THE MUDLARK Chapter 13

In which honor and love collide

Tristan knew by the grim set of Hollowell's jaw that the man would demand satisfaction for the compromised girl. Tristan was prepared to give it, but persuading Izzy could be another thing entirely. He wished Hollowell had given him more time, for he had not yet managed to broach that subject to her. She might not even realize its necessity yet.

"Good morning, Major," he said evenly. "I am grateful that you could come."

"Good morning, Miss Daventry, Captain. I am glad you sent for me. But I am sure you realize I would have come, in any event. I presume you have been about your duty as a gentleman."

"We've not had quite enough time for that, but you can be sure it will be done. However, there is more to the story than you realize, and it must be told first, both to you and to my aunt, who, I am afraid, has also been kept in the dark. Shall we return to the terrace, where everyone may sit comfortably?"

Once back on the small terrace, and with his audience seated on the white metal chairs, Tristan began his story again. Having told it once, it seemed to come more easily the second time.

"So you see, sir," he concluded, "when she heard you coming, and knowing I was unable to stand without help, Miss Daventry attempted to cover up my infirmity by giving the impression of a romantic engagement."

"I find it a bit difficult to comprehend that a lady would willingly compromise herself in such a way, Captain."

"I've learned Miss Daventry gives little thought to her own welfare in such situations. She has been known to disregard her dignity for the rescue of small kittens and children, as well. And while I wish she had not run such a risk for my sake, it is not surprising to me, for she has a soldier's courage."

Major Hollowell rose from the chair where he had been listening intently, and paced about on the paving stones.

"This explains a great deal. I saw you stagger and fall at Hougoumont, and thought you had been shot."

"Yes sir. I remember you coming to me. But I blacked out again, anyway."

"After the battle, no such wound could be found. I was puzzled about that, as I did not see how any other of your wounds could have accounted for that."

The major's face twisted into a thoughtful frown as he clasped his hands behind his back and continued his abrupt style of pacing, pivoting sharply several times before he began speaking again.

"You are correct, of course, Captain, that you cannot consider holding a command, at least under the pressures of a campaign. This is a tricky situation, however. If a man loses a leg, the solution is obvious. He is not, and will not be, fit for duty. But the only thing obvious in this situation is that we cannot tell what will happen, given sufficient time for recovery. And it is altogether possible that under peacetime conditions, you might function adequately, even this early in your recovery."

"But should war break out," Tristan countered, "I would find myself obligated to resign, and my men would face combat with an unfamiliar officer."

"That is true," said the major, "and there is always a risk of hostilities. But sometimes risks must be taken. And I would be put to it to find a replacement as competent as you.

"All of the Guards Corps suffered heavy losses, especially at Hougoumont, including many fine officers. I doubt, Captain, that you appreciate just how elated I was to see you alive and apparently well when I returned from Paris. When last I saw you, I thought you hadn't a prayer."

Again, the major resumed his precipitous to-and-fro pacing, as if he had not expected a reply to his declaration, then stopped suddenly and folded arms across his chest.

"It is too early, Captain. We shall give it another six months and assess your progress again. I shall expect you to keep an accurate account, so that we may speculate on your future with some assurance. Of course, in the event of renewed hostilities, I would require a more immediate decision.

"Your men must be told. I will inform them that you continue to suffer the ill effects from your head injury at Quatre Bras, but with sufficient time for recovery, may return to us in the future. Is that satisfactory?"

"Yes sir, thank you."

"Now, Captain, on the other matter?" The major fixed his eyes upon Tristan in a manner that made his meaning clear.

Yes. He had expected that. Hollowell would never allow such a slur to a young lady's name. Tristan understood his duty. What surprised him, however, was that he found himself not merely willing, but very nearly eager, to perform it.

But Izzy had other ideas.

"Major Hollowell," she said, and jumped to her feet as a punctuation to her words. "Surely you must realize he had nothing to say about that. The initiative was all my own."

"It makes no difference, Izzy," replied Tristan, "and it is time we discussed the matter, anyway. Privately, of course." Turning again to his commanding officer, Tristan decided he must further clarify things. "Unfortunately, as she is the most stubborn of creatures, I can make no promises."

"I insist that you be persuasive, Captain. This is not a light matter. You are fortunate, in fact, that it has gone no further than Lady Hollowell and myself, and I believe she can be persuaded to allow you to come to the right decision."

Izzy's face grew so pale, he feared she might faint as she absorbed the impact of Hollowell's statement. She would not faint, of course. Izzy was prone to altogether different sorts of fits and starts. But if ever anything had threatened the success of their scheme, this was it.

The implication was clear. He was to make the correct decision, as determined by Major Hollowell, and see to it that Izzy did as well.

Surely they could use this to advantage, however, if they thought it out.

***

There were now, it seemed, few restrictions being placed on them, so certain was everyone that a marriage was in the offing. It had been her idea in the beginning, but Izzy was starting to feel uncomfortable with it. Not that Tristan was anything less than an enjoyable companion. He smiled, laughed, played jokes on her. And she loved every minute of it.

But it was a lie. She looked at Lady Haverlock's cheery face, knowing it was the lady's sincere faith in the obvious fact that her nephew would soon be coming up to scratch that gave her that look. And as Izzy whirled about the ballroom in Tristan's arms, she saw a sea of beaming faces, of those who watched yet another turn in the wheel of tradition, who saw themselves growing older as they watched the younger folk repeating the cycle of life, going where they had once been.

Once, Izzy had looked upon the social whirl as simple frivolity. Now she saw it was the wheel ever turning, with life ever renewing itself. That was what they cheered. A new love forming and growing, renewing their faith in humanity.

And it was a lie. As happy as Tristan might seem, or even be, he did not love her. He loved Patricia, and Patricia loved him. And, Izzy having learned to care about him, wished happiness for him. She could not come between them.

She could not say she had ever really loved Donald, although she had never denied it on the many occasions when Tristan had mentioned her 'true love'. She and Donald had once been children playing by the brook and dabbling in a future fantasy. Perhaps love would come with time.

Yet, when she was with Tristan, her heart demanded something more, something grand and beautiful, all-encompassing, the way she had felt when Tristan had lowered his lips to capture hers. Would she ever have that with Donald?

It really mattered little, for all the others were happy with the plan. And she could not allow Tristan to be pushed into a marriage with her when he yearned for Patricia.

Very well, then, on with the plan. She would have this short time with him. And she would hold her secret to her heart for the remainder of her life. It would be enough, because she would make it be enough. With that thought, the smile come back to her face.

She could not quite get over the difference in Tristan. The precision with which he made his perfect bow to her at the waltz's end, his graceful moves as he offered his arm for escort, were the same movements he had always made. She could detect no nameable distinction. Yet, it seemed so different now. That grim obligation was gone, replaced by something rather akin to happiness or delight. Perhaps, that was it. He had at last let go of that hideous burden he had carried on his shoulders for so long. And she could not help but return his joyous smile.

"You have no escort for the next dance. Shall we walk in the garden? We will be in good company."

Izzy smiled at him. By that, she knew he referred to Donald and Patricia, who had arrived just before the waltz had begun. The time to escape was fast approaching. He escorted her to the far side of the ballroom where their opposites awaited. A moment of pleasantries established their continuing friendship to those who had speculated on a permanent split, and they walked out onto the terrace and down among the fragrant roses. What a turn that would give the gossip-mongers!

The garden was gaily lit with lanterns swinging in the balmy air, well-occupied, and not a place for trysting this night. Nor did it give adequate opportunity for their need to private conversation. But Donald and Tristan had planned it this way, to mitigate the final outcome. If they continued hostility between the two couples, the men had reasoned, people might look more harshly on the switch when it came about.

"I don't like it," Donald mumbled at the first opportunity to speak, shortly after the third matron had gushed effusively over the 'darling couples'. "They think us far too cute. That could make for a very difficult reckoning when we return."

"Agreed," said Tristan. "The sooner done, the better, I think. Perhaps we might have it put out soon after we leave that we have merely assisted each other. They will not look upon it kindly if we have taken a two weeks' journey entirely in the company of the other's sweetheart."

"Oh, I disagree," Patricia put in. "The whole idea has been to get the two of you safely away before you can be caught and returned. Your father will be on your trail immediately if he learns the true nature of the game."

"And mine, as well," added Izzy. "No, we will just have to explain when we return. And they will have to accept it. But it might be better if we actually could switch immediately after departing."

"We've tried to work that out, Izzy," said Donald. "But there are several things that stand in the way. We cannot coordinate departures that closely, and you and Tristan must have as much time to get away as possible. Further, if someone does come after us, and you are with Tristan, they might actually allow you to continue on your way. If you are with me, well..."

Izzy sighed. "I suppose we have thought it out as well as we might. And, all in all, I am not truly bothered about all that. I suppose I am bothered more to be deceiving people."

"Of course, you are, as you are so kind-hearted," Patricia replied. "But there is no other way if we are to live up to our promises to each other. I do understand, Izzy, I feel much the same way. But we must do what we must do, as you said to me."

Izzy gave Patricia a grateful smile, grateful in more ways than she could tell her. Patricia was a fine lady, and she loved Tristan. She would take good care of him.

"Nor can we leave on the same day, Izzy," Donald added. "You must leave on Monday night, if you are to have the optimum time before you are discovered. But we must wait until Wednesday, when Lord and Lady Morrowton go off to Brighton."

Donald's watch chimed twelve. And Tristan grumbled at the irritating sound. Donald beamed with superior pride at Tristan's agitation.

Izzy sighed. They were willing enough co-conspirators. But she doubted they would ever be friends.

***

On Monday following, Tristan and Izzy stood on the white stone steps of Lady Haverlock's townhouse and watched her coach drive away. The lady waved and blew a kiss from the coach window, as the coach turned south toward Surrey and the home of her second cousin, where she would spend the coming two weeks in wedding preparations.

Tristan didn't believe it for a minute, and knew Izzy didn't, either. A little research had confirmed that Cousin Gertrude, although very much a recluse, had no daughters. No sons, either. She'd had a childless marriage of two years' duration, and had remained happily widowed for thirty-seven years. But neither Tristan nor Izzy objected to the mild deceit.

The plan was simple, set to follow an early soiree to which they had committed themselves, and carefully worked around Mrs. Kittlington's habit of dozing off early. By morning, when their absence would be first noted, they would have journeyed a good thirty miles. And when Marie and Mrs. Kittlington first began to wail over the mysterious disappearance of their charge, Marshall would console them with the story of the runaway marriage, and with letters to be imparted to all who would worry. Tristan smiled to himself thinking how carefully Izzy had chosen her words to her father, neither telling a lie nor giving away the plot.

Tension and eagerness stretched tautly between them that evening. Under Mrs. Kittlington's watchful, if somewhat near-sighted gaze, Izzy descended the curving staircase to greet him, wearing a gown that shimmered between azure and sea green, reminding him of her changeling eyes.

Without a word, he went to her and removed the strand of pearls from her neck. From a box, he produced a replacement, a golden chain with a strangely beautiful array of aquamarines, amethysts, and peridots arranged in patterns like summer flowers. He had seen the necklace that afternoon, when, in an odd and perplexed mood, he had wandered into an unfamiliar jeweler's store. Immediately he had thought of her and her enchanting eyes of many colors. He had no explanation for what he had done. He simply had bought it.

Startled, she mumbled a garbled thanks as he leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. Perhaps it was his way of expressing his own gratitude for her kindness, for the sacrifice she had made for him. Perhaps it was, well, he didn't know what it was. But he could not let the fondness he had come to feel for her go unexpressed.

Once inside the coach, she breathed out a heavy breath that she must have been holding from the minute she had descended the stairs. "You didn't have to do that, Tristan."

"Perhaps not, but it reminded me of your eyes. Are you ready, then?"

"Hmf," said the dour Mrs. Kittlington, whose ears were nearly as deaf as stones without the ear trumpet which she refused to bring on social occasions.

"Yes," Izzy said, "I am ready." Her large eyes shone like light jewels, speaking the things she dared not put in words.

"Do you still have the headache?" he asked, to match the cover story she would have given to her chaperon. "It is still not too late to back out."

"Yes. But everyone is also counting on me. I should not like to think I failed my friends."

