Married at Midnight: An Authentic Regency Romance

by Arabella Sheraton

Roxanne pulled away from him and walked over to the fireplace.

  “Surely not the poet?”

  Roxanne shook her head.

  “As long as he doesn’t want to read an ode to your left ear or some such rubbish.” Julian walked over to a small table holding several decanters and poured himself a small glass of sherry. “Mrs. Dawson and Gregson have everything under control, so put any care out of your mind. Mrs. Dawson is in her element and Mrs. Perry can’t wait to cook for more than just the two of us.”

  Roxanne turned to face him. “I suppose I feel we have been invaded, just when things were so nice and quiet.”

  Julian swallowed the last drops in his glass. “They’ll be gone soon and things will go back to normal. You leave everything to Mrs. Dawson and Gregson. Mother and Father always did. And that’s what I do.”

  He strolled over to the library door and then looked back at her. “I wonder if I should even tell you that my Aunt Semphronia is also joining us tonight.”

  Roxanne’s mouth fell open in dismay. Julian gave her a brief wave and disappeared from view.

  However, Roxanne needn’t have worried. The staff of Penrose raced into action like a well-trained army. Extra bedrooms were aired and cleaned, with fresh linen on the beds; silver plate and glasses Roxanne had never seen before materialised from the pantry. The chandeliers in the dining room sparkled like gems. Gregson’s nephews rolled up their sleeves and beat the carpets while all four maids polished, dusted, and swept. The house had an unusual air of excitement, like an old lady getting ready for a longed-for social engagement.

  There was very little for Roxanne to do besides cast a glance over the dinner menu, which boasted items Roxanne never knew could be obtained from the village at such short notice. It appeared that someone, she could not remember who, was related to Mr. Sykes, the local greengrocer, who sent back a message that it would be his “honner and pleasure” to supply delicacies for a dinner party at Penrose. Gregson spent a long time in the cellar, emerging dusty, but victorious, bearing several bottles of choice wine. Sophia flitted about suggesting changes to the menu that a sweating Mrs. Perry, her cap askew and her teeth gritted in sheer enjoyment, mostly ignored. Julian played his part of the excellent host admirably by taking Edgar and Mr. Hardwicke off to inspect the estates for several hours.

  Roxanne was relieved and distressed at the same time, knowing that the more money Edgar thought Julian had, the harder it would be to get rid of him. The afternoon sped by and, after arranging the flowers for the dining table, Roxanne decided she would spend an hour resting before dinner. A brief glance into the kitchen told her that everything was under control. A flushed, but triumphant, Mrs. Perry waved her away saying, “Everything’s ship-shape, milady.”

  Becky hovered around her making little noises about choosing her dress for the evening. Roxanne shooed her away, promising to come upstairs shortly. Sophia had disappeared already, no doubt to rest. Another glance into the dining room showed her a sight resplendent with silver and glassware, bowls of flowers adorning the table, and an air of luxury and wealth that she had never imagined in Penrose.

  Gregson, polishing a silver soup ladle looked up and bowed. “Nothing to fret about, milady. Bernard and Harold have the proper attire for this evening, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

  Suddenly aware that she was frowning, Roxanne smiled. “No, I’m not worried, Gregson. Just a little nervous.”

  Gregson bowed again. “Leave it all to us, milady. That’s what we’re here for.”

  Roxanne felt a sudden pricking behind her eyes as she left the library. The servants were loyal, devoted to Julian and the family home. She was leaving soon but—

  A painful grip on her arm jerked Roxanne out of her reverie.

  Edgar stood close to her. There was no sign of Mr. Hardwicke or Julian.

  “I’m glad to catch you alone, my dear. Just a little word.” He dragged her into a small alcove between the library and the bottom of the stairs.

  “There’s a lot of money to be had here.” His lips pulled back over his teeth in a wolfish grin. “Plenty of gewgaws for the picking, I notice.”

  Roxanne, momentarily shocked by his appearance, found her voice. “What do you mean? A few pieces of silver plate? Some candlesticks?”

  Edgar shook his head. “No, too distinctive with family crests and markings. I’m talking about jewels. Real jewels. Stuff that’s easy to break apart and shift.”

  “Well, I don’t have any real jewels,” she snapped.

