XII
WHETHER OR NOT HUNTLEY did speak to the major, Nell had no way of knowing, but she suspected that he must have done so, for during the week that followed the excursion to the Downs, although she and Rory chanced to meet Major Talcott on more than one occasion, his attentions seemed less particular than those of Rory’s other countless admirers.
Huntley made good his promise to escort them whenever Nell pressed him to do so, and as time passed, she found that less and less persuasion was necessary.
Indeed, he had a tendency to meet them at functions even when she had neglected to request his escort.
The one factor that nearly convinced her that he must have said something to the major, however, was that the latter, unlike the myriad of others, did not pay morning calls in Upper Rock Gardens.
Huntley himself came often, though he spent most of his time conversing with Lady Agnes or Nell.
Harry Seton came nearly every day, and so did a number of other fashionable gentlemen.
And not all of the others came merely to visit the Lady Aurora.
At least two showed a decided preference for her aunt.
Some ten days after their excursion to the Downs, the two ladies found themselves entertaining no fewer than six gentlemen callers.
Four of these were gathered about the Lady Aurora, nearly overwhelming her with their compliments and maneuverings.
But if she hoped for assistance from her aunt, she was to be disappointed. Nell had her hands full.
She was seated upon the low sofa in the window bay, flanked by her two most recent admirers.
Upon her right sat Mr. MacElroy, precise to a pin in buff pantaloons, shining Hessians, a gaily embroidered rose-colored waistcoat, and a coat of bottlegreen kerseymere so tight-fitting that it must have necessitated the efforts of at least two hefty footmen as well as his valet to squeeze him into it.
His neckcloth was intricately tied and so stiffly starched that he could scarcely move his head.
Therefore, he had been forced to sit on the very edge of the settee with his whole body skewed toward Nell in order to converse with her.
Her other visitor, by comparison, was relaxed to a point that her father would certainly have castigated as behavior unbecoming a gentleman.
He was Sir Thomas Maitherstone, who, somewhat to Nell’s dismay, had proclaimed himself a poet and requested her permission to dedicate his latest set of odes to her beauty.
Sir Thomas had presented himself in Upper Rock Gardens attired in a loose-fitting drab coat, buckskin breeches, riding boots, and—worst of all—with a checkered handkerchief knotted around his thin neck.
His appearance was such, in fact, that Pavingham had declined to show him into the drawing room without first seeking permission from Nell.
She had granted it willingly, for Sir Thomas amused her, but she could scarcely help being startled by his appearance.
Her expression must have given away her thoughts, for he promptly began to defend himself on the grounds that a man ought to be valued for more than the clothes he wore.
Since Mr. MacElroy had been enjoying the pleasure of having Nell’s attentions all to himself until Maitherstone’s entrance, his reaction to this statement—utter sacrilege in his opinion—was perhaps more pointed than it might have been.
Despite Nell’s attempts to guide the conversation along civil lines, she soon decided that no effort of hers, short of expelling them both from the drawing room, would prevail.
They were extraordinarily polite to one another, but a constant stream of verbal thrusts ensued, continuing until she might cheerfully have knocked both their heads together.
The opening of the drawing room doors provided a welcome diversion, but Nell was conscious of a sharp stab of disappointment when it was merely Kit and Lady Agnes who entered.
Her brother shot her a quizzical look and she responded by lifting her brows in mock helplessness.
Kit grinned but turned away toward the group surrounding Rory.
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Lady Agnes as she followed him and took the seat reluctantly offered to her by one of her granddaughter’s admirers. “What a crush! Nell, dear, have you ordered refreshment? I am persuaded these gentlemen would appreciate some of your papa’s Malaga.”
Since nearly every gentleman present had been there for at least twenty minutes by then, and several had been there a good deal longer, Nell had hoped that the lack of refreshment would recall them to their senses and send them on their way.
But to a man they expressed approval of Lady Agnes’s suggestion, and so Pavingham was soon treading his stately measure from one to another with a tray of glasses and a sparkling decanter.
In the midst of this cheerful scene, Jeremy pushed open the drawing room doors again and announced Lord Huntley.
Startled, Nell glanced up, an involuntary smile of welcome lighting her eyes.
Huntley looked swiftly around the room, his gaze sliding over Rory and her entourage, past Lady Agnes, until it came to rest upon Nell herself.
