by M C Beaton
The countess rose and pulled back the curtains, raised the Venetian blinds, and opened the shutters. The birds were singing in the young plane trees in Berkeley Square. She remembered seeing them planted. 1789, that was.
She walked slowly across the room and picked up her reticule and drew out a small, pearl-handled pistol. She checked to see that it was loaded and then, holding the pistol in one hand, she went over to the chest and, with the other hand, raised the lid.
Gotobed slept on.
“I am doing this for you, Lucinda,” said the countess. She took careful aim and shot Gotobed neatly through the heart, then dropped the lid.
Picking up her cane, she made her way with surprising rapidity out into the hall.
Alexander came hurtling up the back stairs in his nightgown. “I heard a shot, my lady!” he cried.
“And so you did,” said the countess, leaning on her tall beribboned cane. “Some young fools out in the square trying to massacre the pigeons.”
“Oh, my lady, I had such a fright. It sounded as if it were right here in the house.”
“Yes, sounds are strange. Sometimes when the clock in the hall chimes, I could swear it was in the corner of my bedroom. Good night, Alexander.”
“Good night, my lady.”
Sir Percival did not put in an appearance as promised but sent another note to say he was still indisposed. Lucinda received her other callers. It was the fashion for gentlemen to call on ladies they had danced with the night before and present their compliments. She dreaded the arrival of the Marquess of Sunningburgh. But he did not arrive, nor did he send his servants. Obviously the marquess considered that episode in the garden best forgotten. Lucinda told herself she was glad. That kiss had infected her body like some disease. She looked forward to seeing her fiancé again. He had said in his note he would take her driving on the following afternoon.
The next day, she canceled all calls and outings. Once she saw her fiancé again, she was sure the world would be put to rights and all this ugly, aching physical yearning would leave her body.
But at four o’clock only Sir Percival’s servant arrived with yet another note. Sir Percival had discovered a bruise on his cheekbone and could not possibly appear again in public until it had faded.
Milksop! said a traitorous voice in Lucinda’s head. The day was hot and oppressive. She changed out of her carriage dress and put on a cool white muslin gown. The countess was asleep in her bedchamber. She had risen that morning but complained of fatigue.
Lucinda went down to the drawing room carrying her workbasket and set up her tambor frame by the window. She was inserting the first stitch in the tapestry when Alexander announced the arrival of the Marquess of Sunningburgh.
Lucinda carefully put down her needle, noticing with a sort of wonder that her hand did not shake.
She rose and faced the door as the marquess entered the room.
Hot color flooded her cheeks. Maturity had added strength to his face and had given him a piratical appearance. He was exquisitely tailored. His cravat was as intricate as a Chinese ivory chess piece. He was dressed for riding and his leather breeches were molded to a splendid pair of muscular thighs. His top boots shone. But his strong air of masculinity, of sensuality, hit her like a blow.
“I must ask you to leave,” she said quietly. “I am unchaperoned. “
“The door is open,” he said, “so we are observing the conventions.”
“Nonetheless, I think you should leave.”
She turned away and began to pace up and down the room.
He had tried to stay away. He had tried to persuade himself that, without moonlight, she would prove plain and uninteresting. But the combination of midnight hair, large green and gold eyes in a perfect oval of a face, and the filminess of her white muslin gown, which revealed tantalizing promises of a seductive figure underneath, all told him he was facing perhaps one of the most beautiful women London society had ever seen.
And she was all his—legally. That struck him forcibly almost at the same moment as he realized he could not possibly keep her to that ridiculous contract. She had been as much a victim of her brutal father’s machinations as he had been himself.
“I shall not keep you long,” he said. “I am curious. Have you forgotten our betrothal?”
“No. I did not know that night that the Marquees of
Sunningburgh was once Captain Chamfrey. I assume you have forgotten that rubbishy business. It was monstrous of Papa to force you to sign such an agreement.”
“How agitated you are!” he said. “Pray calm yourself, Lady Lucinda. Come! I apologize for my behavior the other night. I have no intention of repeating it. Nor have I any intention of holding you to the betrothal. Can we not be friends?”
He came up to her and smiled down at her. He looked so wickedly charming, so devastatingly attractive that she began to stammer, “Of—of c-course. I-I t-too behaved b-badly the other night. I was d-drunk.”
“You did not tell your grandmother about it?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then only we two know about it and if we forget it, we can be comfortable. Come, shake hands on it.”
Lucinda smiled tremulously and held out her hand. He took it in a warm clasp, and then they both gazed at each other helplessly. The current of emotion running between them was so strong that for one moment the same look of bewilderment was stamped on both their faces.
“Lady Lucinda,” he said, holding her hand more tightly, “I fear I have just discovered a strength of feeling that—”
“No, you must not,” whispered Lucinda, snatching her hand away. “If we are to be friends, we must behave sociably. How hot this room is! Why, there is the most terrible smell coming from somewhere.”
“Probably the drains.”
“Perhaps,” said Lucinda, glad to have a safe topic to pursue. “And yet it seems to be in this very room.”
“May I sit down?” he asked plaintively.
