Branstoke regarded Tretherford’s hopeful visage through hooded eyes, a sneering smile curling his thin lips. “It’s very simple, my good man. We need to find a husband for her sister.”
“Bah, I thought you had an idea,” Tretherford scoffed, his hopes dashed. He turned to stump back and forth between the tables. “What we’d need is a devil. Monweithe may be rolling in the ready and given her a handsome dowry, but I ask you, is any man fool enough to be married to Hell?”
Branstoke shrugged. “We may not be, but there are gentlemen around who would take her with all her faults, for a dowry like that at her back.”
Tretherford snorted. “I’d as lief take her dowry with the condition I be horsewhipped every day!”
St. Ryne, who had been listening to the conversation as he sipped his wine, took a sharp intake of breath at hearing Tretherford’s comment and started to choke.The Taming of the Shrewcomplete to the characters and lines! It was outside of enough for the Earl of Rasthough to set his daughters up as Katharine and Bianca, but to hear Tretherford and Branstoke mouth words akin to Gremio and Hortensio was outside of enough!
Freddy thumped him heartily on the back. “Easy, Justin ol’ boy.”
Branstoke appeared mildly amused, and looked speculatively at St. Ryne as he brushed a speck of lint from his coat of blue superfine.
“Thank you, Freddy. I’m all right now. I merely was reminded of a line from Shakespeare.”
“Shakespeare! In the middle of the afternoon?” Tretherford exclaimed sourly. “I always said too much sun was harmful.”
Freddy sputtered indignantly at the implied slur; however, St. Ryne laid a staying hand on his friend’s arm and laughed thinly. Inwardly he seethed, wondering at the vagaries of society that permitted such nodcocks as Tretherford to retain their place in theBon Tonover a person whose hands may have been dirtied by trade, but who bore better social graces.
“You may be right—perhaps my brain is still a bit addled from the hot Jamaican sun. One can only hope the fresh air of England may bring me to my senses,” he conceded, bowing slightly to Tretherford. “Come Freddy, join me in a hand. If you gentlemen would excuse us—” He took Freddy’s arm to lead him away.
“Justin, how can you swallow Tretherford’s insult? I’d have called him out in an instant!”
“And after you had killed the noddy, you would be forced to flee the country and live in exile. No thank you, Freddy. I have just spent a year out of England and am devilishly glad to have returned.”
“I concede all that. But, still, Justin?—”
“Really Freddy, Tretherford is not goodtonand not worthy of consideration. However did he become a member?” he asked as they crossed the room.
“Cousin of the Marquis of Alwinly, I believe, and he’s such a nice fellow no one questioned him. Think the marchioness pushed him to it—nasty woman that. Tretherford’s some cousin or other.”
“Hmm, that explains it,” St. Ryne declared, sitting down and gesturing to Freddy to join him. “But tell me more about Monweithe and his two daughters. I admit I am intrigued.” He signaled for the waiter to bring another glass, then turned again to Freddy.
“Not much to say,” Freddy said. “He introduced the two at the beginning of the season, and La Belle Helene has been the jewel of my heart ever since. Would you believe it? I’ve taken to writing poetry about her, she has that kind of an effect on a fellow.”
“What about the other,” St. Ryne asked, as he poured a glass of port for Freddy, “I think you called her Elizabeth?” He glanced up briefly. “Is she ill-favored?”
Freddy scowled, creating deep furrows in his fair forehead. “Not in looks, quite lovely I guess, if you like ’em dark. Though she don’t do much to fix herself up. Got the strangest eyes in a female, though. Kind of gold-like,” he mused, “and when she gets her temper up, they’re like fire to sear a fellow’s soul.”
St. Ryne laughed shortly. “You have indeed turned poetic. If she is not plain or ugly, what would you call her?” he askedwith studied casualness, setting his wineglass down on a small octagonal table between them. “A shrew, perhaps?”
Freddy slapped his knee delightedly. “Stab me, that’s it exactly,” he said eagerly. “The Shrew of London, that’s what they call her!”
“Tell me, since my curiosity is aroused, how might I meet this termagant?” St. Ryne asked, leaning back negligently in his chair. His eyes glinted through the lashes of his lazily hooded eyes, and a small smile tugged at his lips.
“Meet her? Stab me why you’d want to do that. All the fellows make a practice to steer clear of that one!”
“But I am not all the fellows and, as your… ah… friend pointed out, I have been out of the country for a good while in a climate that does not leave one with a well-ordered mind,” St. Ryne reminded him softly, a smile ghosting his lips.
Freddy shook his head. “You don’t know what you’d be getting yourself into.”
“Leave that to me.”
Freddy fidgeted in his chair. “All right. She’ll probably be at Amblethorp's rout tonight. Her father makes her go everywhere with Helene, though they don’t care for each other much. Not that Helene would ever say anything.” He sighed. “She’s so good.”
“Undoubtedly,” St. Ryne murmured leaning back in his chair, his hands forming a steeple of his fingers as he gazed off into the distance. The germ of an idea grew in his mind. It would enable him to fulfill his familial obligations and put a spoke in his mother’s wheel. Across the room Branstoke was motioning to the waiter, and a small crowd had gathered around him. Young Stanley came running up to Freddy, his round cheeks flushed and his eyes glinting with excitement.
“Freddy! Freddy! Branstoke’s called for the betting book! He’s betting 1,000 pounds that Elizabeth Monweithe will be wedbefore the year is out! Tretherford, Farley, and the others are all taking him up on it! Come on!”
