by M C Beaton
“What! Your wife?”
“No, yours.”
“Nonsense. That’s what I admire in my Penelope. No rubbish.”
“I agree Mrs. Buxtable is an extremely straightforward lady, but I fear she is being seduced by culture.”
“By who?” demanded the colonel, beginning to turn a dangerous color.
“Culture. The arts, dear fellow. In short, poetry.”
“Explain!”
“She has seen fit to offer her patronage to a young poet, one Peregrine Finlay.”
The colonel visibly relaxed. “Oh, him,” he said with a bark of laughter. “Perfect milksop. Had him to dinner. Man milliner. Weakling.”
“Your wife spends a great deal of time in his company. For her part, she is completely innocent,” said the marquess, who did not believe any such thing. “But this Finlay fellow—ah, there’s another matter. If we are not careful, this weakling may start to create the idea he is having an affair with a married lady in order to give himself some much-needed cachet.”
“That’s enough, sirrah! You have gone too far.”
“No, no,” said the marquess soothingly, “you are not going to call me out. The reason you have not heard of this is that everyone is frightened to tell you anything for fear you put a ball through them.”
“May I ask what concern this is of yours?”
The marquess leaned forward and tapped the colonel gently on the knee with his quizzing glass. “When your wife has got around my wife and made her agree to receive her and her poet in my house this afternoon, then it became my business.”
The colonel looked about to rage, to fume, to curse, and then his long, thin body went limp and he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
“Don’t tell anyone, Cleveden,” he said, “but things have been going badly wrong between myself and Penelope. I don’t know what to do. I ain’t one of those fellows that can force themselves on women.”
“It depends on the woman,” said the marquess. “I think your excellent lady would enjoy being dragged off by the hair. If things are as bad as you say, why not give it a try? My wife should never have agreed to have let the pair of them call on us this afternoon, but she is very young and not used to our decadent society. She is Highland, you know.”
“Highlanders!” said the colonel. “Lot of Hottentots. Demned murdering savages.”
“Now, if you go on like that, I shall have to call you out.”
“Sorry,” mumbled the colonel. “Rude of me. Upset. Don’t know what to do.”
The marquess leaned forward again. “Then, I’ll tell you….”
Fiona was in a fever of anxiety by the time three o’clock approached. She told Osborne no callers other than Mrs. Buxtable and Mr. Finlay were to be admitted.
She dreaded her husband’s return, wondering how she could explain the presence of the poet, particularly if the bold Penelope made it obvious she was smitten by him.
On the stroke of three, Penelope arrived, highly painted and swathed in furs. Fiona thought gloomily that Penelope already looked like a member of the Fashionable Impure.
She was no sooner seated than Osborne announced Mr. Finlay. Fiona looked at the poet in amazement. He was a thin, weak creature with a nipped-in waist and enormous buckram-wadded shoulders. He stank like a civet cat and had that funny rolling sailor walk caused by the wearing of fixed spurs. His hair was teased and back-combed high on his head, giving his pale face a look of perpetual surprise, this effect being heightened by his shaved eyebrows. He promptly dropped down onto the carpet at Penelope’s feet and began to lounge in quite the latest manner.
Fiona did not want to leave them alone. She gamely talked about the weather, Napoleon, the price of bread, until Penelope said with a meaningful look when she at last fell silent, “You seem to have exhausted all topics… except gambling,” and gave a little jerk of her head toward the door.
Rising miserably to her feet, Fiona was about to keep up appearances by thinking up an excuse for leaving the room when the door opened and the Marquess of Cleveden, accompanied by Colonel Henry Buxtable, walked in.
TWELVE
“Mrs. Buxtable!” said the colonel. “Come with me. I want to talk to you.”
Mr. Finlay tried to leap to his feet from his lounging position, staggered over backward, fell over a backless sofa, and disappeared behind it.
Penelope’s face flamed. “I am not going with you. I am staying here with Peregrine.”
The colonel looked wildly at the marquess, who gave a little nod.
“In that case,” gritted the colonel, “you are not the wife for me. If that weakling wants you, he can have you. I shall see him in court.”
Peregrine Finlay leapt straight up from behind the sofa like a jack-in-the-box. His face was ashen. “I was only making a social call,” he cried, “and happened to find Mrs. Buxtable here.”
“Peregrine,” said Penelope, aghast. “You love me!”
“No, I don’t. No, I don’t,” squeaked Peregrine, jumping up and down. “Never said I did.” He turned to the colonel. “Splendid lady, your wife, sir, but got windmills in her head.”
Penelope howled, “But that night at the opera, you said—”
“No, no, no!” screamed Peregrine. “Never did. Said nothing. Foxed. Oh, the deuce.” And before anyone could guess what he was about to do, he sprang over the sofa and shot out of the drawing room into the hall. A second later the street door banged and the sound of frantically running feet disappearing in the distance could be heard.
