“You do have this dreadful habit of rising at the crack of dawn,” Frances said. “Perhaps that is it, Bella. You are not increasing, are you?” She flushed deeply.
“No,” Arabella said firmly, “I am not.”
They were walking along Bond Street later when they saw Lord Farraday on the pavement at the other side of the street. They raised their hands in greeting and prepared to move on, but he hurried across the road to meet them.
“Well met, Lady Astor, Miss Wilson,” he said, raising his hat and making them a bow. “I was preparing to call on you this afternoon.”
“We will be at home, my lord,” Arabella said, “and will be pleased to receive you.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I had breakfast with your neighbor this morning. I told him that he must see Vauxhall Gardens, among other places, while he is in town. It gave me the idea to reserve one of the supper boxes there and organize a party for tomorrow night. There is to be music, it seems. And it is one of the nights for fireworks.”
“How perfectly marvelous,” Frances said. “I have heard it is a very romantic location, my lord.”
“I hoped you ladies would be able to join the party,” he said. “Sir Theodore will be there, of course, and will be glad to see familiar faces, I am sure. And Charlton will be coming, and Hubbard. Mrs. Pritchard—one of my sisters, you know—has agreed to come, as my brother-in-law is in Portugal at present. And Lady Harriet Meeker is to be invited. May I hope that you do not have a previous engagement for tomorrow night?”
“No, we have not,” Arabella said. She looked at Frances. “We will be glad to make two of your party, my lord.”
“Splendid!” he said. “Will Astor come, do you think, ma’am?”
“I think not,” Arabella said. “He does have another engagement.”
“A pity,” he said. “I shall do myself the honor, then, of taking you up in my carriage tomorrow evening? My sister will be with me.”
He raised his hat and continued on his way after Arabella had expressed her delight.
“Oh, Bella,” Frances said, taking her sister’s arm after tucking the package containing her mother’s kid gloves into her reticule. “Vauxhall Gardens! It is all winding pathways and hanging lanterns, according to Lucinda Jennings, who has been there more than once. And handsome gentlemen roaming everywhere. I can scarce wait until tomorrow night.”
“We will have a lovely time,” Arabella said brightly. “I have always wanted to see a display of fireworks. I am glad Theodore has been making some friends.”
“Yes, so am I, I am sure,” Frances said. “Though I do not greatly admire Lady Harriet Meeker, do you, Bella? However, she seems to be to Theodore’s liking, and that is all that matters, I suppose.”
“I believe he is merely friendly with her,” Arabella said. “I would not worry that he is developing atendrefor her if I were you, Frances.”
“Worry!” her sister said with a trilling little laugh. “I quite wish the best for Theodore. We have always been friends, as you know, Bella.”
“I once thought you were more,” Arabella said with a sigh.
“Well, that was very foolish of you,” Frances said. “I had never even seen anyone else but Theodore and the others at home. Here there are far more eligible gentlemen. What do you think of Sir John Charlton?”
“That he is shallow and vain,” Arabella said bluntly.
“Bella!” Frances looked reproachfully at her. “How dreadfully unkind you are. Is a gentleman shallow merely because he knows all there is to know about polite behavior and fashion? Is he vain merely because he is handsome and elegant? He has a very superior understanding, I believe. And I think he favors me. He is to be the Earl of Haig one day, you know.’’
“Yes, I believe he has told me so quite pointedly a half-dozen times,” Arabella said.
“I see you are cross and out of sorts today, Bella,” France said stiffly. “But I am glad you are taking it out on me. It would not do for you to speak thus to his lordship. He is like to be displeased with you. I think we will just avoid all sensible topics until you are in spirits again. Where is the best shop to look in for parasols, do you think?”
Arabella took her sister’s arm and squeezed it. “Forgive me, Frances,” she said. “You are quite right. I did not sleep well last night, as I told you earlier, and I am making you suffer as a result. Let us try this shop. This is where his lordship . . . This is where my fan was purchased.”
“Bella!” Frances’ eyes were filled with tears as she drew her sister to a halt outside the shop. “How can I ever reproach you for anything when you made such a great sacrifice for my sake? How very ungrateful I am. Dear, dear Bella! How fortunate it is that all has turned out well for you after all.”
Lord Astor had ridden across Westminster Bridge and south away from London before he was fully aware that he was even on horseback. He drew back on the reins and looked down in some bewilderment at the sweat-beaded neck of his favorite stallion. When had he gone home to saddle the horse? What had been his intention when he did so? And where had he been going with such speed and purpose?
He pulled off a glove, touched his nose gingerly, and winced. It was still sore. No longer bleeding, though, he thought, looking at his hand and finding no telltale red streak. He should have known better than to challenge Jackson himself to a sparring match that morning. Normally he would have given the great pugilist a good go for his money, but this morning he had not been in any condition to concentrate. And Jackson himself, standing over him and offering a hand to pull him to his feet after planting him a facer that had had the blood spurting all down his shirt front, had reminded him that one of the first rules of boxing was that one must fight with a cool head. One should never box in order to work off one's anger or some other negative emotion.
Yes, he knew that. But why had he challenged the great man anyway? He could not remember. Had it been in the hope of pounding someone’s face to pulp? He would have challenged one of the weaklings or novices if that had been his purpose, surely. He rather thought he must have issued the challenge in the hope that his own face would be reduced to blood and raw meat. He had wanted physical punishment. But Gentleman Jackson was just what his popular name said. He would never continue to pummel an opponent once he was down and clearly defeated.
So. Here he was with a sore nose that doubtless resembled a beacon, riding a sweaty horse, bound he knew not where. He might as well continue for a while, he decided, though at a pace that would be kinder to his mount, which had offended no one. After all, he had nothing to return home for. Not now or ever again, it seemed.
