A Marriage Deal with the Viscount--A Victorian Marriage of Convenience Story

by Bronwyn Scott

  She clasped her hands together and began her rehearsed speech.

  ‘My godfather, Henry Payton, was found dead. The constable was summoned by a woman by the name of Marcia Pendle, who claimed she was Henry’s mistress and that he died...while...well, in bed. However, I know she isn’t the genteel widow she claims to be, but a courtesan at an establishment on Catte Street and that she was paid to make that claim to the constable at the inquest and though I don’t know why, I am at least certain she was not my godfather’s mistress.’

  ‘Are you? That is charmingly loyal of you, though naïve. But how does any of this sordid but mundane tale relate to my father?’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t, not directly. At least not that I can see as yet. But amongst the belongings my godfather left at the leased house where he died were letters written to him by a Mr Howard Sinclair from twenty years ago and with them a note in Henry’s hand which read, “If this is true Howard Sinclair was terribly wronged and something must be done,” and underneath that he wrote the name Jasper Septimus and underscored it several times. I don’t know if there is any connection between this note and his death and Marcia Pendle’s lies. The letters appear to be mostly business correspondence and I have no idea who Jasper Septimus is. I know this is all garbled, but I had to see if you could shed any light on this story.’

  He listened with the same mocking calm with which he’d dismissed her earlier, as if he was watching a mediocre play just titillating enough to overcome the urge to leave the theatre. With his arms crossed and his chin sunk into his cravat, to her exhausted mind, it looked like the inverted white triangle of white fur on her pet wolfhound’s throat. Except that Twitch wasn’t in the least frightening despite his size and impressive fangs.

  Finally he spoke.

  ‘I grant you credit for a very vivid imagination. Let me see if I have managed to follow this Drury Lane plot. Sorry, two interconnected Drury Lane plots. In the first a doxy is paid by someone to lie to the magistrates about being your godfather’s mistress, presumably to mask the circumstances of his death which I gather were at the very least humiliating. In the second your godfather ruminates over the past and comes to the startling conclusion based on the words of a Jasper Septimus, whose name is an insult in itself, that my father was wronged. And this revelation is possibly at the root of the first tale. Have I done your fantasies credit?’

  It was evident he was a cold man, but she expected to hear something in his voice when he spoke of his father’s death. There was nothing, not a quiver or a change of inflection.

  ‘I am not fabricating any of this. It is the truth.’

  ‘Well, so what?’

  ‘So what?’ she asked, shocked.

  ‘The facts you proffered don’t amount to much, do they? Certainly not to a murderous plot that spans decades. A much more likely explanation is that you or this woman are attempting to extract money from me on the back of what you believe is my sentimental need to know more about my sire’s very ignominious departure from this world. Let me assure you I have no such need. In fact, you might have gathered I am not of a sentimental disposition.’

  ‘You are ignoring a further possibility, my lord.’

  ‘Am I? Enlighten me. I admit to being curious what your rather unique mind will conjure next. You are a very peculiar girl, do you know?’

  ‘I am not a girl. I am almost four and twenty years of age!’ She immediately regretted her outburst as the amusement in his eyes deepened. He was baiting her and she was rising to his hook each time. She should be the one in control of this conversation and yet she had let him take the reins from the moment he entered the church. She removed the rug, placing it on the seat beside her.

  ‘Goodnight, Lord Sinclair. I shall not waste any more of your time. You are clearly not interested in what I have to say.’

  Again that soft gliding motion of his was deceptive. Though she was closer to the carriage door, she had not even reached the handle when his hand was there.

  ‘Don’t play me,’ he said softly. ‘I won’t be led. And certainly not by a pert almost-twenty-four-year-old who likes mysteries and hiding behind veils. You have five minutes remaining.’

  ‘Then listen instead of being so...aggravating! This is important to me and you keep...’ Her voice cracked and she stopped before she crumbled completely. She was shaking, from cold and weariness and the aftermath of tension and fear. She pulled the rug towards her and shoved her hands into its warmth, feeling like a pathetic fool.

  He didn’t speak, just knocked against the carriage wall and it drew forward. Olivia gasped and reached for the door again, but he put his arm out, barring it.

  ‘Calm down. I won’t touch you and I will take you wherever you ask once we are done. But though I don’t care for much, I care for my horses and I won’t keep them standing further in this cold. Fair enough?’

  She nodded warily.

  ‘Good. Now, what is your name?’ he asked.

  ‘My godfather’s name was Henry Payton.’

  ‘I asked for your name, not his.’

  ‘Olivia, Olivia Silverdale.’

  ‘Olivia Silverdale. Sounds as fanciful as your tale. Now begin at the beginning. Who is this Marcia Pendle and how did you trace her?’

  He had changed again—more businesslike but no less ruthless.

