The Wicked Marquess

by Maggie MacKeever

  Nonie flinched at these kind words. She was very much to blame for keeping her employer uninformed, both about Miranda’s curiosity concerning kissing reluctant gentlemen, and her tendency to slip her leash. “The gardens at Kew were lovely. You were very good to arrange our visit there.”

  “It was no trouble.” Antoinette was looking queasy. Kenrick hoped Miranda wasn’t dosing her with some wretched concoction of herbs.

  He would cheer her with a compliment. “Is that a new gown?”

  Nonie fingered the fabric of her walking dress, which was long-sleeved and round-necked with a trimming of narrow lace at the hem. “I tried to dissuade Miranda, but she wouldn’t listen. I hope you do not—”

  Kenrick resumed his pacing. “I know how Miranda is when she takes a bee under her bonnet. There is no reason why she shouldn’t spend her pin money on you if that’s what she likes. My niece could present you with an entire wardrobe and it wouldn’t adequately compensate for the aggravation involved in dealing with her.”

  Aggravation was not the word for it. Wearily, Nonie smiled. “Did you know that the famous 1787 voyage led by Captain Bligh on the HMS Bounty, famed for the mutiny that took place on board, was primarily an expedition to collect breadfruit from Tahiti for cultivation in the West Indies? Mr. Atchison is a very bookish gentleman, you see, and Mr. Burton is addicted to sport. While poor Mr. Dowlin can’t say boo to a mouse. Or so Miranda claims.”

  Kenrick paused by the marble-inlaid mantle. “Confound the girl!” he said again. “Surely there are other applicants.”

  “An unending number. Your niece regards none of them in a favorable light.” Among the more flattering of the epithets bestowed by Miss Russell on her beaux were ‘paperskull’, ‘popinjay’, and ‘whopstraw’.” Nonie knew that only by the art of pleasing could women attain any influence in the world. Miranda had yet to be convinced.

  Damned if they weren’t as much tormented by suitors as Odysseus’s Penelope. Kenrick continued his perambulations around the room. He was anxious to leave behind the racket of the London streets for the bucolic serenity of his estates.

  Nonie watched her employer pace. She must wait quietly until she was dismissed, hopefully from his presence only and not from her place.

  Sir Kenrick had been kind to compliment her. Perhaps Miranda’s concoction of distilled water and flower of garden bean, intended to clean the face of spots and wrinkles, had been used to good effect. Nonie placed no great faith in such ministrations, but tried to accept them with good grace.

  Miranda believed that if a gentleman truly loved a lady, he would not regard her lack of wealth. Miranda was very young.

  She was also very aggravating. Ever since Miranda had suggested the possibility of a romantic connection, Nonie had been unable to banish the fantasy from her brain. Though she might be ambivalent about acquiring a husband, she thought a little masculine attention might be nice.

  Such air-dreams were folly. Unlikely, despite all Miranda’s beautifying potions, that Nonie would attract the interest of a gentleman. Not only did she lack a dowry, she had achieved that advanced age at which a female was considered an antidote, an ape-leader, a fubsy-faced old maid. It had been ungrateful of her, after the sacrifices made by her family to arrange a London season, to fail to make a match. It was equally ungrateful of her, or so she had been told, to refuse to live upon her siblings’ charity as an unpaid nursery maid.

  Nonie gazed unseeing at her lap. Unbidden came into her mind an image of the young man she had admired so very long ago. He had settled down quite comfortably, from all reports, with an agreeable little heiress and their ever-increasing brood.

  Nonie tried to imagine what her life would have been like if she had run off to Gretna Green. She might be living in Somerset with her husband and children instead of sitting in Sir Kenrick’s study and feeling like a fraud in pilfered finery.

  She shuddered. If her experience with Miranda was any indication, Nonie could not regret not having acquired offspring.

  Kenrick sat down in a rosewood chair. “Well-a-day! I suppose we must persevere. Tell me, who do you fancy among all those young sprigs?”