  Edgar stared at her. His flat gaze seemed to bore into her brain.

  “No, that’s right, not you. But the sister, Lady Sophia, she’ll have some jewels with her. And the old biddy Beddingfield. She’s as rich as Croesus, I hear, and loves to drape herself with gems.”

  Roxanne thought of her first meeting with Aunt Semphronia. Yes, she’d been decked out with bracelets, rings, a necklace of very grimy, but large, diamonds, and a huge diadem on her turban. Now that Roxanne thought about it, a woman of Aunt Semphronia’s station in life would have only real gems, not paste.

  Roxanne was stunned that Edgar could so blatantly announce his intentions. “Are you going to steal from my guests?”

  Edgar pulled her closer to him. His hot breath fanned her cheek as she turned her face away. “That’s right, darlin’. I’ve been hearing some talk about the famous Pennington collection as well.”

  Roxanne stared defiantly at him. “I’m sure you didn’t hear such talk from any of the servants in this house.”

  He smiled, twisting his lips into a triumphant sneer. “I don’t need to listen at keyholes to servants’ gossip. I’ve got my own informants.”

  Roxanne felt cold fear clutching her heart. “What informants? What are you talking about?”

  Footsteps clattered on the stairs above them and she heard Julian’s voice calling her.

  “You’ll never get away with it.” She stared at Edgar. “I’ll tell Julian.”

  He stared back at her with a bold, insolent gaze. “No, you won’t.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because I’ll tell him all about us and your little dream of playing Countess of Pennington will go up in smoke. That’s why.” He laughed as he tickled her under the chin. “Don’t worry, no one will ever suspect you knew about it. It’s not your fault those wicked thieves, the dreadful ruffians who’ve been terrorising London have come down to some big old country house, eh?”

  Roxanne felt a chill slither down her spin. “What wicked thieves?”

  He leered at her, his fleshy lips stretched in a crooked grin. “Too uppity now, aren’t we, to bother with gossip about low criminal activities.” He pushed her out the alcove. “You’d better run to your fiancé before he gets suspicious.”

  Roxanne stumbled to the foot of the stairs. Julian peered at her from halfway down. “There you are!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

  Wordlessly she shook her head, thankful he was too caught up in his hunt for a childhood wooden rocking horse he wanted to give Francis. It should have been in the old nursery and was nowhere to be found. In a faint voice she suggested he ask Sam to look in the attic. Julian bounded off, not noticing her white face and trembling hands.

  She sank onto the bottom step and put her head in her hands. Edgar was a common thief, a professional thief by the sounds of it, and it appeared he had accomplices. How could she warn her guests without giving herself away?

  A discreet cough broke her frantic maelstrom of thoughts. She looked up. Gregson gazed down at her. Roxanne jumped to her feet, smoothing down her dress.

  “Beg pardon for startling you, milady, but you appear to be troubled. Can I be of service?” Gregson’s bushy grey brows swished together as he gazed at his mistress with concern on his face.

  Roxanne breathed in and out deeply. Gregson! An angel in disguise to whom she could confide her fears in vaguely couched terms. She was right. All she did was mention hearing something about housebreak
ers and the knowledgeable butler filled in the missing links.

  Gregson knew all about a gang of professional thieves that had been targeting wealthy families in the North over recent weeks and had gradually moved their operations to London. Now, it appeared they had set their sights on some of the large, wealthy country houses outside London. The thieves were specific in their targets, sometimes bypassing ostensibly wealthy members of high society. Somehow they always knew exactly when their prey would be wearing particular pieces of jewellery or carrying expensive personal items.

  “I am of the opinion they have some kind of inside person,” Gregson confided to his mistress.

  Roxanne frowned. “Inside person?”

  Gregson gave a knowing nod. “Oh yes, milady. Some impoverished member of the upper class who, pardon my saying so, would stoop to selling secrets.”

  “Secrets?” Roxanne knew she sounded like an ignoramus, but Gregson was only too pleased, by the expression on his face, to supply information.

  He nodded again, this time vehemently. “Details, milady. Details of what jewels Lady So-and-So will be wearing and, particularly, if said Lady So-and-So is a house guest, staying overnight. Someone who would know if her jewels were paste or real.”

