forget it.”

    “But he did admire her, didn’t he?”

    “Uh—oh! Admire the P.W.!” said Mr Valentine in tones of heartfelt relief, which he was later to reflect had been a mistake. “Yes, had it bad for her, six or seven years back, before the little Contessa hove onto the—um—scene,” he said lamely, not having intended to introduce that motif at all. “Well, no use pretending he’s never looked twice at another lady. Nothing in it: respectable widows. And the P.W. never wanted him. Too callow for her tastes, frankly. Well, look at the man she married, eh?” Miss Buffitt nodded, and he added, possibly misguidedly: “And Mrs Beresford wouldn’t let him have t’other.”

    “The little Contessa: I know. Several people have mentioned her. And Jenks told me all about it.”

    He blinked. “Uh—Jack’s tiger? No, well, s’pose he would know: drove her out in the curricle, that’s true enough.”

    “Mm,” said Peg in a tiny voice. “But what about that other lady? You said she was jealous, and said it all out of spite. Was he one of her beaux, too, before she was married?”

    Mr Valentine was very, very tempted to lie. But the whole town knew that it was twenty years since the fair Clementine snared old Reggie B.-D.: she had only to mention it— “Uh—no. Look, thing is, most fellows ain’t saints, and Jack’s been on the town a fair while!” he said desperately.

    After a little Miss Buffitt lifted her chin and said firmly: “I see.”

    Val smiled weakly. “Aye. Nothing in these things, y’know.”

    “Doubtless she believes I am living in his house in order to snare him,” she said tightly.

    Her and the most of the town, aye, thought Val Valentine, smiling weakly again.

    “Her and everybody else,” added Miss Buffitt grimly, appearing not to notice Mr Valentine leaping like a stranded fish. “Well, when the end of the Season rolls round and they see that I have not done so, possibly they will grasp the point that they were mistaken. –I just wish I could go home now!” she ended fiercely.

    At this Val put a very kind hand on hers and said: “Yes. But thing is, your family’s expecting you to form an eligible connection, ain’t they? Relying on you, as it were.”

    Peg licked her lips. “Not relying. I think Ma is—is hoping,” she said shakily.

    “Yes. It’s a great chance, for a girl,” he said kindly.

    Alas, at this her eyes filled and she gulped: “I don’t want it, and I never wanted it, and I hate it all!”

    “Yes, um, don’t bawl, there’s a good gal,” he said desperately.

    “I am not bawling,” said Peg, sniffing hard and sitting up very straight.

    “No, ’course you ain’t. Got more sense. Well—um—come and play spillikins, or some such dashed thing.”

    She rose obediently, but said: “Spillikins is pathetic. One cannot imagine the sort of mind that could invent a game requiring only manual dexterity and no sort of mental ability whatsoever.”

    Val quite liked it. He reflected once again that, devastatingly pretty though she was, she was far too much of a bluestocking for him. “Uh—no. Well, quite enjoy it, meself, but then, never did claim to have a brain. Dare say we could have a hand of piquet, but it ain’t considered the thing for a young girl, just out.”

    Miss Buffitt’s sweet mouth firmed. “Good. You may teach me it, then.”

    Resignedly Val led the way to the card room. Pausing in his progress to offer her his arm, the which courtesy also misfired.

    “Thank you. I suppose all of London has also noticed my limp? My sister Maria did try to warn me, but I thought she was just being over-sensible.”

    “No, ah, not at all!” he gasped.

    “Don’t lie, Mr Valentine,” said Peg with a sigh. “I may not enjoy the truth, but I can assure you, I am very grateful for your having revealed it.”

    Smiling weakly, Mr Valentine sat her down at a small table and proceeded to teach her piquet. She was soon beating him hollow, but that didn’t surprise him in the least. Even though he did know that card sense was not precisely the same thing as mental ability.

    Miss Sissy had taken the girls to a small dinner given by a Mrs Hannaford, a friend of Mrs Beresford’s, and had returned from it with a very dubious look on her face. The next morning, after some thought, she penned a little note to her great-nephew.

    Mendoza obediently went round to Jack’s house. “Want me to escort Horrible and Cousin Peg to some dashed party, that it?” he said with a grin.

    “No, my dear. I wished to have a word with you. Er… have you heard— I mean, are they saying anything in—in the clubs, and so forth, about dear little Peg?”

    Her great-nephew tried to pass this off with an airy laugh and the remark that he was not a member of White’s.

    “I knew there was something,” spotted Miss Sissy immediately. “What is it?”

    “Oh, Lor’. Look, it’s nothing, only the usual type of thing that gets said when a pretty girl without a penny to her name more or less takes the town by storm. Um—well, what have you heard, Aunt Sissy?” he said on a desperate note.

    “I am asking you, Mendoza,” replied the little old lady firmly, looking him in the eye.

    Mendoza rumpled his dark curls. “Um, well, in the first instance, some of the fellows are betting Geddings will offer her—er, well, that it won’t be marriage he offers, if you get my drift. Before the Season is out,” he elaborated glumly.

    After a moment Miss Sissy said grimly: “Offer a carte blanche to a respectable young woman who has a family to protect her? Nonsense.”

    “No, well, no-one of any sense is taking it seriously. Thing is, it’s what’s being said,” he said glumly.

    “I see. And?”

    The fleeting hope that she might believe that was all died. “The word ‘gold-digger’ is being bandied about.” He looked at her miserably.

    “That is the word that had come to my ears, yes. Go on, please, Mendoza.”

