by M C Beaton
There was, however, very little light in the room. Perhaps the Dowager was conscious of her wrinkles and did not want to parade them in a blaze of candlelight.
Lucy retired quietly to a corner of the room and picked up a book of poetry, while the chatter of the ladies, grouped around the Duchess who was lying on a couch by the fire, rose and fell.
One faded cousin called Bella Bly was undulating around the sofa on which the Duchess lay as if about to perform the dance of the seven veils. She waved her arms expressively, although her arm movements had nothing to do with her conversation. Bella was describing how to make a solution which would remove the ugly effects of sunburn. “Use twenty parts of white vaseline to five parts of bismuth carbonate with three parts of Kaolin,” she was saying enthusiastically, while all the time her arms and long, thin tapering fingers acted out another tale, and her deep-set haunted eyes looked down on the Duchess like Andromache seeing Hector’s body bound to the victor’s chariot, approaching over the plain, under the walls of Troy.
“I have no need for such ointments,” said the Duchess petulantly. “My skin is perfect. Lady Standish, on the other hand, might be glad of your remedies.”
Lucy kept her eyes fixed on her book. She felt to acknowledge such a remark would only bring down more bitchery upon her head.
Four lines of verse seemed to leap out of the page.
O, Western wind, when wilt thou blow,
That the small rain down can rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!
Her present plight had nothing to do with the anonymous voice of the Elizabethan poet, but the intense longing of the lines hit her jumbled emotions like a hammer blow, bringing with it an intense longing for freedom to love and be loved, home, children, friends, security.
And then the gentlemen joined the ladies.
She looked up from the page, her eyes wide and very dark, mirroring her loneliness and youth.
The Duke caught his breath and took a half-step forward.
“Simon!” called his mother shrilly. “We are of a mind to have a romp.”
“And I am in no mood for cushion throwing. Come, Mama,” admonished the Duke. “You are always putting up romps and a great deal of cushions are thrown and a great deal of glass is broken while you never remove from your couch. I can see Miss Bly is anxious to entertain us.”
With many wild gestures, Miss Bella Bly headed for the pianoforte where an elderly aunt was already sifting through sheets of music.
The Duchess pouted and hunched a shriveled shoulder and then began to talk very loudly to Sir Frederick Barrister about the despair of a mother who was young at heart and who was cursed with a son who was as old as the grave.
“There is a lady sweet and kind,” warbled Bella while her hands and arms put ashes on her head and sackcloth on her body.
The Duke walked over and stood by Lucy, who looked up at him with blind eyes, the poetry book lying open on her lap.
“I would like to retire,” she whispered.
He nodded and held out his arm as she arose, the book slipping unnoticed to the floor.
“I will say goodnight to your mother,” said Lucy nervously.
“It is not necessary to speak to anyone other than me,” he said, smiling down at her in such a way that her legs trembled.
The dark blue silk of his evening coat made his metallic eyes seem almost blue. A sapphire winked in the snowy folds of his cravat and the fine frill of his shirt was almost transparent. His very elegance, Lucy reflected, seemed to set him apart. It was hard to believe he had ever kissed her. The long corridor was faintly lit by shaded oil lamps which cast little islands of golden light. China and glass shimmered softly in the shadows. A strand of ivy tapped at one of the windows.
“The wind is rising,” he said. “The rain should be gone by tomorrow.”
“How long shall I stay?” Her voice was very faint, almost a whisper.
“I shall be here for two weeks,” he said. “After that, we will see. After a few days, perhaps it would be as well if you write to your husband….”
“No!”
“Write to your husband and tell him where you are. The servants will have, no doubt, already told him.”
“As you will.”
“You sound like a tired but obedient child. Don’t look so gloomy, Lucy. Things always look better in the morning.”
“But your mother, the Dowager Duchess—I fear she does not welcome my presence.”
“She will do as she is bid, never fear.”
