A Dangerous Undertaking

by Mary Nichols

  ‘No!’ It was almost a shout and for a moment disconcerted her.

  ‘No?’

  ‘You are not to blame.’

  ‘Then may I remind you of the promise you made to me?’ she went on, determined to finish what she had to say. ‘You told me that in the eyes of the world you would be a loving husband until such time as our agreement came to an end. I believe it has some months yet to run.’

  ‘I am not likely to forget it; it is engraved on my heart.’

  ‘I wish you to keep your word.’

  ‘Very well.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘While we remain in London, I will do my best to be a model husband. Who knows? I might even come to enjoy the role.’ She knew he had been drinking, but not that he was so drunk he did not know what he was saying, and she was too hurt to detect the underlying bitterness in his words.

  He went to the door, but stopped with his hand on the doorknob and turned back to her. ‘But I give you fair warning—I do not submit easily to petticoat government, and you would do well not to provoke me as you have done this night.’

  Without stopping to think, she picked up a scent bottle and threw it at him. It crashed against the wall and smashed, covering him in sweet-smelling lily of the valley. He strode across to her and took her shoulders in his hands, holding her at arm’s length, his eyes glittering dangerously. He shook her once, throwing her head back, but then suddenly crushed her to him and brought his mouth down to hers in a kiss that began as a bruising punishment and ended in sweet passion. At first she held herself rigid, but she could not keep that up and found herself melting towards him, answering his passion with her own.

  Suddenly, realising what was happening, he thrust her from him. ‘I bid you goodnight, madam,’ he said, ignoring the shards of glass and slipping out of the door before she could find something else to throw. He did not hear her sobs of frustrated anger and despair because she flung herself on her bed and stifled them in the pillow.

  It had come, the dismissal she had been dreading, the reminder of their contract. How could she ever have been such a fool as to agree to it? She had sold her soul to the devil. She lifted her head and gave a cracked laugh; now she was becoming as superstitious as the people of the Fens. If only someone or something had given her a sign that she ought not to embark on a marriage which would bring her only grief, she might have been spared her present anguish. But omens had been singularly lacking when she needed them. Except the swans. According to Penny, they were a good sign. What was good about them, when they had lured her on to the ice? She was reminded of her great-uncle’s words at the time. ‘It is not I who wants her dead.’ Had Roland wanted her death? No, that was ridiculous. No one could have done more to save her. And he had been extraordinarily concerned when she had cut her hand, and on many other occasions when she had had quite ordinary mishaps. It was the cut hand which had led to the marriage being consummated and the fleeting moments of happiness since then. Until now. Now he had shown his true colours and she was in torment.

  She fell asleep at last and dreamed of falling through the ice, and woke up in a cold terror. Penny was standing over her with a cup of hot chocolate and the sun was shining through the window, picking out the clothes she had discarded the night before and making the shards of glass from the scent-bottle twinkle in a myriad colours. She sat up. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘All but twelve, my lady. Master Mellison is here with Mistress Kate.’ She had known Kate since babyhood and could not cure herself of referring to her in the old way; ‘Mistress Mellison’ was foreign to her tongue.

  ‘Tell them I’ll be down directly. Is his lordship about?’

  ‘No, my lady. He went out early. He said he would be back in good time to prepare for the ball and you were not to worry.’

  ‘Ball?’

  ‘Lady Chalfont’s, my lady. Had you forgot?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She could hardly believe that he still meant to attend it. ‘Go and ask someone to take some refreshments to the parlour for Mistress Mellison and her husband. I will wash and dress myself. And then you had better clear up the glass. I am afraid I had an accident with it.’

  Penny raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as she bobbed a curtsy and disappeared, leaving Margaret to complete her toilette. Whatever she did, she could not disguise the pallor of her cheeks nor the dark circles beneath her eyes, and make-up seemed to make her look worse. She gave up and washed it off, brushed her hair loosely about her shoulders and dressed herself in a chemise gown of blue muslin before going downstairs to greet her visitors.

  ‘Goodness, Margaret, you must have stayed at Ranelagh very late last night!’ Kate exclaimed after Margaret had bidden them good-day and made sure they had wine and honey cakes. ‘Have you been to bed at all?’

