Free A Most Lamentable Comedy by Janet Mullany Page A

the two of them needed a push in the right direction.
    In a split second, I decide what I must do. ‘Of course not!’ I say in a loud, blustering tone. ‘She’s only an actress , after all. You saw how she flung herself at me at the rehearsal today.’
    ‘Oh!’ Fanny looks at me, uncertain, and then at Darrowby. ‘Tom, I—’
    ‘You – you foreign bastard!’
    I’m tempted to laugh, but another of Darrowby’s wild swings catches me in the ribs and I drop to one knee, clutching my side. I lurch back to my feet again.
    My gaze meets that of Caroline, who stands a few feet away. Apparently she did not go indoors as I thought. Is she jealous?
    ‘It really doesn’t mean anything to Congrevance,’ Caroline says. ‘He was inviting me into the maze but a quarter-hour ago, Darrowby.’
    ‘You blackguard!’ Darrowby rushes at me again, but this time I step aside and he blunders into a shrub. As he extricates himself, picking leaves from his waistcoat, he splutters, ‘I demand satisfaction, sir!’
    Excellent. Now Fanny will see him as a hero.
    Instead she takes Caroline’s arm, and the two ladies regard me with contempt and Darrowby with what appears to be kindly pity.
    ‘I suppose men can’t help it,’ Caroline says.
    ‘Probably not. Caro, I rather fancy some of the little cakes we had with tea in the drawing room. Shall we see if there are any left?’
    I have never been so embarrassed in my life, and Darrowby blushes bright red at Fanny’s indifference. She gives us one last amused glance. ‘I trust neither of you will do anything foolish.’
    height="0em" width="27" align="justify">‘Hit me!’ I mutter to Darrowby.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Hit me. You’re losing her interest.’ I brace myself. ‘Thumb outside your fist, Darrowby, you’ll break a bone else.’ I’m not thinking too clearly, but my reasoning goes something like this: Fanny will be impressed by Darrowby’s manly strength and his ardent defence of her honour; Caroline will dart forward with a cry of distress as I fall.
    Stars burst at the side of my head, and the gardens and evening sky wheel in a crazy spiral.
    ‘A beefsteak should do the trick nicely, sir.’
    To my disappointment, the face that leans over mine as I regain my senses is that of Barton. He helps me to my feet, brushing grass from my coat. My eye is rapidly tightening and closing, my cheekbone throbbing.
    ‘Where are they?’
    My question is answered as I see that Darrowby stands nearby. Of the two women there is no sign.
    ‘I’m dreadfully sorry,’ I say to Darrowby. ‘Maybe I should have hit you. In any case, I had no business kissing Mrs Gibbons. My apologies, sir.’
    He utters a long sigh. ‘Possibly I should kiss her more myself. Women are so difficult, aren’t they? You never really know what they want you to do. But what went wrong? I shouldn’t be asking for your advice. I was about to challenge you to a duel.’
    ‘You may still do so if you wish.’
    ‘Not much point, Congrevance, if the women aren’t to know about it. Besides, we have no disinterested parties for seconds.’ He examines his knuckles and flexes his fingers. ‘I hope I can still write.’
    ‘I’ll set you right up, sir, if you come along with us,’ Barton offers. ‘Or, if you wish, I’ll get out the false beard . . .’
    I shake my head. Not the false beard of which Barton is so fond and that he has assumed for a number of roles – seconds in duels, doctors, priests, et cetera.
    What a failure. Not only have we subverted the code of honour, but we have lost the two ladies to dessert – Darrowby’s timing was not of the best, as by the time he struck his blow they had turned away, arm in arm. Doubtless, if they discussed us at all, it was only to comment on what fools we were.
    She doesn’t care. I should abandon the pursuit. I’ll leave tomorrow.
    Beside me, Darrowby sighs. ‘Congrevance, tell me. Do you think Mrs Gibbons is entirely indifferent to me?’
    ‘Of course not.’