Calypso Magic

Chapter 1

There's a skirmish of wit between them.

SHAKESPEARE

Cranston House,

London, England

May 1813

Diana Savarol hated London. It was May, and she was shivering, always shivering. She wanted to go home, back to Savarol Island in the West Indies, where it was always warm, the sky always filled with bright sunlight. She looked at Lucia, Lady Cranston, that old tartar whose tongue was as sharp as a snake's, and her mouth thinned. She wasn't at all certain as yet that she liked her. Even though she was small, she looked regal as a queen with her snow-white hair piled high on her head and her sharp chin always raised just a bit higher than ordinary mortals. "Call me Aunt Lucia," the imperious old woman had told her when she'd arrived. "I'm not exactly your aunt, not even your great-aunt, but it will do." And Diana had complied. Who wouldn't with those sharp pale-blue eyes staring at one with such command?

"I should like to have the fire lit," Diana said now, looking with undisguised longing at the empty grate.

"Really, my dear? I don't think so. Why don't you wear a warmer shawl?"

"I don't have a warmer shawl."

"Then you will have to accustom yourself. You've been here but a week, child." Lucia returned to her novel, a hair-raising gothic that was most improbable and excessively titillating. Diana had remarked on it, her eyes wide, and Lucia had said, "Well, I'm not dead yet, my dear child. I enjoy being wafted away from my fifty-six years, however temporarily. The heroine is such a wilting goose. Most enjoyable—yes, indeed."

"Has the heroine fainted yet in this chapter, Aunt?"

"Twice," said Lucia. "Once with the villain and once with the hero. She is quite accomplished at it. I fear it is her only accomplishment, unless one considers her eyes, which are described as blue as a cerulean sky—most improbable, I daresay—and large as fine China saucers. Wedgwood, I wonder? Oh, my dear Diana, we will attend a ball at Lady Bellermain's this evening. You will wear your new blue silk. It will make you look less tanned."

Diana liked the blue silk, but not because it made her complexion look fairer. It made her look as tall and narrow as a healthy sapling. A ball! She felt as if a thunderbolt had struck her. What would happen to her there, in front of a roomful of strangers, when it became obvious that she couldn't... "Aunt," she said somewhat desperately, "I must tell you that I cannot—"

Didier, Lucia's butler, whom she fondly called "that old monk," entered the drawing room, bowed slightly, and said in his deep voice, "Lord Saint Leven is here, my lady. As you instructed."

"Ah, Lyonel! Don't stand there like a block, Didier, show my nephew in." Lucia tucked the novel away under the seat of her chair, then gave Diana a look that she accurately translated as Mind your tongue or I'll skin you.

Who was this Lyonel person? A real nephew of Lucia's? Of course she would be polite to him. Why ever would Lucia believe she wouldn't? Diana could have easily answered her own query. She hadn't particularly pushed herself to be polite to anyone. She didn't want to be here, after all. I will hold my tongue, at least for the moment, she thought, and grinned at the thought of stuffing her hand into her mouth and wrapping her fingers about her tongue.

Lyonel hadn't wanted to see Lucia, at least not just yet, but he'd just returned from his estate near York. He'd spent most of his time with Frances and Hawk at their racing stud, Desborough. But he'd never in his life ignored a summons from Lucia, and besides, he rationalized to himself, he loved the old bird. She had, after all, saved him from a marriage that would never have seen the light of heaven. He thought briefly of Dancy Moressey, now Charlotte's poor fool of a husband. He'd shot him through the arm, and somehow, no one had found out about it. The good Lord knew that someone should have heard of it, for Charlotte had screeched like a banshee.

He strode into the drawing room and drew up short. There was a girl standing there, her shoulders hunched, shivering, in the middle of the room. She obviously wasn't a servant, for she was looking at him with rather arrogant curiosity, but her gray gown was not at all in fashion and was too small. Her breasts, he couldn't help noticing, were pressed so tightly against the bodice that he wondered that a seam didn't burst. She was well-enough-looking, he supposed without much interest, tall and slender, save for those breasts. Her hair was thick and a blond color mixed with various shades of brown and gold, and her eyes from this distance appeared an interesting greenish gray. He sent a look toward Lucia, a brow arched in question.

"Come in, come in, my boy," Lucia called. "I want you to meet your cousin, Diana Savarol. Diana, my dear, this is your cousin, Lyonel Ashton, Earl of Saint Leven."

"Cousin?" he said slowly, eyeing the shivering girl. "Do you have the ague?"

"No," Diana said sharply. "I'm bloody cold."

"Well, that at least shouldn't be catching. Cousin, you say? I didn't know I had a Diana Savarol for a cousin."

"A cousin somewhat removed," said Lucia.

"I didn't know I had a Lyon for a cousin either," Diana said.

"All right," said Lucia. "Many times removed. Your grandmothers were first cousins, I think. Make your curtsy, Diana."

Diana gave a ghost of a curtsy.