  ‘I told you. Marcia Pendle works in a...a house of ill repute in Catte Street.’

  ‘Catte Street. Madame Bernieres’?’

  She raised her brow contemptuously. Obviously he would know about the brothels of London.

  ‘I think that was the name. She calls herself Genevieve, but she is really Marcia Pendle from Norfolk.’

  He shook his head briefly, but there was no negation there, only a kind of focused confusion as he watched her. Stripped of mocking or anger, he looked more human but no less unsettling.

  ‘So. Marcia Pendle is Genevieve. How and why did you trace her and why on earth would she tell you she was involved in your godfather’s death?’

  ‘I traced her because I had my man of business hire a Bow Street Runner, a Mr McGuire. He was present at the inquest into my uncle’s death. Apparently Marcia gave a masterful performance about a long-standing relationship where they would meet at the leased house where he died. When she left the inquest he followed her and after some discreet investigation discovered her true identity and occupation. He also discovered she is very superstitious and every week she visits a gypsy fortune-teller near Bishopsgate who is no more a gypsy than Marcia is French, but one Sue Davies from Cardiff. So, I went to see Miss Davies...’

  ‘You went to Bishopsgate to visit a fortune-teller.’

  ‘Yes. And after we had a little conversation and understood one another tolerably well, I paid Gypsy Sue, as she is called, to tell Marcia she must consult an occultist.’

  ‘A what?’ he asked. The sardonic edge had left his voice completely. All she could detect there was a kind of fascinated shock.

  ‘Have you never heard of them? Apparently they are quite popular of late. There is very much a demand for communication with dead loved ones on The Other Side. In any case, the gypsy, or rather Sue Davies, told me how Marcia was obsessed with someone named George whom she loved and mourned and that she asked Sue...’

  ‘Wait one moment... Hell, never mind. I will reserve my questions for the end.’

  ‘Thank you. So I had my man of business lease a house in an unassuming part of town where such an occultist might credibly have her lodgings and Sue Davies helped me set the stage, so to speak. Like Marcia Pendle she was once an actress and was very useful in procuring the correct clothes and artefacts. Then she sent Marcia Pendle to me and under the guise of my occultist’s persona I questioned her about her relations with Henry.’

  ‘Good lord. A vivid imagination doesn’t even begin to cover it. So we are now at a consultation between
a masquerading occultist from Yorkshire, a French madame from Norfolk and a fraudulent gypsy from Wales. Charming. Proceed.’

  ‘How did you know I was from Yorkshire?’

  ‘I have an ear for accents. Proceed.’

  ‘Very well. During this session, Marcia Pendle revealed she never even met my uncle, let alone became his mistress.’

  He held up his hand again.

  ‘Revealed. A doxy and practised blackmailer just handed you this information. Just for the asking...’

  ‘Not quite. I told you she is very superstitious. I told her the fellow she wanted to reach could not meet her in the afterworld unless she revealed all and cleansed her soul.’

  ‘You exposed yourself to a woman who you believe might be involved in murder and she believed a young girl is her gate to the afterlife. I don’t know which of you is more unbalanced...’

  ‘Of course I didn’t allow her to see me. I was heavily veiled and I wore a rather vulgar dress Sue gave me and she even showed me how to paint my face so that should my veil slip I would not be recognisable. Sue did offer to act the occultist instead of me but I had to be the one asking the questions. I could hardly prompt Sue all through the session, could I?’

  ‘I see,’ he said carefully. ‘I was apparently right about your imagination. I’m impressed the powers that be have no issue with Marcia Pendle being a doxy, only with her lying to the authorities.’

  ‘There are apparently different degrees of depravity.’

  ‘That is very true, there are. So back to your discoveries—I presume you asked her who paid her to engage in this deceit?’

  ‘Of course. That was where I ran aground. She did divulge that his name was Eldritch, but she was so overset by her communications with George she became quite hysterical with weeping and I felt horrid and halted the session and told her George was being summoned back, but we could try again in a few days once her soul was calm.’

  ‘And she accepted that?’

  ‘Apparently George was never fond of crying females so in fact it strengthened her belief in my powers. So you see, I need to find out who this Mr Eldritch is, but Mr Mercer had no luck and I do not know how to proceed.’

  ‘You surprise me. But before we proceed to Mr Eldritch, I’m curious why you are so certain she was not your godfather’s mistress in the first place?’

  ‘I just knew. And I was right.’

  ‘An intuition, in fact.’

  The sardonic inflection was back and she shrugged. She had told him enough. It was time to see if he would be of any use at all or whether he was merely enjoying treating her like some freakish fair exhibit.

  ‘Will you help or not?’

  ‘Help with what?’