Yes. He must remind himself that however fond he might be of her, she didn't want to be stuck with him. Very possibly, she still found him only tolerable because she needed him to help her marry Donald. But he had known that, all along. It was only recently that it had begun to hurt.

He owed her that much, and a great deal more.

"Did you finish your shopping today?" she asked.

"Yes. I found everything I needed." And a few other things she hadn't asked for, on the off-hand chance she might need them. They had decided she was to take nothing that might give them away too soon, so Tristan had arranged for a traveling wardrobe to be made up by Madame Violette, which he picked up himself, to avoid the discovery which might have occurred, had it been delivered.

“And the items for Marshall?"

He nodded. "And I found a nice coach robe, since winter is coming." He held forth the robe for her inspection, not mentioning the little down pillow he had stuffed in the boot for her...

"Oh, a Cashmere. How lovely, Tristan."

He smiled, wanting to tell her about the clean sheets Marshall had insisted on packing since one could never tell about the quality of public inns. Of course, at that point, Tristan had to insist he stop, or he would have packed the entire household. It was difficult enough to persuade Marshall to stay behind as it was.

At the soiree, she played her part with perfection, even to answering compliments about the unusual necklace. He amplified upon it, saying he envisioned having ear bobs made to match. No one commented directly to them about his aunt's absence, thus heightening in Tristan's mind the extent to which the expectation of marriage went. Well, they were right, but they were wrong, as well. Odd, he thought, that he felt a little sad about that. But there was his promise to Patricia.

In the crush, they passed slowly up the broad staircase on one side of the entry, wended through an entire floor of rooms, pressing along with the crowd, nodding, greeting, seeing, being seen, finally coming full circle and passing down the staircase on the other side. They spoke to their hostess before departing along with the flow of the crowd. It was the perfect event from which to launch their escapade.

Hervey, being quite accustomed to such affairs, had kept the coach in place in the long chain of coaches that now circled back to once again gather their owners and take them on to some other similar crush. But Tristan's coach was different, a town coach fitted unobtrusively for traveling. It had two trunks beneath the baggage curtain.

Having left the soiree and once again inside the coach beside her chaperon, Izzy rubbed her temples and frowned. "Perhaps you are right, Tristan. The headache is returning, Perhaps we should go home."

He rapped on the top and imparted the direction to Hervey.

Less than two hours later, Izzy slipped out the back door, through the garden and into the waiting coach.

"Well, my dear," he said, laughing to himself at the odd, uncertain way her eyes sparkled. "I am sorry to say, you are about to be ruined. Shall we be off?"

With only a second's hesitation, Izzy nodded. He gave her a reassuring smile, and just to seal the bargain, leaned forward and gave her a kiss, this time on her lips.

Once beyond Mayfair, the coach picked up speed.

"What do you think Major Hollowell will do to you for this?" Izzy asked Tristan.

"He could cashier me."

"Do you think he will?"

"No," he said, although he was not at all that certain. If it just hadn't been for that kiss. "It will be all right."

He hoped.

She seemed not to be relieved, but sat beside him with a very artificial smile upon her face.

"We won't be followed this early in the game," he told her. "We appear to have done a reasonably good job of chasing our fathers back to the country, so they will not learn for a few days. I've kept a traveling dress out of the trunks, so that you may change. If you like, I'll have Hervey stop. I'll ride atop with him, for a while."

"Oh, no, you needn't."

"But it would be best if you are not seen in evening dress. We don't want to create memorable impressions when we stop for fresh horses. And you will want to rest. You could do that better in something more comfortable."

So, she agreed. Tristan loosened the tiny buttons running down the middle of the gown's back, judiciously avoiding the silky skin beneath the fabric. And he removed himself and rode atop until she announced she was finished.

But then, there were still the hooks on that dress, which required fitting into unusually tight loops. He had always been better at unfastening hooks than fastening them, but he thought it better not to mention that.

Soon, she lay down across the rear seat beside him, pillow at her head, and robe across her. After a few minutes, she sat up again.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"No. I suppose I am not yet ready to sleep."

"I don't believe you, Izzy."

"Well, of course, there is nothing wrong. Everything is going absolutely right."

"Ah. Then, what is wrong is that everything is much too right. And you find yourself speeding down the road to matrimony somewhat faster than you had intended. Still think you'll make a cake of yourself?"

"Well, to a point, yes."

"Trust me, Izzy. You'll do fine."

"Mmm."

He could not resist a small laugh. "All right. What is the question?"

"Well, I--What does--I mean, how can I--Oh, never mind."

"Out with it, Izzy."

She tried again, stammering about awkwardly. So it was not kisses that concerned her.

"How can a girl tell, well, what does a man do when he--What does--"

"Ah, that."

"Well, does he say something?"

"As a rule, I would say a gentleman would not be so blatant to a lady. But there are still other ways a man can let a lady know of his interest."

"But, how?"

"Well, do you know how to tell when a man wants to kiss a lady?"

She looked even more perplexed. "No. I suppose not."

"Perhaps he might look at a lady overmuch, catch her eye more often than might be polite."

"But that is so terribly ambiguous. He might mean something else entirely."

"Yes, he might. But then, he might arrange to be a little closer to her than she finds comfortable. Perhaps touch her, discreetly, of course." He raised a finger to caress across her cheek. Her large aquamarine eyes widened, reminding him of an early spring day.

"If he should put an arm around her, at her shoulders, of course, he would indicate a desire to possess her. Or he might finger a lock of her hair," he added in a vaguely faraway voice, and he caught a small, dark tendril between two fingers and his thumb.

"Are you teaching a lesson? Or is this because you want to?" And her lips parted just enough to show the tip of her tongue that darted out to moisten her lips.

"Both," he answered. "It is a lesson, in wanting."

The arm that encircled her at her shoulder drew her close, within a hair's breadth of his lips that searched a trail across her cheek until finding hers. "This," he whispered between nibbles at her lips, "this is how you know a man wants to kiss you."

This was not a chaste kiss. It was a kiss lit with fire, fueled from a desire that had been burning within him from the moment he had watched her descend the stairs that evening. It wasn't wise. Not at all. No more prudent than the way he held her, nor the way his hand made its way down her back.

He had to stop it, stop it now. It had never been his nature to be beyond his own control, and he would not allow it, now. But it was almost painful to pull away from her.

"Now, do you know?" he asked, his voice a ragged murmur.

"Yes." Her voice was no more than a faint sound like the purring of a cat.

"Lie down and sleep, now. It's going to be a long night." He fluffed the small down pillow and laid it beside his thigh. Shyly, she lowered her gaze and lay down on the pillow, pulling the soft carriage robe over her.

But although he might have of necessity given up the kiss, he now permitted his hand to come to rest on her silken hair, which he brushed tenderly with his fingers. It was going to be a long night, a very long night.

And a very, very long trip.

THE MUDLARK: Chapter 12

In which the gentleman learns beauty is as beauty does

And honor is more than glory earned in battle

Tristan folded the newspaper and laid it on the morning room table. At least the incident had not hit the papers. But what came next? If he did what was right by Izzy, he would be forced into revealing his secret. If he didn't--But there was no question of that. He could not let her reputation go to ruin.

And it certainly was not her fault, although she had made a poor choice, at great risk to herself. She had only wanted to protect him from exposure. He winced. It was a strange feeling, that a mere slip of a girl would willingly sacrifice her own regard to protect his male honor.

He didn't even know why. He had only begged her to protect his secret, and on that alone, she had virtually given up her entire future. It was a kind of integrity and courage he had never considered a woman might have.

He had, in fact, never thought of women as being much more than children, and had assumed they, as a group, were more or less like his mother, who had been interested only in whatever gave her pleasure at the time. They, he had always thought, gave birth, then turned their offspring over to be raised by others less fortunately born.

Oh, there were those, like Aunt Peaches, who were more kindhearted and responsible. Now, he realized, he had even placed Aunt Peaches in that same category, despite all she had done for him. But like Izzy, her frivolous nature was more an illusion than reality. Like Izzy, she found life full of joy. That did not mean that she was irresponsible.

Peaches was anything but irresponsible. She had taken him in as a hurting, lonely child, and given him all she could. And he had given back only his patronizing male disrespect.

He had done the same thing to Izzy. And she did not deserve it any more than did his aunt. What she did deserve was his trust.

So. He had a lot of bridges to rebuild.

***

Izzy always took her morning chocolate in the library with Lady Haverlock. It was her favorite time of day, a time to look out over the garden and enjoy the new colors of the morning, to feel the warm sunshine that poured through the windows and cast latticed shadows on the polished wooden floor.

It was a time when they usually planned ahead for the day, talked about what had gone on the night before. But not today. Today, neither brilliant sunshine nor fresh blooms brought on by yesterday's rain seemed to inspire them.

Lady Haverlock probed delicately, without putting Izzy's promise to the test, but her desperation showed.

The silence hung like a dark, tenuous cloud.

"The rhododendrons are lovely, this morning, Lady Haverlock," Izzy said.

"Yes, they grow lovelier every day," Lady Haverlock replied. Her lyrical voice had a plaintive note to it.

Lady Haverlock took a few more stitches on her embroidery, then gazed out the window. Considering the pace at which it proceeded, she might have been working that particular piece for twenty years.

When the clip of boot heels resounded in the corridor, Izzy and Lady Haverlock sat up abruptly, trading anxious glances, and focused on the library door.

"Good morning, Aunt Peaches, Miss Daventry."

Even though they were expecting him, both women jumped at the sound of his voice. Izzy could see the relief in Lady Haverlock's face, as if she had feared her beloved nephew would never emerge again.

"Good morning, Tristan, dear," Lady Haverlock said in her sing song way. "Are you feeling quite the thing this morning? Have some chocolate, dear."

"Thank you, Aunt Peaches, I am quite well now, but I will pass on the chocolate." His dark blue eyes had a different look to them, now. Clear, not clouded with distant pain, sad, yet somehow at peace.

"We must talk in a little while, Aunt, but I would like to settle things with Miss Daventry first, if I may."

"Of course, dear. But I will be waiting, you understand."

"The garden, Miss Daventry?"

The devastation she had seen the night before had vanished. Nor was there that look of the hunted animal she had sometimes seen.

"Yes, of course," she replied, feeling oddly tentative as she reached out to take the hand he held out to her. Strange, that this touching of hands felt so much more intimate, even than the kiss they had shared the day before.

He led her all the way to the garden wall, where a stone bench sat amongst rhododendrons in brilliant red bloom, but he seemed torn between standing and sitting. Exhaling a large gulp of air, he leaned into the brick wall, arms folded over his chest.

"You deserve an explanation," he said simply.

"Only if you wish to give it."

"I have not treated you well at all, Izzy. I find it hard to believe you can even be kind to me."

She shrugged. "Sometimes it is easy. Sometimes it is not."

"You must have guessed most of it, by now."

"Yes. Well, at least you are not an opium addict, as I thought for a while."

"An opium addict? Well, actually, you were not far off with that assumption, either. There was a time when it was close to being true, I'm sure. There's little else that deals with pain. Are you sure you want to hear this? It's an ugly story."

"I expected it to be. Yes. I wish to hear it."

Tristan crossed his arms and breathed deeply. "It was true, I was wounded at Hougoumont, as you have been told. But two days before, at Quatre Bras, I took a slice in the head with a saber. That's the scar you found on my scalp. I saw nothing but a dead French officer, but as I walked past him, he rose up and swung his saber. Russell, my sergeant, cut him down, but the Frenchman's blade still made contact.

"I don't know why I wasn't killed, Izzy. A saber can slice entirely through a man's skull. But Russell reacted quickly enough to take the force out of the man's stroke.

"It didn't seem all that bad, at the time. I felt worse the time I was kicked by a horse. Marshall sewed it up for me, and I was back with my troops the next day as we retreated toward Mont Ste. Jean. Sergeant Russell, of course, thought no officer had the sense to take care of himself, and was afraid I'd fall off the horse, so he tied me on."

"And you've been falling off horses ever since."