Lyonel gave a mockery of a bow.

"Sit down, my boy. Didier, bring in the tea tray."

"As I recall from Father's family tree," Lyonel said, looking at Lucia, "my grandmother married a fellow from some ungodly place and left England."

"The West Indies are hardly ungodly," said Diana. "Well, not too much, not anymore. The pirates are long gone, but then again, so are the Quakers."

"Your great-uncle, Oliver Mendenhall, accompanied her, Lyonel, your grandmother, that is. He did well there. You are his heir, if you weren't aware of it."

"I fear to expire of excitement on the spot."

"So you are that Ashton whelp," Diana said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Mr. Mendenhall refers to you as the Ashton whelp." Diana raised her chin when he put his monocle to his eye.

Lucia hadn't known what to expect, but her precious Lyonel, this Ashton whelp, was behaving most peculiarly, and all because of that wretched Charlotte Haversham. He was—rather used to be—urbane, exquisitely polite, particularly to females, and blessed with a wry wit that wasn't at all malicious. This new Lyonel was regarding Diana as if she were the possessor of three eyes and spots on her face.

"That," said Diana under her breath, but not under enough, "might be interesting to watch." So he was the man that Old Oliver was being forced to leave all his earthly goods to.

"What might be interesting to watch?"

"Why, your expiring on the spot."

"Ah," said Lucia, "our tea. Diana, my dear, would you please pour?" Damn the two of them anyway. She'd decided after three days that Diana was the girl for Lyonel. She'd really had no intention of ever agreeing with Oliver, who'd slyly suggested in his last letter that Diana and his heir could make a match of it. She remembered Oliver as a feckless lad with a big nose, a spotty complexion, and a receding chin. Not only had he written to her, but Diana's father as well. And now here they were sparring like two ill-bred prizefighters. Both of them must have peasant stock from somewhere. Not from her side of the family, of course.

Diana poured the tea with little grace. "I suppose you like to kill your tea with milk?"

Since she hadn't looked up as she'd spoken, Lyonel said, "Who is the subject of your sentence?"

"Aunt Lucia doesn't kill her tea with anything. You, my lord?"

"By all means, kill it," said Lyonel, who'd never had milk in his tea in his twenty-seven years. He watched her shiver, this time in distaste, and smiled. He rose and walked over to the sideboard. He poured himself a brandy.

"I changed my mind," he said, and gave a brief salute to Diana. "What are you doing here?"

"I live here for the moment. It's Aunt Lucia's sacred goal to polish me up and bring me out."

"You don't appear to be exactly first-season material," he said, and sipped at his brandy. It was good. Lucia had the best cellars in London.

Diana's teacup rattled. What was this awful man's problem? she wondered. He'd taken one look at her and turned nasty. Well, she wasn't one to lie down like a rug and be tread upon. She said only, "Just as well. I don't look good in white."

"No, you wouldn't," Lyonel said in bland agreement. "You'd look too sallow."

"I believe," said Lucia, eyeing first one, then the other, "that I shall send both of you back to the nursery to learn some manners. Come, my boy, it's been two months since that ghastly debacle."

Lyonel stiffened. Lord, he should have known that Lucia wouldn't keep her blasted mouth shut.

"What debacle?" Diana asked as if on cue. Had he fought a duel and killed somebody? Had he lost all his money in a gambling hell? Perhaps he'd been ill, perhaps...

"None of your business," Lyonel said. "Now, Aunt, why did you summon me here this fine day? I'm very busy, you know."

"At least you've come out of hiding," said Lucia. "How are Frances and Hawk? I assume you licked your wounds at Desborough Hall?"

"Aunt," Lyonel said very quietly, "tell me what you wish or I will leave. Now."

Lucia knew when to retreat and when to attack. Now it was time for middle ground cajoling. "My boy, I do have a problem. Abercrombie let me down. I need you to escort Diana and myself to the Bellermains' ball this evening."

He groaned, loudly. "I don't think so, Aunt."

"If you're afraid that Charlotte and Dancy will be there..." She let her voice trail off.

"I don't give a damn where Charlotte is or isn't!"

"Your language isn't proper," said Diana, sticking her oar in. Who was this Charlotte? Was she the debacle?

"As for you," Lyonel said, unable to resist her salvo, "why don't you go back to where you came from? Hopefully sallow women are more prevalent there and you wouldn't stick out so much."

"I am not sallow! I am tanned. Unlike you... dandies, I enjoy the sun on my face. Of course, here, in this ungodly country, you haven't the privilege of much sun, do you? You, for instance, look pale and unhealthy.

"Aunt, good-bye. Miss Savarol, do as you please."

"Lyon! I will cut you up in small pieces if you take one step!"

Lyonel wanted to spit he was so angry. Then, to his utter chagrin, Aunt Lucia burst into loud and rending tears, replete with low, guttural sobs. He cursed under his breath.

He saw Diana rush to Lucia and flutter about the old lady.

