My Lords, Ladies and Marjorie

by Beaton, M. C.

  “Very well,” said Tony grandly. “We’ll see you here same time tomorrow.”

  “When is this bomb to be delivered?” asked Marjorie.

  “Tomorrer. We’ll let you know tomorrow,” said Tony slyly. “But first, you’ve got to do something for us tonight.”

  “Haven’t I proved myself?” demanded Marjorie.

  “Yerse,” said Tony slowly, his voice alternating between a Cockney whine and a quite respectable lower-middle-class accent. “But Phyllis here, she says we don’t know enough about you. You’ve got to have another test. What is it, Phyllis?”

  Phyllis raised her malicious eyes from the social column of a grubby Times. “It says here,” she said, “that some old tart called the Duchess of Dunster is giving a party on a boat on the Thames, just about Tower Bridge, for her eldest son, the Marquess of Herterford, who’s been abroad and has come back for to help his daddy run the estates.”

  Philip’s brother. Oh, merciful heavens! What did they want her to do?

  “You’re to weasel your way into this party,” said Phyllis, relishing the look of dismay on Marjorie’s face, “and you’re to push this cove over the side.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then you ain’t one of us,” sneered Phyllis.

  “You couldn’t do it,” snapped Marjorie. “What have you done for this organization that’s so great?”

  “She blew up the post office at Camden Town,” replied Tony.

  “Oh,” said Marjorie in a small voice. Three people had been killed in the blast, she remembered. Why, these people were murderers, downright murderers. She must get away.

  “Very well, I’ll do it,” she lied, enjoying nonetheless the look of surprise on Phyllis’s face.

  “Rose is all right,” said the one called Charlie. “She’ll do.”

  “She’s done enough,” said Joseph.

  “If she ain’t going to do this test, then I’m leaving,” said Phyllis, jumping into the center of the room and standing with her arms akimbo. There was a short silence. The men certainly didn’t want Phyllis to leave. She cooked for them in a slapdash kind of way and supplied other pleasures. She was also very good at placing bombs in buildings.

  “She’s got to do it,” said Tony.

  “Very well,” said Marjorie, heading for the door. “Read your papers tomorrow.”

  She sank into the growler with a sigh of relief as Charlie-the-coachman and Charlie-the-horse bore her homeward. She would never see those terrible anarchists again.

  But once Marjorie was safely home and drinking tea and eating muffins, she realized that she had no actual information to give the police. What a splendid idea it would be if she could foil the plan at the very last minute. She would be a heroine! Then those terrible class barriers would not matter. Lord Philip would have to court her. All England, and perhaps even Scotland, would read about her. Would it be so bad to push Philip’s brother off the boat? It might be just a little boat and she would, of course, find out first if he could swim.

  She did not doubt for one moment that she was included on the guest list. Lady Bywater was the Duchess’s friend and anyone who could call a Duchess “Crummers” must be a very close friend indeed.

  She looked up as her grandmother and Lady Bywater came into the room. Both were very flushed and excited and Lady Bywater was positively chattering.

  “My dear!” she was saying. “Hattie Trent is a shark. Did you notice how she gloated over her winnings? But we shall have our revenge tonight.”

  “It was not a … er … very cheery party,” remarked Mrs. Wilton, stripping off her gloves and unskewering her hat and boldly using the latest slang word. “It is only a game, after all. Hattie is too intense.”

  “She took all our money,” said Lady Bywater testily. “Ah, Rose. More tea if you please. And I for one intend to win it all back tonight!”

  “Aren’t we going to the Duchess of Dunster’s party?” asked Marjorie.

  “Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Wilton. “We quite forgot about you, darling. I fear you have no engagements for tonight. But you have been racketing around so much. A quiet evening at home will do you the world of good.”

  “Wasn’t I asked?” wailed Marjorie.

  Lady Bywater looked rather shifty. “Well, as a matter of fact, we all were … asked, that is. But you wouldn’t have liked it at all, Marjorie, and that’s really why I turned down the invitation. It’s simply a small party on some draughty boat to welcome her son back, don’t you know. A tiny boat, I believe. In fact, the whole thing will be rather like what one used to call a rout. Everyone pushes and shoves to shake hands with the guest of honor and then drinks and eats a little and then shoves and pushes to get out.”