    “Well, um, the cats was miffed enough when they just thought she had her sights set on Cousin Jack. Well, you can’t deny he’s a catch, Aunt Sissy. But now they seem to be really gunning for her because they think she’s dropped him in favour of that fat merchant fellow. Well, the odds are shortening at the clubs that she’ll take him. That young idiot Roddy Calhoun was threatening to drop Tommy Rowbotham where he stood because he— Um, well, never mind what he actually said. But the implication was that the merchant’s worth twice what Jack is, and it’s twice as likely she’ll favour him. Um—sorry,” he ended glumly.

    “I shall speak to Lady Stamforth,” she decided.

    Mendoza cleared his throat. “Er—yes.”

    “What?” she pounced.

    He wriggled, but finally admitted that Freddy Chambury had reported that the cats had their knives into Lady Stamforth for distracting all the eligibles from their daughters. Her and Peg together, he elaborated miserably.

    She thought it over, frowning. Finally she said: “Does Jack know of these nasty whispers?”

    “Uh—no idea. Well, he don’t tell me anything, Aunt Sissy. Um—been going about with a face like a thundercloud, so think he may do. Don’t see there’s anything he can do about it, though. Well, short of offering for that horse-faced Chambury gal, or t’other hag—Lady Margaret Fitz-Clancy. Um, the Fitz-Clancy’s have really got their knives into Peg, because they’re scared witless old Michael will offer, and they can whistle goodbye to his fortune.”

    “That,” said Miss Sissy tightly, “is ridiculous. The man is nigh old enough to be her grandfather.”

    “Don’t think that ever stopped a fellow yet, did it?” replied Mendoza gloomily. “Anyway, ridiculous or not, he has been paying her notice, and he certainly hasn’t paid any other of the débutantes notice, and Lady Stamforth’s been encouraging him, hasn’t she?”

    “No! Oh, encouraging him to dangle after Peg. Er—I suppose she has.”

    “Aye. And I dare say you might ask her not to, but I’d say it’s too late.”

    Miss Sissy looked at him in dismay.

    “Er—think all you can do is ride it out, Aunt Sissy. Well, if she don’t take the fat cit, that talk’ll die down.”

    “If?” she cried indignantly.

    “Um, well, had the impression you might be encouraging that. Horrible seems to think so.”

    Miss Sissy bit her lip. “Oh, dear! He is a perfectly pleasant man, but I do not in the least wish to see dear little Peg married off to a man more than old enough to be her father. But— Well,” she admitted in a trembling voice, “I own the thought did cross my mind that if I fell in with Lady Stamforth’s plan, and—and nothing else eventuated, and it turned out he did wish to marry her, it would be better than nothing. Because the family is penniless, and there are the other girls coming along, and absolutely nothing put by for them, and goodness only knows what is to happen to the boys!”

    “Penniless? Is it as bad as that?”

    Miss Sissy blew her nose. “Yes,” she said dully.

    “Hell. Um—Horrible seemed to have some notion,” he said cautiously, “that Jack might not be as indifferent as he seems.”

    She blew her nose again. “I think he is cross about Mr Chegwidden.”

    “Eh? Oh—the cit. S’pose that’s a good sign,” he said dubiously.

    Miss Sissy dabbed at her eyes. “Lady Stamforth and I thought that if Peg was seen a lot in dear Mr Chegwidden’s company, Jack would—would come to his senses.”

    Mendoza grimaced but conceded: “I get it.”

    “But we had no idea at all that people would start to say nasty things about the poor little girl!” A tear dripped down her cheek and she dabbed at it fiercely with her handkerchief.

    “No-o. Well, you did not, I grant you that, Aunt Sissy. Um, look,” he said, frowning over it, “suppose the poor fellow has feelings like anyone, cit or not, don't he?”

    “Lady Stamforth said that she had asked him, and he was happy to do it,” said Aunt Sissy wanly.

    Her great-nephew’s jaw dropped. “You mean he ain’t serious?”

    “Well, no. Though I think he does admire her.”

    “But if Jack don’t come up to scratch, what’ll happen to the little gal?” he cried.

    “Wuh-well, she will be no worse off, dear.”

    “But no other fellows have been able to get near her, she’s always out with the cit!” He got up. “The whole thing was Lady Stamforth’s idea, right?”

    “Yes,” said Miss Sissy dully.

    Mr Laidlaw’s third son’s mouth firmed. “I’ll put a stop to that, at any rate!” He strode out, looking grim.

    “Oh, dear,” said Miss Sissy faintly. “I never meant— Goodness, he looked so like his father!”

    “No,” said Mendoza grimly: “I ain’t here to invite Mina out, Lady Stamforth. I should like a word with you, if you please. Oh, and while we are on the topic, Mina’s like a sister to me, and neither of us wishes it to be anything more. You may have seen us dancing together, but I’m afraid we were only doing it to punish you, because she don’t like being hurled at the head of young fellows she don’t give a fig for, like Douglas Lacey.”

    The P.W. tried to smile, and failed. She had, of course, known all of Charlotte and Jack Laidlaw’s sons since they were schoolboys, but at the precise moment this did not seem to count for much. “Yes. Um, seet down, Mendoza,” she said meekly.

    Mendoza sat. “Aunt Sissy is very upset because she’s discovered the cats are whispering in corners about Cousin Peg. I’ve come to ask you to cease giving the whole town the impression that that fat cit Chegwidden’s about to lay his fortune at Peg’s feet.”

    “Oh,” said the P.W. lamely. “Deed she— What deed she tell you?”

