Marigold's Marriages

by Sandra Heath

  Lord Toby looked swiftly across, and his jaw dropped. “Well, if it ain’t Merlin’s doxy.” He laughed.

  Marigold tried to get up. “Please leave me alone, sirs,” she begged.

  Another voice broke in from an unlit corner of the tap room. “Waiter, two pairs of candle snuffers if you please,” drawled an unseen gentleman, who was apparently possessed of precisely the same affected tones as the loungers.

  The harassed waiter turned. “Snuffers? Yes, sir!”

  Outraged that he should apparently give someone else precedence, the fops temporarily forgot Marigold. Lord Toby jumped to his feet. “You’ll attend us first!” he ordered the unfortunate Bunting, and then suddenly pointed toward the picture of the robin. “Remember the wheel.”

  Bunting went quite white. “Yes, sir,” he whispered.

  Marigold glanced at the picture as well. Wheel? What were they talking about?

  The voice from the darkened corner came again, and this time was more commanding. “Waiter, two pairs of snuffers, if you please!”

  Forced into a hasty decision, Bunting scurried away for the snuffers, leaving the two loungers speechless with fury. They glared at the unlit corner, where the interloper’s silhouette was only just discernible. Lord Toby’s face was like ice. “Demmee, sir, I’m of a mind to call you out for your impudence! Can’t think why you want two snuffers when you haven’t even got a candle,” he said ominously, flicking his handkerchief again so that heady waves of cologne drifted over Marigold.

  Bunting hastened back with the two snuffers, which were like scissors with flattened ends. He handed them respectfully to the gentleman, who then slowly stood. He’d donned his top hat, tugging it low over his forehead, so his face was impossible to make out in the uncertain light as he made his way toward the loungers, who immediately barred his way.

  “I demanded an apology, sir!” cried Sir Reginald rashly.

  The gentleman nodded. “Yes, my sentiments exactly,” he replied mincingly. He held a snuffer in either hand, and before either lounger knew what was happening, he’d clamped them tightly to the ends of their noses. “Well, I seem to have caught me two very fine birds,” he declared. “Now, gentlemen, I await the apologies upon which we are agreed.”

  They squealed and squirmed, with tears of pain running down their rouged cheeks, but their torturer merely gave a thin smile. “Come now, sirs, I’m still waiting.” Still the affected drawl.

  Sir Reginald capitulated, for his beaky nose was by far the easier target of the two. He was released the moment he gabbled the necessary words, and retreated warily until he was pressed against the table.

  However, Lord Toby’s mouth remained firmly shut, so the gentleman brandished the free pair of snuffers toward the defiant lounger’s loins. “Be warned, Lord Toby, I am quite prepared to make a capon of you.” At that, Lord Toby’s resistance crumbled as well, and he apologized. The loungers hoped that was sufficient, but the gentleman hadn’t finished with them yet. He clacked the snuffers, and drawled once more. “I think you must also apologize to this lady, for you were unforgivably rude to her.” He nodded toward Marigold.

  In spite of his false voice, Marigold suddenly realized he was the gentleman in the scarlet curricle. She thought he could not possibly be aware that one of the fops he was humiliating was Lord Toby Shrike. She sat urgently forward. “Sir ...”

  He held up a quick hand. “In due course, madam, first I will have these good fellows make amends for the insulting manner in which they saw fit to address you.” His attention returned to the loungers. “Now then, sirs, what was it you were about to say?”

  Again Sir Reginald saw sense first, and hastily expressed penitence, but it was several moments before Lord Toby did the same. Only then were the snuffers lowered. The gentleman nodded. “Well, you were not exactly gracious, but I suppose it will have to do.”

  Lord Toby’s eyes were cold in the light from Marigold’s candle. “I will have your name, sir,” he breathed.

  The gentleman gave a slight laugh. “My name is of no consequence to you, Lord Toby.”

  Lord Toby’s eyes became like flint. “Your name!” he snapped.

  “My name is of no consequence to you,” the gentleman repeated.

  “It is when I intend to call you out.”

