by M C Beaton
“Shhh!” admonished Harriet.
One of the Chinese men stooped over the Marquess and offered him a small pipe.
“What is this?” snapped the Marquess, who was sobering rapidly. “This mummery has gone on long enough. Let us go?”
“After you smoke,” said Harriet, smiling into his eyes. “It is the custom of the house.”
“And then can I go?” asked the Marquess like a petulant child.
“Then you can go.”
The Marquess took the thin jade pipe in his fingers and drew in the smoke.
Gradually the room shimmered and drifted and faded and he was wandering in a dream country of green and gold. He had never known such release from care, such happiness.
By the time dawn spread over London he had smoked six pipes, had dreamily signed his name to the bills required without noticing the horrendous price, and had fallen under the spell of the unmoving Li. Between his opium dreams, he increasingly longed to possess her, to find out what wonders lay beneath those glittering robes.
Harriet knew he would stay for as long as she let him. But she wanted to remove him, knowing he would crave a return journey within only a few hours, knowing he would pay anything and agree to anything, only so long as she brought him back to this lamplit room by the river.
Chapter Five
For the next two weeks, the Standishes were conspicuous by their absence from society. The Marquess slept most of the day and disappeared as soon as dusk fell. He would not tell his wife where he went and Lucy did not ask. In the little time he spent with her, however, he was tender and loving and strangely apologetic. He swore he was not spending his time with Harriet Comfort, swore it with such a burning sincerity that Lucy believed him, and with that she had to be content.
For her own part, she preferred to hide at home and read. She had been appalled in retrospect by her overtures to the Duke of Habard. A young life of respectability dies hard. The new tenderness of the Marquess gave Lucy renewed hope. He had even gone so far as to thank her awkwardly for having pulled him out of debt and had apologized for striking her.
Lucy thought often of the Duke of Habard, thought often of the violent emotions his lightest touch aroused in her body, and, as the sunny days passed, she decided her strange feelings must have been engendered by guilt and fear. In his absence, the Duke seemed a chilly, aloof, formidable man. And a dangerous one. What did she know of him?
To Ann Hartford, it seemed as if the Standishes’ marriage was finally on a sound footing. Lucy did not tell her of Guy’s nightly absences, and, when Ann called, all she saw was a loving, attentive husband. She wrongly guessed that they were having a second honeymoon, which explained the reason why Lucy had stopped to go about, and, after two calls, Ann tactfully stayed away.
Only a few months ago, Lucy would have demanded furiously to know where her husband spent his nights. But now, she was frightened and lonely and prepared to grasp at any straw. If Guy’s strange nightly absences meant he was becoming tender and more loving during the day, then she was gratefully prepared to accept things as they were. Her parents still eagerly demanded news of her expensive wardrobe, and reluctantly she lied.
Everything had to be sacrificed on the altar of the survival of the Standish marriage.
Harriet Comfort had sent several perfumed notes requesting the presence of the Marquess of Standish. But the Marquess no longer needed her. Every night he went down to the base of the tenement on the river to worship at the bound feet of his almond-eyed goddess, Li, to take the air in an opium trance, to dream of possessing her.
Nothing else mattered to him but this one obsession. No longer did the fashionable world exist. He was kind and considerate to his wife out of a humble gratitude that she did not question his odd comings and goings.
He hazily remembered signing a bill on the understanding that he could explore the mysteries beneath the glittering, heavy robes that very evening.
His palms were damp and his heart thumped against his ribs as he let himself quietly out of his house into the late evening light of Clarence Square. He hailed a passing hack, snarling impatiently at the Jehu and offering double the fare when the man showed signs of hesitation when he heard the address.
The fashionable squares of the West End were soon left behind, then the bustle of the Strand, then the trim streets of the City. Now the buildings became older and more dilapidated and the dank smell of the river grew stronger. The sky paled into night and occasional ragged figures could be seen scuttling like rats from doorway to doorway.
A thin mist like old yellow chiffon hung at the end of the narrow street. The tenement loomed above him, gaunt and black and strangely lifeless.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to be calm, waiting until the curious cab driver had left the street.
Then he strode forward and knocked impatiently at the low door.
There was no reply, no oriental face appearing at the judas.
He knocked again.
Silence.
A rat scurried over his foot and he gave an exclamation of disgust, beating his hands furiously on the door.
He began to panic. Somewhere behind that unmoving door lay a magic world of opium dreams… somewhere sat Li, watching, ever watching, her strange topaz eyes burning in her white mask of a face.
Worked up into a mad frenzy, he smashed his broad shoulder into the door again and again, heedless of the pain.
At last he drew back, shaking and sweating, staring in anguish at the silent building.
He drew a pistol from one of the capacious pockets of his coat and primed it with trembling fingers. Then steadying his shaking hand, he took careful aim and fired at the lock.
The report sounded appallingly loud and he found himself expecting to hear the wooden rattle of the watch.
But the door swung open, revealing a black cavern, and the street remained as silent as before.
He strode in.
The black air smelled faintly of incense. He struck a lucifer and saw a stub of a candle and lit it.