    “She told me the whole, ma’am, and allow me to say that Jack ain’t the type to be spurred on because a girl encourages a fat fellow more than twice her age to dangle after her.”

    Very pink, she cried: “We thought he would be eenspired to rescue her! And eet was working: he—”

    “He’s been going about with a face like a thundercloud, aye. Don’t mean he's shown any signs of popping the question, though. And if you ask me, that business with the portrait inspired him with disgust, rather than anything approaching jealousy.”

    “Oh, pooh!” she cried, pouting.

    Her former neighbours’ son eyed her drily. “My spy tells me,” he said pointedly, “that he certainly ain’t offered to pay the artist to finish it.”

    “Horrible ees just a leetle girl,” said her Ladyship on a sulky note.

    “No, she ain’t, she's grown up a lot lately. Added to which, she was never stupid. Don’t think you’re much of a matchmaker, ma’am.” He stood up. “I must request you formally to desire your friend Chegwidden to give the thing up.”

    There was a short silence.

    “Vairy well,” said the P.W. faintly. “I suppose I could.”

    “Lady Stamforth, if you please, you will give me your word,” said Mendoza Laidlaw calmly.

    “Eef only you were the same generation as Peg, you would be the ideal— I’m sorry, Mendoza. Vairy well, I geeve you my word. I shall speak to Mr Chegwidden thees vairy day.”

    “Thank you,” he said grimly. “And I apologise if I made you think I was interested in Mina. I shall give Aunt Sissy the good news: at least that will be one less worry for her.”

    “Wait!” cried the P.W.

     Mendoza waited, his good-looking young face very grim. “Yes?”

    “What—what else are they saying?” she said in a trembling voice.

    “Exactly what might be expected, only the thing is, Aunt Sissy ain’t used to coping with the London cats. Though I grant you the Bath ones are bad enough. No, well, Cousin Peg’s throwing out a challenge to that B.-D. woman ain’t the half of it. I suppose the main story is that she came to town with the express intention of catching Cousin Jack behind Aunt Beresford’s back—thought that never occurred,” he said with a certain grim satisfaction as Lady Stamforth gave a horrified gasp, “but dropped him like a hot potato the minute richer game hove in sight. Dare say the size of Chegwidden’s fortune has become exaggerated in the telling, but that’s beside the point. They’re all mad as fire because you and her between them have got all the silly young fellows in your train, and none of their daughters are getting a look-in. Dare say you won’t have noticed, but it costs considerable to launch a daughter, and they don’t bring ’em up to town for the fun of it.” He eyed her drily, as she gulped. “Aye. Then, the ones that’ve got sons are all put out because they’re wasting their time dangling after a girl without a penny to her name. And the Fitz-Clancy clan, as I’m sure you know, is hopping mad because they think old Michael’s fortune’s about to go out of the family. Dare say it ain’t; that ain’t the point,” he noted coldly as she opened her mouth. “Point is, that’s the impression they’ve got. Tell me you intended otherwise and I’ll eat that dashed pony-cart of Mina’s. Pony and all. And by the way, it’s time you retired old Laddie, and if Lord Stamforth won’t tell you, I will. Needs to be put out to grass, don’t care if the little ones do adore the cart. Buy them another dashed pony to put in it.” He went over to the door.

    “Peg is not—not deliberately encouraging Lord Michael Fitz-C.,” said Lady Stamforth limply.

    “I know that!” he said scornfully.

    “He ees much more eenteresting than the younger men, and of course she ees fascinated by hees traveller’s tales,” she said limply.

    “Natural enough. And harmless enough, I dare say. It’s one more thing to add fuel to the fire, that’s all.”

    “You do know that eef I ask Mr Chegwidden to geeve eet up, people weell say the pretty face was not sufficient after all, and weell laugh— Oh, vairy well,” she conceded glumly, as he glared. “I deed promise. I shall do eet today, do not fear.”

    “See you do,” he said grimly, going.

    The P.W. collapsed against the sofa cushions with a very weak laugh indeed. “Oh, dear! Well,” she admitted, rallying slightly, “I always deed theenk he was the best of those Laidlaw boys, and I shall write dear Charlotte thees vairy day: he ees turning out so well! …Oh, well. Eet was a bow at a venture. And I theenk perhaps Mr Chegwidden was beginning to like her too much, so perhaps eet ees best to end eet.” And she rang for pen and ink.

    Until the encounter with Lady Reggie Bon-Dutton and the subsequent conversation with Mr Valentine, Peg had not, really, stopped to ask herself what she imagined she was doing in London. The pleasant, worldly Mr Valentine’s assumption that of course she had come to form an eligible connection had shaken her considerably. It was one thing to laugh off Maria’s earnest attempt to discuss the subject “rationally,” as her well-meaning older sister had put it, but Mr Valentine’s saying that the family was relying on her had created a nasty echo in her mind that would not be dismissed.

    Grimly Peg got the whole thing out and looked at it, as Maria had advised, rationally. Certain phrases of her mother’s coming back to her as she did so. Not to mention the look on Ma’s face when she’d agreed to go… Well! It was pretty clear, was it not? Ma was far too fair-minded ever to use the word “duty” in such a connection, but it was now very plain that she, Peg Buffitt, owed it to her family not to waste her chance and to form an eligible connection that would, at best, enable her to assist her brothers and sisters, and, at worst, at least relieve her parents of the worry and expense of supporting her for the rest of her days.