“But I would rather someone were not bidden to tolerate me.”
“Mama has to be bidden to tolerate anyone who is not precisely old and ugly. No, not another word.”
They had reached the door of her apartment. He opened it for her and ushered her into her sitting room.
“How very hot it is!” said Lucy nervously. She went to the window and tugged it up a few inches from the bottom. A warm, garden-scented wind rushed into the room, sending the curtains billowing about her.
He came to stand beside her.
“There is no question of you being compromised while you are under my roof,” he said gently. “Were you worried about that?”
“Yes… no,” said Lucy, hypnotized by the long curve of his mouth.
A strand of hair blew across her mouth and he gently lifted it away, his fingers brushing her lips.
Her lips trembled and her bosom rose and fell rapidly.
“What shocked you… startled and upset you… just before I came into the drawing room? Did Mama say something?”
“No,” said Lucy. “It was nothing. Just a poem.”
“Which one? By whom?”
“It’s anonymous. Oh, a silly thing to upset me so. Something about the west wind and being back home in bed.”
“Ah,” he said slowly. “And do you wish you were back in your bed again with your love in your arms? Do you miss him already, Lucy? That husband of yours?”
“No. But I feel strange. It… the poem I mean… made me long for security. It is hard to think longingly of home. It was never mine, you know. We never furnished it together, Guy and me. It was all ready when I arrived, all dull and striped and soulless. And all those clocks! I never want to hear a clock again!”
As if in malice, the little gilt clock on the mantlepiece began to chime.
“You are so close… you stand so close,” went on Lucy breathlessly. “You are so tall, you see. I have to crane my neck to see your face.”
He lifted her up and swung her onto a footstool and smiled at her. “There! Now we are almost of a size.”
His lashes were very long and curling. She had not noticed that before. The eyes looking into her own seemed as gray and fathomless as the North Sea. The breeze from the garden made her flimsy skirts billow about her legs and the escaping tendrils of her hair formed a sort of golden aureole about her face.
“I think I should leave… now,” he said slowly. He put out one long finger and lightly brushed her cheek. “How you tremble,” he said huskily. “Do I frighten you, Lucy?”
“I frighten myself,” she said in a low voice.
He caught her abruptly to him and kissed her. All his cool elegance had gone. His lips were burning down on hers, and raw, scarlet, flaming passion seared between them, fusing their bodies and lips and minds. Her body arched itself under his, every nerve screaming for further intimacy, the ultimate intimacy.
And then just as abruptly, he put her from him, lifting her down from the footstool and setting her a little away.
“I said I would not compromise you,” he said harshly, “But ’fore God, it’s hard. I must go.”
“Where?” said Lucy, stretching out her arms, all restraint gone.
“I am going to my bed to bite my pillow and scream,” he said. And with that he marched to the door. And then he was gone.
Lucy stood shivering. She wanted to cry out with frustration. To run after him. But there was Guy,
always Guy. And she was married to him, for richer, for poorer, for better, and oh, how very much for the worse!
Unknown to Lucy, the Duke had sent a very punctilious note to the Marquess of Standish before they had departed London, informing his lordship that Lady Standish was visiting Mullford Hall in Essex as a guest of the Dowager Duchess of Habard.
To any man in his right mind, this would be only so much flannel to cover up the fact that his wife had fled home in the middle of the night to seek comfort in another man’s arms. But the Marquess was not in his right mind. He assumed Lucy had gone off on a highly respectable visit in a fit of the sulks. All he felt was relief. Now he could concentrate on finding Li with no guilty twinges caused by his wife’s sorrowful face to slow him down. The fact that Barrington refused to see him for several days only increased his fever.
He gambled heavily and drank deep to pass the time and did not care if he was becoming the talk of London, unaware that it was his wife who was causing all sorts of startled rumors to fly around.
