In a Perfect Mess With the Marquess

by Hazel Linwood

  “Ah.” Their mother nodded. “You take a lie-down, then. But mind that you tell me if it persists…the physician should be summoned then.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Amelia pushed back her chair and Martha fought not to smile as she watched her sister hurry upstairs. She looked across the table at their mother.

  “You saw the new drawing room?” she asked, hoping to kindle her interest in the subject again.

  “I did! And I declare, it is a monument to bad taste.”

  Martha looked at her plate, trying not to chuckle. She was having trouble feeling serious today—the tension of their plan was just too much for her.

  “Clear these plates away, please,” their mother summoned the footman, who was waiting by the wall, as they finished. “I will take a dish of chocolate in the drawing room. Martha?”

  “No, thank you,” Martha said. She stood as the footman started to pack the dishes onto the dinner trolley. She fell into step behind their mother, and as they walked down the hallway, she fell over.

  “Martha!” her mother turned around, annoyance crackling in her voice. “What on Earth are you doing?”

  Martha lay on the floor, trying not to smile. She willed herself to be still, to keep her eyes shut. She recalled lessons with their governess, and how she had once played being dead when they tried their own little Shakespeare play.

  Lie down, and pretend your body is made of something heavy. Let it sink into the floor. Your arms are heavy; your head is heavy…

  She heard the voice of their governess in her own mind and lay there, entirely still. She didn’t move a muscle, mouth going slack as if she slept.

  “Martha?” Their mother sounded uncertain. Martha felt her lift her hand from the ground, and she did as their governess had suggested and let it sag lifelessly as their mother dropped it again. “Haley!” Mama shouted, and she sounded strident and afraid. “Haley! Summon the physician!”

  Martha did her best to lie still as Haley walked up. She heard him stop dead as he saw her lying there and she could almost feel his shock.

  “Don’t just stand there!” their mother snapped. “Get the physician! Oh, woe!” she wailed.

  Martha wished she could sit up and watch the action, but her part necessitated that she lie still on the floor and not witness what was happening. She tensed, as Haley stepped around her and ran down the stairs.

  “Mrs. Huntley! Mrs. Huntley! Fetch someone to carry her upstairs!”

  “Yes, My Lady,” the housekeeper said from somewhere nearby. Martha lay still as she felt the footman lace his arms around her shoulders and waist and lift her.

  “Oh! This is terrible…so terrible…” her mother said. Martha wanted to grin. It was she who was acting, but her mother was the one the audience was focused on.

  “I’ll take her to her bedchamber, immediately,” the footman said. Martha let her head hang and wobble as he carried her, and hoped she looked convincing as unconscious.

  “Oh! Where is the physician! What am I to do? I will need to tell the Gracefields—they were meant to visit tonight!”

  Martha made a fist with the hand that was out of sight, trying to focus on the sensation instead of on her mother’s shouts, which were making her laugh.

  I wonder what would happen if something bad really did happen to me? Would she be telling the local gentry, just to pose as the tragic heroine?

  She lay still as the footman placed her on the bed. The door was open, and she could hear her mother in the hallway, shouting for Mrs. Huntley. She shivered and wished she could take the blanket and wrap it around her own body.

  She could hear her making plans and sending messages to the Gracefields and the Huddersfords and she was pleased for the delay—every second she spent trying to draw attention to herself, Amelia was outside.

  And I don’t think I can risk keeping this up too long.

  She would have a harder time convincing the physician, she considered.

  When he arrived ten minutes later, she sat up against the pillows. Somebody had thought to draw a blanket over her, and stoke the fire, for which she was grateful. She opened her eyes blearily as the physician, Mr. Lessing, came in.

  “My Lady,” he greeted aridly. “You’re unwell?”

  “I was unconscious,” she said. “But I am feeling better.”

  After taking her pulse, checking her forehead for a fever, and pressing a damp cloth to it, the physician pronounced that she was not unwell.

  “I must have been tired or cold,” Martha murmured. She was trying to look as weary and exhausted as she could, her eyes half-open, her face twisted to a pained look.

  “Yes. That must be it. I prescribe bedrest and a broth of meat bones,” he said. “That ought to keep up your strength.” He smiled in a reassuring manner.

  “Yes,” Martha whispered, trying to sound exhausted. “I hope so.”

  She grinned as he shut the door behind him. She could hear her mother, and she wished she was close enough to hear what they said to each other. But she was just grateful that he hadn’t prescribed bleeding or anything else scary.

  “My child. You are awake!” her mother declaimed from the doorway. “Oh!”

  Martha nodded, and hid her grin. “Yes, Mama. I feel much better, thank you.”

  “Oh! I am so glad! How fortunate. Lady Gracefield was so agitated, that she insisted on calling. I will receive her directly as soon as I have ascertained that you’re unharmed.”

  “I’m quite well, Mama,” she murmured. Inwardly, she wondered if she’d bruised herself when falling—dropping like a stone to the hard floor was the only thing that she’d done that might hurt.