    After quite some time Peg admitted to herself that one of the reasons that she had not taken the matter out and examined it before was that she was hoping that—that Mr Beresford might— Oh! How despicable! Just because he was handsome, and a Corinthian, and had given her that silly kiss when he had taken her for a country wench… No, well, it was very clear that he had no real interest in a penniless country cousin with a limp, who had journeyed down from Lincolnshire on a waggon, and it was not to be wondered at! For look at the sophisticated, mature ladies whom he did— Angrily Peg dragged her mind away from that thought. In any case, it was irrelevant: there was nothing to be hoped from Mr Beresford, and she was a silly little idiot ever to have dreamed of him.

    So, um, whom did that leave? …Oh, dear. None of those silly boys was serious, she was very sure. And even if they should be, their families would never permit it. Um, an older gentleman? Dubiously Peg considered the older gentlemen whom she had met in London. When she found herself at the point of deciding that none of them had the sort of mind she could admire except for Lord Stamforth, she gave herself a cross shake, and started again. It was not a matter of finding the sort of mind she could admire, it was a matter of finding a—a pleasant man who admired her and whom she did not dislike! Um… Mr Chegwidden? She had not seen much of him these past few days and in any case he had never given a sign of more than a fatherly interest in herself. No, well, they enjoyed discussing art, but— No, she was sure he had never been interested in her as a replacement for his late wife. Though if he should show an interest, she would not discourage him, because he was much the nicest. Even if he was old and fat.

    Whom else had she danced with, of Lady Stamforth’s elderly admirers? Admiral Dauntry? He had most certainly shown an interest that was not fatherly, but Peg, country cousin or not, was not so naïve as to suppose that those little squeezes of the hand and arm and a pat on the bottom when he had got her behind a pillar where Lady Stamforth and Aunt Sissy could not see them indicated that the gentleman was about to propose. And in any case, he was terribly well connected: why should he look twice at herself? His own family was very eminent and one of his brothers was married to… was it a duke’s sister? Yes: Mina Benedict had said, collapsing in giggles: “Only a Scotch duke, my dear!” No, well, a young woman who was the daughter of a landed Kentish baronet and the stepdaughter of a viscount could afford to laugh at that sort of distinction, and at the sorts of people who made it, but a mere Peg Buffitt could not. True, Admiral Dauntry was fat, if jolly, and very probably over sixty years of age— But beggars could not be choosers, and in the very unlikely event that he should show an interest, she would take him! Though she could not convince herself that it was more than very unlikely.

    Um… Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy? She had danced with him quite a lot and driven out with him several times. And the very grand, tall, dark Lady Margaret Fitz-Clancy who was his—um, niece?—probably his niece, had been observed glaring at her several times and Mina, giggling again, had said it was because the family was afraid that she, Peg, would snare his fortune… But that had been a joke. Well, he was certainly a very interesting man to talk to. Glumly Peg thought of his Lordship’s large nose. Er—no, that was puerile. He was a man who had had a fascinating life and would no doubt make an interesting and sufficiently doting husband. Should he offer—quite.

    There were quite a lot of other gentlemen with whom she had danced and chatted, but with the best will in the world Peg could not convince herself that any of them was even a possible. Oh, dear.

    Grimly she determined that whatever should come along would be given a fair chance. And that things such as large noses and advanced years would be ignored. Utterly ignored. She would concentrate on their good points, because all human beings had some good points. And if she ended up having to crawl home with her tail between her legs at the end of it no-one could say she had not done her best to do her duty.

    Mr Beresford and Mr Valentine, therefore, were somewhat startled, as they strolled through the Park after a visit to Fioravanti’s fencing salon, where Mr Beresford had watched Val lose four bouts, and been driven to use his left arm to demonstrate what the fellow was doing wrong, to see Miss Buffitt being tooled along in a phaeton by a stout, elderly naval figure.

    “Dauntry?” croaked Mr Valentine.

    “I shall speak to Aunt Sissy,” said Mr Beresford grimly.

    “I think you should! Er—well, he ain’t a despoiler of young virgins, precisely.”

    “Not those who have a family to protect them, no,” said Mr Beresford through his teeth.

    Mr Valentine gulped, rather, but did not attempt to argue. “Me sister Angie claims he put his hand up—”

    “Yes!” he shouted.

    Val cleared his throat. “Tried to, that is. She walloped him good an’ proper. Um, look, dear boy, no point in beating about the bush: the mother’s dashed odd, you’ve said so yourself. Think your little cousin knows—er—well—anything?” he ended feebly.

    After a moment Mr Beresford said: “You mean, knows where damned Fuzzy Dauntry’s hand should not go, Val?”

    “Something like that, aye.”

    “I shall speak to Aunt Sissy about that as well, then.”

    The interview with Miss Sissy duly took place.

    “Warn Peg against Admiral Dauntry? My dear boy, he is such a pleasant gentleman! And you know that his sister-in-law—”

    “Yes, I know he’s well connected and all that, but it’s highly unlikely his attentions are serious. And he is known for his habit of, let us say, overstepping the mark to the degree he believes he will get away with it. The point is, does Cousin Peg know enough not to let him?” he ended loudly.

    Miss Sissy looked at his flushed cheeks. “I am sure she does, Jack .She is a very sensible little thing; you don’t give her credit for—”

    “It ain’t a matter of sense! How much will that mother of hers have thought to tell her?”

    “Er—well, any mother—”

    “Any but her,” he said bitterly.

    “You are probably right. I shall tell Peg that she must be very careful to be a good girl at all times,” she said primly.

    Mr Beresford’s handsome jaw was seen to sag. “Aunt Sissy, that will not be enough,” he croaked.