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Lucinda, searching about under cushions and behind chairs. She straightened up and rang the bell, and when Alexander promptly appeared, she asked him to bring wine and cakes.
“Lady Lucinda,” said the marquess, “the whole of London is very smelly at the moment due to the hot weather. I suggest you have the room sprinkled with rosewater.”
But Lucinda, glad of something to do, continued her search. She raised the lid of the chest. Alexander brought in a tray with a decanter and a plate of small cakes and set it down on a table beside the marquess. “You may pour me a glass as well, Alexander,” said Lucinda over her shoulder. She then looked down into the chest.
She stood frozen, her mind racing, staring down at the dead body of Gotobed, staring at the congealed patch of blood across his chest.
Grandmama! was her first thought. Something happened. He has been hidden here. If I say anything, Grandmama will be suspected of murder.
She dropped the lid with a crash. Alexander had just left the room.
Lucinda’s face was paper-white and the pupils of her eyes were dilated.
“What is the matter?” cried the marquess. “Did you find a dead rat?”
“Yes, in the chest,” said Lucinda.
He got to his feet. “Then I suggest you let me remove it for you and throw it outside into the kennel.”
“No!” screamed Lucinda.
“Don’t be a silly girl. Stand aside. If the rat is scaring you so much, then the rat must go!”
“It is not the rat!” shouted Lucinda, at her wits’ end. “It is you, my lord.”
“I? What have I done?”
Lucinda threw herself into his arms and pressed a brief, inexpert kiss on his mouth.
“You feel the same as I do, my love,” he said. He folded his arms about her and kissed her cold mouth, and then kissed her cheeks and her eyes.
She struggled free, feeling as if she were going mad with fear and emotion.
“Get out!” yelled Lucind
a.
Alexander came running in.
“His lordship is just leaving,” said Lucinda.
“You, my lady,” said the marquess, his voice dripping icicles, “are stark, raving mad!”
He strode from the room.
Lucinda sank weakly into a chair. “That will be all, Alexander,” she whispered to the curious butler.
“Shall I fetch Madam, the countess?” asked the butler.
“No! I mean, no, thank you. I shall see her myself.”
Lucinda ran up the stairs and entered her grandmother’s bedroom. The old lady was awake and propped up on her pillows, reading a newspaper, her quizzing glass, the size of a soup plate, held close to it.
“Oh, Grandmother,” cried Lucinda, flinging herself on the bed. “I found him.”
“Who, my love?”
“Gotobed. Dead. In the chest. In the drawing room.”
“Nonsense. I saw the fellow out myself. You are imagining things.”
“Grandmama, I saw him.”
“Quietly, my child. Hand me my wrapper and I shall go and see for myself. Go to your room and wait for me.”
Lucinda protested but was overridden by her grandmother’s orders. She was to go and lie down.
Waiting in her room, Lucinda sat by the window, dreading to hear a loud scream as the body was discovered. When her bedroom door opened, she leaped with fright, but it was only Alexander with a glass of wine.
“The countess asked me to bring you this,” he said. “Madam says it will soothe your nerves.”
He bowed and then retired. Lucinda drank the glass of wine thirstily. The silence of the house was oppressive.
She began to feel desperately drowsy. She dragged herself over to the bed, fell across it, and plunged into a deep sleep.
“Did you take it to her?” demanded the countess as the butler reentered the drawing room.
“Yes, my lady.”
“There won’t be a drop of laudanum left in London if I go on at this rate,” muttered the old countess.
She sat down in her customary chair by the fire, leaned on her cane, and surveyed Alexander.
“Do you enjoy working here?” she asked.
“Yes, my lady. I trust I have done nothing to—”
“No, no, no. Where was it you were before?”
“Lord Hammersmith, my lady.”
“Ah, yes, Charles employed you. Hard taskmaster, Lord Hammersmith, I hear.”
“Very, my lady.”
“You will find me a very generous employer. You would like some extra money to put by for your old age, would you not?”
“Indeed, yes, my lady.”
“Good, good. I want you to perform a little service for me. Go and open that chest.”
The butler crossed the room with his slow, stately walk. He raised the lid of the chest and then looked around at the countess, his eyes bulging out of his head.
“Beg pardon, my lady. But there is a dead body in here.”
“Just so, Alexander. And it is beginning to smell. I want you to bring a sack, pop it in, take my carriage, and dump it somewhere in the countryside where it won’t be discovered.”
“My lady!”
“I am sure you would welcome five hundred pounds toward your retirement savings.”
Alexander gulped. “Yes, my lady.”
“Very well. See to it. Now!”
The countess rose to her feet and walked to the door. “And when you return,” she said, “put the curtains that are lying on the floor over there back in the chest. In the attic, you will find a carnival mask. Drop it on top of the curtains, first bundling the material up to look vaguely like a body.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Lady Lucinda should sleep for some time. Keep this door locked in case she should come in here before you are ready. If the other servants ask you what is in the sack, say it is a dead pig sent me by Lord Lemmington which unfortunately became, er, overripe on the journey.”
“Very good, my lady,” said Alexander in hollow accents. “When may I expect payment?”
“Just as soon as you are finished.”