  Who did she fancy? Nonie realized that Sir Kenrick meant for Miranda, not herself. “I would have to say Mr. Atchison,” she stammered. “I believe he will soon declare himself. Probably he would have already done so, did Miranda but encourage him, which she does not. Nor does she show a preference for anyone else. Your gardener is the only male she speaks of with any favor, though he must be all of sixty years old.”

  Her employer uttered an oath. Nonie bit her lip. Even worse than Miranda’s raising of false hopes was her own recently developed tendency to critically evaluate each unmarried gentleman who crossed her path.

  Sir Kenrick was an unmarried gentleman. He possessed property and wealth, if a less than amiable temperament, and more than passable good looks. “About the gardener,” said Nonie. “I spoke in jest.”

  There was an odd note in her voice. Could Antoinette fancy Atchison herself? If Antoinette did fancy Atchison, her hopes were destined to be dashed, and she might well sink into a decline, and then where would they be? Kenrick said, irritably, “It’s not natural for a young girl to be so hard to please.”

  “If I may speak frankly?” Nonie waited for his nod. “I wouldn’t trust any of Miranda’s current admirers – including Mr. Atchison – to prevent her from taking the bit between her teeth. She has not yet met the gentleman who can manage her, I think.” Nonie realized that her employer might consider himself included in that number. “Pray don’t take offense.”

  Kenrick sighed. “None taken. I know I’ve been too easy on the girl. You are right in saying she’s not likely to be kept in check by some besotted young pup. This is exactly the sort of thing I meant when I said you had good sense.”

  Embarrassed by this praise, Nonie bowed her head. Despite the almost continual aggravation caused her by Miranda, she wished the best for her charge. However, after Miranda’s marriage, Nonie would no longer be a part of this household, and she had not an inkling of what she would do next.

  She supposed she might establish a career for herself piloting young women through society’s dangerous shoals. This was hardly a cheerful prospect. Nonie suffered nervous palpitations every time Miranda vanished from her sight.

  Poor thing, concluded Kenrick. Antoinette had developed a passion as pointless as any enjoyed by the females of his own family. She might even have caught the malady from Miranda, in which case it was his responsibility to make it right.

  But how? Did Antoinette keep herself any further in the background she would become part of the wallpaper. Such severe self-effacement was unlikely to attract the attention of Atchison or any other man. As for Miranda, who among Kenrick’s acquaintance was strong-willed enough to keep his niece from running counter to conventional behavior? He must give these matters some thought.

  “Miranda has asked to see Blue Beard at Drury Lane. You will accompany us, of course.” Kenrick rose from his chair, thereby ending the interview, and took himself off to a meeting of the Linnaean Society for Botany, about which he hadn’t informed Miranda, lest she demand to come along.

  Left alone, Nonie contemplated the oil painting hanging on the study wall. Lowering clouds, craggy heights, a savage countryside— She felt as if she were trapped inside the careening curricle, a horrific accident waiting to occur just round the next bend.

  Chapter Eleven

  Benedict fastened the sapphire necklace around Lady Cecilia’s throat, then dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder. “Darling,” she murmured huskily, as she turned toward him. “We rub along well together, do we not?”

  He slid his hands down her smooth bare arms. “I believe that we just did.”

  If only the wretch would not smile at her. That smile was nigh-irresistible, and Ceci had already made the mistake of liking one husband too well. “You are in a very teasing mood tonight,” she said, and delicately blushed.


  Benedict considered Lady Cecilia’s blushes charming, if a trifle insincere: the fact that they had recently rubbed along so well together was in large part due to her. He glanced around the bedroom of her pretty little house, which had been designed by Robert Adams and was graced with great Venetian windows and delicate cornices. This chamber was a marvel of blue damask and Turkey carpet and Chinese wallpaper in a large design of trees and plants after the manner of tapestry. The paper alone had cost him a small fortune. Each roll was printed with a portion of a design so large it required five or six panels to complete.

  An ornate bed stood in an alcove divided from the remainder of the room by two twisted pillars adorned with wreaths. Painted Cupids strewed flowers and shells atop the tester. The elegant white satin hangings were festooned with French flowers and artificial moss interspersed with spangles, beads and shells. Also crowded into the bedroom were a dressing-table veneered with satinwood and decorated with garlands of flowers painted in natural color; a serpentine fronted corner basin stand fitted up with Spode blue and white; and a cupboard drawer lined with oak.