His smile twisted snidely in response. "The one time only, actually. The next day, the day of the big battle, we held Hougoumont through the entire battle, even though we suffered one assault after another. But we thought we were lost when they broke through the gate. Before we could force it closed again, a number of Frenchies broke through and were trapped inside. I was facing them, ready to fight, and suddenly I couldn't keep my balance and blacked out. They hacked me up rather thoroughly. Again, it was Russell that saved me. But he didn't last the day. He was blown apart by Ney's horse artillery, as were a lot of my men. I was no longer conscious, so I learned about it later."

He threw his head back and bit against his lip, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. She wanted to throw her arms around him, ease the pain. But she knew she must not. She stepped closer to him and took his hand in hers.

"To get to the point, no one gave the head wound much credence. They didn't expect me to live anyway. There weren't enough field surgeons, and men were dying all around us. There were not even enough men to carry the injured off the battlefield, even when they could be reached. It was Marshall who kept me alive after the battle, and I really don't know how. Everything healed rather well, eventually. But these spells keep coming back."

"What are they?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. They are not even always the same. It usually starts with a severe pain, then I lose my balance, get weak, then black out. I usually wake up again after a few minutes, and the pain lasts a few more hours, up to a day. I can deal with the pain, but I can't control the blackouts. Lately, though, there has been more time between the pain and the blackout, so I have been able to identify them as they are coming on, in time to do something about them."

"But why do you have to hide it?"

Tristan leaned his head back against the wall. "If the word gets out, I would lose my commission. I had hoped the problem would go away before I had to return to the Guards. But I think I hoped in vain. I see no alternative now but to tell Major Hollowell."

"But why? Can you not wait a little longer?"

"But the truth is, Izzy, I must do it sooner or later, for I am unfit for duty, and would therefore be a risk to my men. I could not bear that any more of my men died because I was incapacitated... My mind is made up on this."

He took her two small hands between his broad ones, and fixed her gaze with his solemn eyes. "Izzy, I am sorry for the things I said to you last night, and all the things I've said to you in the past. I truly am. From the beginning, I jumped to conclusions about you that were both wrong and unfair. I really cannot say why I did, but it seems although I called you immature, you do somewhat better than I do in that respect."

"I am afraid I do not understand it, either," she replied, shaking her head. "I cannot think why it makes you so angry when I am having a good time. It seems as if you believe I do not deserve to enjoy life."

"I suppose I do resent it that you, and all of England, were laughing, playing, dancing at balls, when all around me my men were suffering and dying."

"I cannot think what I could have done about that."

"You couldn't have, of course. It just seems so unfair. They are dead. They will never laugh, or dance again. They will never come home, Izzy."

So that was it. Izzy folded her arms in mockery of his pose and raised her chin haughtily. "And who are you, sir, to have come home without them? How dare you live, when they are dead?"

"Izzy--"

"Isn't that it, Tristan? That you think you have no right to be alive?"

He did not answer, only stood and stared at her, as if he were guilty of some horrible crime. Then, she was right.

"They cannot come home, Tristan. But it is not your fault."

But he shook his head. "Russell saved my life twice, but he was killed, and I was not there to help him."

"Yet you spurn his gift as if it were meaningless. He gave you your life, even at the cost of his own. Don't you think he would want you to treasure it?"

Tristan hung his head sadly. "There were so many of them, Izzy."

"How many?"

A flicker of something bright shone in his eyes. "I don't know. More than ten thousand British troops. Then there were Belgians, Dutch, Prussians, not to mention French."

"Tristan, could you really have done anything to save them?"

"Perhaps. I don't know."

"While you were wounded and unconscious? Doesn't that sound a bit unreasonable?"

"But I shouldn't have been wounded. I should have been watching more closely."

"Then, it could also be said that Sergeant Russell was at fault for the entire thing, for if he had done a better job, moved sooner, you would not have been injured, and then you would have been around to save his life later."

"Now, that sounds unreasonable to me."

"Of course it is, equally so. I may not know much about war, Tristan, but I know enough to realize not very many soldiers have the luxury of stepping out of the way in time, before a canister strikes."

Had he been a smaller person, Izzy might have placed a comforting arm around his shoulders, but they were too high for her to reach. Instead, she reached beneath his arms to circle his chest with her arms. She laid her cheek against his chest as she felt his arms come around her.

"I think, my friend," she said, "that you have suffered a terrible loss, and you have not finished grieving. I should have understood that. People do become almost unaccountably angry when someone they love dies. And they blame themselves even when they could have changed nothing."

"I know. I should put it behind me."

"Not until it's finished. That's something you really cannot hurry or cast aside until it's done."

For a few long moments, he merely held her, and let his hand stroke over her hair. Then, he set her back from him, but held his arms at her shoulders. "Now, love, there are things I want to know. Izzy, tell me what happened the day we met."

Izzy stiffened. She hadn't expected that. Somehow, it was easier to deal with his troubles than her own. But he had trusted her, so why should she fear trusting him? Only a flicker of a sideways glance served as her answer.

His solemn face warmed, and he studied her with an odd look of curiosity. "I have never quite quizzed out how a lady managed to get herself into such a fix."

Her resentment grew. "I thought you had decided I am not a lady. I told you. I fell in."

"And of course, had the foresight to remove your slippers, but not your stockings."

"I'm afraid I must shock you once again, Tristan. I was not wearing stockings."

"You did not fall in. You went in."

"Very well. I went in."

"And that is what I find beyond my imagination."

Izzy flared her nose, recalling the several times she had thought him probably without any imagination to be beyond. But such an unworthy thought was not based on what she had observed recently. He now sought some way to break out of that rigid cage that contained and smothered him. But did she dare give him another weapon to use against her?

"I want to know, Izzy."

Once, he had branded that nickname as too atrocious to speak aloud. Now he used it with ease, almost affectionately. Did it mean he truly cared? Could she really trust him, as he had just trusted her? She had always been secretly adventuresome. Surely, it was a risk she could bear.

"Very well. It was to rescue a drowning kitten."

"A kitten?" A dubious frown closed down around his eyes. "Cats do not usually make a habit of swimming in streams."

"When nasty little boys throw them in, they can swim better than any dog you've ever seen. But this one had no chance against the current. She was much too small."

"I saw that stream, Izzy. You could have been killed."

She shook her head. "Very unlikely. It is not above my knees at its worst, except in certain deep holes. And I know where those are. And if I did not go in, Daisy Samples surely would have."

"Daisy Samples?"

"She is the owner of the kitten, and barely five years old."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you?" she sneered. "I cannot recall you asking, or for that matter, providing so much as an opening that was not accompanied by an insult."

"Did you think me so crass as to not care about a kitten and a little girl?"

"How could I know? You seem to care about nothing but your own interpretation of propriety. And I am perfectly aware that true ladies do not do such things."

"Perhaps so," he said, his smile lop-sided. "Most ladies would never do what you did. But perhaps you are something more than a lady."

She had become far too accustomed to that other side of him, that sneered when her hair slipped its moorings, or disdained the bounce in her step or the music in her voice. She turned away, uncomfortable with the mix of things stirring within her.

But he turned her back to face him, and again brought her into his arms.

"Izzy." He stroked the long hair that flowed down her back. "I've had a lot of friends in my life, Izzy, but I've never had one like you."

"Well, I suppose that's something."

"Yes. It is."

Hearing the clip of boot heels on the paving stones, Izzy looked down the path and saw Major Hollowell and Lady Haverlock approach. Tristan sighed and released her from his arms.

"Well, the time of reckoning has come."

"Can you not wait until you are more certain?"

"I'm tired of living a lie, Izzy. It has hurt too many people. And besides, he will demand an explanation. It was Major Hollowell and his wife who interrupted us last night."

THE MUDLARK: Chapter 11

In which a secret is betrayed, and then betrays in kind

Something about her felt so right. Something in the way she fit in his arms, something about the pliant softness of lips that parted eagerly to meet his. He had meant it to be chaste. But a new fire, from ancient past as much as from the moment, burst forth. Something that had long been missing, something that brought him back from the void where he had been imprisoned.

Treacherous need fought him for control. But a girl deserved a first kiss that did not frighten her. And she was, after all, a girl destined to marry another man.

He ended it far too soon, far too late. When her eyes opened to meet his, they were wide and solemn, as if the playfulness had been stolen from them. A piece of her innocence was gone, and he had taken it.

"Is that it, then?" she asked.

"It? Well, no. It's only one kind of kiss, and there are many different kinds."

"Like what?"

His body jerked abruptly, protesting, as he withdrew from her. He needed to get out of there, and fast. He needed, in fact, to be locked up where he could not get at her.

"I'm sorry. What did I do?"

He was sure the irony twisted visibly on his face. "Nothing. You did nothing wrong." Nothing wrong, perhaps, but not precisely nothing.

"I don't understand."

"Men are more affected by such things than women."

Izzy put her fingers to her lips, as if she still felt the kiss that had been there. "I cannot see how. I can think of nothing else that could be so powerful."

She might not. But he could. He drew her again to him, this time with a wildfire burning in him, a whirlwind raging all about, as his lips descended once again to claim hers, as if they might belong to him, to him alone. And she again, perfectly giving, pliant, accepting.

But her lips did not belong to him. Nor did she. He forced the separation between them, feeling as if he tore himself in half.

Tristan took a deep, ragged breath. "I think it would be prudent of me to take my leave, now," he said.

He turned abruptly, and strode through the door, down the stairs and as far away from her as he could go.

***

The carriage jarred over a bump, jostling Izzy and Lady Haverlock against each other.

Izzy adjusted her oddly fitting pelisse which seemed always to pop open at embarrassing places. She determined to get rid of it at the first opportunity. Give it away to the nearest urchin, if she must. Then she tugged at the low neckline of her gown that also made her feel uneasy, wishing she had never allowed him to talk her into it.

She did not know what to make of him. But then, she never knew what to make of him. He was wearing his mask again, cold and aloof. There would be no pleasing him tonight.

Sometimes, she wondered why she cared. He seemed so much like a jungle of sentiment, void as the universe at the same time. Perhaps that was why he was so good at cunning, that he had nothing inside him. Nothing real about him, only an empty shell that played at being human.

She caught his eye. He turned away. Well. She did the same. He would do the pretty with exquisite form as he always did, but he himself would be far away, if he was anywhere at all.

Once inside the magnificent foyer of the Cunningham mansion, Izzy shed the hated pelisse, to reveal for the first time the evening dress Tristan had chosen. He gawked in horror at her ample bosom, which he had previously called her best asset, very possibly wishing he had never seen that pattern card. No doubt he was acutely mortified at her nakedness. Izzy squared her shoulders, determined it would not signify, for she saw many dresses every night that bore far bolder necklines. No matter what he thought, she would hold her head high.

He announced he would have the waltz and the supper dance. She wished he had not. Mr. Bottleworth came immediately and requested his obligatory limit of two dances, ignoring Tristan's glower utterly. Others laid their claims, and very quickly, her night was full.

When Lady Haverlock spotted friends and moved away to chat, Izzy said to Tristan, without turning in his direction, "I do wish you would tell me what I have done."

"You've done nothing."

As if she believed that.

She danced with Mr. Bottleworth, returned. He had stood and watched with an impassive mask covering his face. He could have danced, if he wished, for there were many young women who sat in their chairs with pained anticipation etched on their faces, who would have eagerly welcomed the opportunity. But he did not.

She danced with Lord Birstall. Then Lord Letton. Tristan might as well be carved of marble, except that he breathed.

Had her kiss been so terrible?

Then, the dance was his, and it was a waltz. He danced so perfectly, as he did everything else. A tear crept into her eye, and she did not know why. She wanted the waltz to go on forever, yet wished it would abruptly end, and end her misery. The waltz came to its conclusion in its own time, and he tucked her arm around and under his, led her on a perfect promenade, and she could not summon more than a thin, brittle line for a smile. At length, he left her in her place, with a perfect bow, and brought her the glass of champagne she had requested. All so very, very properly.

But Izzy was not one to endure misery in silence. "You cannot fool me, sir. I know a cold shoulder when I feel one. You are being unfair."

"Life isn't fair, Izzy."

"I do not expect it to be. But as you profess to be a gentleman, you should be."

She saw, then, his eyes, seething like hot coals. "You are a spoiled child, Izzy. You cannot stand for one moment not to be the very center of the universe."

She flinched, flailed by his cruel words. Her lips drew tight over her teeth. She wasn't going to let him bring her to tears.

