Page 3 of Lady Mary's May Day Mischief
“I love you,” crowed the large green bird who took any opportunity to crow about his passion for Fifi. “I love you.”
Fifi placed a hand over her heart and feigned adoration equal to a Drury Lane actress. “I come to marry Caesar.”
“Not to praise him.” Mary scowled at him and drew a hand across her throat. “I know. Forget him.”
“I love you!” he repeated and cast his mistress a dark evil eye.
“Tough bird.” Fifi chuckled.
“Caesar, stop that. It’s irritating.” She must get her friend onto the topic of the hour. “But I will give you that Esme wants an audience.”
Fifi threw up her hands and whirled toward Mary. “I’m not in the habit of thinking the worst of people. Even Esme Harvey.”
But Mary questioned how this engagement had come about. “I had no idea Esme traveled in the same circles as Northington. Did you?”
“My Aunt Courtland—God love her—is a sweet soul, but if she has any fault it’s that she encouraged Esme to exceed her grasp. Excel at French, archery, cards. Anything! You know she did.”
Mary did not give credence to theton’s dictum that a viscount’s daughter was beneath notice as a potential bride for a marquess. But Esme had been pushed by her mother to go over and above any normal expectations. “I remember your aunt appearing any night or day at Miss Shipley’s demanding Esme do more, study longer hours, practice more diligently. Your aunt was a harpy to her only daughter, but in all else a serene lady with a sense of humor.”
“Yes. Well! I cannot laugh at this!” Fifi paced back and forth before the pianoforte.
Mary pointed to the settee. “Come sit down.”
“Sit down! Sit down!”
Mary stepped to the bird’s cage and dropped his cover over him. As if that deterred him.
“Now then,” she said, then hobbled over to sit and pat the cushion. “We’ll have tea. Cook made creamed horns yesterday. You like those.”
“Oh, Mary. I can’t eat.”
Mary couldn’t let that stand! “Dearest, long after I have waddled to my bed stuffed to my gizzard like a Christmas goose,youcan always eat.”
Fifi heaved a huge sigh. “You’re right. Of course. Why do you always state the truth?”
“Hmm. Not the best of traits. My mama always urged me to discretion. ‘A littlepolitesse, dear girl,’ she’d say. I’m not a diplomat! Never will be! Now do sit—”
“Sit down! Sit down!”
Fifi appeared half-way between a laugh and a curse. “He becomes more vocal as he gets older.”
“And he is company.”
Fifi let out an unladylike snort. “You can do better.”
“I could hope. Here now.” She didn’t dare ask her friend to sit. “Let’s figure this one out.”
Weary and surrendering, Fifi strode over and sank to the settee. “I cannot imagine Aunt Courtland would encourage Esme to charm Northington into marriage.”
“Does your aunt know you cared for him?”
“I never told her. But my mother might have.”
“That had to be two years ago, before your mama became so ill,” Mary pointed out.
“But Esme knows.”
Mary drew back. Fifi would never confide in Esme. “You told her?”