    “But of course it will, my dear,” she said mildly. “Every girl knows that—”

    “Every girl with a sensible mother!” he shouted.

    “Well, perhaps I should speak to dear Lady Stamforth; I suppose she will be able to give Peg the right advice… Except that she did once say— Oh, dear. I could not possibly repeat it, Jack, but it was something about offering a gentleman the right sort of encouragement. Er—not every gentleman, she did not mean,” she added quickly.

    “Why in God’s name did you agree to let her chaperone the girl?” he demanded tightly.

    “Well, she has been so kind to Charlotte’s boys and girls, and of course she knows everybody, and was very glad to do it, dear.”

    “She is the wrong sort of woman entirely to be put in charge of an ignorant little girl from the country. I shall speak to the girl myself,” he said grimly.

    “Well, perhaps that would be best, my dear, for you know exactly what sort of man Admiral Dauntry is. But I own, I cannot believe he could overstep the mark! Why, he is a friend of the Duke of Wellington!”

    Mr Beresford took a deep breath, refrained from speech, and strode out.

    Miss Sissy put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, dear, that was very naughty,” she said behind the hand. She took the hand away. “And I must apologise to dear Lady Stamforth without delay!”

    Peg could not imagine why Mr Beresford wished to speak to her. At least, she could imagine several scenarios, each more unlikely than the— Giving herself a shake, she tapped firmly at his study door. He called to come in, so she entered.

    “I’m sorry if this is an inconvenient moment, Cousin,” said Jack grimly, rising to his feet.

    Peg put her hand to her head. “Oh—the bonnet? No, I have just come in.” She removed the dark brown silk bonnet bedecked with the huge pale yellow rose, smiling at him.

    “Yes,” he said, staring numbly at the tangled mass of golden ringlets. “Uh—how old are you, again?”

    “I am turned eighteen, now,” said Peg in a tiny voice. “I had my birthday.”

    “What?” he said numbly. There had certainly to his knowledge been no celebration. “When?”

    “Um, last week, as a matter of fact.”

    “What?” he cried. “Why did you not say something?”

    “Um, well, we were all very busy. I didn’t want to imply that I needed a fuss made of me.”

    “For the Lord’s sake! Aunt Sissy would have been only too thrilled to arrange a little celebration for you!”

    “Yes, well, I have had endless series of celebrations in London.”

    Mr Beresford passed his hand through his curls. “No doubt. Er—please, sit down.”

    Peg sat down, eyeing him warily.

    “Val and I saw you out with Admiral Dauntry this morning,” he said grimly.

    “Yes. He has a phaeton. I’m getting quite good at recognising carriages, now.”

    “Never mind his carriage. I know that he is a friend of Lady Stamforth’s, and an older man. Nevertheless he is not necessarily the sort of man who will toe the line when alone with a young woman.”

    The huge pale amber eyes looked him straight in the face. She said nothing.

    Mr Beresford took a deep breath. “Miss Buffitt, I trust you will forgive my plain speaking.”

    “I prefer plain speaking,” said Peg simply.

    “Er—good. Has Admiral Dauntry—and please do not interrupt me—has Admiral Dauntry, at any time, attempted to fondle you, kiss you, or put his hand in an indelicate place?”

    The big eyes looked at him thoughtfully. Eventually she said: “What would constitute an indelicate place, in your terms?”

    “Up your skirt,” said Mr Beresford baldly, going very red.

    “No, he hasn’t done that. I’m not quite sure what you mean by fondle.”

    “God,” he muttered, wincing. “Er—well, squeeze, I suppose. Squeeze or—um—stroke.” He swallowed in spite of himself.

    “Yes,” said Peg simply.

    “What?” he shouted.

    Peg stuck her chin out. “I could hardly have stopped him in the middle of a ball without attracting undesirable attention!”

    “Please explain to me exactly what he did.”

    “Um, well, when one dances with him he frequently squeezes one’s hand in what I suppose you would say was a fondling motion. And if it is a waltz, also squeezes one’s waist. He does it to many ladies,” she assured him.

    “That does not mean he should be doing it to you. Is that all?”

    “No. After the dance—um, this has happened several times—instead of taking me back to my chaperone directly he would suggest a little stroll round the room, and on the way draw me behind a pillar, or perhaps a potted palm, and very quickly pat my bottom.”

    Mr Beresford choked. “What?”

    “He does it so quickly and artfully that one has no warning, you see. Um, it is sort of halfway between a squeeze and a pat: is that a fondle?”

    “Yes,” said Mr Beresford between his teeth. “What else has the filthy old fellow tried?”

    “Um, well, the other time I drove out with him he—um—perhaps it was my imagination,” said Peg apologetically. “I thought he was sitting more squashed up than was necessary.”

    Mr Beresford muttered something under his breath.

    “Um, and he rubbed his foot against mine.”

    Mr Beresford turned purple.

    “I just moved my foot away. Um, several gentlemen have done that, actually.”

    Breathing heavily, he said: “And today’s drive?”

    “Um, I hadn’t finished telling you about the other one. It was when he was helping me down. I could see he wasn’t doing it very properly. Not like you hand me down,” said Miss Buffitt approvingly.

    Mr Beresford had an impulse to shut his eyes. “Yes?” he said faintly.

    “I do not think I can describe it exactly, Cousin Beresford. And—and you are a man, so you cannot know,” said Peg apologetically.

    “Miss Buffitt, I can know.”

    “We-ell… They sort of, um, manage to be rather clumsy, and pull at one’s arm, so that one risks toppling against them,” reported Peg dubiously. “But the thing is, it must always appear as if it was one’s fault, and then they stop one from falling, and one is forced to thank them!”