"Excuse me," he said. The clipped words sliced like a knife. He spun on his heel and walked with a keenly honed, elegant grace, past those who sat and talked, out through French doors.

Wherever he might go, let him go. She didn't need his heartlessness. Mr. Bottleworth stepped up to claim his second dance, and she gave him a metallic smile as he led her out. But she watched the French doors.

Again back in her place, deserted by both the lady and her nephew, Izzy began to seethe. No, she would not roll herself out like a carpet for him to walk on. Before Letton came to claim his dance, she was gone, past the watchers, and out through the French doors. Let the tongue-waggers wag.

She saw him quickly, at the balustraded stone railing that wrapped around the narrow terrace, leaning into it, and looking very much like a drunk about to be sick. She knew the look. She'd seen her father drunk, often enough.

Was that it, then? Had he been sneaking drinks all night? But she could not imagine when. It made no sense. She almost left, but then renewed her resolve.

He heard her as she stepped close, and looked up. "Leave me alone, Izzy."

"You have certainly become rag-mannered, tonight," she retorted.

"Leave me alone," he repeated with a threatening growl.

For a moment that seemed to stretch on to hours, she wavered, both wanting to attack and needing to retreat.

"Very well, sir. If you wish to be left alone, I shall do so. Enjoy your misery!"

Something trembled in her chest as she turned, but she set her jaw and lifted her chin, determined to make as graceful an exit as she might. Why should she care about him? He was not worth--

An odd, guttural whimper penetrated through her haze of misery, followed by a groan. She turned back.

He collapsed to his knees, his hands locked onto the stone rail, as if he were clinging to it for his life.

"Iz--Oh, God, Izzy!"

Izzy dashed to him, caught his head as he fell backward toward the paving, his massive body limp, like some giant rag doll, heavy as stones.

"You're not drunk! You're sick!"

His breath was like searing rags. His head swayed.

"Tristan, let me go get someone."

"No," he gasped, and his wild eyes rolled. "No," he said in a softer voice that oozed and trembled as he gasped for air. "No, Izzy, please. Don't let anyone know."

This was what he was hiding. Whatever it was. Not a seizure, for she'd seen those. Nor was he drunk or drugged. But his legs seemed not to obey him, and he looked like he was about to lose consciousness, but he was fighting it, and not doing a particularly good job of winning.

"All right, then. Let me help you up."

"You'll just fall with me."

"Nonsense. I'm stronger than you think."

"Just wait a minute."

His ragged breaths began to smoothe, become more even. He leaned his head against her shoulder. "Izzy, I'm sorry."

She understood what he meant, but it was no longer important. "Never mind that. We seem to have other problems at the moment." Izzy cradled his head against her body with one hand, holding fast to him with the other arm to prevent his falling, and feeling like a mother rocking a hurt child.

When he raised his head again, she could tell that it was time. With her arms wrapped snugly about his chest, she urged him to his feet.

"Back up to the wall," she instructed. "You can rest on the railing, with the wall to support you."

Although he seemed to be regaining strength, she still supported most of his weight as she guided him backward until his back rested securely against the dark bricks. He groped for the stone railing and sat on it. Still, she did not let go, for he seemed unable to balance himself.

"I didn't mean it, Izzy," he said. And the words seemed clearer, less a patch of garbled, gasp-filled sounds.

"I know. You should let me go for help."

"No, Izzy, please," he moaned.

"All right, then. We'll figure it out." All he needed right now was to rest, and be safe from falling, surely, for his strength seemed to be returning.

"Is this what happened when you fell off the horse?"

He only nodded, and so jerkily that she suspected it caused him pain.

She recalled that odd day when he had taken her out to Kensington Gardens and had given his awkward apology. It might have been that day, too. She decided to reserve her questions for later, when he was better equipped to deal with them.

"You look a fright," she said, and combed her fingers through his hair in a futile attempt to restore the beautiful shape it had had just a short time ago. Marshall would no doubt despair if he saw his handsome employer, now. But then, Marshall probably knew all about it.

"I cannot imagine how we are going to get you out of here."

"In a minute."

His breathing was slow and even. Then that must mean the attack, whatever it was, was ending. He raised his head. His dark eyes seemed to glow with the horror of Hell. But his strength was returning.

"Devil take it. Someone's coming."

From the French doors came voices, mixed male and female, growing louder. She had been too engrossed to hear them.

"Oh, no!" He would be discovered. No one could doubt he was ill if they saw him.

"Up!" she commanded him, dragging him to his feet. The people were almost close enough to see them. She couldn't allow that. But there was no time to get away.

Bracing him against the wall with her body, she grabbed his face and brought his lips down to meet hers in her best approximation of a passionate kiss. Fortunate thing, those lessons.

As if jolted by lightning, he responded, folding his arms about her. From behind her she heard a shocked gasp.

"Oh, my heavens!" said a female voice she did not recognize.

Tristan's best glower over her shoulder did the remainder, and the couple behind her hurriedly departed. Well, he needn't worry about her reputation any longer. It was now in shards.

But one did what one had to do.

Tristan leaned his cheek on the top of her head. "Izzy, you shouldn't have done that."

"Well, it is too late, now, isn't it? Can you stand?"

"I--Yes." And he at last took his weight on his own feet.

"What shall we do now? You cannot go back in there, looking like this. They will think I have ravished you."

"Women don't ravish, Izzy."

"Well, this time, they'll think it. We must contrive another way."

"In a minute. I'll be all right in a minute. I could go down the stairs to the garden."

"Is there a way around the house? If you can manage to get around to the front entrance, I can call for the carriage. This won't happen again, will it?"

"No. The coach will probably be near the house in front. I can walk around."

"That's good. Can you walk now?"

At his grim nod, Izzy felt the pain of his humiliation. A soldier prided himself on his strength, daring, cunning. And he had been robbed of all of those, this night, exposed for the weakling he thought he was. She had to protect him from further exposure, no matter what.

She took his arm as if merely out for a night walk in the garden, and he eased himself down one stair at a time. But at the foot of the steps he told her to go back.

"I must see to be sure you are in the coach. Otherwise, I would not know where to look for you."

"I'll be there, Izzy. I have only to find Hervey."

"I must see it," she insisted. "I have been so utterly turned around since I have been in Town, I--"

"I can make it, Izzy," he growled.

"Of course. But what if he is not there?"

"I'll have him sacked, of course. Give over, Izzy. He cannot be far."

There was nothing for it. "Very well. I shall fetch your aunt and call for the coach. Surely, you will find him before we send for him. If not, I shall send him to fetch you."

He walked unsteadily away from her, to head down that paved walk that led around the mansion. She faced down a strong urge to follow after him. But she must not. His pride was now at stake. And she knew a lot about a man's pride. She had watched her father for years. But only when he was out of sight did she finally climb the stone steps and go back through the French doors.

She felt like every eye was on her. No doubt she was right. She had made no secret of going out there.

Lady Haverlock was easy to locate, for she had not left the chair where she had been before Izzy had gone out the French doors. Izzy forced herself to slow her pace. The less fuss, the better. She came upon the lady, surprising her, and leaned to whisper in her ear.

"We must go immediately, Lady Haverlock. You may say I have the headache."

Lady Haverlock hesitated, her lovely mouth agape. "Oh, but of course, my dear. Let us get you home for some rest." She quickly nodded her farewells, and took Izzy by the arm. "Whatever is it, my dear? You look perfectly hale to me."

"The other member of our party," she whispered back.

In the foyer, Izzy called for their coach while Lady Haverlock called for their pelisses. Her feet demanded movement, but she would not allow it.

"Will you tell me what this is all about?" Lady Haverlock whispered.

"I am not at all sure yet, ma'am."

"Tristan. He has been rather odd lately, has he not?"

"An understatement, ma'am."

At last, she saw Hervey bring the distinctive grey coach, pulled by a team of greys, to the front circle. She had to contain herself to keep from dragging Lady Haverlock at a run. What if he was not there? What if he were someplace along the walk, unconscious from another fall?

But he was there. She knew immediately when she heard Lady Haverlock's gasp as she entered the coach.

"Hello, Aunt," he said. He sat, or rather, crouched, into the corner of the squabs, looking even more disheveled than he had when Izzy had left him.

"Oh, goodness, Tristan! Whatever has happened? Are you all right?"

"No, as I am sure you can see, I am not."

"What has happened? Have you fallen?"

"You might say that. Might we discuss this in the morning?"

"Well, of course, dear, if you insist."

"I'm afraid I must insist this time, Aunt." He let out a relieved sigh and closed his eyes.

Izzy nearly jumped out of her seat, before bringing her urge to protect him under control. He must be exhausted, but he did not want help he did not have to have.

Neither woman was able to persuade him not to escort them to their door. Izzy did not really try. But he stopped her before she entered their door, and grazed his fingers across her cheek.

"Good night, scamp," he said.

Go to Chapter 12: http://dellejacobs.blogspot.com/2009/11/mudlark-chapter-12.html

THE MUDLARK: Chapter 10

In which the best laid plans of mice and men oft gang awry--
and just as oft, don't

"You got to do something." Daventry paced through the thick cloud of pipe smoke in Trowbridge's study under Trowbridge's watchful eyes.

"Me? Why me?"

"It's that boy of yours that's the problem, I can tell. Got some funny ideas. Thinks he'll find himself a wife that won't talk back. Tried to tell him, but he wouldn't listen. Got to set him straight, Trowbridge."

Trowbridge shook his head. "'Twon't do no good. The boy don't listen to me. He makes up his own mind, always has. That aunt of his spoiled him that way. Not that I resent her, you understand. The boy needed someone like her, what with his mother being --Well, you know how she was. No. Telling him ain't the way. Sit down, Daventry. You're making me nervous."

Daventry did no more than lean against the desk top. "They just need a little push, is all."

"You said that before. But it ain't going to work. Trouble is, you see, the boy's too stubborn. The only reason he's gone this far is, he knows the estate's not entailed, and he's afraid I'll leave it to his second cousin instead of him."

"It'll work. They've just got to spend some time together. You didn't see 'em like I did, when they didn't know I was there, yet. There's something there, I'll tell you."

"Well, that's something, I suppose," Trowbridge agreed with a nod, and took a puff from his pipe.

"Got to get them some time alone, together."

"You'd do that to your daughter?"

"Oh, no, ain't nothin' like that. My Izzy's not that kind. Had a proper raising, she did, best I could hire. They just need some time to get to know each other better, that's all. They're already friends, don't you see. Seems like only yesterday, she was slapping his face. Ah! I have it! A house party."

"House party? At the height of the Season?"

"It's been done."

"Oh, no doubt. But it ain't the thing."

"No, it ain't. But there's got to be someone who'd do it."

"But nobody you know. Give over."

Pouting, Daventry pushed away from the corner of the desk where he had been sitting. Soon, he was pacing again.

"The seashore, then. That's it! We could take 'em to Brighton, say, put 'em on a boat, and--"

Trowbridge shook his head. "Sit down, Daventry."

Daventry looked as if he'd been caught filching biscuits. But he plopped himself into a fat, overstuffed chair. "Got to do something," he grumbled.

"Look, I know what you mean. I can't let my boy marry the Morrowton chit. They just don't suit. She's a beautiful thing, though. Easy to see how he got off on the wrong road. But he's been blue-devilled since he come home from Waterloo, and damme if the gel hasn't even noticed. No, he's got to have someone with fire. I knew your gel was the right one, the first I saw her."

"First you saw her, she was covered with mud."

"That's what I mean. Ever figure out what that was all about?"

Daventry shrugged. "Never can say, with that girl."

"You see? It's what he needs. Keep him too busy for the dismals."

"And they're both too stubborn to realize it. Got t' do something, I tell you."

Again, Trowbridge shook his head. He drew a long draught on his pipe. Seeing as it had gone out, he laid it aside. "It's in better hands than ours, so we'd best just leave it lie. I've got the utmost faith in Peaches."

***

"Well, there's nothing for it, but to go," said Peaches as she tapped her finger against the paper she had just refolded.

"Ma'am?"

"Oh. Yes," she said, as if she had just noticed that her nephew and charge were in the library with her. "My cousin Gertrude, second cousin, the one who has never been well."

