Read Online Sorcery & Cecelia: Or the Enchanted Chocolate Pot by Patricia Collins Wrede - Free Book Online

are boxes with flimsy chairs where one may sit to watch other people promenade about by the light of paper lanterns, or dance to a little orchestra playing popular airs (ever so slightly flat). As we entered the lantern-lit clearing, Alice Grenville declared there were nightingales in the thickets. So no sooner were we in the box George and Andrew procured for us than Georgina went off with Andrew to search for one, leaving me with Alice and George. George insisted on ordering rack punch and slivered ham, despite the perfectly enormous meal we had just consumed at Grenville House.
    Well, of course, after a quarter of an hour, I expected to catch a glimpse of Georgina among the crowd walking past. I was a bit concerned for her, alone with her twin. By the greatest misfortune, Oliver chose that moment to arrive in pursuit of Georgy. He pounced on me and demanded to know what I was thinking of to let life in the Ton go so dreadfully to Georgina’s head. I was taken aback for a moment but replied at once in a calm voice that I’ve almost grown to hate (for I seldom know what I’m going to say in it, and sometimes it comes out with the most dreadful lies, always in the same plausible tone) that Georgy and I had made a wager that she masked could dance with more men than I unmasked. My voice went on quite pleasantly to say that if he couldn’t keep from interfering in a simple sportin’ wager, he should go home and get Aunt Charlotte to make him a posset. Otherwise, he’d best sit down and join us.
    “A simple sportin’ wager,” he huffed at me. “I should think you would know better than to jest about such things with a member of the family. And if you’re not jesting, you must be mad.”
    “I suppose I must be,” I agreed, “but at least I am not bacon-brained enough to preach a sermon in Vauxhall Gardens.”
    You may imagine Oliver’s response. It was a masterpiece of priggish indignation that, reduced to its bare essentials, amounted to an accusation that we were having fun without him. When he was quite finished, he called me a rag-mannered chit and marched off to find Georgina, which, I own, I was hoping he would do for quite some time.
    I apologized to Alice and George and went back to craning my neck to look for Georgy.
    An hour went by, Cecy, and a worse hour I have yet to pass, in London or out of it. I saw Oliver in the distance twice, but there wasn’t a sign of Georgy. As you may imagine, I grew worried and then more worried, until finally Alice and the twin agreed to stroll with me in the direction of the illuminations. After all, Alice told me bracingly, it was possible Oliver simply didn’t recognize Georgy in her domino.
    We walked down a winding path and reached a little Greek temple lit with paper lanterns. It seemed a good idea to separate and search the shrubbery round about. I took a wrong step somehow, and found myself in a thicket with no temple in sight and no reply to my call. After a moment of uneasiness, it struck me what seemed wrong. The shadowy coppice was altogether silent. No nightingale sang, nor could I hear any faint strain of the orchestra.
    Puzzled and a little alarmed, I stood in the dark, the flat of my hand resting on the trunk of the tree before me. I was struck with a sudden sense of unreasonable apprehension (in addition to my perfectly reasonable apprehension, common to any girl foolish enough to lose herself at night in the woods of Vauxhall). You may therefore imagine my reaction when a hand covered mine and held me there, palm against the smooth bark.
    “I thought I told you to stay in well-lit ballrooms,” said Thomas Schofield in my ear.
    I managed to stop my scream before it got to my lips. After a moment I said quite evenly, “Ill met by moonlight, my dear Marquis.” I admit this was not exactly brilliant, but I think that under the circumstances I did fairly well.
    “On the contrary, my dear half-wit,” he replied, “for your sake, we are very well met. But