    After a moment Mr Beresford was able to say: “Them?”

    Peg counted on her fingers. “Admiral Dauntry, of course. Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy: he did it twice: the first time I was sure I was only imagining it. Captain Quarmby-Vine. He was not driving me out, he was assisting us all to alight from the barouche. Major-General Sir Percy Waynflete, when he took us to visit at his brother’s house at Marlow. Um… Oh, yes: Mr Rowbotham, when we went to Kew. You were there,” she reminded him as Mr Beresford’s cheeks turned purple.

    “Wilf Rowbotham?” he choked. “By God, I’ll kill him!”

    “But he was no worse than all the rest,” said Peg earnestly. “Who else? Oh, yes; Mr Bobby Cantrell-Sprague. You know he is doing it on purpose, because he sort of laughs into your eyes. I think one is supposed to find him a very dashing fellow. Um, did you want me to list the young ones as well?” she added dubiously.

    “Y— Um, no,” said Jack, passing his hand across his brow. “We’ll take the young ones as read. Go on about Dauntry, if you please.”

    “Oh, yes: this morning. Well, he was driving, of course, so most of the time his hands were occupied. But he did sit very close, again, and push his foot against mine. Also his leg: sort of nudging my knee with his. There isn’t much room to escape, in a phaeton. Um, then he pulled up under a tree, and we were chatting, and after a while he—um—squeezed my leg,” said Peg in a squeak.

    “What?” said Mr Beresford dangerously.

    “Squeezed my leg!” repeated Peg loudly, going very red.

    Mr Beresford looked at this blush and did not tell his second cousin not to shout. “Yes. Forgive me, but I need to know. Where?”

    “In the phaeton,” said Peg in a bewildered voice. “We were still in the Park.”

    “Er—no. Where on the leg?”

    The wide brow wrinkled. “Does the position make it worse?” Peg looked thoughtfully into her lap. “Here,” she decided, placing her hand about midway up her thigh.

    Mr Beresford peered. He went even redder than she had done. “The foul fellow touched you like that? He—he managed to fondle your inner thigh?”

    “At least you are not calling it a lower limb,” said Peg dispassionately. “Yes. Well, squeeze. Is that fondle?”

    “Yes!” he shouted. “Miss Buffitt, this is not a matter for funning!”

    “I wasn’t laughing. The thing is, it is rather outside the range of my previous experience, so I am not perfectly sure what my reaction should be.”

    “I knew it!”

    Miss Buffitt gave him a puzzled stare.

    “There are,” said Mr Beresford with a grimace, “gradations to this sort of unacceptable behaviour, you see.”

    “I see. If he had just touched the outside of my thigh it would not be so bad, is that what you mean?”

    “Precisely.”

    “But it is all unacceptable?”

    “Mm.”

    “So, what should I have done?”

    He winced. “What did you do?”

    “Um, he is an elderly gentleman, so I did not slap his face. I just slapped his hand.”

    “Thank God for that!” said Mr Beresford, sagging where he sat.

    “Um, I have to say he did not appear precisely discouraged,” admitted Peg uneasily.

    “He wouldn’t.”

    “Am I— Um, have I been improper?” she said in a small voice.

    “No. You have not, certainly. But I think perhaps you do not realise that if a man has behaved that way once, you should not accept a further invitation to drive out with him.”

    Peg wrinkled her brow over it. “No-o… Well, I suppose Admiral Dauntry is just old and silly. But I thought I had better not waste my chances, you see.”

    “What?”

    “Um, well, it was very kind of Aunt Beresford to invite one of us to London, and I should not throw away any opportunity to—to establish myself cruh-creditably. And after all, he is a widower.”

    Jack sighed.  “True. ‘Old and silly’ put it better, however.”

    “Mm. Um, well, which ones should I go out with, then? Aunt Sissy seems to think that all those old gentlemen are quite unexceptionable.”

    He winced. “Aunt Sissy is an elderly spinster, Cousin.”

    “Ye-es… Well, Mina did say something about Admiral Dauntry which did not make sense at the time, but looking back, I think she meant it as a warning. The thing is, Mr Beresford,” said Peg on a note of despair, “they are all so mealy-mouthed that I never know if they are warning me or not! Well, not Horrible, but she doesn’t know the London fashionables.”

    “No. You had better refer all invitations to me, in the future.”

    Miss Buffitt looked at him anxiously. “Are you sure it will not be a tremendous nuisance?”

    It would, of course. “No,” he said shortly, flushing. “Don’t be absurd.”

    “Then, thank you very much, I shall do so. Um, well, what about Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy?”

    Mr Beresford was conscious of a strong impulse to shut his eyes, once again. “When?”

    “Tomorrow. He has bought a new pair. He said they have Arab heads.”

    “Aye! And short backs!” he said with a laugh. “Percy Murray’s matched chestnuts. The poor fool paid a fortune for ’em: been in the East too long. Er—I beg your pardon. Well, er, does his behaviour when alone with you in a carriage bear any relation to Dauntry’s?”

    “Only when he helps me down.”

    “Mm.” He eyed her somewhat drily. “What about the big red nose?”

    “I am trying to overlook it,” said Peg with a sigh.

    Somehow this sigh had an immensely cheering effect on Mr Beresford. “Well, drive out with him if you wish, but if he hands you down in a way you do not care for, perhaps you should tell him so.”

    “Ye-es… But I said, they always manage to put one in the wrong. I knew you couldn’t understand,” said Peg sadly.