  ‘We sat up and talked after we returned,’ she said. ‘I am afraid I slept late.’

  ‘Is Roland still abed?’ Charles asked. He was standing by the fireplace, resting his forearm on the marble shelf, within inches of the Chalfonts’ gilded invitation card.

  ‘No, he went out early. I am afraid I don’t know where he has gone.’

  She sounded so weary that Kate looked up in alarm. ‘Margaret, what is wrong?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing at all. I am simply tired.’

  ‘Pardon me, but I do not believe you. Is Roland being unkind to you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she said valiantly. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘When we first came to London you were worried about him. I remember you said he was reluctant to take you out and about, but I cannot see why you mentioned it. We have been everywhere in the last few weeks.’

  ‘Yes. I was being foolish.’

  ‘So what troubles you now? You can tell us.’ She looked up at her husband. ‘Can’t she, Charles? Could it be that you are…?’ Her eyes lit with happy mischief.

  ‘It isn’t that,’ she said, then, unable to bottle it up any longer, burst out, ‘Oh, it’s Mistress Chalfont. She behaves so coquettishly with Roland and…’

  ‘You disapprove. Quite right. I shall give him a wigging about it.’

  ‘Oh, please don’t. He is angry already…’

  ‘Angry? Oh, surely it is no more than a harmless flirtation. He will leave it off as soon as he realises you are upset.’

  Margaret looked up at Charles, who had ceased to lounge against the mantelshelf and now stood looking down at her thoughtfully. ‘You know Mistress Chalfont, I believe?’ she asked him.

  Charles looked decidedly uncomfortable, which only confirmed Margaret’s worst fears. ‘She is a distant cousin of mine,’ he said quietly. ‘Roland met her when I took him to Chalfont Hall after he was wounded. We had carried him all the way from the Culloden battlefield, but he was in a bad way and I knew he could not survive many more days of being jolted about on a waggon. It was leave him behind or bury him before another day had passed, and it was then I remembered my mother’s cousin. We took him there.’

  ‘Mistress Chalfont nursed him. He told me that,’ Margaret said. ‘He also admitted that he loved her.’ She paused to look up at him. ‘Oh, you do not need to look so sheepish. I know it to be true.’

  ‘But why did he marry you, if that was so?’ Kate cried. ‘It was monstrous of him.’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘He cannot still love her,’ Kate went on. ‘She is nothing compared to you. She is a spoilt child who does not like it because she cannot have her own way. Don’t you agree, Charles?’

  Her husband bowed but did not speak. He had suddenly realised that Margaret had fallen in love with her husband and that was something they had not foreseen. He felt desperately sorry. And guilty.

  Kate laughed suddenly. ‘But you have the last word, Margaret, dear; you are his wife. All you have to do is to remain calm, pretend you do not mind. It will all blow over and my foolish brother will come to realise what a treasure his wife is. Now, are you going to the ball tonight?’

  ‘I do not want to.’

>   ‘But you must—there will be gossip if you don’t. You will dress magnificently and hold up your head and defy the world.’ She grasped both Margaret’s hands in hers and laughed again. ‘Roland loves you; I stake my oath on it. Now say you will come.’

  A dozen times in the next few hours Margaret vacillated between wishing she had not agreed and determination not to be cowed. Her pride must sustain her. She went to bed in the afternoon in an effort to make up for lost sleep, knowing she had to look her best in the evening, but sleep eluded her until it was almost time to rise again, and then she dropped into a slumber so deep that Penny had to shake her into wakefulness.

  She sat up and drank a dish of bohea tea, which revived her, and nibbled at a fruit-filled pastry, half of which she left, and then her lengthy toilette was begun.

  She was bathed in rose-scented water, creams and lotions were applied to her body, her nails were polished, undergarments of finest lawn were slipped over her head, silk stockings were pulled on and fastened with ribbon garters. Next came a pale green satin petticoat, and then she was enveloped in a powder-cape and sat down before the mirror for Penny to dress her hair. It was brushed and taken high above her head over cushions to give it height and width, then twisted into curls about her ears; more curls were allowed to fall on to her shoulders. It took the best part of an hour before Penny was sufficiently satisfied to powder it. The air was thick with its dust, and maid and mistress soon found themselves coughing.

