How to Cross a Marquess

by Jane Ashford

  “If I’d had any sense, I’d have seen the truth.”

  “Nonsense. I didn’t know myself.”

  He leaned forward to embrace her gently. “I mean to strive for the rest of my life to deserve your regard.”

  Fenella gave him a saucy look. “That should be quite satisfactory, my lord marquess.”

  * * *

  Lord and Lady Chatton bade farewell to all of their houseguests on the same day in early September. John departed first, in the company of Wrayle. But he didn’t seem to mind the man’s presence quite so much as before, to the valet’s evident chagrin. John was on his way back to school, of course, where there existed a sympathetic master who kept preserved specimens of various fascinating creatures in jars in his classroom. John had realized that this teacher might well know how a fellow prepared himself to lead expeditions of scientific exploration, and would probably be glad to impart that information. “The study of snakes is called herpetology,” John told Tom through the window of the post chaise. “I looked it up in the library.”

  “Herpetology,” repeated Tom from the courtyard, with his customary appreciation of a new bit of knowledge.

  “I will write to you.”

  “Tell me about herpetology,” replied Tom agreeably.

  “Will you write back? About what you are doing? I expect it will be much more interesting.”

  “I don’t think it will be, actually. I reckon you’re bound for great things.”

  John basked a bit in the compliment. “But you will write?”

  “That I will. When I have the chance.”

  “I suppose you’ll forget. Or be too busy off in Shropshire. Why are you going there again?”

  Tom ignored the last question. “Not I. I promise.”

  “It is past time for us to be off,” said Wrayle from the far side of the carriage. The whine that often entered his voice was more pronounced. He leaned out to speak to the postilions. “Will you go!”

  They signaled the horses. John was still hanging out the window and waving when the vehicle sped out of sight.

  Not long after this, Lord Macklin’s comfortable traveling carriage was brought around to the front door, a mound of luggage tied up behind. The earl, Tom, and Mrs. Thorpe got in. They were traveling together for a good part of their journey, before Macklin turned west and Mrs. Thorpe continued on south to London. All of them welcomed the company, not least Tom, on both sides of the conversation.

  Their farewells were even warmer than the previous ones, the marquess, his wife, and his mother expressing their sadness at seeing the visitors depart. They stood waving at the castle entrance as the coach pulled away.

  “A visit with you feels rather like being part of a traveling theater company,” said Mrs. Thorpe to the earl when they had passed under the archway in the wall and out into the countryside. “The play is over, and we move on to the next place on the tour. Not that I’m going this time.”

  “‘Our revels now are ended,’” quoted Macklin. “‘These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits and are melted into air, into thin air.’”

  “You do have a hint of Prospero about you now and then,” she replied.

  “Who’s that?” asked Tom, with no fear that his inquiry would be resented.

  “A magician in one of Shakespeare’s plays,” Mrs. Thorpe answered. “The Tempest. Prospero moves the other characters around like a puppet master until he settles everything just as he wishes.”

  “I make no such claims,” said Macklin.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Indeed? You managed another successful union. You should hire yourself out to the matchmaking mamas at Almack’s. I will give you a reference.”

  The earl laughed. “No, thank you. The thought makes my blood run cold. And I don’t do very much really. Just stand about and hope, it seems to me sometimes.”

  “More than you realize.” Mrs. Thorpe shook her head. “And you’ll need all your skills for the next one, if I’m any judge.”

  “Why do you say so?”

  Tom leaned forward, clearly interested in the answer.

  “People in Shropshire seemed to think your young duke was a bit cracked,” continued Mrs. Thorpe.

  “He seemed sensible enough when I met him in London,” Macklin replied. “A little anxious perhaps, but the circumstances were odd.”

  “You would know better than I,” she said. “I’m only repeating what I heard.”

  “And I appreciate your reconnaissance. I’m happy to have any preparation. Did they say anything else?”