“Now, madam,” began the colonel.
“My love,” said the marquess to Fiona, “I have something urgent to discuss with you.”
Glad to escape, Fiona followed him from the room.
The marquess closed the drawing-room door. “Come into my study,” he said.
They crossed the hall together. From behind them, from behind the closed door of the drawing room, came the crack of a slap and then the sound of noisy weeping.
“Oh, poor Colonel Buxtable,” said Fiona. “Cannot you go to his aid? Penelope has slapped him.”
“Leave them be. If I am not mistaken, the colonel has slapped Penelope. She is an extremely slappable woman.”
They sat down together in the book-lined study. Fiona saw her husband was looking at her as if waiting for an explanation, so she said hurriedly, “Was it by chance that Colonel Buxtable came here?”
“The same chance that brought Mrs. Buxtable and Mr. Finlay together under my roof. Or did you arrange that?”
Fiona hung her head.
“You must not let your female friends impose on you. Now, what is all this about Letitia Helmsdale? You said something about sponsoring her.”
“Yes, she so wants to get married. I fail to understand why she has not taken. She is extremely wealthy.”
“It takes a great deal of good solid groundwork to puff off even an heiress. You had better leave it to me. We shall give a ball here at the start of the Little Season and do our best for her. But it would be tactful if I called on her parents and discussed the matter.”
“Oh, you are very good,” said Fiona, her eyes shining. Her brain worked rapidly. If only Penelope would come to her senses, that would leave only the problem of Euphemia.
“Now, I saw Lizzie Grant’s card on a tray in the hall with the corner bent down, which means she called in person. Did you receive her?”
“I am afraid I did,” said Fiona. “She will not call again.”
“The call was not pleasant, I gather.”
“Very unpleasant. My father called before Lizzie arrived and told me he thought Lizzie was trying to force him to gamble again. It is very easy to lure a gambler back to the tables by telling him of lucky signs and omens.”
“Did you challenge her with this? And did she say why?”
“Yes. She hates me and wanted to hurt me through hurting my father. There is a reason for this, but I cannot tell you, Charles, because it involves a secret about Li
zzie I promised the duchess not to tell anyone.”
There was a short silence, then he said, “Have you inherited your father’s penchant for cards and dice… and ridiculous bets?”
“I did like to gamble,” said Fiona. “But after I saw what it could do, I decided never to play cards again, even for fun.”
He looked at her in silence, his golden eyes searching her own, and she had a feeling he was waiting for more. Unless she distracted him, she would find herself telling him about that wager, and then he would not love her anymore. Perhaps he did not really love her, and still only found her amusing.
“How did your appointment go?” she asked.
“Very well. My love, as my wife I think you should know I spend a large amount of money on various charities to help the poor and orphaned.”
“Oh, that is splendid,” said Fiona. “Perhaps you might take me with you next time? I could find some way to be of assistance.”
“It is not very pleasant work.”
“At least it is useful work,” sighed Fiona. “Balls and parties and dressing up are very hard work as well, but no one benefits.”
“Then you shall come with me next time. What an odd female you are, Fiona! Tell me, what are your feelings now about my rival?”
“You have no rival, Charles.”
“I mean that peculiar place you hail from… Strathglass.”
Fiona laughed. “One does not fall in love with houses, Charles.”
“Oh, but one does. Are you still homesick?”
“No. Not any longer.”
“Why?”
She wanted to say because she loved him. But did he love her? Did he not want a light easy marriage that kept him amused without putting any heavy emotional burdens on him?
“Because it is more amusing here,” she said with a little laugh that sounded silly and empty to her own ears.
He looked at her enigmatically and was about to say something when they heard the colonel and Penelope in the hall.
The marquess rose and opened the study door. Fiona peeped over his arm.
The colonel looked as proud as if he had just won some military campaign. He had an arm around his wife’s waist and she drooped against his shoulder.
“Good day to you, Cleveden,” called the colonel cheerfully. “Got to be on our way. Come, my love.”
“Yes, Henry,” cooed Penelope, gazing tenderly up into his face.
“Well, that’s that,” said the marquess, shutting the study door again.
Fiona looked at him doubtfully. “Did you know about Penelope and Mr. Finlay, Charles?”
“Yes.”
“And did you tell the colonel?”
“Not exactly.”
“You seem to know a great amount of gossip, Charles.”
“Oh, yes. As I told you before, it can be very useful. For example, while you were away, there was a very odd rumor circulating about that the Marchioness of Cleveden, while still Miss Fiona Grant, ran a gambling hell. I squashed that rumor, but how do you suppose such an odd tale got about?”
Fiona bit her lip. She was very aware that if Euphemia had told her parents she needed £3,000 to pay Miss Grant who ran a gambling hell, then it was possible the other two had told their parents the same story.
