Cecilia chewed thoughtfully on the last of her toast. “And though Lady Mortlake disapproved of what I did, she was not too upset with me in the end.”
“The test will be to see if she invites you to any future dinner parties,” James drawled.
Cecilia laughed as she agreed.
They settled in the library,at a round table set before the windows, looking out the south side of the house toward the stables. Outside, Romley was directing a new stable lad on how to cool down James’ favorite horse after Romley had exercised him. Romley might be a tough old army campaigner; however, Cecilia always marveled at how patient he could be when teaching others.
She took a sip of her coffee, then pulled the diary toward her, at first flipping through the early pages, full of gossip and sly remarks about her conquests, and the clandestine rendezvous in the cottage. Her quick reading slowed when dates moved closer to Miss Inglewood’s death.
“Ah, James. Here is an entry with the same story young Summer told me about Georgia and the Cathcart twins. Listen:
April 23rd
I met the Cathcart twins outside the cottage this afternoon. Summer had been telling me something—I don’t remember what—when I saw the boys arguing. They were going on about who I smiled at first last Sunday. I don’tremember. They look identical to me. Within moments, they were at it, fists flying, shirts flung aside like boys at a fair.
I snorted. Highly unladylike, I know, but heavens, what a sight. Their arms glistened with sweat and dirt, and the sun caught every muscle when they swung. Gloriously well-defined blacksmith’s muscles. Summer gasped like a child at a puppet show and begged them to stop. I told her to hush—one doesn’t interrupt a performance. I?—
“Gracious,” Cecilia paused. “The young woman was wanton!” She raised a hand to her fichu and continued reading, her voice higher.
I’ll own I felt a tingling in my nether region that neither one of them had ever given me before—alone or together.
James barked a laugh.
“You see what I mean?” Cecilia asked, her eyes wide. She breathed in deeply, then returned to the book.
It was glorious while it lasted: two great oafs battering each other for a smile. La! They are as stupid as posts, both of them, but handsome in the rough way of horses.
“Horses! James, she characterized those nice young gentlemen we met like they are horses. Absolutely disgusting.” Cecilia shook her head and continued reading.
When they’d finished, panting and bleeding, they turned to me as if awaiting a prize. I gave each a handkerchief and told them they were both my champions—my blacksmith knights. They went red to the ears and swore eternal devotion.
Summer, from her ripe wisdom of 13 years, said I was wicked. Perhaps I am. But I cannot help it if men choose to fight over me; it isn’t my fault they make such fine entertainment.
“She’d have made a successful courtesan in London,” James drawled.
Cecilia nodded and read on. “Oh, here is another good passage from a day or so later:”
It is delicious to be adored.
“That speaks quite pointedly to her character,” James said.
“I agree, and it gets worse.”
I think half the parish is in love with me. If not, they should be.
It amuses me how everyone scurries at my bidding. Such fuss over a few leaves of pennyroyal! Gussie and Martha whispered like conspirators when they gave me their little parcel, as if they were playing at wickedness. Sweet, silly girls.
Haydon stared at me from the brewery’s door this morning, all self-importance and scorn. He pretends indifference, but I swear he watches every step I take. He scowls at me as if my mere presence would burn his beer, yet he fetched some pennyroyal for me all the same. –In secret, of course. He passed a small canvas bag of pennyroyal to Summer for me.
The Cathcart twins still limp about like wounded heroes, glaring at one another whenever I pass. They, too, passed pennyroyal to Summer for me.
I smiled at one of them today, just to see the other’s jaw tighten. One little glance, and they’ll be ready to swing again. Men are absurd creatures—built for my amusement.
“And here is where she talks about Viscount Kendell,” Cecilia said. She took another sip of coffee, then wrinkled her nose. “James, can you send for a fresh pot of coffee? This one has gone quite cold.”
With her coffee refreshed, Cecilia continued.
As for the Viscount—ah, he plays the grand gentleman, but I see how his eyes linger. He calls me reckless; I call him dull. When I am mistress of his fine house, he will thank me for rescuing him from boredom.
