Beth Andrews by St. Georgeand the Dragon Page B

sobered. ‘I merely had to look from him to his companion.’
    ‘Who was not so affected, it seems?’
    ‘He might have been a wax figure by Madame Tussaud, for all the emotion he displayed.’
    ‘Because he did not display emotion, it does not follow that he did not feel it,’ Cass said reasonably, but Rosalind was not to be mollified.
    ‘He is a heartless libertine, steeped in vice.’
    ‘Now you sound like a bad novel.’
    Rosalind reached out and gave her a playful pinch on the arm in protest, which produced a squeak of surprised laughter.
    ‘You take this all much too lightly, Cass.’
    ‘Don’t be such a hypocrite, Lindy,’ her charge reproved her. ‘You are enjoying this quite as much as I am.’
    ‘I own that it gave me pleasure to watch your Julian tonight,’ she confessed. ‘As your song progressed, so did the color in his face. At first he actually paled when he realized the nature of the piece. Then he went rapidly from rose pink to apple red and seemed not to know which way to look.’
    ‘How delightful!’ Cassandra cried. ‘And I suppose he is, by right, “my Julian”: My fool, to toy with as I please.’
    ‘Beware, Cass,’ Rosalind warned, alarmed by her air of self-assurance. ‘These men are no fools — particularly St George.’
    ‘Oh, you can take care of him.’ Cassandra shrugged, apparently quite unconcerned.
    ‘I wonder.’
    ‘Do not fret, Lindy dear.’ For a moment their roles were reversed, Cassandra becoming the reassuring — almost motherly — figure. ‘You may be able to see, but there are some things which I can sense that you do not.’
    ‘And you sense that we will emerge victorious from this match with two masters in the art of flirtation?’
    ‘Unlike my namesake, I hope that I can prophesy something better than doom and disaster.’
    ‘Is this prophecy, or merely wishful thinking?’
    Cassandra stretched and lay back on the pillows with her head cradled in her hands.
    ‘It will not be long before we find out, will it?’
    Rosalind frowned at her, unwilling to trust entirely to her young friend’s sanguine expectations. She knew that their opponents were formidable indeed.
    ‘At least,’ she spoke her thoughts aloud, ‘Julian seems to retain some remnants of a conscience.’
    ‘Which St George does not?’
    ‘If his conscience is not dead,’ Rosalind suggested, ‘it has been asleep for so long that he has probably forgotten its existence.’
    ‘If you cannot awaken it, Lindy, then I fear Mr Richard St George is indeed lost.’
    * * * *
    Having retired from the field with their ranks in temporary disarray, the gentlemen in question were at the lodge attempting to assess the degree of damage and to discuss a strategy for the next stage of their campaign. No augury of impending doom seemed to trouble St George. He was more merry than Julian remembered to have seen him in some time. Unfortunately, his merriment was chiefly directed toward Julian himself.
    ‘The look upon your face was beyond price.’ Richard was both relaxed and deliciously mocking as he gently derided his friend.
    ‘I knew not which way to look,’ Julian confessed. ‘It was as though she were singing that awful song to me.’
    ‘No doubt she was.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    St George warmed a glass of brandy in one large, well-manicured hand. He seemed absorbed in contemplating the color of the liquid before consuming it.
    ‘Tonight’s performance was carefully orchestrated, stripling.’
    ‘Orchestrated?’ Julian repeated, mystified. ‘How so?’
    ‘Those two songs were specially chosen — I suspect by Miss Powell — to discomfit us, if possible. Failing that, they were at the very least a declaration that our beautiful dragon is well aware of what we are about.’
    ‘And Miss Woodford?’
    ‘Those two are as close as sisters, I would imagine.’ St George’s eyes narrowed. ‘There is very little that they do not share.’
    ‘So they both know that we are playing a