by M C Beaton
There was a great deal of iced champagne served. Lucinda drank it thirstily, never having had champagne before and unaware of how heady it could be.
It was only when they finally rose from the table that she realized she felt inclined to giggle at everything and that her legs were strangely wobbly.
The waltz, although not yet sanctioned by Almack’s, was a favorite dance of the Prince Regent. Lucinda had already had dancing lessons while in the country, her grandmother at least rousing herself enough from her guilty state to prepare the girl for a London Season.
Tipsy as she was, Lucinda did realize her first partner was holding her closer than the conventions allowed. His eyes behind his mask were piglike and reminded her uncomfortably of her father. Her whole body shrank from him, and as soon as the dance was over, she refused to promenade with him and, being too upset to start searching for her grandmother, fled into the garden.
The Marquess of Sunningburgh watched her go. He felt almost as if he were being pulled along after her, as if they were tied to each other by an invisible cord.
The moon was shining down through the trees. The moonlight fell on the jewels on Lucinda’s gown and neck and sent glittering flashes of white light out into the darkness of the garden around her.
She was sitting on an iron bench well away from the revelers, who were becoming increasingly bold and noisy.
She did not look up as the marquess approached her but sat very still, looking down at her hands.
He sat down beside her. She gave a little start, half rose to flee, and then sat down again. The champagne bubbled in her veins, making everything seem unreal.
“It’s you,” she said softly.
“Yes,” he agreed. “It is as I thought when I saw you at supper. We have met.”
“I do not think it likely, sir,” said Lucinda. “I have not been in town very long and I do not know very many people.”
“Is this your first Season?”
“Yes.”
“And do you hope to marry?” he teased.
“I am fortunate,” she said in a low voice. “I am engaged and I shall be married in a month.”
He felt a queer little pain at his heart.
“If you were affianced to me,” he said, “I should not allow you to come to a masquerade unaccompanied. I assume your fiancé is absent or he would surely have pursued you into the garden by now.”
“I am worried about him. He was supposed to escort me.”
He drew a little closer to her on the bench. Lucinda felt she ought to leave. But the champagne she had drunk made the whole scene appear dreamlike.
There was a loud fanfare of trumpets and then a hush. Some foreign royalty had probably arrived. The other guests scampered from the garden into the ballroom. A faint breeze rustled the leaves of the bushes and trees and whispered across the grass.
They were alone.
“I am sorry I found you too late,” the marquess heard himself saying.
“You are flirting with an unknown in a mask, sir,” said Lucinda. “You do not know what I am like.”
“And yet there is this odd feeling of recognition—as if we had been close at one time. What is your name?”
“Lady Lucinda Esmond.”
He drew a sharp breath, glad that he was masked. So this was his betrothed. The pale, thin child had become a rich and desirable woman. He remembered vividly the last time he had seen her, when he had signed the betrothal papers, and remembered all the hatred he had felt for her. But she had been only ten. She must be all of nineteen now. But at least she had forgotten the betrothal or did not intend to do anything about it.
“And you are …?” he heard her asking softly.
“Sunningburgh.”
“Lord Sunningburgh?”
“The tenth marquess of that name. Is it a name that is familiar to you?”
Lucinda thought hard. It did have a familiar ring. “I may have heard it somewhere,” she said cautiously.
“And your affianced?”
“Sir Percival Magnus.”
“I wish you well.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
An odd companionable silence fell between them. From the ballroom came the faint sound of some pompous voice making a speech. The marquess felt as if a great weight had been lifted from him. The past would no longer haunt him. His humiliation at the Earl of Sotheran’s hands disappeared completely. The old man was dead and this daughter of his had no interest in the betrothal that had been forced upon her at a young age.
Lucinda felt pleased she was so at ease with this marquess. She was sure now that her engagement had given her confidence with men. He was not the sort of man she would normally have felt comfortable with. He was too tall, too handsome, too masculine. But he appeared to be a gentleman, one who would never dream of pressing any advances on a lady already promised to another.
“And what are you doing sitting out here alone?” he asked. “You are safe in my company, but I am sure many of the others here might make life embarrassing for you if they found you out here alone.”
“It was the champagne,” said Lucinda with a giggle. “I drank much too much of it, and then the first waltz was very unpleasant. A fat man with piggy eyes held me much too close. I was frightened. Men often frighten me.”
“Odso! You must learn to keep them at arm’s length. Why do we frighten you?”
Lucinda looked up at the moon. How odd. There were two moons in the sky, she thought drunkenly.
“I think men are cheats,” she said, her soft voice slurred. “They talk about romance and everlasting love when all they want is a way to satisfy their lusts.”
“You have had too much champagne,” he said, beginning to laugh. “Or are you always so beautifully frank?”
“I should not have said that,” said Lucinda, looking bewildered.
“Obviously all men do not frighten you or you would not be engaged.”
“Sir Percival is different,” said Lucinda warmly. “He has never even kissed me and I admire such gentlemanly restraint. He is not concerned with, er, that side of things.”
“You are very young. Such lack of passion may not always be enough.”
“Passions of any kind are disgusting,” said Lucinda coolly. “Our restraint on them is the only thing that raises us above the beasts of the field.”