Lucinda awoke with a dry mouth and a headache at seven in the evening. She could not believe she had slept so long. Then she remembered the dead body and ran toward her grandmother’s room, nearly colliding with the old lady, who was heading for the top of the staircase.
“The body, Grandmama!” whispered Lucinda.
“My poor child. Your nerves must be overset. There is no body in the chest. Alexander tells me that Sunningburgh called and upset you. That is obviously what caused your eyes to play tricks.”
“But is was there!”
“Come, Lucinda. Come with me and let us put an end to this nonsense.”
Shivering with fright, Lucinda followed her grandmother down the stairs and into the drawing room.
“Go and look,” urged the countess.
Lucinda slowly crossed over to the chest. She stood, trembling, and then threw back the lid.
She put her hands to her mouth as a hideous face stared up at her.
“Look closer, child. It is only an old carnival mask and a pile of curtains.”
“So it is!” cried Lucinda. She began to laugh with relief and then her laughter quickly died.
“But that is not what I saw,” she said slowly. “It was that man, Gotobed, with a bloodstain on his chest.”
“Come here, child, and sit by me,” said the countess. She began to talk gently about the death of the Earl of Sotheran and how such a dramatic death could prey on the nerves of the young. She talked and talked until she saw the color returning to Lucinda’s cheeks.
“You are right, Grandmama,” said Lucinda. “Do you know the real reason for my fright? I thought you had killed him.”
“I! Look at me. How could such as I kill anyone?”
Lucinda looked affectionately at the frail little figure of her grandmother and then gave her a hug.
“I am a fool,” she said.
“Run and prepare yourself for the opera, or we will be late.”
Chapter Six
The Marquess of Sunningburgh was attending the opera with Mr. Tommy Flanders. He had spent the rest of the day trying to persuade himself that he was better putting Lady Lucinda firmly from his mind.
“There she is!” said Mr. Flanders suddenly. “That’s the beauty I was telling you about!”
The marquess looked across the theater to the side boxes directly opposite. There was Lucinda, attired in green sarcenet and with a collar of emeralds blazing around her neck. A circlet of gold and emeralds encircled her black hair. He felt quite sick with longing. Was he never to be free of that folly of his youth? She was not for him. She was deranged. That, she had shown only this afternoon. It was understandable that any girl brought up by the Earl of Sotheran should turn out to be quite mad.
As if aware of his gaze, Lucinda looked up and saw him. She blushed and raised her fan to cover her face. She hated the effect the very sight of the man had on her. Her skin felt hot and prickly under her clothes. Again, she felt angry with Sir Percival for keeping himself absent with such a trivial excuse.
“Well, what do you think?”
The marquess realized his friend was demanding an answer. “Think of what?”
“The beauty.”
“She is very well in a way. I spoke to her at the ball. She was the Elizabethan lady you pointed out to me at supper.”
“You are more fortunate than I! I tried to get a dance, but she was always surrounded by courtiers.”
“She is engaged, I believe.”
“Yes, I told you. Sir Percival Magnus. I have heard talk about him. He is evidently a Bond Street fribble of the most dandified sort.”
“Is he rich?”
“Barely got a feather to fly with. They say the duns were talking of building a house outside his, they’ve become so tired of sitting out on the pavement. Of course, the jackals backed off the minute they heard of his engagement.”
The marquess felt depressed and wished he had never come to London. Everyone was so stupid and empty. Everything was a glittering, frantic waste of time. He could not even enjoy the opera in peace. Catalini was unaccountably indisposed, and her stand-in, a timid lady, was being teased and mocked by the disappointed audience who had paid to see the great diva. During the substitute’s aria, one buck leapt down from the side boxes and crept up behind her and did something that caused the opera singer to leap about two feet into the air.
When the interval at last arrived, Mr. Flanders said, “Since you have spoken to the beauty, that means you can introduce me.”
“Must I?”
“Of course. I don’t care whether she’s engaged or not. It would be enough just to get close to her.”
The marquess resigned himself. “Come along,” he said, getting to his feet.
Lucinda’s box was crowded with men and it took at least five minutes before he could shoulder some of them aside and introduce Mr. Flanders.
He then stood at the back of the box and waited patiently for Mr. Flanders to finish paying Lucinda compliments.
The marquess soon noticed that disappointed gentlemen were leaving the box—and leaving the field to Tommy Flanders, who was now sitting next to Lucinda and talking earnestly.
At last, Mr. Flanders stood up. “I told Lady Lucinda we were to attend Lord Barnstable’s fête champêtre tomorrow, and my lady expressed a wish to go but had thought to stay home because of the indisposition of Sir Percival. I have offered my services as an escort and my lady has been gracious enough to accept and the Countess of Lemmington has given her permission.” The old countess nodded sleepily and smiled.
“How on earth did you arrange that?” demanded the marquess crossly as they made their way through the throngs of prostitutes back to the marquess’s box.
“Clever, wasn’t I? It came to me as we were walking along to her box. Women always trust me. They see me as a sort of surrogate brother. And she ain’t married yet!”
It was, in fact, Mr. Tommy Flanders who produced the first real crack in the porcelain surface of Lucinda’s love for Sir Percival.