  “That he was a kind young man, for all his quirks, and they wished him well. Unlikely as they predicted that to be.”

  “Why?”

  “It seems his family, these Rathbones, are dogged by ill luck.” Mrs. Thorpe held up an admonitory finger. “But I may have fallen into the clutches of a local wag. There is a distinct possibility of that. He was very fond of the sound of his own voice. He even tried ‘the curse of the Rathbones’ on me, until I made it clear I thought the idea nonsense.”

  “I’ll have to see for myself,” said Macklin, nodding.

  Silence fell in the carriage. When it had lasted long enough to show that this bit of conversation was complete, Tom leaned forward again. “Tell me more about this Prospero fella,” he said.

  * * *

  A good many miles away from Macklin’s cozy carriage, Peter Rathbone, Duke of Compton, set a moldering implement beside his plate at the dinner table—an open wooden paddle strung with a grid of sheep’s gut. The thing was ancient, as was just about every item that he possessed. Ancient and useless and falling apart. Some ancestor of his had used it to play bouts of tennis with Henry VIII. And if the fortunes of the Rathbones were anything to go by, he hadn’t had the sense to lose. It was no good for any sort of game now, but Peter found it convenient for another purpose.

  Conway, one of the two aged footmen he employed, tottered in with a tureen of soup. He ladled some into Peter’s waiting bowl, releasing an enticing aroma on a wisp of steam. Peter picked up his spoon. No one could fault his cook at least. She might never ask him what he would like to eat, or pay any heed if he tried to express a preference, but every dish she provided was delicious.

  Before he managed to taste, a bat swooped into the dining room, as they continually did, everywhere in the house, no matter how often Peter sent workmen to examine the roof. They couldn’t seem to find any holes in the slates, and yet there were always bats.

  Peter lifted the paddle, moving slowly so as not to spook the animal. He sighted on the creature’s trajectory, and when it passed close to him, he gave it a sharp rap. The bat fell to the floor. He was expert at knocking them senseless, had been since he was eleven years old.

  Conway bent and picked up the small body with one gloved hand. He wrapped it in a napkin from the sideboard, a necessary measure in case it awoke and began flapping.

  “Out to the battlements as usual,” the duke told him.

  His footman sighed audibly.

  “I know it will probably fly right back in,” said Peter. “Or, all right, it certainly will. But I really can’t bear to be killing them day in and day out, Conway.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” The footman carried the small bundle out of the room.

  Peter ate his savory soup. Sitting at the long table, in the large, silent, empty house. The last Rathbone. He winced. He could just about manage to keep going if he refused to think about that. And so that is what he would do.

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at the exciting reissue of Jane Ashford’s much-loved Regency classic

  Coming October 2019 from Sourcebooks Casablanca

  One

  Sir Richard Beckwith emerged from his elegant town-house on a chilly spring evening wearing a black silk domino over his dark gray pantaloons and long-tailed coat of dark blue superfine. An
y one of his friends would have been astonished to see him in this guise, still more to see him out of evening dress at nine o’clock. Had they known that a pocket of the domino held a black mask, they would have been dumbfounded.

  None of Sir Richard’s exclusive circle was likely to see him tonight, however. When he hailed a hackney cab and climbed in, he directed it to a part of London little frequented by the haut ton. If certain of its men from time to time made their way through these unsavory streets, they did not mention such excursions in polite society.

  A cold mist rose from the greasy cobblestones, enlivened here and there by hoarse laughter and singing as the hack rattled past some gin mill or bawdy house. One victim of blue ruin went so far as to grab for the cab, hoping to jerk its occupant into an alleyway and fleece him. He missed his target, however, and fell flat in the garbage-filled gutter with a curse.

  Through the ride, Sir Richard sat impassive, his regular features immovable as stone, his gray eyes cold. If his goal was amusement of the type his class usually sought in this neighborhood, he went about it with an odd implacability.

