Lady Lucy's Lover

by M C Beaton

  Her golden hair was parted on the left side with curls hanging down over the left cheek. Drop earrings of Roman pearls completed the ensemble. Her reflection in the long glass had told her that she was in looks. The brilliance of her blue eyes detracted from the insipidness of her fair coloring, for blonds were not considered fashionable. She had descended the stairs to the small Blue Saloon on the ground floor where she normally awaited her husband. But as the minutes added up to a whole half-hour and still he did not come, she began to feel anxious and dispatched the first footman with a message for my lord.

  But it was the butler, Wilson, who returned with the intelligence that my lord was feeling a trifle seedy and requested that my lady should go to the ball without him. My lord would join my lady later.

  Lucy’s pretty pink mouth compressed into a hard line. She wanted to send Wilson back upstairs again bearing a few sharp and choice words but there was something about all butlers that intimidated Lady Lucy. Sometimes she toyed with the fantasy that there was a special manufactory for turning out butlers from the same mold: fat and pear-shaped with large white faces and large pouches under the eyes and a pervading aura of sheer disinterest in the vagaries of the human race.

  So instead she said quietly, “Very well, Wilson, have the carriage brought around.”

  While she awaited the arrival of the carriage, Lucy crossed to the window and pulled aside the curtain and looked out.

  How frightening and dark and violent London seemed when one had to venture out alone.

  The street lamps cast barely more than a glimmer over the surrounding gloom of the square. They were glass globes half filled with whale oil and with bits of cotton twist for wick.

  The globes were black with dirt, for the lamplighters who were employed to look after them, to light them at dusk and extinguish them at midnight, were “a contingent of greasy clodhopping fellows” with filthy fingers, who seemed incapable of filling a lamp without spilling the oil onto the head of anyone passing under their ladder.

  Across the street, in the mansion directly opposite, had lived Lady Cummings, who had died only the other day. The house of death was shuttered and curtained, its door knocker wrapped around with flannel; on the front doorstep, dressed from head to foot in black, his pale face looming like a disk in the flickering light of the street lamp before the house, stood a professional mute, miming the agonies of despair for sixpence an hour (Sundays extra).

  Lucy let the curtain fall with a sigh. What a marvelous city London had seemed on her first Season. Then she had not noticed the danger or squalor, feeling secure and protected with her tall, gallant Marquess always at her side.

  The golden days of their courtship flicked through her mind as the carriage rumbled on its way to the Courtlands’ ball. The excitement of warm kisses, pressures of the hand, all leading to that magic moment on her wedding night when she surrendered to him entirely. Lucy bit her lip. It was hard to admit even now that what should have been the culminating moment of glory, the crown set on their romance, had turned out to be… well… disappointing. Of course, he had drunk a great deal at the wedding. Almost unbidden, Ann’s slightly mocking voice sounded in her ears: “Why not take a lover, Lucy?”

  But that was unthinkable. The first glory of their love would return. All she could do was to try to understand him and say nothing that would drive him further from his home.

  A tear of a size and beauty to rival the drops of her earrings rolled slowly down her cheek and she impatiently brushed it away.

  Lord and Lady Courtland received Lucy at the entrance to the ballroom. “Your husband is not with you?” said Lady Courtland, making it sound more like an accusation than a question.

  “He is unfortunately detained, my lady,” said Lucy, curtsying low. “He will join me presently.”

  She made her escape into the ballroom and joined Ann Hartford and her husband, Giles. Giles was small and plump in contrast to his wife’s tall elegance. Ann tactfully restrained from commenting on the absence of the Marquess. “A very good start to the Season, Lucy,” she murmured. “All the world and his wife are here. We even have the impeccable Mr. Brummell and the Prince Regent is to honor us with his presence.”

  Lucy fanned herself, for the ballroom was very hot, lit as it was by hundreds of wax candles. The Exclusives were well represented. It was in the nature of high society to exclude undesirables and in that respect Regency society was already unique in the determined way it went about exclusion.