“And yet if one wants children …”
“I have thought of that,” said Lucinda with owllike drunken solemnity. “I shall not have them in the usual way.”
He put his hand to his mouth to hide a smile.
“Dear me. What is the unusual way?”
“I shall adopt them. There are plenty of orphans about in need of a comfortable home.”
“This Sir Percival is indeed a model of all the virtues if he shares your views.”
“I have not yet told him.”
“I would tell the man before you marry him,” said the marquess cautiously.
“But the care of children is women’s business. Men do not care for children, surely?”
“Certain evil and dissolute ones do not,” he said, suddenly angry, remembering her father. “But they are the exceptions.”
“Oh, you are all evil and dissolute,” Lucinda said laughing, with an airy wave of one arm.
“One of us might surprise you one day,” he said dryly. “You are obviously very fond of jewelry, Lady Lucinda.”
“Yes, very,” she agreed. “I have so very much money. I could not believe Papa had amassed so much. Uncle Charles said that even after he had paid off all the people Papa had cheated—that is, all the people he could find,” said Lucinda, remembering the captain and wondering for the first time whether he had been paid, “there was an amazing amount left. Perhaps I am too extravagant. But I like pretty baubles. I never had any toys as a child and these jewels are simply like just so many sparkling toys to me. I do not know why I am telling you all this. Most strange. Please do not tell anyone I told you about Papa cheating.
”
“On my honor. But was he never found out?”
“No. He never cheated anyone with as much power as he had. So when it came to his word against theirs, well, his word was the one that was taken. But there were whispers and rumors. Before the end, he was banned from every club in St. James’s.”
The faint tinkling strains of a waltz danced into the garden on the warm air.
The marquess rose to his feet. “May I have the honor of this dance, Lady Lucinda?”
“I do not want to go back in … just yet.”
“Then let us dance here!” he cried, feeling a heady, bubbling excitement and wondering if, like Lady Lucinda, he had drunk far too much at supper.
She laughed and stood up and took his hand. He stood looking down at her for moment, his eyes glinting through his mask, and then he drew her gently into his arms.
They circled sedately over the grass.
He held her formally, correctly, but he was holding one hand, and that hand of Lucinda’s began to tingle and burn. His other hand was at her waist, and the pressure of it against the small of her back was doing odd things to her body. She felt heavy and lethargic, a drugged sweetness making her lean toward him and slowing her steps.
She turned her face up to his, her eyes large and bewildered.
“Lucinda!” he said, his voice husky with surprise.
Her soft mouth trembled.
He bent his head to kiss her. She saw his lips approaching, oh, so slowly, and his dark head blotting out the tipsy moons and the black night lace of the trees in the garden.
His lips were soft and warm and caressing.
He was at first amused by the freshness and innocence of her lips, amused at his own boldness, knowing he would shortly have to apologize to her. But he had been celibate for a long time. All of his energies had been channeled into defeating Napoleon’s troops on the high sierras of Spain. He felt as if his lips and body were catching fire. His senses reeled and he became deaf and blind to everything and anything and began to kiss her with all of the savagery of a man starved for years of love and passion.
At first her response was almost as violent as his. But then she began to shake with fear. He mistook her trembling for passion and swept her up into his arms and gently removed her mask. It was if she were wearing another mask underneath, a grief-stricken mask of horror and disgust as the moonlight shone full on her face.
Alarmed and appalled, he set her on her feet.
“Lucinda!” called a voice, sharp with anxiety.
“Grandmama,” said Lucinda. “I must go. Do not speak to me again, my lord. My behavior was at fault, I admit. I am very drunk, drunker than I had thought. But … faugh! … you disgust me!”
He stood with his arms hanging helplessly at his sides as she moved quickly away from him across the grass, her jewels winking and blazing, to where the tiny figure of a little old lady stood on the steps of the garden, peering into the blackness.
Chapter Five
“Are you happy, Lucinda?” asked the Countess of Lemmington sharply as their carriage bore them home to Berkeley Square.
“Yes, Grandmama. Only I am worried about Sir Percival, and I am a little tired.”
“Was there anyone with you in the garden? I thought I saw the figure of a man behind you in the darkness.”
“It was the Marquess of Sunningburgh. I had a short conversation with him.”
“Sunningburgh! Gad!”
“You know him, Grandmama?”
“And so do you. Sunningburgh inherited the title recently. Before that he was Captain Mark Chamfrey.”
Lucinda put her hands up to her hot cheeks. “I am betrothed to him,” she whispered.
“He ain’t done nothing about it and he won’t now. Don’t fret. Didn’t I tell you about him getting the title and that Giles knew he had prospects, which is why he tried to tie him to you?”
“No,” whispered Lucinda.
“Don’t bother your head about it. Did you tell him you was engaged to Magnus?”
“Yes.”“And what did he say?”
“He wished me well … I think.”
“And did he mention the kidnapping?”
“No.”
“Well, then, there’s nothing to worry about,” said the countess comfortably. “Didn’t you recognize him when everyone unmasked?”
“I looked for him, but I think he had left by then.”
