Authors: Escapade
“And you know, Simon,” she continued, undaunted, “this will mean shedding yourself of that cat, Sheila Lloyd, which I can only consider a bonus, don’t you? Yes, I’m quite pleased, all in all. Quite pleased. Bones—ring for Roberts, will you? My dish is empty.”
Simon’s low curse was nearly drowned out by Armand Gauthier’s burst of laughter and Bartholomew Boothe’s fit of coughing, but Callie was beginning to sense the viscountess’s meaning. The meaning of several things she had said since Callie’s entrance into the drawing room. She shot to her feet, her cheeks burning with indignation. “If you people think to kidnap me off the street, then set me up as some sort of
mistress
to this insufferable prig, why, I—”
It was now the viscountess’s turn to choke. She did so quite stupendously, turning a ghastly purple before a sharp slap between her shoulder blades—delivered by Lester Plum, who might not have been the sharpest arrow in the quiver but who had considerable experience saving his beloved father from the man’s piggish gulping of any food within sight—dislodged a nearly whole sugarplum from her gullet. “A—a
mistress
!” the older woman got out at last, using the sleeve of her gown to wipe at her streaming eyes. “God, gel, he already has one of those. It’s a
wife
I’m talking about!”
Wife?
Callie mouthed the word silently as her rump hit the chair cushion with a thump, her legs having all but collapsed under her. “Pretend I’m insane, Lester said,” she muttered to herself. “And it’s a good thing I didn’t do that—for no one in this madhouse would have noticed!”
let us swear an eternal friendship.
—George Canning
Chapter Five
A
firm believer in the adage that, theatrically speaking, no more than three characters should have lines in any scene, Simon took advantage of the chaos that reigned in the Portland Place drawing room to motion with a dismissive shake of his head that the presence of his two friends was no longer required.
“Only because of the great love we bear you,” Armand murmured silkily as he and Bartholomew exited the room. “And only because we expect a full recounting of every word and gesture tonight at Lady Bessingham’s.”
That left Simon’s mother—who Simon knew could not have been boosted from the room if he’d sent for a regiment of dragoons to oust her—the two mischief-makers, and himself. That was still two more than he could have wished for but, as he didn’t think Lester Plum would have much to say for himself, he decided to let the man stay.
Once assured that his mother had recovered from her fit of choking, and after signaling to Lester that he return to his former seat, Simon—after fortifying himself with a deep drink from his wineglass—began once more.
“Shall we agree that we have matters to discuss, Miss Johnston?”
Caledonia Johnston looked to the ceiling, then to her right and left, her pursed lips also rather comically shifting left to right as if she was swishing her answer around inside her mouth for a few moments, tasting it, before offering, “I suppose you think I should apologize for almost shooting you last night. If you insist.”
“Oh, I do, Miss Johnston, I absolutely do insist,” Simon countered, admiring her courage even as he longed to throttle her. “I also insist you then forget the entire incident ever occurred. The interlude does neither of us much credit.”
“If you say so, although it’s really beyond stupid, because we both know nothing happened except that I bested you. Goodness—wait a moment—that
could
be embarrassing to you, couldn’t it, if it were to be repeated in your clubs and such? Anyway—sorry,” Callie ended shortly, not sounding at all sincere as she stood up, looking toward the doorway. “Well, that’s done. Come on, Lester. Let’s be on our way.”
“Sit...
down
,” Simon warned tightly, feeling a headache beginning to pound behind his eyes.
“Simon, honestly,” the viscountess scolded as both Callie and Lester collapsed into their chairs once more. “Don’t you know you’ll land many more flies with honey than with vinegar? Be nice to the gel.”
“Nice.
Nice?
I’d rather try to pet a wild lion,” Simon bit out, then shook his head, knowing he was getting matters nowhere by being so prickly. “Miss Johnston, do you think it would it be at all possible for you to tell me, tell
us
, exactly why it is that you’ve taken it into your head to murder the earl of Filton?”
“See? I told you, Callie,” Lester Plum said happily, nudging her in the ribs with his elbow. “Told you it looked like murder.”
Simon looked to Lester, belatedly wondering why the man’s lips were black, but then remembered that the young man was also dressed up to look like a woman, so that it probably didn’t much matter what color he’d painted his mouth. “What was it supposed to look like, Mr. Plum?” he asked, thinking maybe the fellow could be of some help in the interview after all.