Servants talk to other servants and other servants confide in their masters and soon the whole of London society knew that the Marchioness of Standish had had a blazing row with her husband and had left London at dawn with the Duke of Habard to visit his home in the country. The fact that everyone knew his mother to be in residence caused even more raised eyebrows. For it looked as if the Duke’s intentions might be honorable, and yet who could have honorable intentions when the lady was already married?
Finally the day of his appointment arrived, and fortified with a breakfast of brandy and water, the Marquess made his way to Mr. Barrington’s chambers in Fetter Lane.
He was startled to find four other gentlemen already there. There was Jerry Carruthers, a well-known Corinthian, then there was young Harry Chalmers, and the Earl of Oxtead, and Sir Percival Burke. He had caroused with them all at one time or the other, and noticed that they all looked about as under the weather as he felt himself.
“Now we are all here,” said Mr. Barrington as the Marquess joined the group.
“I will be frank with you. All of you owe me a considerable amount of money.”
“Not I,” said the Marquess quickly. “My debt is paid.”
Mr. Barrington smiled. “You contracted other debts, my lord.”
“Well, you’ll need to wait for those,” said the Marquess breezily. “It ain’t as if you can drag me to Bow Street and admit you’re running a Chinese bawdy house.”
Mr. Barrington extracted several slips of paper. “You will find, my lord, that these bills of yours, these vowels, are all made out to me for money lent to you. No mention of anything so fantastic as a… er… Chinese bawdy house. What are you going to tell the magistrate? Who will believe you? Can you take the parish-constable to this place?”
The Marquess bit his lip, thinking of the deserted tenement. Then his all-consuming desire to see Li again made him shrug and say with a smile, “I see you have me there, Barrington.”
All the Marquess wanted was to find Li. Then he could prove Barrington’s villainy. But only after he had had Li. That was all that mattered.
Nonetheless, he asked to see the vowels, feeling quite ill when he realized how he had been tricked. These were the slips of paper he had so cheerfully signed in the opium den without examining them. Barrington had tricked him out of a vast sum of money.
“Now,” said Barrington in his fatherly voice. “I could ruin all of you.” Five pairs of eyes burned with hate. “Yes, all of you. But I am prepared to tear up all your debts for one small service which only one of you need perform. You will draw straws to see who will be the lucky man. The rest of you will sign papers to say that you were part of the plot. These papers will never be used against you… unless you talk.”
“Well, what is it?” drawled Sir Percival Burke pettishly. “What small service?”
“One of you,” said Mr. Barrington cheerfully, “has to kill Mr. Benjamin Wilkins.”
“You’re mad,” said the Marquess hoarsely. “Kill the Prime Minister. In god’s name, why?”
“Personal reasons,” said Mr. Barrington, his good humor unimpaired. “And now I will leave you to discuss it among yourselves. May I remind you that I will ruin each and every one of you should even one of you refuse.”
With that, he waddled from the room. The five men looked at each other in silence.
Then they all started talking at once. It was monstrous, evil. They would band together and inform the authorities. But after a few moments, their vehemence abated. The Marquess thought bitterly that in order to pay Barrington, he would need to turn over most of his estates. And bad landlord though he was, the whole thing seemed impossible.
As for the others, it transpired that Barrington was able to blackmail each and every one of them, apart from ruining them financially. He held letters and information of their amorous exercises which would damn them socially for life. Each was married and their wives, unlike Lucy, were unaware of their infidelities.
“Why does he want old Wilkins out of the way?” asked the Marquess.
“Wanted a peerage,” said Sir Percival gloomily. “Wilkins said over his dead body. Barrington has his sights set on Wilkins’s replacement, the Prince Regent’s man, James Erskine, and Erskine’s promised him a baronetage.”
“Oh, God,” said the Marquess, burying his throbbing head in his hands. “We can’t take this seriously. We mustn’t.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mr. Jerry Carruthers. “There’s a lot would be glad to see old Wilkins dead. He’s ruining the economy. He’s practically in his grave anyway. And we’re all of a social position to get close enough to pot a shot at him without anyone knowing who fired it.”