  ‘Don’t shake your head so!’ Penny cried. ‘You will have it down.’

  ‘Then leave off throwing that powder about. Surely you have done enough?’

  The fine particles settled at last and Penny set to with a paint-box; brows were drawn in, cheeks rouged, and a patch applied below Margaret’s left eye, but Margaret would not allow her face to be painted white. ‘No!’ she said, with determination. ‘Leave that for the dowagers. Besides, it looks dreadful when my face gets warm and it cracks.’ She took off the powder-cape and turned towards the bed, where her gown lay lovingly spread out. Made of rose-pink brocade and heavy satin, its skirt was decorated with ruched silk, its low-necked bodice with fine tucks and silk bows. Matching bows finished the three-quarter sleeves. ‘Is it time?’

  ‘Yes, my lady. I heard his lordship go to his room over an hour since.’

  The gown was slipped on, and the lace in the corsage and tumbling from the sleeves was frothed out. Her feet were encased in brocade slippers with jewelled heels, just as Roland entered the room, looking magnificent in a burgundy coat trimmed with silver braid, with pink satin breeches and a long, flower-embroidered waistcoat. The lace of his cravat was pristine and fastened with a diamond pin that glinted in the lamp-light. There was another in the black bow at the back of his wig. He carried a small box in his hand.

  He stood and looked at her for a moment, lost in admiration. She was beautiful, this little kitten of his, beautiful and poised, though her lustrous eyes betrayed her sadness. He smiled and moved towards her as Penny disappeared with the powder-cloak and the discarded day-clothes. ‘My felicitations, my dear, you have excellent taste.’

  It was not quite what she wanted to hear, but it was a compliment and she must be gracious. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  ‘It came to me that you might not have much jewellery.’ He thrust the box into her hand, almost tongue-tied. ‘I hope you like it.’

  She lifted the lid and gasped in delight. The box contained a necklace of rubies set in gold filigree. ‘It is lovely!’

  He lifted it out and went behind her to put it on for her. His hand brushed her neck and she almost cried out with the rush of desire that his touch generated. She wanted to twist herself round and fling herself into his arms, to beg to be kissed, to be taken in love as he had taken her in Winterford, but instead she stood very still, with a stiff little smile on her lips, while he fastened it. He bent to kiss her throat, almost negligently, before leading her to the mirror. ‘See how it suits you.’

  She could hardly stand for the tumult in her breast. But he was simply keeping his promise to behave like a loving husband, no more. And she must keep her side of their bargain. ‘It is lovely, Roland, but so costly…’

  ‘A mere trifle, my dear. Now, are you ready? There will be a fearful crush so I have bespoke a chair and will walk alongside; it will be easier than a coach.’

  ‘Yes.’ She allowed him to help her on with a lime-green domino and then picked up lace gloves, fan, reticule and velvet mask and put trembling fingers on his arm. ‘On with the masquerade.’

  It was a foolish thing to say and she felt him stiffen beside her, but his smile did not change; it was as if it had stuck that way, a little lop-sided quirk of a smile which could have indicated anusement but could just as easily have been a sign of displeasure. ‘As you say,’ he said, escorting her down to the hall where Johnson stood ready with his tricorne hat, gloves and cane. ‘On with the masquerade.’

  He was right about the crush. Long before they reached Mount street, they came upon such a tangle of coaches, carriages, horses and sedans that it was impossible to proceed. Grooms and footmen were shouting at each other, horses prancing and rearing; linkboys darted about, swinging their lanterns and threatening to set fire to many a priceless gown. Roland stayed close by Margaret’s chair, fending off the crowds, some of whom were no more than sightseers come to catch a glimpse of finery they could never hope to wear. Gradually Roland cleared a path for Margaret’s chair, and half an hour later they were admitted to the vestibule of Chalfont House, where Sir Godfrey and Lady Chalfont stood to welcome their guests.