The room was empty. He noticed for the first time that the floor was dirty and the walls scabrous.
He turned helplessly this way and that like a enraged bull.
Li and her Chinese companions had quite evidently left.
He ran out into the street, shouting, “Hey! Anybody about! Halloo!”
He sensed rather than saw that he was being watched. At the far end of the street, shadows flitted and moved in the now pitch blackness, but no one came forward or answered his calls. He hammered on various doors, and although he heard shuffling sounds within, no one came to answer.
After walking two streets distant, he came across a low tavern and pushed open the door, recoiling slightly at the stench from the dregs of humanity who were slumped about the low room.
His questions were met with brutish, sullen stares until he held out a piece of gold, repeating over and over again, “The Chinese… where have they gone?”
A nimble little man, a rat-catcher, with the skins of his trade hanging from his belt, detached himself from the drinkers and led the Marquess outside.
“A flash cull like ye’sel, don’t wan’t none o’ this ken,” he said, twitching the coin from the Marquess’s fingers. “They Heathen ’as gone an’ good riddance.”
“Where?” demanded the Marquess, reaching out to seize the rat-catcher.
But the little man was too fast for him. “Gone,” he cackled, skipping off down the street. “Gone!” his voice echoed in the dank air.
“Gone,” he cackled from the comer of the street.
The Marquess stood with his hands clenched.
Harriet!
He let out a long sigh of relief.
Harriet was the tie. Harriet had brought him here. He had never asked her how she had come to know of such a strange place. Harriet would know where they had gone.
He had to run through street after mean street, through bewildering twists and turns until he was at last able to find
a hack.
It was unfortunate that Lucy had chosen that very evening to emerge from her seclusion. Ann had lent her the first volume of a new novel and Lucy had suddenly, on impulse, decided to call on her friend to borrow the second volume. She had not stayed above half an hour. Her carriage was returning home, and, as it passed Manchester Square, Lucy glanced idly in the direction of Harriet Comfort’s house.
Flambeaux were sputtering and flaring in iron brackets on the wall outside. Obviously Miss Comfort was entertaining. But it was the scene on the doorstep of the house that held Lucy’s gaze, that made her rap impatiently on the roof for the coachman to stop.
Sweating, frantic, and disheveled, the Marquess of Standish was hammering on the door.
As if moving in a nightmare, Lucy opened the carriage door and climbed down.
As she approached the house, flanked by the two footmen who had been hanging on the backstrap of the carriage and who had quickly descended to escort her, Lucy felt as if she were walking in a nightmare. She wanted to cry out, “Guy!”—but was held back by the conventions, by the very presence of her servants.
As she approached, the door swung open and Harriet Comfort herself appeared on the threshold. She was wearing a circlet of diamonds in her thick brown hair, and the diamond pendant and diamond earrings that the Marquess had given her blazed at her ears and at her throat.
Lucy stood stock still.
“Harriet,” she heard her husband say brokenly. “You must help me. Only you can help me.”
“Silly boy,” murmured Harriet, winding her arms around his neck and drawing him gently into the house. The door slammed.
Two spots of color burned on Lucy’s white cheeks.
It was the ultimate, the final humiliation.
When she returned home accompanied by her wooden-faced servants, Lucy plunged into a fever of activity. She selected several gold-embossed invitations from the card rack and then hurried to her rooms, calling for Her lady’s maid. In no time at all she was attired in her finest robe of celestial blue chiffon. A heavy sapphire necklace was wound about her neck and sapphires were threaded through her golden hair. Carefully applied rouge had been painted on her cheeks and her eyes blazed with a hard blue glitter like her jewels.
She made her appearance at Almack’s just before the doors closed at eleven. Her eyes restlessly searched the rooms. There was no sign of the Duke of Habard.
She left after only a few minutes. Her restless searching took her then to the opera, from the opera to a musicale at Lady Sanders’s. Still no sign of the Duke.
She was about to leave the musicale when she saw the stocky figure of Lord Harry Brothers, who she remembered was said to be an intimate of the Duke.
She had been introduced to Lord Brothers during her first Season, and since that gentleman was lingering in the hall obviously looking for an excuse to escape, she was able to engage him in conversation and men ask as casually as she could whether the Duke was still in town.
“Oh, very much so,” said Lord Brothers, looking at the pretty Lady Standish somewhat awkwardly. After all, that Partington woman had been circulating some curst odd rumors about Lady Standish and Simon, Duke of Habard. “Seems he might be getting leg-shackled at last.”
“Indeed,” said Lucy, languidly fanning herself. “And who is the lucky lady, pray?”
“Oh, the Mortland chit. He has gone to some affair at their place at Kensington. I teased him about it, but you know Simon. Very close about his affairs.”
Lucy changed the subject although she longed to be off. At last, Lady Brothers appeared to claim her husband and Lucy was able to slip away.
She racked her brains trying to remember whether she had received an invitation to the Mortlands’ party. And in any case, if she returned home to search for it she would lose valuable time. She hesitated at the hall door and then quickly turned and threaded her way through the guests until she came to the drawing room. There were various invitations in a card rack on a small table by the fireplace.