  The hack pulled up before a broad, soot-stained building that turned a blank facade to the street. Its windows were obscured with bars outside and heavy draperies within. Wooden double doors, firmly closed, revealed only a carved peephole at eye level.

  “You sure of that h’address, guv?” wondered the driver.

  “Yes.” Beckwith handed him a small coin, allowing him to see one of larger denomination in his hand. “Wait for me nearby. I’ll call when I want you. There’s a guinea for you if you come when I call.”

  The man stared at the money, greed warring with his desire to return to safer streets. “Right,” he said finally.

  Beckwith pulled up the hood of the domino and put on his mask, then knocked sharply on the wooden door with the head of his cane and waited.

  The peephole opened, and a bloodshot blue eye surveyed him with suspicion. Abruptly, the hole closed, and the bolts were shot back, allowing the door to open a crack.

  “I am here for the meeting,” Sir Richard declared.

  “Password,” came a hiss from the dimness.

  “Chaos,” he answered, in a tone that suggested he found the word offensive.

  The door swung open. Inside was a sharp contrast to the dirty street. A rich red Turkey carpet covered the floor, and the narrow hallway boasted French wallpaper and gilt sconces. Though the individual in charge of the door was distinctly rough-hewn, the footman who indicated that Sir Richard should follow him would not have looked out of place in Grosvenor Square.

  He ushered Sir Richard into a large room at the back of the building. It was furnished with the armchairs and side tables of a gentlemen’s club, but the inhabitants were not so familiar. Many wore domino and mask, like Sir Richard. Others had clearly cast off these disguises with their third or fourth brandies and were loud with the effects of drink. The buxom young women who served them endured their fondling and leers with good-humored impertinence, and a sharp eye for the banknotes that were continually being folded and thrust lingeringly into bodices.

  The din was significant, and the air was heavy with the fumes of alcohol and candlewax and the clashing scents of pomades and cheap perfume.

  Sir Richard found a vacant chair in a dim corner and sat down. When one of the serving girls came up to him, he ordered brandy, but he spoke to no one else. He had come with a purpose, his demeanor said, and he would allow nothing to distract him from it.

  At last, there was a stir at the back of the room, and one of the other masked guests stepped from a chair to a tabletop there. “Gentlemen,” he cried above the din. “Gentlemen!”

  The volume of sound decreased somewhat.

  “Gentlemen,” said the man again. “We have a rare treat for you this evening. Indeed, I think I may safely say we have a unique entertainment in store. Its like hasn’t occurred in our time, at least. I couldn’t vouch for our grandfathers.”

  This elicited a roar of laughter and vulgar sallies from the crowd, which was beginning to gather around the table. Beckwith joined them; he had recognized the voice of the speaker, and his lips were drawn tight in a thin line.

  “May I present to you,” continued the self-appointed master of ceremonies, “Bess Malone.” He jumped lightly down from the table and offered a hand to someone. In the next instant, a slender girl had stepped from chair to table and stood facing the audience.

  She wore nothing but a thin white cotton shift, as banks of candles behind her readily revealed. Her hair, jet black, tumbled over her shoulders in wild abandon. And when she raised wide eyes to the crowd briefly, they were shown to be vivid blue. Her skin was pale and dusted with freckles over the nose and cheekbones. She was exquisitely beautiful, and certainly not yet eighteen years old.

  “Bess,” declared the man, who had leaped upon another of the tables, “will go to the highest bidder tonight. And we expect the price to be high, don’t we, Bess?”

  The girl tossed back her hair, her breasts rising and falling with the movement and drawing ribald comments. She didn’t look frightened, but neither was she at ease, particularly as the men began pushing forward and reaching up to caress her ankles and calves.

  “Ah, ah, gentlemen,” chided the master of ceremonies. “Bess comes untouched to her purchaser. Stand back and start the bidding.”

  “A hundred guineas,” said a deep voice on the left.