  The ton called itself exclusive, its members the Exclusives, its ruling principle exclusivism. Innumerable hedges were built against intruders, elaborate rules for membership and subrules were set up, for the whole mess of taboos and shibboleths was society’s way of keeping that dreadful ennui at bay.

  It was even unfashionable to be married in church (“one simply dies of cold”) and the Marquess had advised his unsophisticated bride not to remind society that they had been married in one, albeit a country church. Married couples were not expected to remain faithful to each other. But then most of them did not marry for love. It was for the most part a business partnership—your lands added to my lands, your fortune to mine. But Lucy had believed, and still believed, in love. Her parents, for all their vagaries of fortune and their social climbing, undoubtedly cared for each other. Ann Hartford doted on her chubby Giles. And so she secretly held the brittle fashionables in contempt—the hungry women with their transparent gowns, swelling bosoms, and rouged cheeks who drifted restlessly from one lover to another.

  Not all of the men at the ball favored Mr. Brummell’s fashion in evening dress—blue coat, white cravat, and form-fitting tights showing a discreet length of striped silk stocking above a dancing pump. Some preferred the still-conventional fashion of knee breeches. Despite the iniquitous flour tax, many still wore their hair powdered and wore glittering jewels pinned indiscriminately about their person. Then there were the eccentrics like Henry Cope, filled with a morbid longing to attract attention. He wore only green suits and cravats and it was said he bought green furniture, had his rooms painted green, and excited the ridicule of the lampoonists;

  Green garters, green hose, and deny

  it who can,

  The brains, too, are green, of this

  green little man!

  Then there was Lord Dudley and Ward, propping up a pillar and talking to himself at great length, causing the wits to say, “It is only Dudley talking to Ward as usual.”

  And then there was…

  But before Lucy could examine the sudden breathless shock a single glimpse of a tall dark-haired man at the entrance to the card room had given her, a partner was bending over her hand and requesting her to join him in the country dance.

  Lucy was popular, and only her very obvious love for her husband stopped many of the gentlemen from pursuing her. She was a great favorite as a dance partner because she danced beautifully and was guaranteed to say any number of charming and not too frighteningly intelligent things.

  From time to time, she twisted her head, looking for that tall, dark man whose very presence had startled her in such a strange way, but she could see no sign of him in the ballroom and assumed that he must be in the card room.

  She had just finished performing a lively reel with an ebullient young Hussar when she saw her husband. No longer did her heart beat faster with joy. Instead, all she felt was an apprehensive ache somewhere in the region of that organ.

  His handsome high-nosed face was marred with patches of red and looked slightly swollen. His normally pale blue eyes were crisscrossed with red veins, and instead of smelling of new brandy, he smelled abominably of old spirits and snuff.

  But all his famous charm was to the fore and he turned the full blast of it on his young wife.

  “Lucy,” he murmured, kissing her hand. “What a wretch you must think me, and what a forgiving little wife you are. We’ll spend the whole day together tomorrow and I warrant I shall bring the stars back to your eyes. I know you�
��ve been cursing me for being a poor sort of husband, but I’ll make it up to you. You do forgive me, sweeting, do you not?”

  Lucy looked up into his anxious eyes and her heart melted.

  “Of course I forgive you,” she whispered. “Do you wish to dance?”

  “No, my love. Food is what I need. Let us go and sample some refreshments.”

  He tucked her hand in his arm and led her to the refreshment room. The long windows were open to the garden and a cool breeze made a refreshing change from the heat of the ballroom.

  He fetched her food and drink, hovering over her anxiously until she was seated and served, in such a humble, apologetic, almost schoolboyish way that Lucy’s heart went out to him.

  “What have you planned for us to do tomorrow, Guy?” she asked gaily.

  “Oh, tol rol, just drive somewhere, you know, and be by ourselves for a little.”

  “I would like that of all things,” said Lucy earnestly. “I had… had begun to think you had ceased to care for me.”

  “Fustian. That beanpole friend of yours has been putting nasty ideas in your pretty head.”