  Marigold was horrified, but the gentleman showed no concern, beyond a little mild amusement. “Then call me out, but you may wish you had not.”

  Lord Toby’s voice was taut with barely controlled emotion. “I doubt very much if I will have any regrets. Are you familiar with the Druid Oak in Windsor Great Park?”

  “It’s a famous enough spot, so naturally I’m familiar with it.”

  “I will expect you there at dawn.”

  “Oh, very well. Whatever you wish.”

  The gentleman waved a languid hand, and his tone was weary, as if Lord Toby were no more than a tiresome fly he intended to swat at his leisure. Marigold stared incredulously at him. Was he eager to flirt with death?

  Lord Toby quivered with rage. “I trust you still find it so amusing come the morning!” he breathed in a choked voice.

  The gentleman shrugged. “Oh, I’m sure I will,” he murmured.

  Sir Reginald clearly thought him mad. “For pity’s sake, sir!”

  The gentleman glanced at him. “Toddle along, sir, and take your purple friend with you. I mislike purple, it is an unbecoming color at the best of times, but when worn by such a disagreeable bird, it becomes positively stomach turning.”

  Lord Toby stiffened, but Sir Reginald caught his arm. “Come, let’s have done with this,” he said wisely.

  Lord Toby resisted, still looking at the gentleman. “I will make you pay for tonight’s work, whoever you are.”

  “We’ll see,” murmured the gentleman with infuriating calm.

  As the two loungers left, Marigold looked at the gentleman. “I thank you for your gallantry, sir, but have to confess I think you have taken leave of your senses,” she said.

  He gave a low laugh, then answered in his normal voice. “The likes of Lord Toby Shrike do not fill me with alarm.”

  “Then perhaps they should.”

  He removed his top hat and indicated the seat opposite her. “May I join you?”

  “If you wish, sir.”

  He sat down, and then glanced at her now-cold dinner. Turning, he called Bunting, who hurried over. The gentleman gave the waiter a charming smile. “This establishment really should be more select about its clientele. This lady’s dinner has suffered irreparably from the delay caused by the two recently departed fellows, so I trust you will provide her with a suitable replacement?”

  He pushed her glass forward as well, “And if this is Bull Finch’s notion of wine, it certainly isn’t mine. Bring something better.”

  Bunting hesitated, for the landlord’s orders were very strict.

  The gentleman eyed him. “Just do as I say, and if that reprobate old prizefighter has any complaint, tell him to come to me.”

  Bunting blinked. “Yes, sir. Er, sir ... ?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you of the wheel?”

  The gentleman looked blankly at him. “The what?”

  Bunting drew back in confusion. “Oh, forgive me, sir, I—I was mistaken.” He gathered up the plate and glass, and scuttled away.

  “And bring two fresh glasses,” the gentleman called after him.

  “Sir.”

  Marigold looked at her rescuer. “What do you think ‘the wheel’ could be? Lord Toby spoke of it earlier, and then pointed at that picture.” She indicated the poor pinpricked robin.

  The gentleman glanced at it. “Yes, I too noticed the remark. I fear I have no idea. Some club or society, no doubt. I’d hazard a guess at the Royal and Ancient Wheel of Featherheads,” he added dryly.

  She smiled, but then became more serious. “Sir, I don’t know if you are aware of Lord Toby’s reputation, but—”

  “The fellow is as known to me as I a
m to him, but it amused me to withhold my identity. However, come the dawn, he will know me well enough, and he will certainly regret tonight’s escapade.”

  “You speak as if the duel is bound to go your way, sir. Dare you be so confident in your own abilities?”

  He sighed wearily. “Che serà serà, whatever will be, will be. The Russells and the Duke of Bedford are not alone in their family motto, for it is mine, too. All our fates are preordained, especially mine, so there is nothing to be gained from allowing dying to be of consequence.”

  His jaded tone was studied, but behind it she detected a disturbing vulnerability that reached out to her. Woe betide the woman who fell in love with him, she thought suddenly. “You should not speak that way, sir, for dying is of consequence to everyone.”

  The candlelight shone in his hazel eyes. “Not quite everyone,” he murmured.