  That drawer, Benedict knew, was crammed with post-obit bills. His inamorata practiced economies, and was careless about paying her debts. “Ceci, are you in dun territory?” he inquired.

  In dun territory, under the hatches, run aground. Lady Cecilia would bite off her tongue before admitting that she had a closer acquaintance than was prudent with the cent-per-centers, and lived in a state of constant worry over her financial affairs. “It’s nothing to signify. I shall come about.”

  Benedict suspected otherwise. “Give me an accounting of your debts and I will see that they are paid.”

  Despite the warmth of her recent exertions, Ceci felt a sudden chill. Lord Baird sounded very much like a gentleman about to bring a romantic liaison to an end. But surely said gentleman would warn his mistress before they embarked upon a last tussle in the sheets?

  Said gentleman had spent much time in foreign lands. Things were probably done differently there.

  Ceci focused her attention on her looking-glass. With a hand that was not entirely steady, she applied kohl to her eyelashes, and carmine to her lips. When one has been cried up as a great beauty, it is beyond disconcerting to glimpse the first signs of time’s passage lurking in the mirror.

  She watched the marquess shrug into his jacket. He was standing by the rumpled bed. Incongruous, the contrast of such magnificent masculinity with beads and shells, French flowers and artificial moss.

  Ceci admitted that she had allowed her fancy too free rein as regarded that bed. However, as for Baird, her judgment had not been similarly flawed. He had the strength and stamina of a prizefighter; and if he did not suit her in some matters – Sinbad? Really! It was embarrassing to have everyone speculating about what exotic sexual practices the man might be employing on her, and also worrisome that he hadn’t suggested anything especially depraved. She could only conclude he didn’t consider her adventurous enough to indulge him, in which case she should probably try harder, though at heart she wasn’t adventurous at all — in other ways he suited her very well.

  Baird caught her eyes in the mirror. “I hope that you may trust me,” he remarked.

  Ceci frowned at his reflected image. “I do trust you,” she said, untruthfully. “My debts do not signify.”

  The lady was a creature of many contradictions. She cast out lures and fawned upon a man yet at the same time held him at arm’s length. Benedict reminded himself to discover just how badly she was dipped.

  Despite Lady Cecilia’s suspicions, Lord Baird had not grown tired of her. He enjoyed Ceci’s company, if less her conversation; he had enjoyed Ceci’s company immensely only moments past, as she had enjoyed his. Benedict had done as he had instructed Miss Russell she must do, had gone about his usual pursuits. There was no bloody reason he should feel guilty for making love to his mistress, save that his curst conscience had poked in its long nose.

  Miranda vowed she did not mean to marry. The child would take back those words. Some gallant cavalier would woo her with the perfect combination of irreverence and romance, and dreams of independence would give way to visions of wedded bliss, at which point she would be grateful that her virtue was still intact.

  Ceci would have liked to ask what caused the marquess to glower, but could hardly do so after refusing to make a clean breast of her own concerns to him. Now that she suspected Baird’s interest might be on the wane, she must try all the harder to demonstrate herself sublimely suitable to become his companion for life. She glanced at the rumpled sheets.

  Benedict draped a shawl of sheer muslin around her shoulders. “We will be very late.”

  So they would, and passion had already got the better of reason once that night. Ceci slipped on her gloves, picked up a beaded miser’s purse. “What if we are? Percy will hardly give away your box.”

  Fortunate that the weather was warm, thought Benedict, else Ceci would catch her death of cold in that flimsy gown of embroidered silk gauze, which revealed everything it pretended to conceal, most notably a considerable amount of back and breast. Threaded through her dark curls was a dashing feather-adorned bandeau. “You are lovely tonight,” he said, which was true, though her costume was not new. “And Percy would give away my box and more, did it amuse him to do so.”