  “Ann? Oh, no. It’s just that… well, I may as well be open with you, Guy. There are terrible rumors that you are spending your time with Harriet Comfort.”

  The red patches on the Marquess’s face deepened to an angry color. “Harriet Comfort is the fashion,” he said in a calm voice, belied by the angry glint in his eyes. “One calls on her to take tea. It’s a ritual thing like going to the opera or stuff like that. Even Brummell goes and no one has ever credited him with any mad passions.”

  “Oh,” said Lucy in a small voice. “But people do talk so, Guy, and I would rather not share you with anyone.”

  “Don’t listen to all those tabby cats. I won’t go again. So there! Smile at me, my love. It’s not like you to be such an angry kitten.”

  Lucy smiled and, as she did so, she had an uncomfortable feeling that she was being watched. She turned her head slightly and met the steady gaze of the tall, dark man who had disturbed her so much before. He was standing at the door to the refreshment room, talking to three ladies while his eyes ranged over their heads to where Lucy was sitting with her husband.

  He had thick black hair worn in a fashionable Brutus crop and strange gray eyes which were almost silver. His heavy lids gave his face a shuttered appearance. His skin was very white and the Greek classicism of his face was saved from effeminate perfection by the strength of his chin and the long humorous curve of his mouth. His evening coat was tailored to fit across his broad shoulders without a wrinkle and his knee breeches and clocked stockings were molded to a pair of long, muscular legs.

  He was a very imposing man, handsome in an autocratic way. Lucy lowered her eyes quickly, feeling to her confusion a blush mounting to her cheek.

  “Who is that tall man over there?” she whispered to the Marquess.

  He followed the wave of her fan and his eyes lit up. “’Fore George! That’s Habard—Simon, the tenth Duke. He’ll put us all in the shade. I wonder what brings him to Town. He hardly ever does the Season.”

  “Is he married?” asked Lucy, fanning her hot cheeks.

  “Not he! Too clever to be leg-shackled,” laughed the Marquess as Lucy winced.

  “And is it his bachelor state that puts you all in the shade?” asked Lucy quickly to cover her hurt.

  “No. Habard’s an out-and-outer. Up to every rig and row in town. A top-of-the-trees. Can pop one over Jackson’s guard and can drive better than Lade.”

  “Hush!” said Lucy, putting a stop to this flow of enthusiastic cant by laying a restraining hand on her husband’s sleeve. “His Grace is coming this way. I think Lady Courtland is going to introduce us.”

  The Marquess and Marchioness of Standish rose to their feet. “His Grace the Duke of Habard wishes to make the acquaintance of your beautiful wife,” said Lady Courtland. “Your Grace, allow me to present the Marquess and Marchioness of Standish. Lady Standish, His Grace the Duke of Habard, Lord Standish, His Grace the Duke of Habard.” And then looking quite fatigued with all the exertion of the introductions, Lady Courtland gave a little half-bow from the waist and took her leave.

  “Pray be seated,” said the Duke with a wave of his hand. He smiled suddenly and blindingly at Lucy, who sat down feeling quite weak at the knees.

  The Duke drew up a chair between the Marquess and Lucy. “I say, another bottle of burgundy!” shouted the Marquess to a passing footman. “This is a great honor, Habard,” he said with all the enthusiasm of a schoolboy. “We did meet, you know, some years back… at Codlingham’s shoot, I think it was.”

  The Duke nodded, studying Lucy’s lowered eyes.

  “And what brings you to Town?” went on the Marquess jovially. “We are not often honored with your presence.”

  “I have had a great deal to do in the country,” said the Duke. His voice was deep and husky. “I have no intention of letting my estates go to rack and ruin. How are matters at Standish? Do you expect a good harvest?”

  “We… we don’t know,” said Lucy. “We have not been there…oh, since we became married.”

  This naive remark earned her a burning look of irritation from her husband.

  “These young brides,” he said with a smile that did not meet his eyes. “You know how it is, Habard. She would make me out to be an absentee landlord.”