  Roxanne knew that many families had heirlooms copied in paste either for safekeeping or because the originals had been sold to pay off debts. Some copies were so well done that only an expert jeweller could tell the difference.

  Gregson rumbled on, warming to the subject. “Or maybe Lord Such-and-Such has a ring with a large gem or a fancy snuff box, although they do seem to have gone out of fashion. Or maybe Lord Such-and-Such has an elegant watch with a gold chain or a pair of shirt studs with valuable gems.” Gregson gazed at the ceiling as he rambled on in his imagined details of the about-to-be-robbed fictional guests.

  Roxanne’s next question brought him back to earth. “But, Gregson, that means these robberies are planned in advance. How would the thieves know who was attending an event at any place or time?”

  Gregson bestowed a pitying smile upon his ignorant employer. “Alas, only too easily, milady. Let us take for example a ball to be held upon a specific date.”

  Roxanne nodded.

  “The invitations are sent out. The guests who will attend inform their manservants and dressers they will be attending.”

  Roxanne nodded again.

  “These servants may or may not talk. They probably do. Then the lady or gentleman may require a new outfit as well as accessories. The tailor, mantua maker, seamstress, hosier, milliner…All these people will know that some person of quality will be attending a ball or dinner party on a specific date.”

  Roxanne gave a last slow nod.

  Gregson announced his final clue. “Then there’s the Society pages in the newspaper, milady. Well, if that’s not placing a sign outside some grand house telling every robber and ruffian there’ll be rich pickings that evening, I don’t know what is.” He looked at Roxanne. “The servants know everything, pardon my saying so, milady.”

  Roxanne clasped her hands together. She opened her mouth, unsure of what to say.

  Gregson smiled a slow, sly smile and tapped the side of his nose. “I’m not born yesterday, milady. I could manage on my own this evening with Peters helping, but Bernard and Harold can be useful in other ways as well.”

  Roxanne gave a sigh of relief.

  “There’s naught to worry about, milady.”

  Gregson bowed and left her standing at the foot of the stairs, a feeling of elation rising within her.

  Damn Edgar Doyle, damn him to hell. He won’t get away with it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Aunt Semphronia arrived in her antiquated coach, attended by two arthritic footmen and a groom who looked in his dotage. This ageing trio refused any offers of assistance from an amused Skelton and a sniggering Simmonds. A dour dresser called Hemmings attended upon her mistress and barked orders to her elderly co-workers to take up Her Grace’s bags right away and to be quick about it. Sam had the foresight to offer his services in order to save time. The coach then trundled back in the direction of the duchess’s residence, since it appeared Aunt Semphronia had taken it into her head to stay overnight.

  By the time Gregson sounded the gong for dinner, Roxanne was not only relaxed, but almost exultant. As the last note sounded, Aunt Semphronia appeared in what could only be described as a large tent in puce satin, decorated with silver trimmings. She carried the biggest peacock feather fan Roxanne had ever seen. The unfortunate fan played havoc at dinner, having become an extension of Aunt Semphronia’s wrist. The feathers lay in the gravy boat, flicked drops all over the tablecloth as she playfully rapped Edgar over the knuckles in response to a witty comment, and nearly ended up being carved in half when Julian attacked the roast duck with enthusiasm. Roxanne gave an inward sigh of relief when Gregson suggested Her Grace might be more comfortable without it hampering her every move by placing it on the mantelpiece while she ate.

  The dinner was a resounding success. Mrs. Perry had performed miracles at short notice with a number of courses, and the guests fell upon her offerings with gusto. Roxanne kept a watchful eye on proceedings and found that just the lift of an eyebrow or the slight indication by one finger alerted Gregson to Aunt Semphronia’s desire for another helping of buttered potatoes with parsley or the need for Mr. Hardwicke’s wineglass to be topped up. Even Edgar conducted himself with aplomb, chatting first to Julian about the newest farming methods and then to Sophia about the latest theatre offerings in London.

  Roxanne grudgingly admired his chameleon-like quality to adapt to the people around him. Smooth, articulate, and socially adept, he was the perfect “inside person,” as Gregson would say. She could see how easily he managed to inveigle his way into Society events simply by pleasing people and saying the right things at the right time. She reflected ruefully that Mr. Hardwicke was putty in Edgar’s flattering hands and he had even captured Julian’s attention with his informed discussion of the Corn Law.