"I'm sorry, I do not recall her, Aunt."

"Oh, yes, of course, you do not. She has never been one to socialize."

"I do hope she is not too ill."

"Ill? Oh, no. Terribly sorry, I did not mean to mislead you. Her only daughter is marrying. She wants a very small wedding. That is the way she is, you know."

"Oh, I see. So, you must attend the wedding," said Izzy.

"I am terribly sorry, my dear. I did not wish to ruin your Season."

"Oh, stuff and nonsense. It has all been such a whirl, I shall be glad for a respite. Of course, if I must attend to some affair, I am sure Tristan will oblige. Properly chaperoned, of course."

"Mrs. Kittlington will do."

"Ma'am?" Izzy asked. She knew the widow who occasionally played the role of duenna. Too blind to see her own fan in front of her face, desperately in need of an ear trumpet and always dozing off.

"A perfectly adequate chaperon in my absence, and I believe she is available. Well, we have a week to prepare ourselves. I think I shall have a wee nap before supper."

Tristan watched Aunt Peaches leave the library, suddenly looking weary. She had not seemed tired before. He sniffed the odor of another manipulation.

"It's my father's doing," he said as he passed over the letter to Izzy's hands.

"Oh, do not claim all the glory. You know my father to be equally as devious."

"My father knows all my aunt's relatives. But yes, they are equally guilty. An opportunity to throw us together."

"Indeed. Papa no doubt went straight to your father when he left here. But what shall we do about it?"

"As we have before. Take advantage of it."

"Go, you mean?"

"They will be expecting us to spend the time getting to know each other better." He carefully avoided mentioning just how they were expected to get to know each other. Nor did he mention what he thought of her father for willingly compromising hisown daughter. But he had not thought highly of Lord Daventry from their first meeting.

"Instead," he added, "it will be the perfect opportunity for us to leave, for there will be no one around to notice."

"And therefore, no one around to feel obligated to come looking for us," she finished.

"Exactly, but remember, they want us to grow fond of each other, not merely to marry. So they would not force us to the altar on the merest pretense. But as this means Aunt Peaches is in league with the enemy, we shall have to be exceedingly careful."

"I am sure they think of it as terribly romantic. But yes, I do see your point. Then, we will not be closely watched."

Tristan shook his head, again thinking of Daventry's neglect of his daughter. She was rather remarkable, considering how little attention her parent had given her. "We are agreed?"

"Certainly."

"Then I shall meet with Landerholme tomorrow."

"Yes, of course." Izzy gave out a small sigh that she seemed not to notice, and looked out the window at the rain that pelted the green leaves of the garden's tall elm trees.

"Having doubts again?"

"It is a bit daunting," she admitted. "I had not really expected something so soon. I'd thought June, or perhaps July."

"Rather stay and enjoy the Season?"

"No, it's not that."

"Then?"

"I have been thinking. I have seen so very little of Donald since we were children. He's always been off at school, or whatever. I feel like I don't really know him now. I must admit I am a little frightened."

"Do you mean to say, little mudlark, that he has not even kissed you?"

"Well, of course not. He isn't that sort of fellow."

"Ha. Mayhap, he doesn't know what to do, either."

"Well, I'm certain that he--Well, surely, he must."

Something about her drew him the way a moth is compelled to seek the flame. He came up beside her, so close he could almost feel the warmth of her body, enveloping him like a warm blanket on an icy day. Her eyes were sea green and solemn.

"You have been in the country most of your life, Izzy. Surely you have drawn some inferences from that."

"How? I do not get your meaning."

"Have you not observed animals in the act?"

"Oh, of course, but that does not signify."

"It doesn't? Actually there is very little difference."

"You are bamming me, Tristan. I would allow, if humans had four legs, such might be possible, but as they do not, well, it simply cannot be."

"Of course, some adjustments must be made."

She shook her head. "It makes no sense."

"Don't worry. It will."

Again, she sighed.

"Still think you'll make a cake of yourself?"

The reply choked in her throat, so she only nodded.

He was close to her, so close his breath ruffled her hair. "Izzy, it won't be that bad. Believe me. Close your eyes."

"Why?"

"Just do."

"Are you going to kiss me?"

"Maybe. Close your eyes."

Izzy closed her eyes and puckered her lips, waiting for that magical touch. He laughed. Her eyes popped open.

"Not like that," he said. "You look like a freshly caught perch."

"But I thought that was what I was supposed to do. You see? I really will make a cake of myself!"

"If you do that, you will. He'll know you for a neophyte, for sure. Just close your eyes, Izzy. Forget all those things you've heard, and just feel."

One more time, she closed her eyes, this time standing with her face tilted up toward him. The tip of her pink tongue appeared momentarily, to wet her lips.

He raised a finger to meet her lower lip, grazing gently over its length. At the touch, her eyes opened in surprise.

"You are not cooperating, girl. Close your eyes."

She did, this time allowing her lips to part intuitively, letting their natural graceful shape curve in their own sensual way. He had planned only a chaste and gentle kiss, the kind a girl ought to have for her first one. But now, as his lips closed in on hers, he understood, finally, that he had been lying to himself.

This was something he had wanted to do for a long time.

Go to Chapter 11: http://dellejacobs.blogspot.com/2009/11/mudlark-chapter-11.html

THE MUDLARK: Chapter 9

In which the gentleman discovers it's not absence
that makes the heart grow fonder

As he reached the coach with his aunt and Miss Daventry, the impact of his moment alone with Izzy in the garden hit him.

He had gone utterly, totally, and verifiably insane. That crack in his skull the previous June must have let his brains seep out all over the Belgian countryside.

He had actually almost kissed her, had been within a fraction of a moment of committing the most impossible, most devastating act of his life!

And utterly without reason, too. She was not at all like his lovely Patricia, whose golden-blonde hair and classical features suited him so perfectly. Unlike Patricia, this rascal's otherwise willowy proportions were distressingly interrupted by ample breasts. Her dark curls never stayed in place. Even her eyes could not be counted on, and would change color even as he watched. There was nothing proper about her.

And all that said nothing of her odd fits and starts.

Of course, he had not really wanted to kiss her. He had merely been drawn in at an odd and vulnerable moment.

All right, she was intriguing. Charming, even, if one liked mudlarks. But he did not want to kiss her.

Calling himself back from his reverie, he suddenly discovered he had actually lost track of the conversation between the two women who sat across from him in the carriage. In his attempt to remain aloof and heighten the impression that something had happened, he had allowed his mind to roam.

Izzy. He'd best get used to it, for he would be using it to exclusion if he expected anyone to believe they were forming a tendre for each other. He would look beyond odd if he persisted in addressing her so formally as Miss Daventry, when half the ton had already taken up the nickname.

She had become one of those mysterious sensations known as incomparables, whose intriguing individuality happened to hit the social scene at just the right time. He saw no other explanation for it. If she had come out the year before, or even the year still coming, she would as likely be a misfit. She had become, instead, bafflingly popular.

"One can deal with aspersion in a number of ways," his aunt was saying.

He wondered what had brought up that subject, although it certainly was one on which his aunt was well qualified to speak. He listened with interest.

"One can hide from it, of course, but that leads only to further disaster, as does any attempt to explain oneself. Or one can ignore it."

"'Tis said, the memories of gossips only last to the next juicy tidbit," Izzy replied.

"Oh, do not believe it, my dear, although it is true they tend to lose interest as soon as some new on dit is introduced. But they do not forget. One's indiscretion is merely stored away for future use. But if one is sufficiently endearing, they will forgive anything."

Aunt Peaches glanced his way, as she had done several times before, doing her best to appear not to have done so. But now, she noticed his new interest in their small talk. "Tristan, darling, is something amiss?"

She had asked the question three times before. He should be delighted, he supposed, for this was precisely the result they had sought. Yet, even though his answer would be totally truthful, he knew he deceived her, and regretted the necessity.

"No, Aunt. Nothing is amiss."

"You are unusually quiet."

"A failing of mine, sometimes."

"I suppose. You, too, Izzy, my dear. Although I see you make the effort, you are usually more conversational than you are tonight."

"A long day, ma'am."

The way Aunt Peaches tensed her lips told him she was unconvinced. That was what they wanted, was it not?

He truly hoped his aunt was right, and this little imp would be endearing enough to be forgiven her coming transgression. Interestingly, Patricia would also benefit in that case, for society would be unable to forgive one lady without granting the same pardon to the other. But all of them would have to accept a certain amount of tarnishing of their bronze when the extent of their scheme became known. He worried about both ladies. He did not want them hurt.

Izzy seemed invincible, or at the least, capable of holding her own ground. Her disdain for things elite was unnerving. He would never want to be leg-shackled to one so unpredictable, someone who might at any moment bring down humiliation on a husband or family by some foolish or impulsive choice.

And Aunt Peaches was right, that society did not easily forget. His own mother, Peaches' sister, had left an indelible stain on him that only the very young did not recall.

Peaches herself had been a mischievous muddle, always getting herself into pinches. But it had been a very different sort of thing. Her scrapes had been of an innocent, adventurous nature, with no malice, no careless cruelty. And she had been one of those incomparable, mystical creatures that had enchanted the ton. One so endearing that they would forgive anything.

And Izzy was like her, not his mother, as he had feared on their first meeting. He was glad he had thought of Peaches to sponsor her.

Tristan had done the pretty quite carefully tonight, knowing that the very precision in which he carried out his tasks, his clipped politeness, emphasized in his aunt's mind that an intriguing event of mysterious nature had occurred.

"Good night, Aunt, Miss Daventry," he said he as he left them at their door. And he was aware that their eyes were trained on him as he descended the stone steps and turned toward his house.

Tristan paused outside the gate, studying the home that had been his since his mother's death. How fortunate that his grandfather had had the foresight to protect it from his mother's extravagance. Still, even with the small competence from his mother's estate and his commission, he would be hard put to support a family.

He dreamed odd dreams as he slept, dreams of an elfin creature that enchanted him, led him where she would, while he followed, willingly, no, not willingly, helplessly. For he was beyond any control of his own, and did not even seemed to mind.

He dreamed of kissing the elf, dreamed of much more than that, if he would be truthful with himself.

Yet, when he woke, he once again told himself he had no desire to kiss her, nor to hold her, nor anything else. It was merely because he was constrained by the current situation.

"Good morning, Captain," said Marshall, who was preparing the morning ritual. "I trust your evening went as planned."

"Even better," Tristan replied. He stared at the mirror, wondering that the turmoil inside him did not show. "I suspect I shall soon find myself married to Miss Morrowton and put a period to my father's machinations."

"Then you'll be selling your colours, sir?"

"That would never do. Miss Morrowton has her heart set on being a Guardsman's wife." And he would need the blunt.

Marriage to Patricia would undoubtedly ease his current errant disposition. She was a perfectly proper lady, who would do her duty. And she would provide him with that stability he had always sought, but that had somehow eluded him.

Yet, he wondered what Patricia would say when she learned of his debility. That she had shown little interest in his injuries was surely attributable to her lack of knowledge about a man's body, and to the fact that she had been told very little about how close to death he had come.

"She will be accompanying you on campaign, then, sir?"

Tristan frowned. That was another thing he had not worked out. Places like India, where he had been born, or the West Indies, were no place for a woman, where diseases flourished, and the heat withered gently born women. The sun made them old before their time. And women who had babies were often faced with primitive conditions that frequently marked them for death. No. A perfect woman like Patricia could not be subjected to such awful conditions. She deserved to remain in her safe world, within the boundaries of the ton. She deserved something more than a soldier for a husband.

Yet, he didn't want for himself a life like that of his parents, with years of separation, of children raised fatherless. Of a mother grown silly with boredom. Of a father turned to drink out of loneliness. But he was a soldier. If he stayed with the Guards, that was what he could expect: that, or the risk of losing a wife to all the dangers of a primitive land.

Yet, if he sold out, he would become once again dependent on his unpredictable, controlling father. Then he would not marry Patricia at all. His father would see to that.

***

"Your nephew awaits in the library, my lady," said Fitch as he took both ladies' pelisses, bonnets, and gloves. Izzy slida glance sideways to see how Lady Haverlock would react.

"Does he? Any particular business, did he say?"

