“Until it bores me,” the lady replied with a tinkling laugh that didn’t quite cover some commotion downstairs.
By the sound of things, someone had just arrived. Meg’s heart began to beat faster. She had to stop her gaze flying to Harry’s as voices drifted up, both male and female, though Meg could not identify them.
Martha? She rose to her feet, ready to intercept her sister to make sure she knew to play Meg rather than herself. Oh, the devil, could life get any more complicated? And yet, she prayed it was Martha.
Chapter Eight
The door opened, and a tall, rakish-looking man strolled in, glancing around him.
Meg blinked in consternation. This, she hadn’t expected.
“Johnny,” she drawled, gliding toward him with Martha’s languid grace. “What in the world are you doing here?”
Her eldest brother’s eyes narrowed, though he took her hands when she offered them and leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Dash it, you invited me,” he said, adding under his breath, “What are you up to, Madcap?”
“I’ll explain everything when I can,” she murmured back. “I did invite you,” she said aloud, “and you answered that you’d try and look in for the ball.”
“Changed my mind and came early,” Johnny grinned, “I knew you’d be pleased. Greetings, Harry!” He flung out his hand to wring Harry’s in his good-natured way, and then, inevitably, his roving eyes found Mrs. Garrow and gleamed in appreciation.
Hastily, Meg made the introductions. “My graceless brother, Lord Fishguard,” she said. “Johnny, this is Captain and Mrs. Garrow. Now, Johnny, you must hurry and change for dinner. Come, I’ll take you up.”
She took him to the family bedchambers, directing the footmen to put his bags in the chamber next to Lady Meg’s.
Johnny kept up an amusing story about his journey from London until he shut out all the servants, including his indignant valet.
“What the devil is going on?” he demanded. “What do you mean by fleeing down here with Harry de Vere? And now pretending to be Martha! What does Calvert say about that? Where is Calvert?”
“This is ridiculous,” Meg said, trying not to laugh. “We are all flying around the country between here and London, and we keep missing each other! Calvert has gone to London in search of Martha, though we’ve given out he’s gone to his tailor. I take it since you are here, she isn’t in London?”
“Well, she wasn’t when I left this morning.”
Meg sighed. “I didn’t think she was, although I hoped.”
Johnny regarded her uneasily. “Martha is missing?”
She nodded. “Calvert is trying to avoid scandal, so I’m pretending to be Martha. In between being me and pretending I’ve been here two days longer than I actually have, because of the scandal at Connaught Place. Which reminds me, has Papa managed to shut down that rag and have the vile story retracted?”
“No, the paper’s office seems to have vanished off the face of the earth, so he can’t find anyone to retract it. And I’m afraid it’s all over London, Meg, despite our denials and Cosland’s. Cosland’s in Yorkshire, of course, so I suppose Juliet’s playing the same tricks you are. Though it’s all over town, Catesby’s jilted her on the strength of it.”
“Oh, no.” Meg sank down on the bed, staring at him. “But this is dreadful. What can we do?”
He shrugged. “Brazen it out as we are, though I have to say, Meg, careering about the country alone with Harry doesn’t help!”
“No one knows I was careering about with Harry,” she assured him.
He frowned at her. “Not at all the thing,” he said severely.
She blinked. “Are you preaching propriety at me, John Winter?”
He grinned. “Yes, ridiculous, isn’t it? But no one cares what I do. It’s different for a female.” He sobered again. “I suppose Harry keeps within the line? Especially with Calvert away?”
“Oh, don’t be so stupid, Johnny, of course he does! Harry is like my brother! A more congenial brother.”
“Ha,” Johnny said derisively. “I’ll talk to him later. Now, go away if you want me for dinner. Um…where is Meg supposed to be just now?”
“In bed with a migraine.”
“You’ve never been ill in your life,” Johnny observed.
“Well, don’t spread it around,” she said, opening the door. “This is hard enough as it is.”
*
Dinner was unexpectedly entertaining, with banter bouncing between Johnny and Harry. Occasionally, Meg could not resist joining in, although she tried to keep her humorous asides to a minimum since they revealed more of herself than Martha. So, she smiled a good deal and made sure to include the Garrows in the conversation.
Later, leaving the gentlemen to their wine as custom dictated, Meg and Mrs. Garrow sat together in the drawing room.
“What a handsome man your brother is,” Mrs. Garrow observed. “I am surprised no matchmaking mama has yet snapped him up for her darling.”
“Oh, Johnny is very adept at avoiding matchmaking mamas,” Meg said dryly. “So much so that they tend to look at him askance. An unreformed rake does not make a good husband.”
Mrs. Garrow looked at her quickly, causing Meg to wonder what she had heard about Martha’s marriage.
“He is the despair of my father who wants him to follow in his political footsteps,” Meg said hastily. “But he is very good-natured with all and excellent company.”
“And what of Lord Harry?” Mrs. Garrow asked after a few minutes. “Is there, perhaps, some understanding between him and Lady Meg?”
Meg laughed to cover his discomfort. “Lord, no. That is, I would very much doubt it. Harry is like a brother to us. We all ran wild together as children… Besides, he is a younger son, you know, and his elder brother has two sons of his own.”
She broke off as the latest subject of their discussion walked into the room, followed by Johnny and Captain Garrow. They all seemed to be laughing at something, so Meg hoped Harry hadn’t heard the last words of her description. Even though she was playing the part of her more worldly sister.
They whiled away the evening playing cards, and the brandy decanter was passed freely between the gentlemen. Although Meg kept a wary eye on Captain Garrow, she saw no sign of the drunken violence she had witnessed at the inn. He drank in moderation, and his contribution to the conversation was mostly reminiscences of the late war.
“Lord, I haven’t had a run of luck this bad since Malcolm Dewar fleeced me down to my coat in 1812,” he complained, then nodded in Harry’s direction. “Whatever happened to Dewar?”
“He died,” Harry said shortly.
“I’m sorry,” Garrow said. “I heard it was you who dragged him off the battlefield. And then I heard you were both on the road to recovery. What went wrong for him?”
Any idiot could have seen that Harry did not want to discuss this. Meg, seated beside him, sensed his tension as if it were her own. Was Dewar the friend who had given him the ring to take back to his wife? The ring which had caused him to pursue the highwaymen.