by M C Beaton
“Harris and Comfrey,” said Felicity.
“They are both lucky to be alive,” said the marquess. “Go back to the carriage and keep that silly woman away while I question these men, Miss Felicity. Tell her they are highwaymen.”
Felicity reluctantly returned to the carriage. Agnes was writhing on the floor, letting out piercing screams for help.
“Now, now, Agnes,” said Felicity wearily. “It is all over. Two highwaymen held us up, but the marquess or his servants wounded them.”
Outside on the road, the marquess leveled his pistol at Harris and Comfrey. “One of you had better talk,” he said. “I can put your masks back on and shoot you dead and say I thought you were the highwaymen you pretended to be.”
Harris cursed and clutched his wounded leg. “It was a joke,” he said hoarsely. “Did it for a wager.”
The marquess turned to John. “Shoot him in the other leg, John,” he said. The groom raised his pistol and took aim.
“No,” screamed Comfrey. “Leave Harris alone. I’ll tell you. I don’t know what it’s about but a friend of Prinny’s told us to stop you somehow and turn you back to London. He said there was a purse of gold in it for us. We didn’t ask any questions.”
“Then hear this,” said the marquess. “You may make your own way to the nearest doctor and get your wounds attended to and then I suggest you return to London as fast as possible and tell the Prince Regent or whoever of his courtiers employed you that I shall be coming to see the prince on my return, and if he does not want a scandal to break about his ears, he had better leave me alone. Do you understand?” Both men nodded dumbly.
Agnes could hardly believe it as the coach began to roll forward again. She tried to catch a glimpse of the highwaymen, but by the time she put her head out of the window, the coach had turned a bend in the road and they were lost to view.
“What is Simon about?” she asked. “Why did he not keep a guard on them while he sent someone for the constable?”
“I do not know,” said Felicity, more shaken by Agnes’s news that the marquess meant to marry than by the attempted attack. “Please be quiet, Agnes, and stop asking questions. I have the headache.”
Agnes sat back sulkily. She had screamed her best, yet the marquess had not even put his head in at the door to see how she was. She was glad she had not given the comte his quittance.
They arrived among the narrow lanes and twisted and jumbled buildings of York as night was falling. The old Tudor houses overhung the street, cutting off what little light of the day was left.
The Swan Inn was near the Minster, a bustling, prosperous place. They were all hungry, having not stopped to dine on the road, and were soon seated in a private parlor to enjoy a late supper. The landlord apologized for the paucity of the fare while his waiters set down a meal that would not have disgraced the finest table in England. There was a first course of macaroni soup and boiled mackerel, followed by entrées of scallops of fowl and lobster pudding. The second course consisted of boiled leg of lamb and spinach, roast sirloin of beef and horseradish sauce, and the third course of roast hare and salad, soufflé of rice, cheesecakes, strawberry jam tartlets, and orange jelly.
Agnes forgot her love life and ate her way steadily through the meal. Her downfall came with the strawberry tartlets. Neither the marquess nor Felicity wanted any, so Agnes ate the whole plateful, and by the time the covers were removed and the port passed round, she was feeling decidedly ill. She said weakly to the marquess that she wished to retire to her room for a few moments and made her escape. Instead, she went to the outside privy and was very sick indeed, after which she felt quite refreshed, Agnes being quite accustomed to gorging herself and then being ill. She then went to her room to bathe her face and put a little rouge on her cheeks. Simon should not be left alone with Felicity for too long. So wearisome for the poor man. Felicity would no doubt be talking about crops or drainage or some such boring thing.
Just before she left, she glanced out her window, which overlooked the inn yard, and saw the Comte D’Angiers strolling across the cobbles. She half raised her hand and then backed away. He would expect her to take that receipt for the jewels. And why bother? Why ruin her chances of being a marchioness?
A silence fell between the marquess and Felicity after Agnes had left the room. At last he said gently, “What is the matter? I know you have had a dreadful fright, but I am sure something else is troubling you.”
“I feel guilty,” said Felicity in a low voice.
“About what?”
“About you, my lord. You are chasing across the north of England on my affairs when you should be in London making preparations for your wedding.”
“I? What or who put such a silly idea in your head?”
“Agnes … Miss Joust… said you were about to marry.”
His lips tightened. “Miss Joust becomes sillier and more wearisome by the minute. I have no intention of marrying anyone at the moment.”
“Oh.” Felicity knew she should feel relieved, but she continued to feel low in spirits. That “no intention of marrying anyone” had done the damage.
She looked at him from under her lashes. He was leaning back in his chair, studying her face with a mixture of affection and amusement.
Felicity wished he would look at her in some different way, that he would show some sign of being attracted to her. Her head ached. She rose to her feet, and he rose as well. “Excuse me, my lord,” she said. “I must lie down.”
He stood aside to let her pass, and then his hand seemed to shoot out of its own volition to catch her by the arm. “Felicity,” he said.
She looked up into his eyes. He was looking down at her warily, apprehensively.
How she found the courage to do it, how she instinctively knew she must do it, she never knew. But something made her put both her hands against his chest. He gently brushed a tendril of hair back from her face.