“Never mind. Saved you from getting a shock, though you’d probably not have recognized him, anyway.”
Lucinda sat very still. She was sure she would have recognized him and knew that in a queer way she already had. She felt the pressure of his lips again and her body burned and throbbed as if it no longer belonged to her, as if she no longer had any control over it.
Alexander, the butler, was waiting for them in the hall when they arrived home.
“Good of you, Alexander,” said the countess as the butler relieved her of her cloak, “but I told you not to wait up.”
“You did indeed, my lady. But a certain person called and insists on seeing you. I tried to put him out, but he said you would be most angry. I allowed him to wait in the kitchens. He is a low fellow and I am sure you will immediately give me permission to send him away when you hear his name.”
“Well, what is it?”
“Gotobed.”
“What on earth is he doing in London?” asked Lucinda.
“I am sure I could not say, my lady,” said Alexander, looking woodenly over her shoulder. “Sir Percival Magnus’s servant arrived some time after you had left to convey Sir Magnus’s apologies. Sir Magnus, dressed as a Scotchman, was set upon on leaving his house.”
“How dreadful! Is he badly hurt?”
“I gather not, my lady. He said he would call on you at three tomorrow—I mean today,” said the butler as the clock in the corner of the hall began to chime four in the morning.
“I shall see this Gotobed,” said the countess firmly. “It must be something important to cause him to wait up half the night for me. Send him to me in the drawing room in ten minutes, Alexander, and bring some rum, which is the sort of thing these low creatures drink.”
“Tell him to come back some other time,” urged Lucinda. “You must be very tired, Grandmama.”
“Not I. Never felt better. Run along, child.”
When Gotobed was finally ushered into the pretty drawing room with its green-and-gold-striped paper and delicate furniture upholstered in gold, the countess was waiting for him. She had had the fire lit and was sitting beside it warming her wrinkled hands at the blaze.
She eyed the former butler with disfavor. “Sit down, Gotobed,” she commanded. “No, not there. There.” She pointed to the one sturdy chair in the room, which was a high-backed one on castors.
Gotobed slouched forward, grinning and tugging his forelock. He was dressed in a satin coat and knee breeches that were covered with the stains of his own meals as well as all the stains from the meals of the suit’s previous three owners, Gotobed having bought the aristocratic relics in the old clothes market in Leather Lane.
The little countess eyed him sharply. Gotobed bore a marked resemblance to the late Earl of Sotheran. This did not rouse any warm feelings in the little countess’s breast. On the contrary, she was consumed with burning hatred.
“You have come for money,” she said. It was a statement, not a question. “Why? I dealt fairly by you. I bought you your pig farm.”
“Ah, well, pigs ain’t too great, and it ain’t the life for the likes o’ me,” said Gotobed.
“Pour yourself a drink, man. There’s rum in that decanter.”
“Thankee,” said Gotobed, pouring himself a huge measure. “No heel taps.”
The countess nodded and then said, “I assume you have come to blackmail me.”
“Nasty word,” he said waggishly. “But I have a mind to be a gennelman. I saw you.”
“You saw me what?”
“I saw you trip up your
own son and watch him die.”
The countess sighed, a long sigh. She looked immensely old and frail. Only her pale eyes seemed alive, burning in her wrinkled face as she surveyed the pig farmer.
“It’s your word against mine,” she said at last. “Who’ll believe you?”
“Some won’t. Some will. Upset Lady Lucinda, that it will.”
“Yes,” said the countess, settling back in her chair. “I am glad you said that. It makes what I have to do all the easier. Lucinda must not be upset. Lucinda is more my child than Giles ever was. No. I shall do everything in my power to make sure Lucinda never suffers again. Pour yourself another drink.”
“I knew you’d see sense,” said Gotobed. He reached forward for the decanter. A surprised look crossed his face. He put a hand up to his brow. He half rose to his feet and then fell with a crash back into the chair. His head lolled back, his mouth fell open, and he began to snore.
The countess sat watching him dispassionately for some time. Then she rose to her feet and picked up the decanter with the remains of the rum and tipped the contents onto the fire, standing back as the rum went up with a roar.
“Just in case anyone else drinks it and finds it full of laudanum,” she said aloud.
She got to her feet and went behind the chair that Gotobed was sleeping on. She wheeled it over the carpet to where a large carved chest stood in a corner. She threw back the lid, took out several pairs of curtains, and put them on the floor.
Then summoning up all of her energies, she pulled the pig farmer’s limp body until it slumped out of the chair into the chest. His legs were dangling over the side. She lifted them in and then slammed down the lid. She went to the bellrope at the corner of the fireplace and gave it a tug.
“Ah, Alexander,” she said when the butler entered, “that Gotobed fellow has left. A former servant fallen on hard times. I sent him on his way. Remove the decanter and have it washed carefully. I cannot abide the smell of rum. You may retire. I shall wait here for a little. Tell Yvonne not to wait up for me.” Yvonne was her lady’s maid.
“Very good, my lady.”
The countess sat for a long time, lost in thought, remembering old days and old friends now dead. Outside the watch hoarsely called the hour. Six o’clock and a fine morn.