  “Perhaps I could go on my own?” suggested Marjorie hopefully.

  Lady Bywater raised her hands in horror. “After refusing the invitation? Unheard of!”

  “If I had thought it would mean so much to you,” chimed in Mrs. Wilton, “of course we would have taken you. But it’s too late now. But as Lady Bywater says, you wouldn’t enjoy it. The guest of honor is Lord Philip’s elder brother and he’s quite grim by all accounts and doesn’t care for women or parties or—” here her voice dropped one shocked register—“even cards!”

  “Where was the party to be held?” asked Marjorie.

  “I wish you wouldn’t keep on and on about it,” said Lady Bywater testily. She walked over to the looking glass above the fireplace and took down one of the invitations that were wedged into the gilt frame of the looking glass. “But there you are—see for yourself.”

  Marjorie looked down at the card. The party was to be held on a tea clipper called the Valiant, moored at Tower Bridge pier.

  Mrs. Wilton and Lady Bywater immediately resumed their plans for the defeat of Hattie at the card table and Marjorie slipped the invitation into her reticule.

  “I shall just go upstairs to my room,” she said when she could get a word in edgeways. “Do not worry about me. I shall spend the evening quietly at home.”

  “That’s a good girl,” said Mrs. Wilton vaguely.

  In the privacy of her room, Marjorie turned the invitation card over and over in nervous fingers. She would go! England expected every woman to do her duty. But then the image of the Marquess’s face rose before her eyes. For all he had kissed her, he had seemed quite formidable. He was also very tall and strong and had not looked at all like an invalid. But, after all, Philip would be there. He must love her. This love she felt for him must be reciprocated. How brave he would think her when she revealed all.

  Charlie was not at the cab rank that evening and the other cabbies stared at the sight of a young lady in full evening dress, unescorted, trying to hire a hansom to take her to Tower Bridge. The first one in the rank gladly volunteered to take up this splendid beauty.

  Oh, the agony of getting into a hansom cab gracefully! First, you put your foot on a small iron step about eighteen inches above the ground and then, with an athletic pirouette, lodged your foot on the platform up above.

  And it was a miracle if you didn’t get your hat knocked off or your hair messed up by the overhanging reins or soiled your gown on the rim of the nearby wheel. Unaccustomed as she was to getting into hansoms, Marjorie performed the operation gracefully, drew down the blinds and settled back in the smelly darkness of the cab to plot.

  Chapter Five

  Robert, Marquess of Herterford, stood stiffly at the head of the gangplank to receive his mother’s guests. He bitterly wished that he had followed his father the Duke’s example and cultivated a dicky heart. At the very mention of a party, the Duke would clutch his chest and collapse into the nearest armchair. Once when one of these attacks had seemed genuine, the Marquess had fetched the doctor and returned with him, much to the Duke’s consternation, since he was discovered esconced comfortably in an old leather armchair with a goblet of brandy at his elbow and his nose buried in a copy of the Pink ’Un. Since that time the Marquess had been convinc
ed his father’s heart was as sound as his own but his mother still believed every “attack” and allowed him to stay at home in the country.

  At the corner of his vision, he was aware of Hermione Ffofington chattering with his younger brother. He did not know how Philip could tolerate the girl. She never had a good word to say for anyone.

  Another party came on board and he shook gloved hands and murmured the usual things. Yes, he was glad to be back. No, France had not been too hot for the time of year. Yes, it was unfortunate his father could not attend.

  “I think that must be the lot,” he said at last, turning to his mother. She frowned. “Lady Plumb’s party has not arrived yet. Give them a few moments.”

  A light summer breeze ruffled the muddy black waters of the Thames. Behind him on the deck, which was covered with a gay red-and-white-striped canopy, the band was playing Elgar’s “Cockaigne” overture. Above the boat on one side loomed the squat Tudor majesty of the Tower of London. At the side, the cathedrallike towers of Tower Bridge.