"Your nephew does not ordinarily confide in me, my lady."

"Try not to take it to heart, Fitch. He rarely confides in anybody. Well, I meant to go straight up and dress, but I shall look in on him."

Izzy's pulse quickened as she followed Lady Haverlock up the staircase to the first floor library where the captain awaited. She wondered what new wrinkle Tristan had concocted this time?

It was not the man she awaited so eagerly, but the quickness of his mind. She had long ago decided that, while he was more than fair to look upon, he was not at all what she sought in a husband. True, they had, of late, become passable friends, but she could not imagine living with such a person. He was as morose as dead winter's leaden skies. Or, when not that, then falsely pleasant. And although she had seen some softening in his brittle soul, she must not forget he did not like her. She was merely the means he used to gain his own ends.

His eyes sought out hers as the two women entered the room. One who didn't know better would think them clear, honest. Only Izzy knew the true extent of his devious nature. But as hers was a match for his, she could hardly cry unfair.

"Good afternoon, nephew," said Lady Haverlock. "I did not expect to see you before evening. You have not forgotten the dinner party at Sheldon's?"

"No, Aunt. I have just come by to see if Miss Daventry would favor me with a ride in the park."

Before she could answer, Lady Haverlock spoke. "Oh, well, if that is all you are about, then I shall be about my business. I thought to take a short nap before dressing."

Izzy obscured her thoughts with a bland smile as she watch Lady Haverlock proceed on her journey upward to her second floor chamber.

"Today is Thursday," she said. "You may recall, I have promised to ride out with Mr. Bottleworth."

"Bottleworth can wait."

"But of course, he cannot. As he was so rudely treated when last he was here, I could not conscience doing so again."

"Surely you realize that such things delay our plan."

"Surely you realize that should we seem to grow overfond of each other too quickly that it will appear so very unnatural."

"We do not have a great deal of time to play with."

"We have all the Season to play with."

Instead of replying, Tristan looked past her shoulder to the door behind her.

Izzy turned around just as her papa came into the library. Papa! In the exciting shuffle of the Season, she had nearly forgotten him.

"Mornin', my dove," said Papa, an unusually wide grin in his florid face.

Izzy dashed to his open arms. "Papa! Oh, it is good to see you! But it is hardly morning."

"O' course it is, my dove. We're in Town, now, darlin', and it's morning till four o'clock."

"I did not expect you back so soon, Papa. Did you not say you would be gone till May?"

She glanced at Tristan. They had, in fact, counted on the two fathers to be off, minding only their own hare-brained pursuits.

"That I did, my dove," said Papa, and a great rolling chuckle shook his round belly. "Trowbridge and me, though, we thought to come and see how you are doing. Seems to me, the two of you are getting along fine. Finally given up on that Landerholme boy, have you?"

"Now, Papa, don't start that again." She saw Tristan step back behind her father, his eyes speaking silent volumes that Izzy immediately comprehended. She had to get rid of Papa, and quickly.

"Although," she continued, as if she had not paused, "Donald and I have determined we do not suit."

He must have heard the news, already, she realized, even though that little on dit had occurred just last night. Word must have spread like a raging torrent after a storm.

"Splendid! Then, we got work to do. First, we got to see to notifications, ain't that right, son?"

Only a minute wince gave away Tristan's discomfort.

"However, Papa, the captain and I have also decided we do not suit."

Tristan now let out a breath of relief.

"Not suit? O' course, you suit. The perfect match, I tell you. What's the matter, son? You don't still favor the Morrowton chit?"

So he did know. Well then, they would once again turn their fathers' connivings around.

"Miss Morrowton and I have also determined we do not suit. But it does not signify. Miss Daventry and I find ourselves at odds more often than is comfortable."

Papa chuckled as he gave his daughter an affectionate pat on her back. "You'll get used to it, lad. All women are like that. There's some as hides it better than others, is all."

Izzy didn't like the direction the conversation was taking. Edging in between the two men, she took Papa by the arm and leaned against his shoulder. "Oh, Papa, it hardly matters, now that you are back in Town. You surely do not know what you have been missing. It's ever so exciting here, and I have so many beaus!"

"Beaus? You ain't to have but one, girl. I told you that."

Tristan interrupted. "Nevertheless, Miss Daventry stands a chance for a much better match than me."

Papa shook his head so hard, his jowls jiggled. "Ain't so, son. The two of you was made for each other."

Literally, Izzy griped to herself. Yes, she would not put it beyond him if he had deliberately seen to her conception precisely for that purpose. "But of course, there's plenty of time for wrangling later, Papa. We must get busy, if we are to obtain invitations for you on such short notice."

"Invitations?" His face began to lose its color.

"But of course! Now that you are here, we shall have great fun. There is a dinner party tonight, and I am sure Lady Haverlock will want you to come along. Tomorrow night is Cunningham's ball, and I have waited forever for it. You simply must be there!"

The florid tinge of Papa's face faded until only his nose remained pink. Izzy took heart.

"I could not conscience going without you, now that you are here. And the next afternoon, oh, there is something marvelous every night, except Sunday, of course, and almost every afternoon, we--" She rattled on her litany of social affairs, pleased to see it was having the desired effect.

"Now, Izzy, dove, you know I ain't one to do the pretty."

"Oh, but it is only because you are not accustomed to it. You really must practice your social graces daily, if you are to truly learn to enjoy them. Now, I am sure we can--"

"Uh," stuttered Papa, "I ain't plannin' to be around, girl. Got to leave real soon. Tomorrow, that is. Yes, tomorrow. The lad's papa and I got to go to, uh, Oxford. Oxford, it is. There's a new manuscript. Well, not new, o' course, it's old, is what it is. Got to see it, right away."

"Oh? About what, Papa?"

"It's, uh, uh, Lancelot, it is. Very important, don't you see? Been lost, all these years."

"Oh." Izzy trailed off her voice, hoping it sounded genuinely disappointed, sufficiently to cover her elation. "But you will come back, won't you? The Season is in high flower, and I am told it has not been so fine in many years. You cannot miss it, Papa."

"Oh. Uh, got to get back home, then. Them new foals, don't you know. There's some as show great promise. You understand horses, don't you, lad? Take lot's of watching, don't you know."

Tristan put on his mask of mild disdain. "Of course, sir, but I believe your daughter has the right of it. It would add some consequence to her Season to have her father about."

"Oh, I know, I know. But I ain't able to do it, just now. Mayhap, a month or so."

"But, Papa, the Season will be practically over by then."

"I know girl, but a man's got t' live up t' his responsibilities, don't you know. Well, got t' go, girl. Can't stay. Be back soon, I'll warrant. Month or two, at most."

Izzy cast her gaze downward, looking appropriately disappointed, she hoped. "Yes, Papa. I shall see you then."

As the color began to ooze back into his face, Papa nodded solemnly, and turned for the doorway. Izzy thought he would surely break into a run as soon as he was beyond their sight.

"I am astonished," Tristan said, and his eyebrows rose in high peaks. "I would never have thought of that."

"Oh, yes, you would. I learned it from you."

"From me?"

"Oh, do not play innocent with me. I am onto your wiles."

"The mudlark who sings like a nightingale, and carps like a crow. Amazing."

She lifted her eyebrows high above her haughtily raised nose. "I must dress for my ride with Mr. Bottleworth. Do entertain him while he waits, won't you?"


Go to Chapter 10: http://dellejacobs.blogspot.com/2009/11/mudlark-chapter-10.html

THE MUDLARK: Chapter 8

In which Vauxhall becomes a stage and the players learn their lines

It was not what Tristan was up to that was the problem, but what he was down to. For, once again, he found himself flat on his back and trying to recall just how he had got there. This time, at least, he was safely on his own bed with a damp cloth draped over his forehead. Marshall tugged at his boots.

"With us again, sir?" Marshall gently turned Tristan's face to the side, checking his head for further injuries.

Tristan remembered his desperate grab for the bedpost in a futile attempt to support himself before the great gray and red waves of pain had rolled over him and toppled him once more.

"At least this time I saw it coming."

"And the little miss, did she see it, too?"

Tristan released an exasperated breath. "No. But she has to know something is wrong. I doubt that she still thinks me merely ill-tempered."

"Perhaps you should confide in her, then."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Marshall, what am I supposed to tell her? 'Pardon me, Miss Daventry, but I am about to have a fit of the vapors’? Just what do you suppose she'll think of a man who faints like a lady too tightly laced?"

"One need not be so dramatic, of course, sir. 'Tis not precisely fainting."

"In just what precise way is it different, Marshall? Have you a better word? Spells, perhaps? Swoon?"

"You deal with yourself too harshly, sir. This is hardly of your own making."

"That does not make it any less demeaning. Don't you understand? Nobody must know. If the word gets out to Hollowell, I'm finished with the Guards. Eventually they're bound to go away, if we can just keep it quiet."

"Yes, sir, I understand. Happens, I don't agree."

"Of course, you do not. You would as soon have me give up the colours." Devil it, did he have to do this to everybody he cared about? Marshall of all people did not deserve to be on the cutting side of his ill humor. He raked his fingers through his hair, pushing back the wet cloth.

"Sorry, Marshall. I do not mean to speak ill to you. I wouldn't even be alive, if it were not for you."

"Oh, no offense is taken, sir." As Tristan tried to rise onto his elbows, Marshall gently pushed him back to the bed. "I shall have you up in no time, Captain, if you will just rest now. I have some laudanum here."

"I told you I don't want any more of the stuff. The pain will go away by itself if we just leave it alone."

"We've tried that, Captain, and it is only prolonged. And how long has it been? A month?"

"To the day."

"Ah, yes, while we were at Daventry Hall. One cannot become addicted, taking it only once a month."

"All the same, I want no more of it. Bring me some of that Scotch whiskey instead."

Marshall nodded smartly and left to fulfill the request. Tristan sank back into the pillows. In the days and months following Waterloo, Marshall's careful ministrations had been all that had kept him alive. In the makeshift hospitals, the few surgeons available had been overburdened, and their patients died faster than they could sew them up. When the fever had hit, it had been Marshall who stood by him, patiently bathing him to cool him down, and urging bits and dabs of food and broth on him. Tristan doubted he would have found the strength to survive, if it had not been for the doses of laudanum Marshall had scrounged to provide for him. But it had almost been more painful getting off the stuff. Marshall didn’t understand that.

He could never forget that time. In ways, it was far worse than the battle itself had been, listening to men moaning, knowing that when they stopped, it was because they were dead. Believing he was as doomed as they.

And yet, somehow surviving, when he should not have. Knowing men like Russell and Radcliffe died all around him. The very enormity of it was still beyond his ability to deal with it.

Now, he only wanted to get back to living. If only he could.

***

They had come to Vauxhall Gardens, accompanied by Lady Haverlock, to join a small group of newly made acquaintances. Izzy was aware that the captain had wangled the invitation largely because of the fairly loose chaperonage, something that fit well with their scheme, but should have, nevertheless, conflicted with his over-rigid sense of propriety. She wondered if he recognized that contradiction, but just had special rules to justify it. Certainly, as he had assured her several times, she was perfectly safe with him, as he had no designs on her person.

Izzy looked about her, watching impatiently for the appearance of Donald and Miss Morrowton. As the captain nudged her elbow, Izzy followed his gaze to the gate, where she watched several young women, including Miss Morrowton, enter the garden. Behind them, next to a woman of middle age in black, was Donald.

She smiled as Donald took her arm, but they seemed to have little to say beyond the usual pleasantries.

For a time, the entire group of friends strolled together, then stopped to dine on the infamous chicken and meats so thinly sliced, Izzy wanted to hold a piece up to the light to see if she could see through it.

Mr. Bottleworth sat on her left and giggled in her left ear, just at the moment Captain Trowbridge leaned to whisper in the right one.

"Take a second glass of wine," he said.

Izzy frowned at the strange fellow.

"Or pretend to."

She then realized the likelihood that such would be noted by just about every person in their company. And, no doubt be remarked upon later as a possible contributor to the events that were about to unfold. She motioned for a second glass, surreptitiously noting the eyes that watched her.