  Later, once Penitence had brought her the nourishing broth and left it by her bedside, she heard a knock at the door. She beamed as Amelia came in. Her sister looked different—she was radiant and it transformed her face.

  “Martha,” she said, coming to sit down on the bed. “Thank you. I saw him and we talked and I cannot thank you enough! How are you?”

  Martha smiled. “Quite well,” she said, and winked. “I think our mother had some excitement, though.”

  “Martha!” Amelia giggled. “Oh, you are grand.”

  Amelia sat and talked with her a while, and she was overjoyed to see how happy she was. As she tiptoed out, Martha grinned to herself in the darkness.

  That, she thought, breathing in the scent of rosemary and broth, seemed to have gone surprisingly well, indeed. She wondered what Lord Calperton was up to.

  Chapter 14

  “Wycliffe…Is there an inn around here?” Nicholas asked. He was sitting by the fire, pulling on his boots. His manservant looked up from where he worked, sponging down a mark on Nicholas’ riding trousers, and frowned.

  “Yes, My Lord. There’s an inn in the village. I went there. Last week.”

  “You went there,” Nicholas said, frowning. “Why did you do that?” Surely his manservant was fed and housed in the household, like everybody else?

  His manservant shrugged and looked away. “No reason, My Lord. I just…went there. I like a walk and a spot of ale on my off-day, My Lord.” His voice was quiet.

  “Oh.” Nicholas felt a little guilty. He hadn’t meant to sound as if he’d deny the fellow a cup of ale and a walk. “Well, that makes sense. Is it the sort of inn one might stop at?” he asked.

  He was trying to discern where his father’s visitor might have come from. Had the man ridden from Town? Or was he someone that Father had only just started betting with?

  I can’t imagine someone my father gambles with staying in any inn in that place.

  The village—which held such delight for Lady Martha—was penurious. He doubted that the inn would even be able to stable the team of horses for his father’s coach without running out of food for them.

  Wycliffe blew out his cheeks, contemplatively. “Well, can’t say as I can see your like staying there.”

  Nicholas smiled a little self-consciously. “Thank you, Wycliffe.�
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  “Mind you, doesn’t mean the whole village doesn’t gossip about the local gents,” Wycliffe continued, getting up to continue his ministrations, now on Nicholas’ waistcoat.

  “Ah,” Nicholas said, not particularly wanting to hear the local gossip. He never liked that sort of thing. It was one of the reasons he disliked Town society—one wouldn’t have expected people to have nothing to talk about besides other people’s business.

  “Well, you see…I heard just yesterday a young lady got sick. Fell down in a fit of unconsciousness, so she did. Out cold.” He shook his head. “Probably these new-fangled modern corsets.” He sniffed. “It were the younger daughter, so it was told. Probably the fashion, then.”

  “What?” Nicholas frowned. He couldn’t mean…

  “Yes, My Lord! Young lady from the big house down there. Name of…what? Warden or Walton, or…”

  “Weston,” Nicholas said, cold. “What happened?”

  “Young Lady passed out,” Wycliffe said lightly. “Sorry…know nothing else.”

  Nicholas tensed. Without pausing, he went to the wardrobe and reached for his coat. He was already wearing his riding boots.

  “I’m going out for a ride,” he said, shrugging into his coat.

  “My Lord! Don’t you have to go down to lunch now?”

  Nicholas didn’t listen, but strode down the hallway and into the garden. He ran to the stables, heart thumping.

  He belted out orders to the stable hands, waiting with impatience while they readied his horse. Then he raced away as fast as he could sensibly go, heart thumping.

  “I should have called on her yesterday. If I had, mayhap none of this would have happened.”

  He was sweating with fear. How could he have neglected Lady Martha like this? He imagined the worst. She was sick. She had eaten something affected with some contagion. She was ill of some terrible malaise.

  He reached the manor and dismounted in the driveway, pebbles grating under his feet as he jumped down, then strode to the door. He knocked on it earnestly.

  “I need to speak with Her Ladyship,” he demanded of the butler when he opened the door. He remembered just at the last minute that he had to avoid stirring her mother’s suspicions.

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  The man held out a hand and Nicholas stared at him, then remembered and gave him his hat to take. He realized that the butler was giving him an odd look, and paled as he realized just how peculiar he must look—he was disheveled and sweating and his face, he was sure, was tense with fear.

  “Take me upstairs,” he said awkwardly, and the fellow led him up the steps to the drawing room.

  “Lord Calperton, My Lady,” he announced.

  Nicholas fought back his impatience. Lady Weston was seated on a low chair, a cloth on her knees, a needle in her hand. He recognized it as embroidery she worked on. Lady Amelia was sitting with her, making a collar. They looked at him.

  Lady Weston’s face rearranged into a welcoming smile. “Why, Lord Calperton!”

  “My Lady,” he greeted, bowing low. “Lady Amelia.”