"Oh, for God's sake," he said, striding back, "let me give her a brandy. And stop acting like a hen."

Lucia peeked through her fingers at that comment. Diana was alarmingly stiff, staring at Lyonel, while he was calmly fetching a brandy.

"Here," he said, thrusting the snifter toward her.

Lucia drank just a bit, gave another mighty sob, then tried to produce some tears to wipe away. Wisely, she daubed her eyes with her handkerchief. "Diana, my dear," she said, her voice moderately shaky, "won't you please go to Grumber and ask her for my hartshorn?"

Diana wasn't a fool. Auntie was up to something, if she didn't miss her guess. And Auntie wanted her out of the way. So be it. She escaped the drawing room with alacrity. Maybe, Diana thought, Lucia would turn her blistering tongue on this rude far-removed cousin. That was her hope, in any case.

"Fine act, Lucia," Lyonel said, regarding her with his arms folded over his chest, his look ironic.

"Thank you, my boy. Now, tell me why you don't like your cousin."

"I don't even know my cousin, or whatever she is. What is she doing here, anyway?"

"If you will sit down, I will tell you." Lionel sat.

"Her father, Lucien Savarol, begged me to take her under my wing for one Season. I didn't at first wonder why the just one-Season stipulation, but I discovered the reason quickly enough. Diana refuses to stay here longer. I fear I won't find a husband for her. She's very prickly, you see, very proud, and at the moment she hates it here." She gave him one of her patented looks. "Then you come in and act like a fool. It is too bad of you, Lyonel. I had hoped that you would take the girl under your wing and sprinkle some of your consequence over her."

"She is ill-mannered," he said.

"Not until you baited her."

"Her looks are dreadful."

"i***t! That blond hair of hers is incredible! And those high cheekbones? She's the picture of her mama, who, I am told, was a renowned beauty. As for her clothes, we've been shopping and her gown for this evening is most fashionable and lovely."

"Lucia, aren't there sufficient gentlemen in the West Indies? She is most certainly out of her ken here. Surely you don't really expect to find her a husband here in London?"

"She's also an heiress," said Lucia.

"Excellent," was his acid reply. "You let that be known, and you will be besieged by fortune-hunters and scoundrels." He cursed softly under his breath, aware that the net was firmly drawn over him. He threw up his hands. "All right. I'll escort the both of you to the Bellermains' this evening. I will introduce little Diana to all my hapless acquaintances. But, Lucia, if she sharpens her shrew's tongue on any of the gentlemen, you can forget—"

"Shrew's tongue! You insufferable dandy!"

Lyonel grit his teeth. "Did you bring the hartshorn?" he asked.

"Certainly. Here, Aunt."

"You must have raised your skirts and dashed up the stairs."

"Thank you, my dear," Lucia said, and tucked it under her handkerchief. "Lyonel didn't really mean exactly a shrew, Diana. He was just drawing comparisons about—"

"Ha!"

"You are not exactly soft-spoken and endowed with maidenly modesty," said Lyonel. "If you wish to go along at all here in London, I advise you to moderate your mouth and keep your more ill-bred opinions to yourself."

Lucia rolled her eyes. Though she wanted to kick the both of them, she did find them, at least at this moment, more amusing than the hero and heroine of her novel. All that fainting did tend to get on one's nerves.

"I am not ill-bred! I am Diana Savarol of Savarol Island and I can say and do exactly as I please! And everyone would say I do it with good breeding."

"I daresay that this Savarol Island has all the importance and civilization of a backwater barracks." Lyonel broke off. His many-times-removed cousin was regarding him with fury in her eyes, and a very flushed face. What had gotten into him anyway? He was baiting the girl, just as Lucia had said. He was not behaving as he should. He was not acting like the gentleman he was. Two months ago, more than likely, her prickly pride would have elicited nothing more from him than tolerant amusement. But now, he'd like to take her over his knee and thrash her. He cleared his throat and managed with a good deal of effort to moderate his voice. "Miss Savarol, I apologize. I am certain that you have many fine attributes. Aunt, if you have no more use for me, I will see the both of you this evening."

"I wouldn't go to the museum with you!"

"Which museum, my dear?"

Lyonel regarded her with his blandest expression. "I didn't ask you, Miss Savarol, though the Tower of London is an interesting thought. Until this evening. Ladies."

He bowed himself out, relieved that he wasn't the one to have to remain and endure Aunt Lucia's inevitable tirade. What an abominable twit the girl was. And conceited, and sallow.

"My lord," said the proper and sepulchral Didier as he handed Lyonel his cane and gloves.

Lyonel c****d an eyebrow. "Unfortunately, I shall return, Didier."

He thought he heard a screech from the drawing room as he swiftly passed out of the house. I do not look pale and unhealthy, he thought as he strolled down the street toward Piccadilly.

Nonetheless, he shortly found himself at Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Saloon. I am not unhealthy, he thought again as he looked down at bloody-nosed James Crockren at his feet.