Lester wriggled himself forward on the cushions, eager to speak. It wasn’t often anyone really listened to him, asked his opinion, or thought it remotely possible that he had anything important to say. “Well, as it happens, Callie thought his knee would be the best place to shoot him. Nothing fatal, you understand. Just maim him—so he’d suffer in bad weather and couldn’t dance all night.”
“Oh! I
do
like that!” the viscountess exclaimed happily. “Bloodthirsty, but not necessarily lethal. Really, Simon, it seems to me you might have been rather poor-spirited in not allowing the gel her revenge. It
is
revenge you’re seeking, isn’t it? Never say he ruined you, for that would certainly deflate me.”
“Ruined me?” Callie repeated, looking to the viscountess questioningly for a moment before stiffening her spine as the realization of what the older woman meant was brought home to her. “Certainly not!”
“Oh, good,” Imogene said, smiling sunnily. “That’s all right then, isn’t it, Simon?”
“Mother,” Simon began, then just shook his head, believing he had enough on his plate at the moment without engaging his parent in a discussion of her harebrained scheme to have him bracketed to the brazen infant with the atrocious haircut and quite lovely legs.
He closed his eyes, counting swiftly to ten, reminding himself that he didn’t really care about Caledonia Johnston’s legs, lovely or not. Or about her wide, clear green eyes, or her high cheekbones, or that particularly attractive husky voice she employed to say so many outrageous, incomprehensible things. He’d much rather console himself with the knowledge that she was flat-chested as any ten-year-old. “All right then, Miss Caledonia Johnston, we’ll try again.
Why
did you want to shoot Filton in the knee, crippling him?”
“Wouldn’t keep calling her Caledonia if I was you,” Lester interjected helpfully, so that Simon belatedly noticed that Miss Johnston’s hands had been drawn up into fists in her lap. “She shoved Rupert Almstead into the pond last summer for calling her that, and it was his birthday.”
“It’s your name, isn’t it?” Simon asked, secretly agreeing that it was atrocious. But, then, Callie didn’t seem to be much of an improvement. “I assume, as it’s the Latin name for Scotland, that your forebears Callie from there?”
“One might assume that,” Callie answered with an expressive shrug of her slim shoulders, “except that it’s not true. My father simply liked the name, as he greatly enjoys salmon fishing in Scotland. I’m only relieved he wasn’t fond of the hunting fields of Milton. I’ve learned to forgive him, but not those who’d dare to address me as Caledonia once they’re aware of my feelings on the subject. Rupert Almstead had been warned, and foolishly chose to ignore the warning. You’re many things, my lord, but I have yet to believe you are foolish. But, then,” she ended, smiling quite evilly for an innocent young girl, “it’s early days yet, isn’t it?”
She then slapped her hands on her knees and rose to her feet once more, walking across the floor to stand in front of the drinks table, lifting the decanter of sherry and splashing some of its contents into a glass. Taking a small sip after raising the glass in a mocking salute to Simon, she then said, “As you can’t seem to bring yourself to the point, my lord, how about you just sit down like a nice London gentleman and allow me to tell you what I believe you want to know? Things will go much more quickly, and your servants can then stop hiding, behind the archway, their pointy noses visible from here, and get back to work. Besides, there are two horses tied up near the Green Man, and I worry about them.”
Simon had never seen such arrogance directed at him, such—as his mother had termed it—
cheek
from a young woman. From a young man. From anyone of his acquaintance. Surprisingly, he found himself amused by Caledonia Johnston’s confident swagger, even by the small shiver of distaste she nearly hid as her palate reacted to what he was sure had been her very first sip of sherry.
He gave in to Callie’s suggestion, sitting himself down and gesturing for her to explain what, to him, seemed to have become the unexplainable.
Still holding the glass in her long, thin fingers—although she did not take another sip of its contents—Callie began pacing the carpet, one foot very deliberately brought forth after the other, heel rolling to toe for the space of ten steps before she executed a sharp about-face and came to a halt, just in time to see Simon ogling her long, straight legs, unfortunately.
“If I might have your attention?” she prompted, letting him know that she had caught him looking at her, the impudent, brattish infant! “Now, I imagine I shall have to begin at the beginning, yes?”