  ‘Help find out who this Eldritch is and why he paid to defame my godfather and whether it is in any way connected with Henry’s suspicions about your father’s death.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ She threw up her hands in disbelief. ‘Because I, for one, will not sit by while someone out there is ruining people’s lives. My godmother, Mrs Payton, is in shock and in pain not only at the loss of one of the most wonderful men I have ever known, but at the discovery that he had betrayed her and his family. I must find out who is behind this and make them pay for what they have done to the Paytons. And I don’t know how to do that on my own! That is why!’

  Lucas stifled a sigh at her outburst. He wished he had tossed her note into the fire rather than succumbing to the siren’s pull of curiosity. If he had an ounce of sense he would send her on her way—she was probably either mad or a very creative liar and he didn’t have time to indulge in such nonsense, he was already running late for his meeting with his uncle at the War Office. But as his brother Chase always told him, curiosity was likely to be his downfall, which was rather ironic because Chase was just as bad.

  For a moment he contemplated taking her to his uncle. Oswald would see through all the girlish dramatics and probably reveal her as the clever trickster she was, because although Oswald was as cursed with curiosity as any of their fated Sinclair tribe, he was never swayed by sentiment. Lucas usually wasn’t either, but as much as it galled him to admit, even to himself, mentions of his father’s demise still had the power to sink their talons into his flesh. He could stride over most matters without much compunction but the moment she spoke those words he stumbled. Just a little, but enough. He couldn’t walk away without at least trying to understand what was afoot. Which meant he had to find out the nature of the peculiar beast sitting opposite him.

  Not today, though. However offended she appeared to be by his accusation of entrapment, her voice and demeanour were clearly those of a well-born young woman and every moment spent in her company as night descended was a moment of precisely the kind of danger he did not enjoy.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because as tempting as the thought is, I can hardly leave you in the middle of London in the dark. I presume you do live somewhere. This might be a fantastical story, but you appear discouragingly corporeal.’

  For the first time her eyes shifted away from his. She was about to lie, which was interesting in itself.

  ‘Spinner Street.’

  ‘Spinner Street? Isn’t it around the corner from the church where you summoned me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Stranger and stranger. Is that sad neighbourhood populated by occultists now? At what number are you perpetrating your masquerade?’

  ‘Fifteen. But... Does this mean you won’t help?’ she demanded as he tapped the wall of the carriage and it slowed to a halt on the empty street and a postilion jumped down to take his directions.

  ‘It means it is nearing your bedtime, Miss Silverdale. I will consider what you told me. That is all I can offer for now.’

  Again her expression changed, or rather it leached away, leaving her face blank just as they slowed and the gaslight filled the carriage. Now at least he could see what she looked like in repose. She reminded him of a painting he had once seen in Venice. It was a depiction of the biblical tale of Ruth, with Naomi seated on a stone cradling a very unattractive babe and Ruth standing, her hand on the older woman’s shoulder and, unusually for such a painting, looking straight at the viewer. She, too, had worn no expression, but the message was clear. Beware. I guard my own.

  ‘If this is a polite way of telling me you have no intention of pursuing this puzzle, I prefer you tell me so outright,’ she said as she raised the hood of her cloak over her bonnet. ‘Heaven forfend I waste any more of your precious time which could be spent so much more profitably in gaming hells and brothels like Madame Bern—’

  Her haughty lecture ended on a squeak when he caught her wrist as she opened the carriage door. He should have kept his calm and sped her on her way. If he needed anything to convince him to have nothing more to do with her fantasies, it was a lecture. His temper had borne quite enough that evening.

  ‘I don’t need you to put words in my mouth and I sure as hell do not need your lectures. You do either again and that will be the last you see of me, Miss Silverdale. I said I will think about it and I will. That is all for now. Now run along before I decide to demand compensation for your ruining what had promised to be a very pleasant evening by fulfilling your worst suspicions about my character. Unless that is what you are looking for? Is that tortuous little mind of yours curious about that as well?’

  He brushed his fingers lightly across her lips, as much to test his question as to warn her. They were soft and warm and as they shifted under the pressure his gaze caught on them as well, making the question rather more complicated than he had intended. But before he could pursue the thought she drew away so abruptly she bumped into the frame of the door and for the first time he saw real fear in her gaze and something beyond it which surprised him. Revulsion was not the usual reaction to his overt
ures, but then he never made overtures to proper little virgins and they never made appointments to meet him in a darkened church and proceed to tell him the world was made of cheese and rode along on the back of a turtle.

  He opened the door.

  ‘Run along, little miss.’

  She didn’t run. The blank watchdog expression returned and she drew down her veil and jumped down nimbly from the carriage, ignoring the postilion who stood by to assist her.

  Copyright © 2018 by Ilana Treston

  ISBN-13: 9781488047015

  A Marriage Deal with the Viscount

  Copyright © 2018 by Nikki Poppen

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