The loose structure of their plans for the evening bothered her, although she approved of the flexibility this method of planning provided. Seeing that the captain came from a military background, she supposed he was accustomed to a quick change in battle plans. Yet, even knowing the whole thing had been planned ahead, even knowing the scheme was as much hers as theirs, she felt an odd qualm strike her as she watched the event unfold.

"Miss Morrowton, perhaps you would care to stroll the garden with me," said Donald.

"But of course, Mr. Landerholme," the girl replied, giving him an enchanting smile that further exacerbated Izzy's unease.

Captain Trowbridge frowned visibly enough for anyone to interpret, then gave Izzy a similar invitation, and she responded with a smile equally as broad, and, she hoped, enchanting. She tossed a querying glance at Lady Haverlock, who nodded her approval, all the while trying to appear stern. Izzy repressed a giggle. Strictness was utterly beyond that lady's capacity.

"It is all going marvelously," Captain Trowbridge said when they were sufficiently alone.

"Yes, I am sure," she replied. But there was still that nagging doubt in her voice.

"I see that you are still concerned."

"Everything is so open-ended," she said, wrinkling her brow.

"It does present a difficulty. However, I have found I can rely on you to improvise, and in the process, provide a much better script than we could have written beforehand."

"I cannot tell, sir, whether I should take your remark as a compliment or not."

"As you will, Miss Daventry. It certainly was not meant to be derogatory. I believe, at the rate we are going, we shall have you married off to your true love in no time at all."

"And you, as well, Captain. I am sure you will be relieved."

"And you will not be?"

Would she? "To tell the truth, I have never been all that anxious to marry. I had always thought one should achieve a certain level of maturity and knowledge first."

"But I thought you believed yourself suitably mature. Did you not object to being considered childish?"

"Oh. That is not the same thing, at all. However, I am almost twenty, and, well, there are things--Well, there are things a lady ought to know first."

His eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "Are there, Miss Daventry? And what would those be?"

She had seen him twinkle with mischief before, but he fairly brimmed with it now. What fun he could make of her, if he chose. Or, what fun he might be, if he would only allow it of himself. Would he turn what she said against her? Or would he, for even just a moment, allow himself a little joy, a little fun? Well, so what if he did? Or didn't? She decided to pursue the subject, anyway, as it was a matter of extreme curiosity for her.

"To be quite honest, Captain, I am afraid I have only the slightest notion how one goes about performing the expected duties. I am not even sure how one goes about a proper kiss. So I cannot see how I shall avoid making an utter cake of myself on my wedding night." Izzy felt dark crimson, rising in a band of heat upward from her neck all the way to the tip of her scalp.

To his great credit, the captain did not so much as utter a snicker.

"I am sure you will do yourself credit. It is, after all, a hurdle human beings have successfully negotiated for thousands of years."

"But, how shall I know, when I have not the slightest experience in that regard? I detest the thought that I might muff the whole thing."

"Experience in a bride is not considered admirable, Miss Daventry."

"Oh, of course, I understand that, Captain Trowbridge. Such should not be obvious, at least. But, how is a lady to know she will like the experience if she has no chance to make comparisons?"

"I really do not think you should pursue your inquiry. A man expects he shall have to do some teaching on the occasion of his marriage, and in fact would be quite overset if deprived of that privilege."

"Are you quite sure, sir? It seems utterly unfair. It does appear, after all, that gentlemen have ample opportunity to practice."

Captain Trowbridge almost choked on his laughter.

"Yes, Miss Daventry," he said, when he could finally find himself capable of speech again, "I will concede that it is unfair, and that gentlemen do indeed have somewhat more opportunity to practice, as you put it."

As he spoke, he led her off the path into the stand of trees beyond the third arch where they would await their friends. He faced her, merriment dancing in his eyes, sparkling as brightly as the pinpoints of light from the myriad lanterns strung along the walks. "Now, tell me, little scamp, just what is it you want to know?"

Izzy's instincts were instantly at war, wanting both to flee and to probe for more, as the captain fingered the dark ringlet that trailed over her shoulder.

"It is not," she stammered, "that I am so little, Captain, but that you are so uncommonly large."

"Perhaps," he replied, while a strange array of smiles played across his face. "And that has nothing to do with the subject at hand. Just what is it, my dear, that you want to know?"

"I suppose that is the problem, that I do not quite know what it is I want to know, and that I find the whole thing quite confusing." Extremely confusing. His eyes were like smoldering coals, both dark and burning. She no longer felt safety in his presence, but dark and alluring danger, as if the Devil himself had come to get her. Maybe he had.

She grabbed a trembling breath, to compose herself. "I think," she stammered, as if mere flimsy words might maintain a distance between them, "a lady might at least like to know how to kiss, without making a cake of herself."

"Do, you, little scamp?"

The back of his hand dragged across her cheek. She felt the oddest sensation, as if she needed to turn her face into his touch.

"I say, Trowbridge, aren't you getting ahead of your lines?"

Captain Trowbridge jerked as if he had been shot. "Oh, it's only you, Landerholme," he replied, as he moved away from Izzy and readjusted his composure. "Thought I'd add a little authenticity, should someone else come along."

"Authenticity, is it? Well, you'd best be sure you don't add too much."

"Now see here, Landerholme!" Captain Trowbridge took an aggressive step toward Donald, who did not budge from his spot.

"Donald!" Horrified, Izzy cried out.

"Tristan!" exclaimed Miss Morrowton.

The two men eyed each other, then the ladies. They stepped back. Whatever had gotten into them?

Izzy folded her arms, as she glared at both Donald and Captain Trowbridge. "I cannot see how we will accomplish a thing if the two of you choose to bicker. And the two of you will ruin it all, if you are not careful."

"Now, Izzy--"

"I do mean it, Donald. I, for one, have no intention of marrying someone who has so little trust in me."

"Now, Izzy, it's not you I distrust. It's--"

"It is all the same thing, Donald, for if you assume Captain Trowbridge will do anything untoward, you also assume I will allow it. And I will not have it."

"Certainly," agreed Patricia. "And we are wasting what little time we have. If we do not get about our business quickly, someone is likely to come looking for us."

"Very well," said the captain with a huff. "We must get to it. We must contrive to convince the audience that something has happened. I suppose we could engage in a loud argument. It has worked for Miss Daventry and me before."

"Not at all the thing," replied Donald, shaking his head. "If it were done too brown, we would create scandal, instead."

As if to punctuate Donald's statement, a high-pitched chime, like the sound of a tiny golden bell, rang nine times.

"What the deuce is that?" the captain demanded, startled by the intrusive sound.

"Donald's watch," Izzy and Patricia said together.

"Heirloom," Donald added. "From my grandfather."

"Devil of a distraction, I'd think. How can you deal with it, going off at all hours like that?"

"One becomes accustomed to it," Donald replied, stroking the golden-cased watch in his hand.

The captain's reply was an exasperated frown.

Patricia ignored that new trend in the conversation, and steered them back to business. "But we must surely say something, if we are to get our point across," she argued.

"Perhaps not," Izzy objected. "We are approaching the problem from the wrong angle. We should suggest, without giving any details. Let them fill in for themselves."

Donald looked skeptical. "That doesn't make sense, Izzy. How?"

"We will say nothing at all. Nothing. Simply state nothing is wrong. Everything is fine."

Donald shook his head, and the frown furrowed more deeply. "I don't get it."

Izzy smiled patiently. He was a dear, but he was not always the brightest candle in the bracket. "We return in pairs, as we came, but stiffly. Very formally. And silently, not speaking to each other. Not merely that the captain and I do not speak to the two of you, but also do not talk to each other. It will certainly be noticed, and the more curious members of the group will probe. But we will all continue to insist everything is just fine."

Patricia gasped as her eyes grew wide with admiration. "Oh, how marvelous! Perfectly perfect! But, not anything at all, Izzy?"

"Well, perhaps a smile, such as one Captain Trowbridge when he has it in his mind that he will grimly do his duty, if even God be damned by it."

Tristan's smile turned upside down and his dark brows turned into a waffled furrow. "I do not do such a thing."

Patricia giggled into her perfectly gloved hand.

With a startled blink, the captain re-arranged his face into something more amiable, and then the corner of his mouth began to twitch into a real smile. Izzy kept her amusement to herself.

"I don't get it," Donald repeated.

"Simple," Captain Trowbridge said, and gave Donald a patronizing smirk. "Nothing heightens a gossip's interest more than speculation, but with no details. They will draw their own conclusions, yet will have nothing more to go on than silence. I agree, it is perfect in accomplishing our intent, while causing the least harm to reputations. I am awestruck, Miss Daventry. I would have never thought of anything so subtle."

"Thank you, Captain. Are we agreed?"

Donald mumbled with a grudging nod, quite the opposite of Patricia's elated one.

Captain Trowbridge merely twitched his mouth in that way he had that seemed to mean nothing, yet made one wonder. "Then, after tonight we are on our own, until we are able to determine the time to leave. Landerholme, you will not need to visit Miss Daventry, and in fact, probably should not. I will, of course, happily arrange for any covert communication you care to make.

"And you and I, Miss Daventry, will have to become more familiar, a first-name basis, I should say."

"If you call me Melisande, I shall not answer you, sir. Nor, for a fact, speak to you at all."

His eyes narrowed to match his thinned, haughty smile. "A tempting thought. Very well, Izzy. You shall have it your way."

"There, sir, you see, you did not choke."

"Nor has lightning struck, I concede. Now, you will say mine."

Izzy began to choke and cough, and following that, pasted on a mock mask of horror. "Oh, sir, I think I shall faint."

"Say it, or you will have to marry me," he responded, looking comically villainous with his haughty eyebrows arched a bit too high.

"Very well." She coughed again, as if choking on it. "Tristan. There, I have said it."

Patricia giggled. Donald glowered, clearly seeing no humor at all in the situation.

"Excellent," said Tristan. "Shall we proceed?"

Go to Chapter 9: http://dellejacobs.blogspot.com/2009/11/mudlark-chapter-9.html

THE MUDLARK: Chapter 7

In which the mysterious gentleman becomes even more enigmatic
and the lady harbors dire suspicions

Wearing her new sea green day dress, Izzy stood in Lady Haverlock's peach-colored salon to receive the callers who arrived to greet her the day following her come-out.

"I cannot think when I have seen so many callers," remarked Lady Haverlock. "Lady Jersey has pronounced you a diamond, you know, and has promised us vouchers. And I'll wager a certain nephew of mine is having some difficulty chewing those words he is going to have to swallow."

"Please do not be harsh with him, Lady Haverlock. He means well. We simply do not suit, for we have nothing in common."

At that moment the nephew in question entered the room, as stern as ever. And as beautifully resplendent in his bottle green coat and ivory silk waistcoat as he had been the night before with all the gold lace and fringed epaulets on his dress uniform. Yet something was different. What was it?

His shoulders had always been broad and square, yet now seemed broader, straighter, as if a load had been lifted from them. And although he did not smile, that disdaining wrinkle that usually spanned his brow was gone. Of course, one could carry this speculation too far. Perhaps he had merely absorbed enough brandy the night before to have brightened his mood this morning. No. It usually didn't work that way. A grump would be more to the natural order of things, had that been the case.

She chose to give him a smile so properly correct that he could not possibly criticize it, and let it go at that. After all, she was occupied in the very social rituals he so prized.

And she was enjoying this morning 'at home' every bit as much as she had relished the evening before. Already she had more invitations than she could possibly honor, and had found it necessary to put off several young men to the following week.

"Good morning, Bottleworth." Captain Trowbridge nodded with a stiffness to both his neck and voice. Izzy recalled how he had given that young man such a forbidding frown the night before, that she had expected the younger man to quail and run. But Bottleworth had held his ground. She wondered what would be the next move.

"Good morning, Captain," Bottleworth responded, as he drew himself up tall, quite ignoring that the captain had several inches more in height. "Quite a lovely ball last night, don't you think? Our Miss Daventry was quite the belle."

"Indeed," said the captain.

Izzy wrinkled her nose. My, how generous of him.

"Oh, yes," Bottleworth beamed. "And she's promised to drive out with me this very afternoon."

"She can't."

"Can't, sir?"

"Can't. She's already promised to drive out with me."

Izzy whirled on him, sputtering her indignation. "You--you--" Then she remembered the plot and took a slow breath to calm herself. "You may be right. Yes, I have forgotten. I am terribly sorry, Mr. Bottleworth, it did slip my mind. Surely we may drive out another time."

