Free Carola Dunn by Mayhemand Miranda Page A

she’s expecting you.”
    “Yes, I’d better turn up.”
    The lieutenant looked so wistful, Peter was about to invite him to dine in Portchester Square. He doubted Aunt Artemis would object to an unexpected guest. But then he remembered she was going to demonstrate her Candle pose, an event perhaps best kept in the family.
    “See you at Tatt’s tomorrow?” Bassett asked hopefully. “Not that I’m on the lookout for a horse—stands to reason, not much use on board—but it’s as good a place as any to fiddle away the hours while the Admiralty’s mills grind on.”
    “I shan’t have time.” Grafton House with Miss Carmichael in the morning, a bit of writing if he could fit it in, and... “My aunt is ‘at home,’ as they say, in the afternoon. If you’ve nothing better to do, why don’t you call in?”
    “I say, my dear fellow, not quite the thing. I’m not acquainted with the lady, she don’t know me from Adam.”
    “She won’t take snuff, I promise you. Aunt Artemis is anything but toplofty.”
    “Truth is, I ain’t much in the petticoat line.”
    “Oh, it’s not a matter of doing the pretty to a set of genteel tabbies. You’ll meet some interesting characters. The fact is, my aunt’s a bit of an eccentric and invites all sorts of rum people. Not that I mean to say there’s anything rum about you, old chap!”
    “And you’re quite sure she won’t take a miff?”
    “Devil a bit. Lady Wiston, 9 Portchester Square, half past three to half past five.”
    “Lady Wiston? Not the Admiral’s widow? My first year as a midshipman, I sailed under Admiral Sir Bernard Wiston.”
    “Then dammitall, Bassett, you owe it to the old lady to come and pay your respects. She’ll be delighted to see you.”
    They shook hands, and Peter hurried home.
    “‘Er lidyship’s hupstairs, guv’ner,” the new footman informed him. Alfred, a weedy youth who had hitherto eked out a living as a crossing-sweeper, had run after Lady Wiston in the street to return the guinea she handed him in mistake for a smaller coin. Now profiting by his honesty, he carried out his new duties in a state of beatitude and a suit of livery two sizes too large. He would grow into it after a few good meals, according to her ladyship. At least his wig fitted, more or less.
    “Dressing for dinner?” Peter asked.
    “Oi ‘asn’t took ‘ot water up yet.”
    Taking the stairs two at a time, Peter opened the sitting-room door, an apology for his lateness on the tip of his tongue. The words died as he saw his aunt stretched out flat on her back on the carpet, her eyes closed.
    He sprang forward. Miss Carmichael stopped him, a warning hand raised. Shaking her head, she came to him.
    “Hush,” she whispered. “Your aunt is breathing.”
    “I’m glad to hear it!” he choked out.
    “That is, she is practising yoga breathing, which is, I collect, considerably more complicated than the ordinary kind. You are just in time to witness the Candle.”
    “Good.” Peter gave her a shaky smile. “I feared she was dead, or at least in a fit. Mutton-headed, when her cheeks are as rosy as ever.”
    As he spoke, Aunt Artemis’s Cossack-clad legs rose slowly from the floor until they pointed straight at the ceiling. He held his breath. Her short, plump body uncurled until she was standing on her shoulders, supported by her hands on her hips. And there she stayed.
    A glance at Miss Carmichael showed her spellbound, but then her brown eyes met his and he saw the mirth brimming there. If Aunt Artemis had hoped to shock and dishearten her companion, the plot was an utter failure.
    His aunt’s descent began equally slowly but ended with less grace when her buttocks thudded to the floor. Her legs followed suit.
    “Bother!” she said crossly. “That is just what one must strive to avoid.”
    Miss Carmichael took a step towards her. “Have you hurt yourself, Lady Wiston?”
    “No, not at all. I am well padded.” She turned her head to cast a covert