  The Marquess was five years older than his brother. There was a certain family likeness between the two. Both were tall and handsome with the same brown hair. But the marquess, in contrast to blue-eyed Philip, had hazel eyes, almost gold in some lights, with curved, elongated lids. His mouth was thinner and firmer than Lord Philip’s and his face was very severe, with deep lines running down either side of his mouth.

  He turned impatiently to his mother. “I think we ought to …” he began, when she interrupted him with, “That’s Lady Plumb arriving now.”

  A splendid barouche pulled by two glossy and expensive horses rolled up to the foot of the gangplank. The Duchess was intent on the arrival of Lady Plumb and did not notice a shabby hansom that had halted on the far side of the barouche so that it was mostly screened from the ship. But the Marquess did.

  He watched curiously as a very beautiful girl in a pink gown descended nimbly from the hansom and darted round the barouche to join the tail end of Lady Plumb’s party, which consisted of Sir Edward and Lady Plumb and her two toothy daughters, and now the mysterious lady in pink.

  “I think we have a gate-crasher, mama,” murmured the Marquess. “The girl in pink.”

  The duchess peered down at the ascending party and said, “Oh, my stars and garters, it’s Marjorie Montmorency-James. What is she doing here? She’s Riddles’s protégé, you know, Penelope Bywater. She’s no gatecrasher because I invited the girl and Riddles and the girl’s grandmama. But Riddles turned down the invitation, explaining that she simply had to go to a bridge party to get her revenge, which of course I quite understand. So infuriating when some society shark takes all your money and you get no chance of revenge so … Good evening, Lady Plumb, Sir Edward. How are the girls? Blooming as usual? Ah, Miss Montmorency-James.

  “Where is Lady Bywater? And your grand-mama? I thought they were going to be breathing heavily over the bridge tables this evening.”

  “I came with Lady Plumb’s party,” said Marjorie hurriedly. “Really,” said the Duchess acidly, “it looked more as if you had annexed yourself.”

  Marjorie blushed with mortification. She had hoped by tagging onto the Plumb party to get on board without attracting attention. She looked miserably at her feet.

  “I think you are mistaken, mama,” said a warm, deep voice. “I remember Lady Plumb said something about a Miss Montmorency-James joining their party.”

  Marjorie looked up at the Marquess in quick gratitude. “My dear, I am sorry,” said the Duchess. “Robert will tell you I always jump to the worst conclusions. Now I must join the guests. Robert, do take Miss Montmorency-James to the buffet and then you really must speak to people, you know. You should be a bit more like Philip. He speaks to anyone.”

  “Depending on their class, of course,” murmured Robert but his mother was already out of earshot.

  Marjorie surveyed her rescuer. He was more tanned and fitter looking than when she had last seen him. The intense amused stare of his eyes were making her feel nervous. “I remember,” he said softly, “we met before.”

  “Urch,” mumbled Marjorie.

  Now that she had met the Marquess again, she could not envision herself pushing him overboard. He was such a tall, powerful-looking man, she would probably bounce off him. She was anxious to escape and find Philip. She must tell him about the anarchists’ plot and ask his advice.

  But as Robert led her away, Philip looked up and saw Marjorie. A faint embarrassed flush mounted to his cheekbones and he looked quickly away. Hermione smiled sweetly at Marjorie and then turned to Lord Philip and laid a possessive hand on his arm.

  Robert noticed this bit of byplay and mentally shrugged.

  He was used to the role of consoling Philip’s broken-hearted amours. Not that Philip ever went in for anything serious when it came to debutantes; he merely flirted, but he did seem to have a devastating effect on the poor things, thought Robert wryly.

  Marjorie could not see how she could possibly get rid of this tenacious Marquess. He led her to the buffet, he filled her plate, he found a small table in a corner of the deck—if decks can be said to have corners—and then he watched her curiously as she shoved some of the most beautiful delicacies in the world around her plate. For a short time, his attention was distracted as one guest after another came up to welcome him home.