  Ceci was relieved the marquess had refrained from comment on her dress. In momentary expectation of an infestation of bailiffs, she had deemed it prudent to don clothing for which full payment had been made. “You enjoy Percy’s company well enough.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’m blind to his character.” Benedict grasped Ceci’s elbow and escorted her firmly out into the hallway and down the stairs. A servant hurried to open the front door.

  “Nor am I blind to Percy’s character!” Ceci retorted. “I don’t trust him one inch, even if he is my cousin, and you may believe that I speak from experience. If ever a serpent was nourished in one’s bosom, that serpent is Percy, and I hope he may someday be paid in his own coin. Still, his conversation is stimulating, as you must admit.”

  Stimulating? That was an understatement. Since Percy was the only member of Lady Cecilia’s family with whom she still had contact, Benedict kept his opinion to himself.

  His carriage was waiting in the street. No high-perch phaeton would transport them this evening, but a more sedate landau, which suited Ceci very well, because the family crest was emblazoned on its doors.

  The interior of the landau was upholstered with red cloth. She settled back onto the comfortable seat. First Baird had escorted her to Lady Underhill’s musicale, and then to Vauxhall, and now to the theater. It augured well for her plans.

  Despite her protests to the contrary, Ceci’s case grew daily more desperate. Though Percy had been persuaded to stake her at the faro table, the amount she had won there was not nearly enough to satisfy her debts. She might sell her sapphires, but Baird would be sure to notice if she did not wear the gems, and beside she did not wish to part with them. Shocking in her to think ill of the dead, particularly of one whom she had held so dear in life, but sometimes she regretted that her Harry had had no more sense than a goose.

  However, he had not, and there was no use crying over spilt milk. “Have you heard about the bill filed in the Court of Chancery?” she asked, because the marquess was beginning to look bored. “By Messrs. Hammersby and Grubbs? A greater crowd arrived in court to hear Sheridan argue than came to see Mrs. Siddons in Lady Macbeth. The Lord Chancellor found in Sheridan’s favor, and the performers were denied right to first claim upon the receipts.” It was common knowledge that the players were forced to ask over and over for their salaries, as tradesmen were for monies owed. Mr. Kemble, the theater manager, had been arrested for one of Sheridan’s debts. Now there was talk that Mr. Kemble might leave Drury Lane again, and go with his sister Mrs. Siddons to the rival theater at Covent Garden. If true, it would be a great loss for Mr. Sheridan. Mr. Kemble’s performance in Macbe
th had established him a popular favorite. His innovative vision found evidence in not only the chorus of fifty singing witches in Macbeth but also in his introduction of live animals and aquatic effects to the stage. Since several pieces made up an evening’s theatrical entertainment, The Virgin Unmasked had played on the same bill.

  Benedict only half-heeded Lady Cecilia’s chatter. His attention was focused outside. When the lights flared at the theater entrances, the surrounding area came alive with the clatter and rattle of hooves and wheels, the cries of street-vendors hawking their wares. Heavily painted women in gowns cut low to reveal rouged nipples lounged at alley corners or strolled the streets.

  Baird was not listening to her. Ceci’s voice trailed off. If he could withdraw into his own ruminations, then she was likewise entitled to hers, which were largely concerned with gambling losses and wins. She knew a great deal about games of chance, courtesy of her departed spouse. Only a halfwit could have lived with Harry and not learned from his mistakes. Unlike him, she had a flair for the cards, and a cool caution that he had lacked.

  Faro was a complex game, involving one banker and an unlimited number of players who placed bets with the dealer concerning certain combinations of cards. The odds in favor of the banker were second only to roulette. Ceci’s drawing room could easily be fitted up with tables and chairs and a faro bank. How many additional servants would be required? A minimum of four maidservants, she concluded; along with two waiters, a coachman and a croupier. Which was, of course, impossible.

  Faro banks were, in that moment, the furthest thing from her escort’s thoughts. He had progressed from contemplation of the dangerous streets through which they drove to consideration of a recent conversation with his man of business concerning odd occurrences on one of his estates. Benedict was determinedly not thinking about a certain young – very young – woman whom he was resolved to absolutely, most definitely, not seduce.