“No ideas?” he mocked as she remained silent. “Well, my love, it appears we have the rest of the day to ourselves. What would you like to do?”
All Fiona wanted to do was to be carried upstairs to his room, to sink into his bed and into his arms, and make love. She stood in front of him, her head bent, while he looked at the top of her curls.
“Let me see your face,” he said softly.
She raised her head. Her mouth was swollen and her green eyes were almost black. “Charles…” she said, and put a timid hand on his sleeve.
“Charles,” she tried again, “it is hard to be intimate with you when you are so very well dressed. That beautiful cravat is so starched and sculptured that—”
“Fiona,” he said with a laugh, sweeping her up into his arms. “Simply clothes, nothing but clothes, and fine clothes can be taken off like any others.”
They walked sedately from the study and up the winding staircase and along the corridor to his room. Once inside, he said simply, “Oh, Fiona. Love me.”
They both fell on the bed, kissing each other as frantically as if they were shortly about to be parted. She kissed the hard planes of his face and sank her hands in the thick black mass of his hair.
He caught her full bottom lip between his teeth, and Fiona said in a choked voice, “Aren’t you even going to remove your boots, Charles?”
“If only there were some way of getting clothes to melt,” he muttered as he wrenched at his cravat and then fumbled with the tiny gold buttons on his waistcoat. Clothes then went flying over the room—boots, coat cravat, cambric shirt, leather breeches, muslin drawers to fall in an untidy heap, which was shortly augmented with a silk pelisse, a muslin gown with the tapes torn, two petticoats, a pair of flesh-colored stockings, two garters, and the very latest thing in ladies’ drawers.
“Fiona,” he muttered at last, his mouth against the nipple of her left breast, “let me know when it is morning.”
Downstairs, callers came and callers went. Stately Osborne murmured that, yes, my lord and lady were at home but very much occupied, and abovestairs the great bed heaved and creaked as the Marquess and Marchioness of Cleveden wondered if they could ever have enough of each other.
Fiona awoke next day at ten in the morning to find her husband gone. She was ravenously hungry, as they had not bothered to eat dinner the night before, and no longer worried about shocking the servants, she pulled the blankets up to her throat, rang the bell, and ordered a hearty breakfast.
She was just finishing it when the marquess came back. He was dressed for riding.
“How on earth do you find the energy?” marveled Fiona. “I feel like going back to sleep.”
“And so we shall.” He yawned. “I went riding in the Row and met Harry—Harry Gore. He has a most odd piece of gossip.”
“Which is?” asked Fiona, looking at her husband nervously.
“Why, that Lizzie Grant is the Duchess of Gordonstoun’s natural daughter.”
“Who would say such a thing!” cried Fiona out loud, but privately thinking, At least it was not I. My conscience is clear on that score.
“Well, here’s an odd thing,” he said, sitting down on the bed. “Harry is a tremendous gossip, but it’s never malicious. He may rattle on to me in private, but if he has a piece of gossip that would harm anyone, he does not spread it about. The reason he told me, was because the source of the gossip was none other than Lizzie Grant herself. She sought him out to tell him. Did you know the identity of her mother?”
“Yes, Lizzie told me yesterday. I did not tell you, because I had promised the Duchess of Gordonstoun that I would never reveal Lizzie’s illegitimate state. She is mad! She must have told Mr. Gore in the hope he would repeat it. Why? She has ruined her chances of marriage.”
“Not she! Most people believed her to be illegitimate anyway. Members of the ton do not put their daughters into trade. But it is well known the duchess has quarreled bitterly with her two legitimate daughters and that she dotes on Lizzie. The duchess is a very rich woman, one of the richest in Britain. Lizzie has a better chance than ever of finding a husband. The world is cruel. To be plain Mrs. Bloggs’s bastard child is a shame and disgrace. To be the illegitimate child of a rich and doting duchess is quite another. Clever Lizzie.”
“It is amazing,” said Fiona. “I was there, you know, when the duchess saw Lizzie for the first time since she gave birth to her. Not by one flicker of an eyelid did she show that Lizzie was her daughter.”
“Lizzie may not be her only by-blow. Perhaps she has many sons and daughters spread out over England and is used to meeting them without a blush.”
“Why does Lizzie still hate me so?”
“Malcontents like
Lizzie blame the whole wide world and her hate must have a focus. I shall not let her harm you.”
“She frightens me, nonetheless.”
The marquess took the tray from her lap and put it on the floor. Then he slid over to lie on top of her, smiling down into her face.
“Oh, Charles,” said Fiona, wide-eyed. “You can’t mean to… Not again. Oh, Charles…”
It was fortunate for Fiona that her husband had to attend the House of Lords a day later, for it transpired that a very angry Euphemia and Letitia had called several times and were on the point, they told her, of sending a message to her husband to tell him about the wager.