She rose to greet him, and her quick movement brought her two companions scrambling to their feet.
Huntley glanced from one to the other, and when his gaze met Nell’s, it was brimful of amusement. Her own eyes twinkled in response.
“You know, Mr. MacElroy, of course, sir, but I do not know if you are acquainted with Sir Thomas Maitherstone. This is the Earl of Huntley, Sir Thomas.”
“We haven’t met,” Huntley admitted, holding out a hand to the younger man, “but you are Lord Edgbaston’s nephew recently down from Cambridge, I believe. His lordship mentioned you only last evening.” He lifted his quizzing glass.
Sir Thomas, blushing under such open scrutiny, acknowledged the relationship. His discomfiture seemed to be caused as much by Huntley’s mention of his noble relation as by his lordship’s slow examination of his person. Nell took pity on him.
“Sir Thomas is a poet, my lord,” she said, preserving her countenance with difficulty.
“Is he indeed?” Huntley polished the quizzing glass with his handkerchief. “I daresay that accounts for it, then.”
“Accounts for what, my lord?” Sir Thomas inquired with a hint of defiance in his tone. Mr. MacElroy hid a smile behind a lace-edged, monogrammed handkerchief.
“Why, for that certain air of otherworldliness which seems to enfold you,” replied Huntley in a bland drawl, lifting the glass again. “I am informed that such an air is de rigueur among poets. Have you written an ode to Miss Lindale’s eyes yet? I am persuaded they deserve to be preserved in rhyme.”
“I have,” replied Sir Thomas warily. “Comparing them to dark liquid sapphire pools. And another to her lips. They are like—”
“Rosebuds or ripe cherries, if your previous display of originality is anything by which one might judge the matter,” Huntley said, ruthlessly interrupting this discourse.
“Insolent puppy,” he added moments later when Sir Thomas had taken a hasty departure.
“Did he actually have the effrontery to make you the object of such dismal stuff?”
“I’ll have you know, my lord, that he has written separate odes to my eyes, my lips, my hair, my chin—”
“Good God! As bad as that? I’ve a mind to speak to that young cockerel. Bad enough that he should appear in a lady’s drawing room dressed all by guess, but—”
“Just what I said myself, Huntley,” put in Mr. MacElroy, lisping slightly as was his unfortunate habit. “Not that the young cub would see reason. Actually said a man’s clothes were unimportant. Unimportant! Did you ever hear the like?”
“You still here, MacElroy?” Huntley inquired gently, raising his quizzing glass again as if he had only just noticed the other gentleman.
Undaunted, Mr. MacElroy assured him that he was indeed still there, and even preened himself a bit beneath the moving glass.
“Was enjoying a comfortable coze with Miss Lindale until that demmed popinjay imposed his company upon us. Matter of fact, my lord,” he confided, “I’d consider it a kindness if you was to take yourself off and leave us to finish our conversation. ”
“Daresay you would at that,” Huntley agreed.
Suddenly the movement of the glass halted, and he peered at his victim more carefully.
“I say,” he said, much concerned, “do you know you’ve got smut on your waistcoat?
Good thing I chanced to notice. Only think how you’d feel when you discovered it yourself, very likely after visiting any number of people who wouldn’t care to direct your attention to it. ”
“Yes, by Jove!” Dismayed, MacElroy looked down at his stomach.
There was indeed a tiny smudge of some sort, but not one that would be readily apparent to any but the sharpest eye.
The discovery seemed to overset him entirely, and after stammered apologies, his speedy departure left Huntley in sole possession of the field.
“For shame, sir,” Nell scolded as he took his seat beside her and crossed one elegantly clad leg over the other. “I’ll have you know you have robbed me of my two fondest admirers. I am Sir Thomas’s inspiration,” she added soulfully.
“The devil you are,” Huntley replied, grinning. “And MacElroy? Do you inspire him as well?”
“Goodness, I hope not,” she chuckled. “I should dislike very much to have been the inspiration for that outrageous waistcoat.” He made no response, and she regarded him searchingly. “Did you have something you particularly wished to discuss with me, sir, or did you merely desire to clear the room?”
“Nothing of vast importance,” he replied, eyeing the group around Lady Agnes and Rory. “It is merely that I have seen little of you these past few days and wondered if all was going well.”