    “Look, if you don’t care for it, don’t accept his invitations!” he said on a heated note.

    “He is very interesting to talk to. I don’t suppose he is seriously interested in me, for I am a nobody. But in the case that he is, I thought it best to encourage him. His fortune could doubtless set up my brothers and sisters for life,” she said glumly. “Um, well, if any of them do anything I dislike, would it be all right if I told them I was sure you would not care for it, sir?”

    He blinked. “Er—certainly.”

    “Good. Thank you very much,” said Peg, getting up cautiously. “Then you are not angry?”

    “Not with you,” he said with a sigh.

    “The thing is, I have probably been doing it all wrong. The family have always accused me of having a very literal mind. But if people never spell out what they mean, how is one supposed to know?”

    “No, quite. Well, bear in mind: no fondling, squeezing or, in fact, touching of your person whatsoever.”

    Peg nodded. “I do know that, sir, but the thing is, I am never sure when they are going to do it or how to stop them.”

    Mr Beresford shuddered. “The definition of an innocent abroad, in fact.”

    “I suppose it is.” The big eyes looked at him hopefully.

    Mr Beresford came out from behind his desk and took one of her hands in his good one. “You had best come and tell me whenever they do it. I shall know how to prevent their doing it again. Er—without spoiling your dashed matrimonial chances,” he added with a sigh.

    “Truly? Oh, thank you, Mr Beresford!” she cried.

    “Yes,” said Mr Beresford dully, releasing her. “Run along, now.”

    Beaming, Peg trotted off.

    Mr Beresford tottered over to his big chair and sank limply into it.

    “Morning, Fitz-Clancy,” he said genially. “Just sit down, for moment, if you will. My cousin will be with you shortly.”

    Lord Michael had expected to be shown into the morning-room and received by a blushing Miss Buffitt, not to say a blushing Miss Sissy Laidlaw, rather than shown into Mr Beresford’s study. He eyed Mr Beresford warily, but greeted him politely and sat down.

    Mr Beresford let the silence linger. Eventually his Lordship said: “Was there something, Beresford?”

    “Well, yes. But I don’t want to give offence,” said Jack in an apologetic tone.

    Lord Michael, as Jack Beresford was well aware, had taken part in negotiations of one sort or another over a large part of the known world. It was therefore immediately apparent to him that this apologetic tone was entirely spurious. “I am sure you will not do that,” he said evenly. “Please go on.”

    “Well, you see,” said Mr Beresford, still apologetic, “I would have thought you had been back in England long enough to realise how things are done, these days. But I dare say times have changed; how would I know?”

    “How, indeed?” replied Lord Michael politely.

    Mr Beresford was aware that his Lordship had taken the reference, which was to his advancing years. He did not allow himself to smile, however. “Young ladies of my cousin’s generation, though of course thrilled by your traveller’s tales, would prefer to be handed down from a carriage in, shall we say, a somewhat less exotic way. Of course, one does not require, in England, the exaggerated respect accorded to the veiled ladies of the hareem.” He eyed him sardonically.

    The nose might not have been red as was claimed, but at the moment the cheeks certainly were. “I perfectly take your point, and I apologise if I have unintentionally caused any offence,” he said stiffly.

    “Oh, not at all.” Mr Beresford rose. “Now that we have that out of the way, my cousin will be charmed to drive out with you.” He led him over to the door and opened it for him. “Percy Murray’s chestnuts, are they?”

    Lord Michael knew that Mr Beresford was held to be an excellent judge of horseflesh. “Er—yes.”

    “In that case I’d look to the weight of the equipage,” he said mildly. “Something more along the lines of a racing curricle might suit.” He bowed him out. “Though I wouldn’t race ’em, of course.”

    “Thank you,” said Fitz-Clancy grimly.

    Mr Beresford allowed himself to smile, just a little. “Henry, show Lord Michael into the morning-room, please. I think Miss Buffitt is ready for him, now.”

    Mr Bobby Cantrell-Sprague, who was not so literary as his mamma would have liked, was discovered at Jackson’s. Being soundly pulverised by one of Jackson’s lads. Mr Beresford watched sardonically. After a while the champion himself came up to his side. “Hopeless, sir,” he said, shaking his head.

    “Puts it rather well. Mind you, his father was a fine swordsman in his day. But I don’t think he ever taught any of his sons to box.”

    “It shows,” grunted the Gentleman. “How’s the arm, Mr Beresford?”

    “Healing nicely, but the damned sawbones has forbid me to use it for another full month,” he replied sourly.

    “No, well, if you want it to heal properly, sir, you’d best follow his advice. But I’ve a little routine you might like to try: worked it out when one of my lads had a busted collarbone. Entails using the feet a fair bit.”

    Thankfully Mr Beresford agreed to try it. And having tried it, went over to Mr Bobby, panting, and mopping his neck with a towel. “Oy, you.”

    “Me, sir?”

    “Mm. What’s all this I hear about a charming technique for putting a young lady at fault when you feign, I use the word advisedly, to be helping her down from a carriage?”

    Mr Bobby went very red, and stuttered.

    “Do not do it,” said Mr Beresford very clearly.

    “I only— Um, no, sir. Beg pardon, sir,” he muttered.

    “And keep your guard up after you’ve landed a hit. Ted could’ve got you a thousand times,” he said, winking at Mr Bobby’s sparring partner. “Eh, Ted?”

    “Yessir, Mr B.!” he grinned.

    “That is, supposing you had managed to land a thousand hits,” amended Mr Beresford laconically.

