Page 18 of By Any Other Name

“You did?”

“Don’t you remember when I got sent down? Don’t smuggle them in now, of course—no need. No headmaster. But I suppose your landlady might object, eh, to your having a doxy in your room.” He nodded sagely.

“What? Oh!” It dawned on Gregory that Andrew had concluded that the “man” he had just seen in his cousin’s embrace was in reality a prostitute whom he had slipped into his rooms in disguise. “No!” Gregory started to hotly deny Andrew’s assumption, but at the last moment he retained enough sense to put a curb on his tongue. “I mean, well . . . yes. What the hell do you want, anyway?”

“I must say, that’s the outside of enough! I apologize—didn’t mean to send your ladybird flying.” He gestured vaguely behind Gregory. “But after—”

Gregory whirled. Rylla, coat wrapped around her and hat pulled low on her head, was slipping down the stairs behind him. “Blast!” He ran after her. “Ry—wait!”

Pelting down the stairs, he burst out the front door just in time to see Rylla dart across the street and climb into a waiting hack. “No! Stop!” He watched in disgust as the carriage rattled off down the street.

“I say. Your ladybird took my hack,” Andrew said as he strolled up behind Gregory.

“She is the most damnably headstrong, stubborn . . .” Gregory stalked back into his building and up the stairs, Andrew following him. He turned at the top of the stairs and shot a dark look at his cousin. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I came to find out what you think you’re doing,” Andrew shot back. “Why did you run off this afternoon? First you tell me you have to meet Eleanor, then every time I try to introduce you, you take off like the hounds of hell are after you.”

Gregory sighed. “I’m sorry, Andy. It was rude of me. I shall apologize profusely to your Miss McIntyre.”

“She’s not my Miss McIntyre. And she thinks you’re mad as a hatter—which was no surprise to her, considering you’re my cousin. It’s me you should apologize to. I was the one who got trapped listening to that fellow drone on for hours.”

“Drone on about what?”

“How should I know? I wasn’t listening.”

Gregory began to chuckle.

“I don’t know what you’re laughing about,” Andrew said with considerable bitterness. “I had the devil of a time trying to stay awake.”

“I am sorry, cuz. I promise I’ll not ask you again to introduce me to Miss McIntyre. As it turns out, she was not the one I was looking for.” He strolled into his apartment, Andrew on his heels.

“I haven’t the faintest notion what you’re talking about. Who are you looking for? And why?”

“The why is easy—she’s the most fascinating girl I’ve ever met.”

“Who is?”

“Miss Amaryllis Campbell.” Gregory saw that the neckcloth he had taken off her lay on the floor in front of the sofa. He swooped down to pick it up, crumpling it in his hand.

“That girl Eleanor’s staying with? You want to meet Rylla?”

“I have already met Rylla.” Gregory brought the white stock up to his face, inhaling her scent. “I just haven’t been introduced.” He dropped his hand and turned to his cousin, a smile beginning on his lips. “You know, Andrew, I think that a formal apology to Miss McIntyre is required. You and I are going to pay them a call tomorrow.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Rylla kept a smile firmly plastered on her lips and wondered if their visitors would ever depart. They had been here the polite twenty-minute interval already—Rylla knew, for she had been keeping an eye on the clock—but they showed no sign of leaving. Mrs. Fraser was a gossip of the first order. Rylla had the uneasy feeling that the woman had some inkling of her brother Daniel’s disappearance and was here to nose out the news. Her companion, Lady Stewart, had come simply to soak up more praise for the elegance of her ball the other night.

“Of course, there are some who will find fault with my little Christmas celebration,” Lady Stewart was now saying.

“Oh, no, my dear, no,” Mrs. Fraser hastened to reassure her, as was Lady Stewart’s intent, Rylla was sure. “We are long past the time of banning Yule cakes, I should hope.”

“Yes, well, it’s not the common thing here, of course. But being reared in England as I was”—she offered a smile of benign condescension—“I quite miss the charming customs.”

“I am sure no one disapproves. Why, I have put up a mistletoe ball myself,” Rylla’s mother said soothingly, pointing to the decoration hanging in the doorway.

Mrs. Fraser added, “Quite so. Perfectly suitable. And mistletoe adds just that little spice of naughtiness.” She tittered.

Rylla glanced at Eleanor, seated beside her on the couch. Her friend’s face was perfectly straight, but laughter brimmed in her eyes. Rylla had to press her lips tightly together to keep from grinning back at her. Eleanor might have a strict moral standard, but thank heavens she also had a ready sense of humor.