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Authors: The Right Honourable Viscount
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countless drops extraordinaire. “You accused me of having shot the cat,” he offered. “I warned you that you’d stand trial for treason if you conspired against the king.”
Briefly distracted from her mission, Miss Phyfe clutched her pamphlets closer. “Ravening flesh,” she murmured wistfully. “Drinking blood.”
Had it gone so far, then? Viscount English recollected he’d read those precise words he’d read on one of the sheets that his companion hugged to her breast. “I am appalled. How dare you voice such pernicious sentiments, Miss Phyfe?”
Somewhat bleakly, Morgan regarded the viscount. Sidoney could be forgiven for finding the gentleman a trifle dull. Nonetheless, he remained the most eligible candidate for Sidoney’s hand. Though Sidoney might disavow any interest in another marriage, only by that marriage would Morgan’s own sanity be preserved. Therefore, the viscount must be persuaded to change his habits.
“Oh, I didn’t say them, though I wish I might have! It was Darby, and a nice way he has with a phrase.” Perhaps too nice, she thought.
“Darby?” Laurie was dumbfounded to learn that that most notorious of rakehells sandwiched revolutionary agitation in between his amours. “The devil!”
“So they say,” responded Morgan, dryly. “Perhaps now, sir, you begin to get my drift.”
The viscount, alas, got nothing of the sort. Visions of bloody revolution filled his head, scenes of outright butchery more harrowing even than those witnessed not long past in France. The regent would be beheaded, and the royal dukes; old, blind George III and his plain Queen Charlotte locked up in the Tower; the aristocracy would to a man fall victim to Madame Guillotine. And caught up smack in the middle of all this horror would be the muddleheaded Sidoney. If she escaped decapitation as an aristocrat, she would be executed as a traitress. So wretched a fate must not be allowed to descend upon that beautiful pea-brain, even if the viscount had resolved his wisest course must be to refrain from seeing her again. “You may count on me!” he said.
“Thank goodness for that.” Miss Phyfe retorted frankly. “I had not expected you would be so amenable. Certainly you have not shown yourself to be amenable as regards rather more important matters—but that’s neither here nor there. Now we must plot out your strategy. I think you must admit, English, that thus far you have sadly muddled the business.”
What had he to do with revolution? And what business was it that Miss Phyfe harped upon? Viscount English did not like to admit his ignorance. “Ah!” he said.
Miss Phyfe interpreted this utterance as concession; one could not expect a gentleman to freely own up to his cow-handedness. “ Already you have gravely blundered. Sidoney needs careful handling. You should not have accused her of growing stout and plain, or neglected to return with her punch. And you should have worn the willow for her all those years ago, or at least have pretended that beneath your serene exterior ached a broken heart.”
Mightily, Laurie strove to grasp the situation into which he had been so abruptly thrust. “I didn’t—”
“I know you didn’t!” retorted Miss Phyfe, annoyed. “I wish you wouldn’t interrupt.”
The viscount, however, felt a need to defend himself. He pointed out that it was Miss Phyfe’s fault he had failed to bring Lady Barbour back her punch.
“Pish tush!” responded Miss Phyfe. “This is the thanks I get for trying to save Sidoney from disaster; you try to shift the blame from your shoulders onto my own. I shan’t take offense! Doubtless you will find it difficult to take advice. But take my advice you will, if you want Sidoney. You haven’t made too good a showing to date, and the odds are even greater against you now!” She paused and looked thoughtful. “That is, you do want Sidoney, do you not?”
At this, the only rational sentence which Miss Phyfe had uttered in some
Briefly distracted from her mission, Miss Phyfe clutched her pamphlets closer. “Ravening flesh,” she murmured wistfully. “Drinking blood.”
Had it gone so far, then? Viscount English recollected he’d read those precise words he’d read on one of the sheets that his companion hugged to her breast. “I am appalled. How dare you voice such pernicious sentiments, Miss Phyfe?”
Somewhat bleakly, Morgan regarded the viscount. Sidoney could be forgiven for finding the gentleman a trifle dull. Nonetheless, he remained the most eligible candidate for Sidoney’s hand. Though Sidoney might disavow any interest in another marriage, only by that marriage would Morgan’s own sanity be preserved. Therefore, the viscount must be persuaded to change his habits.
“Oh, I didn’t say them, though I wish I might have! It was Darby, and a nice way he has with a phrase.” Perhaps too nice, she thought.
“Darby?” Laurie was dumbfounded to learn that that most notorious of rakehells sandwiched revolutionary agitation in between his amours. “The devil!”
“So they say,” responded Morgan, dryly. “Perhaps now, sir, you begin to get my drift.”
The viscount, alas, got nothing of the sort. Visions of bloody revolution filled his head, scenes of outright butchery more harrowing even than those witnessed not long past in France. The regent would be beheaded, and the royal dukes; old, blind George III and his plain Queen Charlotte locked up in the Tower; the aristocracy would to a man fall victim to Madame Guillotine. And caught up smack in the middle of all this horror would be the muddleheaded Sidoney. If she escaped decapitation as an aristocrat, she would be executed as a traitress. So wretched a fate must not be allowed to descend upon that beautiful pea-brain, even if the viscount had resolved his wisest course must be to refrain from seeing her again. “You may count on me!” he said.
“Thank goodness for that.” Miss Phyfe retorted frankly. “I had not expected you would be so amenable. Certainly you have not shown yourself to be amenable as regards rather more important matters—but that’s neither here nor there. Now we must plot out your strategy. I think you must admit, English, that thus far you have sadly muddled the business.”
What had he to do with revolution? And what business was it that Miss Phyfe harped upon? Viscount English did not like to admit his ignorance. “Ah!” he said.
Miss Phyfe interpreted this utterance as concession; one could not expect a gentleman to freely own up to his cow-handedness. “ Already you have gravely blundered. Sidoney needs careful handling. You should not have accused her of growing stout and plain, or neglected to return with her punch. And you should have worn the willow for her all those years ago, or at least have pretended that beneath your serene exterior ached a broken heart.”
Mightily, Laurie strove to grasp the situation into which he had been so abruptly thrust. “I didn’t—”
“I know you didn’t!” retorted Miss Phyfe, annoyed. “I wish you wouldn’t interrupt.”
The viscount, however, felt a need to defend himself. He pointed out that it was Miss Phyfe’s fault he had failed to bring Lady Barbour back her punch.
“Pish tush!” responded Miss Phyfe. “This is the thanks I get for trying to save Sidoney from disaster; you try to shift the blame from your shoulders onto my own. I shan’t take offense! Doubtless you will find it difficult to take advice. But take my advice you will, if you want Sidoney. You haven’t made too good a showing to date, and the odds are even greater against you now!” She paused and looked thoughtful. “That is, you do want Sidoney, do you not?”
At this, the only rational sentence which Miss Phyfe had uttered in some
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