  “Why should you be different?” she enquired.

  He smiled a little, and didn’t reply.

  She studied him. “You would not tell Lord Toby who you are, sir, but will you tell me?”

  “Certainly, madam, but only after I know who you are.”

  “Mrs. Arnold.”

  The name was common enough, and he did not give it a second thought. “Lord Avenbury, your servant.” He inclined his head.

  Alauda’s lover? Marigold’s breath caught, and she stared at him.

  Chapter Four

  Marigold’s startled reaction intrigued Lord Avenbury. “It would appear my name is of some significance to you, Mrs. Arnold.”

  She collected herself. “I fear it is, my lord.”

  His hazel eyes shone in the candlelight as he sat back and raised a quizzical eyebrow. “You fear it is?”

  Somehow she managed to look at him. “Perhaps it would explain if I told you that Merlin Arnold was my husband?”

  “Well, what a small world, to be sure,” he murmured, his gaze lingering on her red-gold hair.

  “Uncomfortably small,” she replied. “No doubt you now wish you had left me to Lord Toby and Sir Reginald.”

  “And why would I be so base as to wish that?”

  She saw no point in being too delicate. “Oh, come, sir, we both know that you and Lady Fernborough are more than mere acquaintances, and that she despises me above almost all other living creatures. I’m sure she will have acquainted you with the titillating details of Merlin’s will?”

  “I haven’t seen Lady Fernborough of late.”

  At that moment Bunting returned with another plate of dinner, and a very different wine from the one he’d served earlier. Lord Avenbury poured some, tasted it, and then nodded. “That’s more acceptable. You may convey my compliments to Finch.”

  Bunting looked at him as if he were mad. Bull was already jumping with rage at having to replace both the dinner and the wine, to say nothing of losing what custom Lord Toby and Sir Reginald would have provided, so it would be preferable to go fourteen rounds with Tom Belcher than deliver another message from this particular gentleman!

  Lord Avenbury waved him away, poured Marigold some wine, then sat back again to look intently at her. “You think you cannot trust me, Mrs. Arnold?”

  “Would you if you were me?”

  “Probably not.” He sipped his wine. “Tell me about Merlin’s will.”

  The last thing she wished to do was confide anything to Alauda’s lover, but there was something about him that would not be denied, and so much against her better judgment she told him everything.

  He searched her green eyes in the half light. “You are destitute?” he said.

  “Yes. By spending this one night at the Spread Eagle, I’m frittering away what little I have left.”

  “You’re telling me that Falk Arnold has actually thrown you out without a penny to your name?”

  “Oh, yes. And on top of that, he frankly admitted the will was a forgery.”

  Lord Avenbury sat forward incredulously. “He actually said it was false?”

  “It amused him to taunt me with it. There were no witnesses, you see, so he knows I cannot prove anything. I could tell at the reading that the entire Arnold clan, including Lady Fernborough, knew what the will contained before the lawyer Crowe even broke the seal, so the whole thing was a wicked fabrication.” She paused, half expecting him to defend his mistress, but he didn’t, so she continued. “It is a conspiracy to deny my son his rightful inheritance.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “I begin to wonder if Falk has been falsifying other things too,” she said then, not knowing why she was revealing so much to someone who had to be from the enemy camp.

  “Other things?”

  “These court cases he’s won so miraculously over the past few months. Even the judges have been amazed by some of the decisions.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, I would not know whether or not he falsifies evidence as a matter of course, but I do know I think he is mentally unbalanced.”

  “Unbalanced?”

  “Yes. Two months ago I encountered him at White’s Club. Your late husband was with him, as it happens. Anyway, Falk was in his cups, and treated me—together with a number of other members who were present—to a most embarrassing diatribe concerning some past conflict between one of his ancestors and one of mine. He seemed to lose all control, and ended by addressing me as if he were his ancestor, and I mine. He even vowed to be avenged! Anyway, Merlin said something sharp to him—which, now I come to think of it, included the word “wheel”—and Falk was immediately persuaded to leave. If he hadn’t, I fear he would have been requested to do so.”