  He felt his heart thud with impatience and horror. Where was Lady Martha? She could be terribly sick!

  “This is a proper surprise,” Lady Weston said smoothly. Her navy gown rustled as she walked. “You had a nice morning?”

  “Yes,” Nicholas snapped. He saw her brow furrow and instantly reined in his temper. “I trust you had a nice day, too?”

  “Very relaxing,” Lady Weston drawled. “I broke my fast and then I came in here, to work on my tapestry. I find tapestry so relaxing, especially at this time of the morning.”

  “I see,” Nicholas said. “And Lady Martha?”

  Lady Weston, who had been looking out of the windows, turned sharply. “What of Lady Martha?” she asked.

  “Is she well?” Nicholas asked. He couldn’t play games any longer. Let her think what she would—he had to know if Lady Martha was ailing.

  “Yes, she is well,” Lady Weston murmured. “She’s in her bedchamber. You might have guessed that she is not, well, not one for sewing. Amelia sews so well.”

  She said it lightly, but Nicholas couldn’t smile, too. There was something deprecating about what she’d said, and he didn’t like it.

  “I am sure you would like to check on her,” Amelia said brightly.

  Nicholas felt his heart glow with thankfulness, and saw Lady Weston direct a look of utter venom at Amelia. He stepped between them instantly.

  “Maybe you could accompany me there, Lady Amelia?” he said, seizing on the role she’d planned for him. “I would like to ask you about that pianoforte…at the recital. I want to purchase one for our home, and I trust your judgement.”

  He saw Lady Weston’s look of scorn, but it was instantly gone, replaced by a smile.

  Amelia was grinning brightly, and stood to accompany him, smoothing a hand down her pale pink gown. “Yes, of course. The one we have is a Walter and Sohn model…quite rare in England, I believe. I can recommend it—it has a fine dynamic range.”

  Nicholas nodded, and listened, not without interest. Amelia’s knowledge of music was impressive, and he’d like to learn more from her, but right now all he could think of was Lady Martha.

  “Yes. Thank you. Your sister is…”

  “Is quite recovered, as you will see,” Amelia beamed. Her eyes were sparkling, and Nicholas was quite sure that, had her sister been mortally ill, she would not have looked so happy.

  “Is she here?” he asked, gesturing at a room. Amelia grinned at him.

  “That’s her bedchamber, Lord Calperton. I will go in and fetch her. You can talk in the drawing room, maybe, while I’m up there fixing this collar to the gown.”

  “Lady Amelia…” he began, about to mention that he should talk to Martha with a chaperone, but Amelia disappeared.

  He heard whispered words in the room in front of him, the wooden door firmly closed in his face. He felt his lips lift in a grin and he wished he knew what was going on in there and what they were speaking of. His stomach tied itself in a knot of nerves and anticipation.

  “My Lord?”

  He stared. Lady Martha had come out of the room. She was wearing a printed muslin gown, a shawl around her shoulders. Her hair was brushed but not styled.

  “Lady Martha,” he murmured. His heart could have broken. She looked tired, but very well. He was so pleased to see her. He stared at her, drinking in every detail. He smiled.

  She looked so lovely as she grinned back. Her reddish hair hung about her face, but despite the gray rings around her eyes, she looked well, and he thought he had never seen someone so lovely.

  “I will go upstairs now,” Lady Amelia spoke, startling him and Lady Martha. “I suggest you go into the drawing room? It’s secluded.” She beamed.

  Nicholas felt dumbstruck, but when he looked at Lady Martha, she was smiling.

  “Come and talk to me in the drawing room?” she asked.

  Nicholas didn’t protest, but followed her in. The drawing room was warm from early morning sunshine, and it was pale in color, with white walls and white chairs. It was a relief after the gloominess of the rest of the house. He accepted a chair Lady Martha waved him to, seating herself on a comfortable upholstered one.

  “I had to see you,” he said, standing up again. He felt too tense to sit down. “I heard you were ill. I was so worried!”

  Martha smiled. “Did you really?”

  He nodded. “My Lady! I thought you had some dreadful malady. I thought…I’d lost you.”

  He heard his own voice and realized in that moment just how worried he’d been, and how much she already meant to him. A day didn’t pass when he didn’t have a thought of her, or wonder what she was up to. He looked over to her surprised face.

  “You did not lose me,” she said softly. “And I am not sorry for it, for your losing me would mean I lost you.”

  He stared. Her green-brown eyes were wide and the expression they held was so ge
ntle, so caring, that he felt as if his soul drowned in their depths. He couldn’t help himself—he reached for her hands.

  She was looking at him, her eyes soft, her pale skin glowing in the daylight. He felt himself lean forward and this time his lips were close enough to hers to feel her breath.

  “My Lady,” he murmured, as she gasped and he withdrew, his heart thumping. “Forgive me.”

  She said nothing, but they sat a little apart—him seated opposite her. The room was silent around them, save the distant noise of someone raking pebbles.