  Surveying the table, Roxanne realised Edgar had studied his victims well. It was the quality and not the quantity of guests that mattered. A small, but select, company was bound to wear choice and expensive items. If Edgar had had preconceived ideas of the personal riches attached to any member of the Pennington family, he was not mistaken.

  The Pennington women wore their wealth with unabashed pride. Sophia displayed an elaborate emerald and diamond set that was in itself superb, but did not suit her colouring at all and clashed horribly with her choice of lilac silk. In an effort to dim Edgar’s enthusiasm for the Pennington collection, Roxanne chose the demure pearl set to offset the glow of her cream satin evening dress, unaware that every pearl was perfectly matched and its simplicity greatly belied its actual value. Festooned in gems, Aunt Semphronia glittered from top to toe. The duchess, who tended towards indecision, trumpeted confidentially across the table that whenever she could not decide what jewels to wear she generally wore as much as possible. That evening she was wearing a king’s ransom. Even Julian wore diamond shirt studs that, despite being discreet and tasteful, would fetch a fair price. Mr. Hardwicke was generally not inclined to flashy accessories, but tonight he wore a heavy gold signet ring.

  Roxanne could hardly stop her guests wearing their finest jewels, but she had confidence in Gregson and his two strapping nephews. Harold and Bernard, far from being the clod-hopping country yokels their uncle had suggested them to be, performed their duties with such competence that Roxanne suspected they were in fact already trained footmen and Gregson had his own ideas about possible robberies in the area. She caught the butler’s eye just as the third course was being served and his impassive countenance told her that he knew she knew. Roxanne allowed herself a small prim smile in his direction.

  “What a treat!” announced Aunt Semphronia as she polished off several small tarts and cheesecakes for dessert. “That cook of yours has excelled herself, Julian.” The dowager nodded
in Roxanne’s direction as she reached for an enticing orange crème jelly. “Wonderful meal, my dear Roxanne. You’ve really pulled this place to rights.”

  Mr. Hardwicke, who had been remarkably quiet during dinner, spending his time eating everything placed in front of him and no doubt thinking poetic thoughts, pushed his chair back and stood up. Julian, sitting at the head of the table, reached under the cloth for Roxanne’s hand. He squeezed her fingers. She pressed her lips together to suppress the giggles threatening to escape.

  “Augustus,” said Sophia, looking at him with a tipsy expression, “you look so serious. Do I suspect a poem brewing?”

  “Yes,” he announced with an elaborate flourish of arms. “My imagination has been fired and inspired by these bucolic surroundings, my good friends, and a fine repast.” He bowed to the company.

  Julian smiled, Aunt Semphronia harrumphed, and Edgar gave a polite murmur.

  Mr. Hardwicke then struck a pose and directed his intense gaze at Aunt Semphronia. “I have composed a small token of appreciation to this lady.”

  Aunt Semphronia looked startled, but pleased. “Oh, Mr. Hardwicke,” she bellowed. “It’s been a long time since I was the object of anyone’s attentions or the source of their inspirations. Haw haw!”

  “Ode to a Peacock Feather Fan,” he declared.

  Roxanne dared not look at Julian who gave a strange snort and coughed loudly into his napkin.

  “Hush!” said Aunt Semphronia sternly, glaring at her nephew. Then she gazed at Mr. Hardwicke, still standing in his poetic attitude. “Do continue, my dear Mr. Hardwicke.”

  There followed ten minutes of verse which Mr. Hardwicke addressed directly to an enchanted Aunt Semphronia. Her plump cheeks turned pink as she waved the object of Mr. Hardwicke’s inspiration gently back and forth. Julian’s face was stiff as he suppressed his mirth. Roxanne signalled to Gregson to arrange for the tea tray since this was clearly going to be a different kind of social occasion.

  At the end of the ode, Mr. Hardwicke kissed Aunt Semphronia’s hand and solicited the honour of leading her into the drawing room for tea. Eschewing port and cigars, Edgar and Julian followed with the ladies. Aunt Semphronia and Mr. Hardwicke sat on the sofa together, their heads together, and, by catching broken bits of conversation, Roxanne surmised he was confiding to his latest muse the hardships attendant upon a poet in search of a publisher.