  Now that the moment had come to test her resolve, Margaret found herself shaking so much that she could hardly make the curtsy which was required of her. She was glad of her mask, which could at least hide her expression if not her identity, as she passed into the ballroom on Roland’s arm and was greeted by Kate, who had arrived only minutes before and recognised the gown she had helped Margaret to choose.

  ‘You look magnificent,’ she whispered behind her fan. ‘I said it would be worth it, didn’t I? What did Roland say?’

  Margaret glanced at her husband, who had moved a few paces away to speak to Charles. ‘He was very complimentary.’

  ‘There! I told you so!’

  The ballroom was so crowded that there was hardly any room to make up the sets of all those who wanted to dance, and the noise of conversation and laughter was so loud that the orchestra could hardly be heard, but no one seemed to mind. Margaret found herself surrounded by young bloods eager to dance with her, and with a glance of enquiry at Roland, who nodded imperceptibly, she took to the floor. For the next hour or two she almost managed to forget her troubles and began to enjoy herself. Roland danced once with her, smiling for all the world as if he were enjoying it, but she could feel the tension in his body, as if he dared not allow himself to relax, even for a moment.

  ‘You were right about the squeeze,’ she said as they turned and met to perambulate, hand in hand, between the double row of dancers to the head of the set. ‘I don’t know how Sir Godfrey has squashed everyone in.’

  He laughed. ‘The bigger the crush, the greater the success of the occasion. You don’t find it too much?’

  ‘I think, after this dance, I shall go on the terrace.’

  ‘Please take a shawl. I do not want you to catch a chill.’

  She looked at him sharply because there seemed to be an unnatural emphasis to his words, but he was smiling and she decided she was being over-sensitive.

  As soon as the dance had finished, she moved to the door, intending to find the room where the ladies’ cloaks had been left. In the hall she was accosted by a young lady wearing a blue taffeta dress, heavily embroidered with silver thread and seed-pearls. She was holding a blue velvet mask before her face and Margaret did not, at first, realise it was Susan Chalfont.

  ‘Lady Pargeter.’

  ‘You recognise me?’

  ‘Yes, you came in with Roly, and I�
�d know him anywhere. After all, I did nurse him.’ She dropped her mask and laughed her tinkling, empty laugh. ‘You are looking very flushed. Are you too hot?’

  ‘Good evening, Mistress Chalfont.’ Margaret inclined her head. ‘I was going to find my shawl and take a stroll outside.’

  ‘It will be in the ladies’ retiring-room. Come, I’ll show you.’ She turned and led the way up the wide staircase with its carved mahogany balustrade. It had a small landing halfway up where the stairway divided into two and went up each side to a gallery which ran all round the hall. ‘You must find London a very great change from the country.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. But I lived in London before I married Roland.’

  ‘Did you? And I thought he had met you near his home. You were in some difficulty…’

  ‘Did he tell you that?’

  ‘Why, yes. You were alone in the world and he felt sorry for you. And his grandmother urged him to marry you. You know why, of course?’

  They had reached the gallery and were heading towards a door at the far end. ‘I was unaware the Dowager Lady Pargeter had anything to do with it,’ Margaret said, trying to keep her voice light.

  ‘I assure you she did. She told Roland of the witch’s curse, but I’ll wager he said nothing of it to you.’

  She could not help it; she stopped and clutched the banister. ‘Witch’s curse? What nonsense!’

  ‘Oh, no, it is not nonsense. Generations ago a curse was put on all Pargeter heirs. Their first wives were condemned to die before they had been married a year, all of them without exception. Roland wanted to marry me, but he could not, or I would have been the one to die, so you see…’

  ‘I do not believe it,’ Margaret gasped. ‘No one believes in witches nowadays.’

  ‘Roland does. He is sure you will die before the year is out.’ She stopped and turned towards Margaret, and there was a gleam of triumph in her eyes. ‘In truth, he is counting on it.’

  Margaret was bewildered. A grown man, and a soldier at that, someone who had faced cannon and sword, who maintained law and order over his domain and held the lives of hundreds under his rule—how could such a one be afraid of ill omens? But it explained so much that it had to be true. ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she said, turning to go back downstairs. ‘I do not need my shawl after all.’