They argued and argued but at last it was decided that they would need to go through with it. They were five weak and very desperate men.
Mr. Barrington did not seem in the least surprised at the nods of assent when he reentered the room.
With fast-beating heart, the Marquess drew first. And then he let out a sigh of relief. A long straw.
It was young Jerry Carruthers who drew the shortest straw and the Marquess privately thought he was the best man for the job. There had been unsavory stories about Carruthers’s cruelty during his nighttime carousing, raping young servant girls being the mildest of his exploits.
“When?” was all Jerry Carruthers asked as he stared down at the straw in his hand.
“As soon as possible,” said Barrington jovially. “And now, gentlemen, if you will all sign this paper… then you shall reclaim your vowels… and er… certain letters… certain scented letters….”
The Marquess waited impatiently for the others to leave and then he faced Barrington.
“Li,” he said.
“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Barrington. “The fascinating Li. I suppose you deserve it.” He scribbled something on a piece of paper and passed it over. “Here. Look on it as a present. I am a generous man to my friends.”
The Marquess seized the paper and looked down at the bill broker who was leaning back in his chair behind the desk, his hands clasped over his waistcoat.
“Do not dare to call me friend,” said the Marquess haughtily. “You are scum, and worse than scum. You will not even commit the crime yourself.”
“How you do crow on your dunghill, my little cock,” said Barrington, his jovial mask slipping. “You talk of scum, you and your fine friends who dare to sneer at me. But soon I shall be one of you, soon I shall be my Lord Barrington, and no one is going to stop me… least of all a callow drunken youth who loses his wife to another man before the marriage is a year old.”
The Marquess opened his mouth to retort, but he had Li’s address and if he stayed to insult this old criminal further, then Barrington might make the magical Li disappear again.
He turned and ran.
The long evening shadows were creeping across the lawns of Mullford Hall. It had been a blustery chilly day to remind the English that long hot summer
s belonged to foreigners and other more fortunate people. It would have been a perfect day for riding but news of the Duke’s arrival had spread throughout the country and he was besieged all day by farmers and tenants and visitors. Lucy was left to her own devices.
She had walked through the gardens, had been taken on a tour of the hothouses by the Scotch head gardener, and had kept as far away from the Dowager Duchess as possible.
Now it was time to prepare for dinner and her heart beat hard at the thought of seeing the Duke again. She would not admit to herself the reasons for the strength of her feelings. She told herself cynically that she was flattered to have so important and so powerful a friend. It was only her nervous insecurity and inexperience which had made her respond so ardently to his kisses.
But her heart plunged when she entered the Long Gallery and found him absent. Bella Bly was there along with the Duchess and three elderly cousins and a brace of aunts. Harry Brainchild had been joined by three Tom and Jerrys from London and Lucy recognized two of her husband’s friends. But either they did not recognize her or they were too absorbed in bragging of their sporting exploits, but in any case they paid her only the scantest attention.
Lucy thought them strange friends for the elegant and fastidious Duke to have until it transpired from the conversation that the Duchess had asked them. She treated them to a grotesque parody of a shy but flirtatious debutante at her first Season.
Lucy found herself wondering what the Duke thought of his mother and whether her behavior had stopped him from becoming married. Any bride would surely have little say in the running of Mullford Hall or in the choosing of the guests.
With the Duke still absent, the three Corinthians set the tone of the dinner and a very vulgar tone it was too. They flattered the Duchess shamelessly and told stories which were warm, to say the least. Lucy found her skin prickling with embarrassment. She had enough Town bronze to know that if she should show the slightest disapproval or embarrassment, it would only encourage these appalling young men to further efforts.
The slender dining chairs creaked as they flung their bulk back against the spars in fits of hearty laughter. The Duchess was drinking a great deal and becoming more flushed and animated by the minute.