“As that is the first logical statement you’ve uttered since I was so unfortunate as to make your acquaintance, Miss Johnston,” Simon drawled, “I’d have to agree.”
“The gel’s right, son,” Imogene broke in. “You do talk too much. Now dub your mummer and let her get on with it. I’m getting peckish and it’s hours until dinner.”
“Kathleen will be well served to be given a fortifying snack as well, Mother,” Simon said meanly, knowing he was behaving badly, “as she’ll need all her strength to pour you into your gown this evening.”
“Wretch,” Imogene countered, but she slid the dish of sugarplums back onto the table beside her. “I should just die, and then haunt you.”
“And this, you’re saying, would constitute a change of plan?” Simon quipped, smiling at his mother, whom he really did love most dearly—especially because she instantly knew he was teasing her and rewarded him by batting her darkened lashes a time or two and then blowing a kiss in his direction.
“Come on, Lester, let’s just leave,” Callie said, calling Simon back to attention. “We can rent a wagon or something and go fetch the horses before they starve.”
“I’ll send someone after them,” Simon said quickly, and did just that, summoning a servant and allowing Callie to give him the general whereabouts of the two horses she had most probably tied up in the trees near the Green Man, planning to use them to make her escape after shooting the kidnapped Noel Kinsey. It bothered him, only for a moment, that he was beginning to understand the workings of Caledonia Johnston’s decidedly bizarre mind.
“Now,” he said tiredly, once the servant was off on his rescue mission, “I think we’re all more than ready to hear your story.”
Callie was looking mulish, an emotion he found lamentably easy to read in her expressive green eyes. “I don’t think I want to anymore. You’ll probably think you are honor-bound to write to our fathers, for one thing, and I doubt you’d appreciate the beauty of my plan anyway. Unlike your mother, who seems to be the best of creatures, and who loves you even though you treat her shamelessly.”
“How very sweet. I’ve always wanted a daughter, now that I think on it,” the viscountess declared, sighing happily as she popped another sugarplum into her rouged mouth. “I can’t imagine why I’ve been so upset at the prospect. Although I still do need that earl, I believe.”
“Oh, good grief!” Simon exploded, running a hand through his hair, mussing it, so that his mother was forced to comment gushingly, “Doesn’t he look
sweet
like that, my dear? Really, once you have him broken to the saddle, as I did with his father, you shouldn’t have a whit of trouble with him.”
“That tears it!” Simon walked over to his mother—stomped over to his mother—and put his hand under her elbow, all but forcing her to her feet. “Good-bye, Mother, have a pleasant life. Plum—you, too.
Out
!”
Lester stood up, awkwardly smoothing down his skirts. “Where are we to go?” he asked, looking to Callie for an answer, as he probably looked to her before he thought to allow himself to take a deep breath.
“Go to the conservatory and pick a few oranges,” Simon suggested, steering his mother to the doorway. “Go to the kitchens where each of you can gobble down a chicken. Go to the devil if you’ve a mind to. Just
go
!”
“Masterful, ain’t he?” the viscountess inquired of Lester, companionably putting her arm through his. “Ah well, I know when I’ve gone too far, even if it is jolly good fun getting there. Simon, don’t paw the gel, as I still consider myself to be chaperoning, even if I’m not in the room. Now come along, Mr. Plum. We’ll see if Emery can find you some proper clothing, unless you’re more comfortable in gowns, which I can’t imagine, unless you’re leaving off your stays? You can tell me the truth. I’ll understand, really, as Simon had this uncle—a great-uncle, actually—who seemed inordinately fond of trying on his wife’s underclothes. Are you wearing this gown just for today, or is it your usual practice to—”
The double doors slammed shut with some violence, cutting off his mother’s questions, and Simon turned sharply on his heels, his hot gaze penetrating Caledonia Johnston to the marrow as he gritted out from between clenched teeth, “
Talk
, little girl! Talk to me now!”
“Isn’t that what I’ve been
trying
to do?” Callie shot back accusingly, as if he had single-handedly been keeping her from explaining herself. Then she grinned, an unexpected action that somehow seemed to instantly drain all his anger out of him. “You really do have your hands full, don’t you, my lord?” she asked. “Are you quite sure I wouldn’t be doing you a greater service by simply gathering up Lester and being on my way?”