  “Two,” responded a man in the front.

  “Three,” said Beckwith.

  The master of ceremonies raised his head as if startled and turned to stare at Beckwith.

  “Four hundred,” said the first voice.

  The bidding went on a full twenty minutes, one man after another dropping out reluctantly as the amount went above his touch. At last, only two were left—Sir Richard Beckwith and a nobleman of fifty or so in the front row, whose face was a map of debauchery and bitterness.

  Silence spread through the room as the numbers mounted. When they reached fifteen hundred guineas, all conversation stopped. Only the quiet bids of the two stirred the smoky air, and the tension rose with each new offer.

  At two thousand, the roué in front turned and stared pointedly at Sir Richard, gauging him. The older man’s face looked devilish in the flickering candlelight. The room waited breathlessly to see what he would do, for most there knew him for a cruel and ruthless opponent. But after an interminable moment, he lowered pale lids, made a dismissive gesture, and walked away, signifying his withdrawal from the auction.

  “Sold,” said the master of ceremonies immediately, “to the gentleman in the rear, for two thousand guineas.”

  A sigh passed over the crowd as the tension released; then someone called for brandy, and the group began to disperse. A footman appeared at Beckwith’s elbow to escort him to a small study off the front hall. The masked master of ceremonies and Bess Malone joined him there. “Sir,” said the former, “my sincere felicitations. You have acquired a diamond of the first water.”

  Bess took Sir Richard’s arm and pressed herself up against him.

  “I assume you have clothing,” said Sir Richard. “Put it on.” The girl drew back, piqued. The master of ceremonies laughed. “Protecting your property? Or merely eager to depart for some more private place? I can’t blame you for that. Hurry and dress, Bess.” The girl ran out. “And now, sir, there is the matter of two thousand guineas.”

  Beckwith pulled a fat roll of bills from an inner pocket. “Who gets the money?” he asked.

  But the other’s eyes were riveted on the banknotes. “You carry such a sum on your person? In this part of London?”

  “It is not my habit. Who gets this money?” He began to count it out, and the other man watched, fascinated. “Who?” repeated Beckwith with some asperity.

  “Eh? Oh, half to the club, half to the girl.”


  “I see.”

  His tone made the other defensive. “It was her idea, you know.”

  “What?”

  “Indeed. She came to, er, a member and proposed the plan not two weeks ago. I… he was taken aback, I may tell you.”

  Sir Richard laid the bills on the desk. The man snatched them up and fingered them as if they had the texture of velvet. “Two thousand,” he murmured.

  “I’ll wait for the girl at the front door,” said Sir Richard.

  “What? Oh, to be sure. I’ll have her sent to you there,” was the reply. But the man’s eyes did not waver from the money.

  Sir Richard made his way back to the entrance, conscious, now that the business was concluded, of spreading whispers behind him. He hoped that they concerned his identity, and that none here knew him well enough to recognize him behind a mask.

  At last the girl he had purchased appeared at the back of the hall and moved slowly toward him. Bess now wore a shabby dress of white sprigged muslin and a threadbare blue cloak, both garments clearly the long-ago castoffs of some more prosperous lady. But her dark hair remained unbound, and her eyes flashed as she examined him. Looking at her face, one forgot the clothes.

  “Come,” said Beckwith. “I have a hack waiting.”

  Someone in the room behind snickered, but Bess merely walked forward and took Sir Richard’s arm, molding herself to his side and gazing up at the mask he still wore. Side by side, they went through the door the footman was holding open for them.

  Outside, the mist had thickened, and the chill was even greater. Beckwith disengaged his arm and looked for his cab, hoping the driver had not lost his nerve and deserted him.

  The jingle of harness and the sound of hooves on the cobblestones relieved him of this worry. The hack emerged from the mist and pulled up before the pair, the driver eyeing Bess Malone with amused appreciation. “A good night, then, guv?” he said.