“Felicity,” he said again. His lips met hers in a cool, firm kiss, almost a boyish kiss. Felicity’s body leapt into flame, her lips softening against his. He gave a muffled exclamation and held her closely, burying his mouth in hers, delighted and amazed at her answering passion, moving his hands to caress her cheeks and then burying them in the thick tresses of her hair as his mouth explored hers and his lean hard body fused against the softness of her own. At the back of his brain, he felt he should say something, make some declaration of love, but he was frightened to break the spell. His whole world had narrowed down to this raftered inn room with the smells of wine and cooking, the smoky fire, the flower perfume she wore, the feel of her lips and skin, the ecstasy of that young body pulsing against his own.
Agnes softly opened the door and then stood, stricken.
They did not hear her. The marquess slowly gathered Felicity up in his arms and sat down, cradling her on his lap.
Agnes quietly closed the door again and leaned her back against it, her face flaming with mortification. She might have known it. Felicity Waverley was a slut! He would not marry her. He could not marry such as she. But while he was dallying with that tart, that wanton, that Felicity, he could not notice the pearl of womanhood that was Agnes Joust. She adjusted her shawl about her shoulders with shaking fingers and went downstairs and out into the courtyard of the inn and looked about. A black shadow moved in the blackness of the corner of the courtyard near the stables. She made her way toward it, calling softly, “My dear comte! Is it really you?”
***
The marquess freed his lips at last and said softly against Felicity’s hair. “Do I frighten you?”
“No. Yes. Are you dallying with me because I am available?”
“You enchant me.”
He tenderly kissed her throat. “Now I must leave you,” he said.
Felicity shivered, suddenly cold. “Why? Where are you going?”
“To get a special license, my love.”
Felicity Waverley’s hazel eyes blazed with love and relief. “Oh, Simon,�
�� she cried, and flung herself against his chest with such force that the chair toppled backward and spilled them both onto the floor. He rolled over on top of her and then kissed her lovingly and longingly, straining her to him.
He said at last, “Do we need to go on with this business? Does it really matter who or what Mrs. Waverley was? Or this Mrs. Bride?”
Felicity sighed. “Yes, it does. I have a feeling we are very close to the solution.”
“Then we will go ahead with it. But you must realize we will be married whether your parents turn out to be jailbirds or something equally horrible. I do not want you turning to me and renouncing me through some mistaken idea of honor.”
“I’ll never let you go,” said Felicity.
“Then kiss me again.”
***
“Kiss me again, darling Agnes,” the comte was saying.
Agnes held back a little. Disappointment in the marquess was making her more inclined to be more suspicious than she would normally have been. “Before I kiss you,” she said, “when are we to be married?”
“As soon as we collect the jewels, light of my life.”
Agnes looked mutinous. “If you loved me, you would get a special license and marry me now. Perhaps it is only the jewels you want.”
The comte thought quickly. He had been married twice before. What difference would a third make? And he could soon be shot of her once he had his hands on the Waverley jewels.
“I shall get a special license in the morning,” he said. “Now kiss me.”
“Meet me on the steps of the Minster tomorrow at ten in the morning with the special license,” said Agnes, “and then I will give you the receipt.”
***
Drugged and dizzy with kisses and caresses, Felicity stirred in the marquess’s arms. “I do not think we should tell Agnes,” she said softly. “She is a little in love with you, I think.”
“I will put her on the London stage tomorrow!”
“But she has nowhere to go.”
“One of my aunts in Devon will, I think, accept Agnes as a guest until I find somewhere to settle her. I shall send her to London with a generous amount of money so she may stay at one of the best hotels before journeying on to Devon. She must go as soon as possible because I am going to marry you as soon as it can be arranged.”
“But does it not take two weeks to get a special license?”
“Not when so many of the clergy are in need of money. I shall marry you again in London. Will you come to the Indies with me?”
“Of course. I am very strong. You must not worry about me. It must have been a sad blow losing your wife. You never speak of her.”
“The marriage did not last very long. I… it was not really a marriage.”
“Why?”
They were now sitting in an armchair in front of the fire. He said against her hair, “I frightened her. Physically. She would not have me in her bed. I do not want to frighten you or disgust you, Felicity, for if you rejected me, I could not bear it.”
Felicity took a deep breath. “Come now, Simon. Come to my bedchamber and let us lay your ghosts.”
“After marriage, my brave girl. Kiss me again and then I shall go out in the streets of York to find a special license.”
But it took the marquess at least half an hour to tear himself away from more kisses and embraces.
Agnes heard the marquess returning at two in the morning. Her room was next to Felicity’s. She opened her door a crack to make sure it was he. A dim lamp in the corridor showed her it was indeed the marquess, and he was knocking softly at Felicity’s door.
As Agnes watched, Felicity opened the door. She was wearing a filmy nightgown with priceless lace at the neck and wrists. She stretched up and wound her arms around the marquess’s neck and then she drew him into the room and closed the door behind them.
Slut! thought Agnes furiously. She dived into bed and put the pillow over her ears in case any disgraceful sounds of lovemaking should penetrate from the next room.