Mr. Bottleworth pouted as he nodded his head, clearly not knowing if he had been humbugged or not. "Thursday afternoon, then, perhaps."

"Yes, that will do, Mr. Bottleworth. I do apologize for the confusion."

"Certainly, Miss Daventry. Quite understandable." He smiled prettily but took his leave rather abruptly.

Izzy glared at the imperious toad, who looked uncommonly smug and pleased with himself. He'd best have good reason, that was all she had to say.

Izzy dressed herself in a violet pelisse of precisely that color he had chosen for the evening gown she had not yet worn. Perhaps it was to please that impossible man, but she could not fathom why. And she hurried back down the stairs where he waited.

Whatever it was he had to say, he was not quick about it.

Captain Trowbridge handed Izzy and her maid into his carriage, commenting on nothing beyond the lovely spring day and the number of people who were taking the afternoon to enjoy it. Izzy returned a patient smile. Perhaps it was due to Marie's presence, for he knew Marie's reliability was entirely dependent on what she considered was best for her mistress. And Marie had no interest at all in promoting a marriage to Donald.

Nor did he follow custom and take his carriage through the park, where in the previous weeks he had driven several times with her and his aunt. That, he had said, was for the purpose of being seen. Apparently that was not his motive now, for he halted the carriage on Knights Bridge, and turned to her.

"Will you walk with me in the Gardens, Miss Daventry? Or perhaps you might prefer along the Serpentine."

"I am perfectly content with either choice."

He glanced at Marie with narrowed blue eyes, confirming Izzy's suspicion. He most definitely did have something on his mind, something that depended upon the exclusion of Marie.

"Kensington, then," he decided. "And as we shall remain within your maid's sight at all times, she will have no need to exert herself."

Not one of the three of them viewed his decision as one born of kindness. Certainly, Marie was not fooled, and no doubt saw it as an opportunity to further her matchmaking plans, for she was half in love with the captain, herself. Oh, how she would fuss when she finally discovered the truth.

Captain Trowbridge was the very model of amiability as he handed her down from the carriage and took her arm. "Without question, Miss Daventry, that is my favorite color for you."

"Thank you, Captain. Your taste truly is flawless." Izzy glanced back at the carriage and decided they had gone far enough that Marie could not hear. "However, I do not believe flattery is your purpose today. I cannot help but suspect that some other motive lies behind this excursion."

"It is not enough merely to wish to enjoy a fine afternoon?"

"For that, you embarrassed me in front of Mr. Bottleworth?"

"He is not at all suitable for you. I'd think you would realize that."

She jerked her arm from his hold. "Suitable? Sir, I have made my intention to marry Mr. Landerholme, and no one else, quite clear. Nevertheless, I recall it was your idea that I develop proper social ties."

"Bottleworth is not a proper social tie."

"Precisely what is wrong with him? He is the son of a viscount, and your social equal, for heaven's sake."

"Third son."

"I have never met a person higher in the instep than you, Captain Trowbridge. You could well be a royal duke, for all your pomposity. Let us return. I have no wish to continue to enjoy this fine day." Izzy spun around on her toe, ready to walk all the way back to Lady Haverlock's if she must.

"We'll go to Vauxhall tomorrow night."

She would not give him the satisfaction of turning to face him. "You may. I believe I will seek out my favorite book for companionship."

"Landerholme and Miss Morrowton will both be there. On stage, Miss Daventry."

Izzy tossed her head as her nostrils flared. "Well, thank you. It is a relief to realize you had something more in mind for this excursion than a set-down."

"I did not mean it that way, Miss Daventry. You forever mistake my meaning."

"Then perhaps you would care to clarify," she said, folding her arms. "Particularly, sir, you might clarify why you feel you have the right to order my life, as I have not turned out to be quite the pariah you predicted."

"No, you have not, although I am only concerned for your well-being, Miss Daventry. I concede you have been well received."

She folded her arms across her chest so tightly that her shoulders hunched.

"Miss Daventry."

Izzy only half-turned her head at the sound of her name, her jaw set in rigid resentment.

"I am aware that I was unfair to you last night."

"Only last night?"

"Perhaps I have been abrupt other times as well."

"Dear God, deliver me from arrogant men."

"However, I cannot explain it. Something about you seems to make me want to fight."

"And you are again unfair, sir. I do not make your choices for you. You choose your own behavior, not I."

"However, you surely must admit that you often behave in a childish manner that you know irritates me."

Izzy whirled about, ready to launch her fury. "You, sir, are an ass."

His eyes grew huge with astonishment. "A what?"

"A smaller, stupider, and more arrogant member of the horse family. Biblically known as an ass."

"You cannot imagine what the use of such language elsewhere would do to your consequence, can you?"

"I shall leave my consequence to be judged by the rest of the ton. And if they prove to be like you, I shall happily hide myself in the country for the rest of my life."

Now, it was he who turned away. Had her jab struck home? She had thought him immune to everything.

"Teaching village children?"

She saw that he held his head just high enough for pride, just low enough for pain. What had she said wrong?

"Yes. I would find that quite enjoyable. Whatever is the matter, sir? Should a lady not lower herself to mix with the unwashed?"

"Miss Daventry, I am trying to apologize."

And she had just stomped on him, hadn't she? Well, why not, to an apology that more closely resembled a slap in the face?

"Perhaps you should quit before you put yourself further behind, then, or you may find yourself apologizing for your apologies all night."

His face mouthed wryly. "It was rather clumsily done, wasn't it?"

"I'm certainly glad you were not that clumsy last night, or my feet would be too sore to walk today." She took a step toward him, coming almost abreast of him, and her voice softened. "I am aware, Captain, that you find my behavior childish, when I thought it merely enjoyment of the occasion. I probably do not understand you any better, for I cannot recall ever having met a gentleman of any age so solemn. Or so sad."

As he faced her once more, she saw far more than sadness, an ancient ache, tortured, twisted. But why? Some other wound far deeper than that which showed on the surface?

"Miss Daventry, I know I have not been fair. I do not know why I feel so compelled. Nevertheless, the apology is genuinely given. Will you not accept it?"

For a moment, she caught the anxious gaze of his deep blue eyes, begging for pardon, seeking a truce. If she could just hold this moment a little longer, it might be worth all the trouble he had been so far. But she was not one to forgive grudgingly. Her lips began first to turn up impishly at their corners, then spread quite beyond her control into a wide smile.

The captain broke into that exquisite grin that had so intrigued her the first day they had met, then happily took her arm again. "Come, then, let us return to enjoying the fine day. Shall we go down to the Serpentine?"

"It would be delightful, Captain Trowbridge."

This time, she offered him her arm, which he took, looking quite pleased with himself.

"Mind you, Captain, I do not expect enormous changes of you, or of me, only that we should treat each other pleasantly and respectfully, as we are to spend a great deal of time in each other's company."

"I am more than tired of fighting, Miss Daventry. I have done little else for so many years, yet I seem to know how to do nothing else."

"It must be a difficult change. Was it so terrible, sir?"

"Might we keep to pleasanter topics, Miss Daventry? As we have just managed a modicum of respect for each other?"

"But, was it? I cannot really know from reading newspaper accounts which make war seem more like the movement of little lead soldiers than of men."

"War is always terrible, Miss Daventry. But I wish to talk only of pleasant things today, despite that I have led you into this topic. Perhaps we could talk of the patterns the clouds are making. They are always so fascinating, with those whiffs that look like ostrich plumes."

"Papa says they foreshadow rain."

"They do, perhaps by tomorrow. They..." He stopped cold. A faint horror lurked behind his eyes.

Izzy stared, puzzled.

He seemed almost frozen in place.

"Captain?"

He turned toward her, some unnamed, feral apprehension in his face. His hand rose to his scalp and combed through hair that had until that moment lain in a Brutus cut of perfect configuration.

"We must go," he said abruptly.

"Go? But we have just--"

"I have forgotten something of drastic importance. A pressing engagement. Please, I am sorry, but we must hurry back."

"Well, of course, if you think--"

"I do apologize, but we really must hurry." He pressed his hand on her arm to persuade her.

Izzy hurried along with him. The brisk pace did not bother her, odd though it was. But he had asked for her trust, in a way, and she felt obliged to give it.

"It is just as well," he said, "for we have gone so far that your maid must be scolding herself for allowing us so much freedom."

"I doubt it. She is not a particularly good chaperon, in that she is somewhat more forward thinking than I am."

His mind seemed already far ahead on whatever thing it was that he was about to miss. There was nothing for it, then, but to hurry along, hoping for an explanation she already sensed would not come.

Whatever had brought on this sudden desperation? A forgotten assignation? But why not say so? She discarded visions of mysterious spies. He was not a traitor, and the war was over, anyway. Ah! A mistress, perhaps with three little urchins clinging to her skirts? One sideways glance confirmed to her the great unlikelihood of that, for mistresses, especially those with children, required attention for their upkeep, and hermits were a bit short on that quality. A duel? No, duels were always fought at dawn. Everybody knew that.

They arrived back at the carriage in far less time than they had taken going, and he quickly handed her and her maid into the vehicle, then took up the ribbons. Something desperate lurked beneath the pleasant, reassuring smiles he tossed her way.

The greys pulled out with a jerk that would have embarrassed a gentleman who prided himself on his driving ability. When he pulled around another carriage too tightly, causing the wheels to scrape hubs, she began to worry. She had never seen him drive with incaution before.

"Perhaps there is something I could do to help." She hoped he didn't notice that unusual quaver in her voice.

"You can't. Kind of you, but there's nothing for you to do. I simply must hurry." But he slowed the team. Probably thought he was frightening her.

Within minutes, the carriage pulled up before the portico of Lady Haverlock's home.

"You need not see me to the door, Captain, for surely we are friends enough that you can trust me on my own that far." And she became alarmed as she realized he was actually considering her suggestion. It was totally unlike him to contemplate such a breach of etiquette.

"Of course not." He assisted Izzy and her maid from the carriage and escorted them to the door. A strange wildness prowled about the corners of his eyes.

"I do apologize again, Miss Daventry. Will you please inform my aunt that I will not be coming to supper?"

"Of course."

The words were hardly out of her mouth before he departed the steps, nearly at a run. She watched as he dashed up the steps to his own door two at a time.

"I'm thinking he's a strange one," said Marie, where before, one would have thought Marie believed he had won the war all by himself.

"I'm sure he has good reason, Marie. And it would be as impolite of me to pry into his affairs as it would be for him to share them offhandedly with me."

She did do her best to appear unconcerned, but even her fingers, as they wrapped about the curving brass handrail, shook slightly as she ascended the stairs.

Lady Haverlock would be in the library this time of day. Izzy turned at the first floor to cross to the rear of the townhouse, where the library spanned the width of the house.

"Izzy, is that you, dear? Tristan?"

"Just me," Izzy replied. "He has already gone."

"Really?" The lady's eyebrows rose lightly. "Then, did you have a nice drive, dear?"

"Oh, yes. Quite nice." Izzy ambled up to the span of windows on the library's south wall, looked out over the garden, past the wall, to the garden next door. She saw the lad who was Captain Trowbridge's tiger lead the team and carriage into the carriage house.

"He asked me to say he will not be around for supper."

"Indeed?"

"A pressing engagement, he said."

Lady Haverlock swung her legs gracefully off the ottoman where she had been resting them and rose to come and stand by Izzy at the window. "Do you suppose he is finally venturing out of that hermitage of his, on his own accord?"

"I cannot say, ma'am."

Lady Haverlock's gaze followed Izzy's to the carriage house next door. "So, he is back to being mysterious, again."

Indeed. When had he stopped? She wondered what sort of engagement would not require the use of his carriage? Despite that she had made an agreement with herself to give him her trust, she had an awful suspicion something was wrong.

She had heard of the terrible wounds soldiers had suffered at Waterloo. Heard of how they died, and how the few who lived had been given treatment. She wondered how much laudanum he had been given, to bear his wounds? How much he might still require?

Barring that, just what was Captain Trowbridge up to, anyway?

Go to Chapter 8: http://dellejacobs.blogspot.com/2009/11/mudlark-chapter-8.html