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Sally bobbed into the hall, did a half-turn, bobbed again, and was still bobbing as Melisande shut the door.or.
“She seems a nice enough girl,” she said to Mouse.
Mouse snorted and leaped back onto the bed.
Melisande tapped him on the nose, then crossed to her dresser. A plain tin snuffbox sat on top. She briefly brushed the battered surface with her fingertips before taking out the button from where she’d hidden it in her sleeve. The silver V winked in the candlelight as she contemplated it.
She’d loved Jasper Renshaw for six long, long years. It must’ve been shortly after he’d returned to England that she’d attended the party where she’d met him. He hadn’t noticed her, of course. His blue-green eyes had drifted over her head as they were introduced, and shortly afterward, he’d excused himself to flirt with Mrs. Redd, a notorious and notoriously beautiful widow. Melisande had watched from the side of the ball, sitting next to a line of elderly ladies, as he’d thrown his head back and laughed with complete abandon. His neck had been strong, his mouth opened wide with mirth. He was a captivating sight, but she probably would’ve dismissed him after that as a silly, feckless aristocrat if not for what had happened several hours later.
er Two
Presently, Jack came upon an old man, sitting by the side of the road. The old man’s clothes were rags, his feet were bare, and he sat as if the whole world rested upon his shoulders.
“Oh, kind sir,” the beggar cried. “Have you a crust of bread to spare?”
“I have more than that, Father,” Jack replied.
He stopped and opened his pack and drew out half a meat pie, carefully wrapped in a kerchief. This he shared with the old man, and with a tin cup of water from a nearby stream, it made a very fine meal indeed. . . .
—from LAUGHING JACK
That night, Melisande sat at dinner and contemplated a meal of boiled beef, boiled carrots, and boiled peas. It was her brother Harold’s favorite meal, in fact. She was on one side of a long, dark wood dining table. At the head of the table was Harold and at the foot was his wife, Gertrude. The room was dim and shadowy, lit only by a handful of candles. They could well afford beeswax candles, of course, but Gertrude was a frugal housekeeper and did not believe in wasting candle wax—a philosophy that Harold heartily approved of. Actually, Melisande had often thought that Harold and Gertrude were the epitome of the perfectly matched husband and wife: they had the same tastes and views and were both a trifle boring.
She looked down at her grayish portion of boiled beef and considered how she was to tell her brother and his wife of her understanding with Lord Vale. Carefully she cut off a small piece of beef. She picked it up in her fingers and held the bite down by her skirts. Under the table, she felt a cold little nose against her hand, and then the beef was gone.
“I am so sorry to have missed Mary Templeton’s wedding,” Gertrude commented from the foot of the table. Her smooth, wide brow was marred by a single indent between her eyebrows. “Or rather, her not wedding, for I am sure that her mother, Mrs. Templeton, would="4„ have appreciated my presence there. I am told by many people, many people, that I am a comfort and a relief to those whose fortunes are in decline, and Mrs. Templeton’s fortunes are quite in decline at the moment, are they not? One might even say Mrs. Templeton’s fortunes are abysmal.”
She paused to take a tiny bite of boiled carrot and looked to her husband for his concurrence.
Harold shook his head. He had their father’s heavy jowls and thinning light brown hair, covered now with a gray wig. “That gel ought to be put on bread and water until she comes to her senses. Throwing over a viscount. Foolish, is what it is. Foolish!”
Gertrude nodded. “I think she must be insane.”
Harold perked up at this. He was always morbidly interested in disease. “Does lunacy run in the family?”
Melisande felt a nudge against her leg. She looked down to see a small black nose poking out from beneath the table edge. She cut off another piece of beef and held it under the table. Both nose and beef disappeared.
“I do not know if there is lunacy in that family, but I would not be surprised,” Gertrude replied. “No, not surprised at all. Of course, there is no lunacy on our side of the family, but the Templetons cannot say the same, I’m afraid.”
Melisande used the tines of her fork to scoot the peas to the edge of her plate, feeling rather sorry for Mary. Mary had only followed her heart, after all. She felt a paw against her knee, but this time she ignored it. “I believe that Mary Templeton is in love with the curate.”
Gertrude’s eyes widened like boiled gooseberries. “I don’t think that pertains.” She appealed to her husband. “Do you think that pertains, Mr. Fleming?”
“No, it does not pertain at all,” Harold replied predictably. “The chit had a satisfactory match, and she threw it away on a curate.” He chewed meditatively for a moment. “Vale is well rid of her, in my opinion. Might’ve brought a bad strain of insanity into his bloodline. Not good. Not good at all. Better for him to find a wife elsewhere.”
“As to that . . .” Melisande cleared her throat. She would find no better opening. Best to get it over with. “I have something I’ve been meaning to tell you both.”
“Yes, dear?” Gertrude was sawing at the lump of beef on her plate and didn’t look up.
Melisande took a deep breath and stated it bluntly, because really, there didn’t seem to be any other way to do it. Her left hand lay in her lap, and she felt the comforting touch of a warm tongue. “Lord Vale and I came to an understanding today. We are going to be married.”
Gertrude dropped her knife.
Harold choked on the sip of wine he’d taken.
Melisande winced. “I thought you should know.”
“Married?” Gertrude said. “To Lord Vale? Jasper Renshaw, Viscount Vale?” she clarified as if there might be another Lord Vale in England.