    Jackson’s lad went into a spluttering fit, and Mr Bobby grinned sheepishly. “Aye. Um, thanks awfully, sir!”

    “Don’t push your luck,” drawled Jack, strolling away from him.

    Admiral Dauntry was discovered at White’s. He greeted Mr Beresford amiably, motioning him to a chair at his side. Jack did not, however, think he was imagining a wary look in the bloodshot little blue eye.

    “Admiral, I shall not beat about the bush. I fear you have been labouring under some misapprehension with regard to my cousin, Miss Buffitt. She is an innocent child, who is flattered by your notice, but,” he said, fixing him with a hard stare, “entirely disconcerted by it. Need I say more?”

    The Admiral produced a series of terrifically genial huffing and puffing noises. Having meant not a thing in the world and of course she was as innocent as the day was long, was the gist of it.

    Mr Beresford got up. “In that case, I’ll wish you good-day, sir.”

    As his straight back exited the Admiral might have been seen to mop his brow. And, indeed, was so seen: the wing chair at a little remove from the Admiral’s was the favourite resting place, so much so that some claimed it was upholstered to his person, of that stout gourmet, Mr Tobias Vane. After the Admiral had called for brandy, received the brandy, sworn at the waiter, and drunk the brandy, Mr Vane got up quietly and went out.

    Lady Stamforth received the news exactly as her husband’s cousin had guessed she would. Going so far, after the ecstatic clapping of the hands, as to award him a smacking kiss on his cheek. Mr Vane smirked. “I thought it must be indicative, dear Cousin.”

    “Eendeed eet must! Wonderful!” she said fervently.

    Mr Rowbotham was discovered at Boodles, being soundly trounced at billiards.

    “Cecil, if you don’t mind, I’d like a word with Wilf,” said Mr Beresford evenly.

    “Right you are,” agreed Major Jerningham. He looked wistfully at the arm. “Still splinted, old man? Dashed nuisance. None of these fellows can give one a game.”

    “I noticed.” Mr Beresford conducted Mr Rowbotham to a quiet spot. “Wilf,” he said sweetly, “any further attempt to cause my cousin to tumble into your waiting arms when she gets out of a carriage will have the most painful repercussions. One arm or not. Get it?”

    “Y— Um, yes. But you can’t blame a fellow for trying, Jack!”

    “Funnily enough,” said Mr Beresford, his nostrils flaring, “I can.”

    Mr Rowbotham blenched. “Er—sorry, old man, meant nothing by it.”

    “Whether or not that be true, she is not fair game, and not without a protector,” he said sourly, walking away from him.

    Mr Rowbotham pulled his ear slowly. “Hm,” he said. “That was interesting.”

    That was the worst—or in Mr Rowbotham’s case the most irritating—of them. On due consideration, Jack did not approach Major-General Sir Percy Waynflete. He was elderly, had been at the P.W.’s feet for years, and doubtless had meant nothing by it. Though any future such attentions to Miss Buffitt would not meet with the same consideration.

    Captain Quarmby-Vine, R.N., was a rather different kettle of fish. In the first place, Jack had known the Q.-V. family for years, having been at school with Bobby Q.-V., the Captain’s nephew, and the older Q.-V.’s were more or less in the position of uncles to him. But in the second place, though he appeared to be once again at the P.W.’s feet, the Captain was not in his dotage. And in the third place, he was not so old as to be excused from treating Miss Buffitt like that. Eventually Jack went round to his bachelor chambers some time before the dinner hour.

    The Captain was dressing. “Hullo, dear boy,” he said amiably. “Come round to eat your mutton, have you? Delighted, of course.”

    “No, thank you. I’d like a word, Charles.”

    “Mm,” he said in a muffled tone, lowering the chin so as to put the requisite creases in the neckcloth.

    Resignedly Jack waited.

    “There!” he said, beaming. “Come and sit down, dear boy. Glass of something?”

    “No, thanks. Look, Charles, don’t take offence: just want to say, my little Cousin Peg ain’t up to snuff. Not like, if I may say so, some of the ladies you’ve admired in the past.”

    “And present, hey?” said the Captain mildly. “What did I do?”

    “Nothing very much. And she was not precisely offended. Just didn’t much care for the way you helped her down from a carriage. Forget the precise occasion: been for a drive in the barouche, think that was it.”

    The florid, middle-aged captain grimaced. “Been away from the sea too long, dear boy, that’s my trouble. Dashed sorry. Forgot meself. The child could be my daughter. –Wish she was,” he added moodily.

    “Er—yes,” said Mr Beresford uncertainly.

    He sighed. “Had a note from Lilian only t’other day, saying they’d heard from Portugal.”

    Charles’s sister-in-law, Lilian Quarmby-Vine, was a cousin of the pretty little widow whom London had known as the little Contessa. “Yes?” said Mr Beresford cautiously.

    The Captain sighed again. “The little Contessa’s had another baby: a son, this time. Mother and son doing fine.”

    “I’m very glad to hear it,” he said evenly.

    “Aye—aye. No, well, I take your point,” he added brightly, just as Jack was wondering if the old boy was about to sink into a lethargy before his eyes. “Dear little Miss Buffitt isn’t the same sort at all, hey? Dare say an apology’s in order?” He cocked an eyebrow at him.

    “No, I assure you, Charles.”

    “No, well, I’ll send her a little posy!” he beamed. “That be acceptable?”

    The Captain’s pursuit of Lady Stamforth with little posies, back when she had been Lady Benedict, had been the joke of London. “Yes,” said Jack weakly. “Delightful.”

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