All three laughed heartily.
“Mama,” whispered the Bentley girls in anguish.
A formidable figure in a hideous turban surfaced from a bench on the other side of the rosebush and lumbered to the rescue.
Gathering her chicks under her wing, Mrs. Bentley faced the three sportsmen.
“How dare you,” she roared, turning as purple as her velvet turban. “How dare you soil the ears of my sweet innocents with language fit only for the stables.” She raked them up and down with a bulging blue glance and then swept her daughters off towards the house.
The three watched them go in moody silence. “See what I mean?” said Freddie.
* * * *
Lady Margery Quennell had never before been considered witty or fashionable enough to be invited to such a grand breakfast. But that was before Mr. Brummell had smiled on her.
Margery always considered it rather odd to call such an affair, which began at three in the afternoon and lasted till dawn, a “breakfast,” unless of course it was because no one in London society got out of bed before one in the afternoon.
She stood at the entrance to the gardens with Lady Amelia at her side and heaved a sigh of pure pleasure.
Mrs. Herbert-Smythe's gardens were almost as famous as her fortune. Smooth green lawns, arbors of roses, reflecting ponds, rustic benches, and all the other flowers of summer were laid out like a picture to illustrate the perfect English garden.
The Thames wound its green-and-gray way along the foot of the lawns where lines of tall yellow flag iris stood sentinel. The air was heavy with all the scents of early summer—freshly mown grass, thyme, mint, roses, honeysuckle, clover, and bryony. Butterflies performed their erratic dance over the summer lawns and through the golden air.
Beyond the trees could be seen glimpses of the Herbert-Smythe mansion, an early Georgian gem of mellow gold brick.
Chuffley followed Margery and Lady Amelia, his arms full of shawls. He had insisted on accompanying them instead of a footman, and Margery had been glad of her old retainer's offer of support.
She knew also that she was looking her best. She was wearing a daffodil-yellow Indian muslin gown with an overdress of heavy, creamy Valenciennes lace. Her wide-brimmed straw hat had a thick yellow silk ribbon round the small crown and falling down her back in two long streamers. Yellow is usually a trying color, but it emphasized the creaminess of Lady Margery's skin and added gold lights to her sandy curls.
She hesitated at the end of a walk. A light breeze moved across the lawns. All London's fashionable set seemed to be present. It was then that she saw three familiar figures standing at the other end of the walk.
“It's all your fault,” said Toby to Viscount Swanley. You and your curst this and curst that. No wonder they ran away.”
“You started it,” retorted Viscount Swanley, digging the heel of his shoe savagely into the smooth turf.
“I don't know what's come over us all,” said Freddie pettishly. “Demme, we've been here half an hour and we ain't even had a drink.”
His friends eyed him with a tinge of respect. Trust old Freddie to get to the heart of the matter.
They were just about to make their way towards the marquee which housed the wine and liqueurs when Toby put a restraining hand on Freddie's arm. He pointed down the walk. “I say, ain't that her? Ain't that Lady Margery?”
His companions turned around and looked. The lace of her dress swirling about her trim figure, Lady Margery came slowly towards them. All at once remembered their behavior of the morning and were about to flee. Then they realized that she was smiling. Actually smiling.
She came up to them and said those glorious words, “How splendid to see you all again. You must tell me all about your famous bet.”
They looked at her warily. “Do you really want to know?” asked Freddie in awed tones.
“Yes, really. While I have some tea, of course.”
How those three delighted sportsmen bustled about! The amazed guests stared as the three well-known misogynists helped Lady Margery to tea, helped her to cakes, opened her parasol for her, brushed away flies, fanned her enthusiastically, found her a little table at a corner of the marquee reserved for such innocuous refreshments, and then sat themselves down and looked at her with the air of three expectant dogs.
“Now you can tell me all about it,” said Margery.
They began very cautiously and then warmed to their story as Margery laughed and clapped her appreciation. How splendid it was, thought each of the three, to have a young lady to pay court to.
The sun began to set behind the trees and they escorted her over to the marquee where supper was being laid out. They talked and talked until the stars came out. They talked and talked and Lady Margery smiled and waved her fan and listened. They heard the sounds of the band tuning up and busily began to sign their names in her dance card. Lady Amelia relaxed and began to enjoy the evening. Lady Margery's intrigues were not so terrible after all.
Chuffley, standing behind his mistress's chair, decided to go and have a bumper of wine to celebrate, the minute the dancing started. It was surely only a question now of which gentleman Lady Margery would choose.
Occasionally Lady Margery would be aware of the cool blue gaze of the marquess resting on her. She hoped he would ask her to dance, she wished the next minute he would go away ... she didn't know what she wanted.
* * * *
“Lady Margery is making marvelous progress,” remarked Mr. George Brummell maliciously. “Don't you think so, Charles?”
The Marquess of Edgecombe raised his quizzing glass and surveyed the picture of Lady Margery surrounded by her court of admirers.