  “In your case, Standish,” said the Duke gallantly, “it would be understandable if you were. The delights of town and the delights of a pretty bride—”

  “But you do not answer my question,” interrupted the Marquess. “What brings you to Town?”

  “Oh, a need to see a beautiful face once in a while,” said the Duke. “My farming work does not qualify me for the role of monk, would you say, Lady Standish?”

  “I-I have no idea, Your Grace.”

  “I plan to visit Jackson’s tomorrow, Habard, and would be honored to see you in action,” said the Marquess, helping himself liberally to burgundy. Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon was a haunt of the Corinthians, the bucks and bloods and Toms and Jerrys who aspired to be expert in all forms of sport.

  “But… but…” began Lucy and then flushed and bit her lip.

  “You were about to say, Lady Standish?”

  “Nothing,” muttered Lucy, but casting a fulminating look at the Marquess. Had he forgotten so soon that they were to spend the day together?

  “I am president for the day at the general meeting of archers at Blackheath,” said the Duke. “I would be honored if you would both be my guests. But perhaps you do not have an interest in archery…?”

  “Oh, indeed we do, don’t we, Lucy,” said the Marquess, giving his bride a warning scowl.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Lucy faintly.

  “It is an early start, I am afraid. I shall call for you at ten in the morning. Clarence Square, I believe?”

  “That’s exceeding cordial of you, ain’t it, Lucy?” said the Marquess.

  “Not at all. Now if you will excuse me?”

  The Duke stood up and took his leave.

  Lucy rounded on her husband. “You said we should spend tomorrow together.”

  “Look here, Lucy,” said the Marquess angrily. “When an out-and-outer like Habard singles you out, you don’t turn down his invitation.”

  “But you said…”

  “I said, I said,” jeered the Marquess. Lucy’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, if you’re about to play the watering-pot, I’m going.”

  And with that, the Marquess rose abruptly to his feet, nearly sending the chair flying, and stalked off.

  The Marquess was quite restored to good humor after he had bragged of the forthcoming outing to several of his cronies. It was no small thing to be known to be on comfortable terms with a paragon like the Duke.

  After some time, he bethought himself of his wife. The Duke had seemed to find Lucy pretty and it would not do his standing in the Duke’s eyes any good if he were seen to be
at odds with his wife.

  He decided to seek her out to make amends but she was dancing a lengthy country dance with a young man.

  The Marquess was still feeling too fragile to take part in the dance himself so he propped up a pillar under the musicians’ gallery and waited for the country dance to end.

  It was then that he heard the Duke’s voice coming from the other side of the pillar. The man the Duke was with asked loudly, “And how did you find the Standishes?”

  “Oh, very well,” came the Duke’s lazy, husky voice, and the Marquess preened.

  “But,” the Duke went on with quite dreadful clarity, “I would not have given either of ’em the time of day. He is a boor and she is a timid little mouse, but I promised Ann Hartford to be civil to them. I’m taking them with me to that archery contest at Blackheath and after I have paid my promises to Mrs. Hartford, with good luck, I may not have to trouble myself with either of them again.”

  The red patches on the Marquess’s face deepened almost to purple. He moved away quickly so that he would not be discovered. He writhed under the insult and yet he bitterly longed for Habard’s friendship.

  His friends had promised to attend the archery contest. And so he simply must go. He longed to confide his woes to a sympathetic ear. Lucy would simply say that they must not go and that they must have nothing to do with the Duke again.

  She was so unsophisticated. And damn Ann Hartford for her patronizing ways, always poking her long nose into his affairs.

  All he needed was a little feminine comfort and understanding.

  Comfort.

  All at once he thought longingly of Harriet, Harriet who understood better than anyone the trials and tribulations of a fashionable man.

  Harriet had so far favored him above her other courtiers. That had made him envied and the Marquess needed to be envied. The fashionable life of London consumed him. It meant all the world to him. To be seen, to be noticed, to be envied—that was what he craved.