  “I’ve seen Falk in his cups, it’s not a pretty sight.” She looked at him. “Are you sure Merlin said something about a wheel?”

  “Quite sure. It didn’t mean much to me at the time, but now ...” Lord Avenbury shrugged.

  “It’s all very strange,”

  He smiled. “So you see, Mrs. Arnold, you may trust me after all, for after that embarrassing little episode I am certainly not well disposed to the Arnold clan, excepting you, of course.”

  “What of Alauda?” she inquired wryly.

  He pursed his lips. “Ah, well, she is another matter entirely.”

  “I do not doubt it, sir, just as I do not doubt that none of this makes any difference to my woeful situation. Falk is guilty, but I remain disowned by everyone, and financially and socially ruined. And tomorrow I must tell Perry how greatly reduced our circumstances have become.”

  “Perry?”

  “My son, Peregrine Arnold. He’s thirteen.”

  He smiled. “Thirteen? Forgive me for saying, but you must have been extremely young when you ...”

  “I married Merlin when I was sixteen.”

  “Merlin, Peregrine ... Why are the Arnolds so obsessed with bird names? Falk Arnold is a rara avis surrounded by people of similar feathered nomenclature.”

  She smothered a laugh. “I don’t know, but it is a fact. Speaking of the Arnolds’ passion for things avian, when I took a room here, I began to wonder if I was still at Castell Arnold, what with a landlord called Finch, and a waiter named Bunting.”

  “To say nothing of shrikes, cranes, and pictures of robins.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, this hostelry is one of Falk and his cronies’ favorite nests, you know.”

  “Is it?” She glanced around in dismay.

  “I suspect you’d have stayed elsewhere if you’d realized.”

  “Most certainly. I wonder what they do here? It’s hardly a gaming hell or cockpit, and it certainly doesn’t seem like a—a ...”

  “House of ill repute?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled then. “No doubt the Royal and Ancient Order of Featherheads dines here once a month. Perhaps they preen a lot, then take turns to give erudite speeches on ornithology.”

  She smiled. “Why are you here, Lord Avenbury? If you know this to be Falk’s aerie, I would have thought that after your recent experience at White’s, you’d avoid i
t too.”

  “I had an appointment at the castle late this afternoon, and it took longer than anticipated, so I decided to stay here for the night. I’m not one to stay away from somewhere because of the likes of Falk Arnold.” He poured some more wine, and then glanced at her almost untouched dinner. “Have you lost your appetite, Mrs. Arnold?”

  “I—I’d forgotten all about it,” she answered truthfully, and picked up her knife and fork. The pie was lukewarm, but still edible.

  Lord Avenbury watched her eat for a moment. “You say you have to see your son tomorrow?”

  “Yes. He will have to leave Eton because I have no funds for his fees. No funds for anything, come to that.” She tried not to think of tomorrow, but its advancing tread was relentless.

  “What do you intend to do?”

  “I—I don’t know.” The hopelessness of her situation breached her defenses, and for the first time her voice faltered. She put her knife and fork down, and pushed her plate away.

  Lord Avenbury leaned across suddenly to put his fingers briefly over hers. “Don’t lose heart, Mrs. Arnold.” Then he got up. “I—I fear I have matters to attend to, and must bring this meeting to a close.”

  She was a little embarrassed. “Er, yes, of course, sir. Once again, thank you for protecting me tonight.”

  “It was nothing, believe me.”

  She met his eyes. “Is it considered bad form to wish someone well in a duel?”

  “Shrike does not intimidate me.”

  “Don’t underestimate him, for he is a vicious, untrustworthy maggot who would stoop to any level if he thought he would benefit.”

  “You clearly believe in speaking your mind.”

  “I have no reason not to.”

  He looked down at her. “I realize that,” he said quietly, then drew her hand to his lips. “À bientôt, Mrs. Arnold.”

  “À bientôt, Lord Avenbury.”

  She gazed after his tall figure as he left the shadowy dining room. The impression of his lips still seemed to linger on her hand, and for the first time in her life she found herself envying Alauda, Lady Fernborough.