She pretended to stumble and knocked the invitation cards flying over the carpet. Various guests stooped to help her recover them. The name Mortland seemed to leap up at her and she quickly scooped it up and managed to hide it in her reticule during all the fuss of putting the cards back in the rack.
By the time she reached the Mortlands’ house, the watch was crying two o’clock. The air was chill and damp and a thin mist was winding around the trees of Kensington.
The Mortlands were never to forgive the Marchioness of Standish.
Their daughter, Charlotte, had danced twice at Almack’s the previous Wednesday with the Duke of Habard and Mr. and Mrs. Mortland had hoped for a dazzling match. The party, although most of London society had been asked to it, was simply to supply Charlotte with an opportunity of furthering her acquaintance with the Duke.
Habard had arrived some time after midnight and the Mortlands’ hopes, which had sunk to a very low ebb, had reanimated. Dancing was in progress and although the Duke had not yet asked Charlotte to partner-him, it was expected he would at any moment.
And then all at once Lady Standish appeared. She walked straight up to him and said in a queer breathless voice, “I have been looking for you everywhere, Simon. I must speak to you.”
The Duke looked down at her thoughtfully. He noticed the glittering, hectic eyes and the trembling hands.
All his intelligence told him that he should make a few polite remarks and go and dance with Miss Mortland. In fact, he almost made up his mind to do so, but at the same time he took Lucy’s hand, and all the Mortlands and their guest seemed to magically disappear, leaving him alone with this little Marchioness who clung so fiercely to his hand.
So instead he said quietly, “Gently, my dear. Do not make a scene. We will find somewhere quiet where we can talk,” and, oblivious of at least one hundred pairs of eyes boring into his well-tailored back, he led her from the room.
He stood with her in the hall, irresolute, aware all at once of all the doors to the hall standing open, and of all the faces watching them curiously.
“No doubt I shall find some excuse to explain your behavior,” he murmured. “Shall I take you home?”
“Not there,” said Lucy urgently. “Just take me away.”
He hesitated, knowing he should return and make his adieux to his hosts, but he felt that if he left her for a moment, she would run away.
So instead, he told a footman to have his carriage brought around and to tell Lady Standish’s servants to return home without her.
He led her outside onto the step so as to escape the staring faces.
She stood shivering, clutching tightly onto his hand, until he helped her into his carriage and took his place beside her.
It was a closed carriage and she was unchaperoned, Lucy realized wildly, and then almost laughed that she should worry about conventions at this late date.
The Duke gently released her hand and leaned his head back against the upholstery. “Where shall I tell my coachman to take us?” he asked in a colorless voice.
“Anywhere,” said Lucy harshly. “Preferably to your bed.”
“You shock me,” he said lightly.
“You… you agreed to be my lover.”
“If you will remember, I agreed to appear as your lover.”
“You do not w-want me?”
The voice in the darkness of the carriage was trembling and childish.
“You are overset,” he said. “I was not surprised when I no longer saw you about. You are not the sort of lady to look for an extramarital liaison. Something has now happened to distress you.”
“I should not discuss my husband.”
“No. But sometimes disloyalty is necessary, especially if one wants to preserve the marriage. Forget about me as a lover and think of me as a friend. You must tell me, Lucy.”
There was a long silence. And then she began, hesitantly, to tell him of Guy’s strange behavior and of how he had sworn his absence
at night had nothing to do with Harriet Comfort and how she had seen him, wild and distraught, on the steps of that lady’s house.
He gave a little sigh. “There are three sides to every marriage, Lady Lucy,” he said, “his, hers and the truth. Was he really as exercised as you say, or was he simply a trifle elated?”
“If you mean, was he drunk, the answer is no. He was wild, desperate, anguished. A man desperately in need of comfort.” Lucy gave a brittle laugh. “I did not mean to pun.”
He took her hand in a warm, firm clasp but she drew it away. “I feel… odd… and breathless when you touch me,” she said.
She could feel his gaze on her. “Perhaps you are a trifle faint,” he said, deliberately misunderstanding her. “Would you like the glasses down?”
“Yes, please, My Lord Duke.”
“Simon,” he corrected, lowering the window of the carriage.
Lucy gratefully took a deep breath of damp night air, smelling the wet scent of the flowers in the Kensington nurseries.
“Where do you wish me to take you?” asked the Duke again.
“Home with you.”
“Ah, that I could. I have such a reputation and yet I am plagued with respectability. I have a trifle of vanity too which makes me balk at being… er… used. Your husband is young and wild and not yet used to the responsibilities of marriage. Ask him the reason for his behavior.”
“I am afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of the final rejection. Of his telling me that he loves Harriet Comfort to distraction. Many women in society ignore such liaisons… are expected to ignore them. I would like to see… to see if I could make him a little jealous. It is not a worthy ambition, but a very human one. I should not burden you with my troubles. Your friend Lord Brothers believed you to be on the point of becoming affianced to Miss Mortland.”
“Alas, no.”
Lucy began to feel quite lighthearted but could not understand why. “But you will no doubt wish to become married?” she said.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Why not? You are not precisely a good advertisement for wedded bliss.”