“I not only have a special license,” the marquess was saying, “but I think I have found out where we can go to solve the mystery. The clergyman who gave me the license was quite old. He hemmed and hawed at the speed of the matter, but he needs money badly in order to feed the poor of his parish, and I paid him well. We fell to talking. He had never heard of anyone called Waverley, but he did remember a Mr. Bride. He said the rector of St. Edmund the King by the south gate of the city had a wealthy landowner called Bride among his parishioners and there was some dreadful scandal years ago. We shall go to this rector in the morning. Now I am going to leave you alone before I misbehave myself.”
He lifted her up and carried her to the bed and laid her gently down on it. He bent his head and kissed her tenderly. She pulled him down on top of her, and the bedsprings creaked, and next door Agnes bit the bolster in a fury and pulled the pillow more tightly about her ears.
At last, he disengaged himself. “We will be married the day after tomorrow,” he said. “We can wait till then.”
***
The marquess arose early the next morning and summoned Agnes to the private parlor. He looked tired but happy. Agnes thought he looked soiled.
“Your duties with us are finished, Miss Joust,” said the marquess. “I have made arrangements for you to catch the royal mail coach at six this evening. I shall give you enough money to allow you to live at the best hotel in London for a week, and then I suggest you go to Aunt Tabitha’s in Exbridge in Devon. She is kind, and you may stay there as her guest until I manage to make provision for you. I do not like to think of any relative of mine condemned to spend the rest of her days working as a companion. When I return to London, I shall see my lawyers and arrange for a settlement to be made on you. You will have a yearly pension and a sum of money as a dowry.”
Agnes stared at him with her mouth open. It was a generous offer. More than generous, although her vanity stopped her from realizing the marquess was possibly the only man in England kind enough to consider her to be still of a marriageable age. But the better side of her nature was soon silenced by her jealousy. She longed for revenge on Felicity, and what better revenge was there than taking away the Waverley jewels?
But she could not refuse to go. She would try to get the comte to travel on the mail coach with her.
She waited eagerly, hoping the marquess and Felicity would set out early so she could meet the comte at the Minster at ten o’clock.
To her relief, they set out at nine. She hurried to Felicity’s bedchamber and found to her annoyance that the door was locked. But as she was known to be Felicity’s companion, she was able to persuade the landlord to unlock the door with the spare key.
She went straight to Felicity’s traveling desk, hoping that, too, would not prove to be locked. But she raised the lid easily and looked inside. She ignored the other papers as she scrabbled about, looking for the receipt. At last, she found it. She was arranging the other papers back in place when her eye fell on a letter from a London bookseller. In it, the bookseller was congratulating Felicity on the good sales of her first novel, The Love Match, and said he was looking forward to receiving her next manuscript.
Agnes was flooded with a heady feeling of triumph. Before she got on that mail coach, the marquess, dear Simon, should know Felicity Waverley had written that dreadful, that shocking, book.
When she met the comte on the steps of York Minster under the shadow of the great twin towers, she was by far the happier and livelier of the two. The comte had had no intention of paying any large sum of money to get a special license at short notice. He had become an expert forger and so he had been up all night forging the license. He held it out, and Agnes blushed and smiled and handed him the receipt for the jewels. “But you must be quick,” she urged. “Felicity has poisoned Simon’s mind against me, and he is sending me off on the mail coach this evening at six. He says he will give me enough money to stay at a grand hotel in London before journeying to A
unt Tabitha in Devon.”
The comte thought quickly. He was staying in modest lodgings, but he had very little money left.
“I will not have time to book a seat on the mail coach myself, Agnes, my precious. Could you please secure a place for me, and I will reimburse you?”
Agnes readily agreed. “Try to stop Miss Waverley or Darkwater from coming to see you off,” he added. “I cannot conceal my love for you, and they might see it in my face. The bank receipt will be easily forged. I shall get it to you within the hour, and then we may look forward to our marriage.”
Agnes sighed romantically and agreed.
***
Felicity and the marquess walked with the rector in the walled garden of his home while the old man rambled on and digressed and then suddenly began to talk about Mr. Bride. “He was a very strict man. He was a printer at one time, and he gradually bought up land. He was called a landowner, but he did not own broad acres belonging to one estate. He had pieces of land here and property there and then coal was discovered on one of his pieces of land in Durham and then on another. He became very rich indeed. He married a young lady some fifteen years his junior in this very church. She was the daughter of a curate and had practically nothing in the way of a dowry. She had three daughters, one after the other, and after the birth of the last, he took her to Scarborough to recuperate, leaving the new baby and the other two with a nurse.
“He returned from Scarborough and came to see me. He was a broken man. He said his wife had had an affair with some highborn gentleman and he would never forgive her or speak to her again and he had turned her out in the streets. I cried out in vain against his cruelty. I begged him to make some provision for her. He said he did not want to be reminded of her. The next thing I heard, he had sent the children away. What became of Mrs. Bride I shudder to think. People are very cruel.
“Then five years later he died. His will was published, and it was a great surprise. He left all his money to Mrs. Bride. Whether the lawyers found her or not, I do not know.”