  Marjorie made a little crabwise, shuffling movement in her seat at one time when she thought his attention was fully occupied but his head had jerked round and she had found herself mesmerized by that amused golden stare.

  At last the other guests were settled at their respective tables. The band was playing “Poor Wandering One” and a light breeze from the river wafted all the expensive smells of cigar smoke, fine wine, lobster and game, and Atkinson’s Lavender Water past Marjorie’s jaded little nose.

  “Aren’t you going to eat or say anything?” asked the Marquess at last. “You haven’t even commented on the weather.”

  “Very mild for the time of year,” said Marjorie dismally. What nauseating great amounts of food they gave you! What lousy lobster, what tiresome ptarmigan, what bloody Beluga caviar!

  Robert studied the dismal face opposite. She was indeed a very pretty girl, he reflected, with those strange eyes like the North Sea. Her hair was teased out over her brow in a light brown cloud. Her pink dress displayed a modest amount of tantalizing bosom and her waist must only have been about nineteen inches.

  It was a new experience for Robert to be so completely ignored. He detested parties himself but after all, he was the guest of honor and this little chit was receiving a lot of envious glances.

  “Why did you gate-crash?” he asked, hoping to goad her into some sort of animation.

  “I didn’t really,” said Marjorie politely. “I was invited. Only, grandmama and Lady Bywater wanted to play cards instead and an evening at home seemed tedious and so … and so … I came.”

  “It won’t do, you know,” he said gently. “I don’t really think that moping over your food will attract Philip’s attention. Also, it is very rude.”

  “Sorry,” mumbled Marjorie, although underneath she was suddenly furious with hurt and embarrassment. How dare Philip snub her! How dare this terrifying brother of his sit here and lecture her. Why, he deserved to be pushed in the Thames. In fact, she had a jolly good mind to …”

  Marjorie hurriedly picked up her role of anarchist-conspirator and put it on.

  The Marquess blinked.

  One minute, there had been a pretty but sulky young thing opposite. The next, a handsome woman with commanding eyes—or rather that was the impression she gave.

  “How did you enjoy your stay in France?” demanded this new Marjorie.

  “Very much,” he said, masking his surprise. “I was there for my health, you see, so I stayed at a villa in Trouville and did not go about much.”

  “What was the matter with you?” pursued this new Marjorie, drinking wine with gay abandon.

  He c
onsidered the question very bad form but nonetheless replied, “Pneumonia. I recovered but it left me very weak. The doctor prescribed fresh air and sea bathing. It seemed to do the trick although Trouville was deadly dull.”

  Marjorie felt the wine hitting the bottom of her stomach and then exploding up to her brain in a series of golden skyrockets. She gave her empty glass an impatient little push and a waiter promptly refilled it. The Marquess began to feel uneasy. A little wine for a girl of Marjorie’s age was in order but not great whole flagons of the stuff! It did not seem to affect her much, he admitted to himself, unaware of the merry bacchanalia rioting around the inside of Marjorie’s skull.

  Marjorie glanced across the deck and her face hardened. Philip and a very pretty young girl were sitting close together on one side of the table for four. On the other side was Hermione with Toby Anstruther. As Marjorie watched, Philip took the pretty girl’s hand below the table and gave it a squeeze.

  Marjorie’s eyes were now wide and silvery and she gave the Marquess her whole attention for the first time. “I am very flattered,” she said, “to be entertained by the guest of honor.”

  Her long black lashes dropped to her cheeks. She’s flirting with me, thought the Marquess. She really must have a terrible pash for Philip.

  The Duchess glared across at her eldest son. It was really too bad of Robert to monopolize that girl. He had had plenty of time to eat and now he ought to be circulating among the guests.

  “Pink becomes you,” Robert was saying, enjoying the play of those fantastic lashes. She must be the only female at the party who did not smother her face with white enamel, he thought.

  “Thank you,” murmured Marjorie, looking full into his eyes.

  The Marquess glanced out of the corner of his eye at his brother. Marjorie now had Philip’s full attention. He was glaring across at the pair of them.

  “Good!” thought Robert. “Let’s see if I can make old Philip any more jealous.”