“It does not worry me, dear George. I can put a stop to that any time I wish.”
“How?”
“Watch me, dear George. Just watch!”
He ambled leisurely across to where Lady Margery was sitting and bowed over her hand. He then turned and bowed to his friends.
“Lady Margery is unaware of the great compliment you are paying her,” he said smoothly.
“Compliment?” asked Toby curiously.
“Yes. Sporting gentlemen like you, forsaking a splendid bet to entertain this very beautiful young lady.”
“Bet!” Three pairs of eyes stared at him. Lady Margery was forgotten.
“You know that little bridge that spans the pond over on the west lawn,” said the marquess, waving one slender white hand in that direction. “I heard Gully Whyte betting Harry Trent that only Colonel Dan McKinnon could walk across the parapet without falling in the water.”
Colonel Dan McKinnon was famous for his feats of agility.
“Pooh!” said Viscount Swanley. “That little bridge! I could do it in a trice!”
“Care to lay a wager?” murmured the marquess.
“An hundred guineas says Swanley can do it,” declared Toby, becoming red with excitement. “And what about you, Edgecombe?”
“I shall stay and entertain Lady Margery.”
Margery looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with anger. “But I would very much like to see you try this feat, my lord.”
“Yes. Hang it all,” said Freddie, “you told us about it.”
“Very well,” said the marquess. “Come, gentlemen.” And without a backward glance they marched off, leaving Lady Margery alone with Lady Amelia and quite forgetting that the sets were being already made up for the rosière quadrille.
“I am going to follow them,” said Margery, getting to her feet. “I know the marquess thought up that stupid bet on the spur of the moment. How dare he try to take his friends away from me. How dare he!”
Lady Amelia put a restraining hand on her arm. “You must be guided by me, Margery. It is not at all comme il faut to literally run after these gentlemen.”
“Then I shall walk,” said Margery mulishly, and she started off across the lawn followed by Chuffley, who, despite his loyalty to his mistress, was looking forward to seeing a bit of sport
to relieve the tedium of the day.
Lanterns decorated the rosebushes and hung from the trees. A perfect full moon rode the clear black sky overhead. It was a night made for lovers, reflected Lady Margery, and not for idiotic bets.
By the time she had reached the pond, Viscount Swanley had already removed his dancing pumps and was teetering at the beginning of the parapet in his stockinged feet. His friends were cheering him on.
A crowd began to gather behind Lady Margery, attracted by the noise.
Viscount Swanley did splendidly until he reached the middle of the thin arched wooden parapet. He wobbled, he tottered, he threw one anguished look up towards the heavens, and then plunged headlong into the water. The crowd roared in delight.
“Go on, Edgecombe,” said Toby sulkily.
“Go on yourself, Sanderson,” yelled someone in the crowd. “Bet you that ton of lard you carry around your middle won't let you do it.”
That was enough for Toby. He removed his shoes and leaped up on the parapet with a lightness and agility amazing in so heavy a man. But he only managed a few steps before he lost his footing and hit the water with a splendid splash.
The marquess removed his shoes. But Freddie, who had managed to consume several glasses of burgundy during supper, felt game for anything. Exhilarated by the roars of the crowd, and suddenly aware that Margery was watching them, he volunteered to go next.
With the cautious step of the half-inebriated, he reached the top of the parapet, just where it curved, without mishap. After all, he often had to negotiate the pavements of London in the early hours of the morning as if they were a series of tightropes.
Perhaps he would have made it if some wag had not roared out, “Look at the water, Jamieson. Not often you look at water, eh!”
Freddie looked down. The black water shimmered and sparkled with the reflections of hundreds of lanterns and myriads of stars. He began to shake and tremble, he swayed wildly backwards and forwards in an effort to keep his footing. But the damage had been done. He plunged in, and swam to the bank to join his two shivering friends.
The marquess removed his jacket and leapt up onto the parapet. Margery was pushed close to him by the press of the crowd. “I hope you fall,” she said in a low voice.
The blue eyes glinted down at her in the moonlight. “But I shall not, my dear lady,” he answered, and added in a murmur, “and the object has been achieved after all. My three friends will be obliged to leave the party.”
Somewhere deep in her heart, Margery had hoped that he had not planned this mischief. Now she looked up at him with her eyes blazing with anger. He gave her a mocking wave of his hand and set off along the parapet, negotiating it with insolent ease. To a roar from the crowd, he nimbly turned about at the end and strolled back. Then he came to a stop, standing over Margery and looking down at her with a smile of triumph curving his lips.
He made a low bow and his whisper reached only Margery's ears. “After all, my lady, all is fair in love and war.”
“Exactly,” said Lady Margery grimly. Before he knew what she was about, she had put the pointed end of her parasol under one of his stockinged feet—and heaved. He hit the water with less grace than his friends. He had been near the edge, so he landed in only a foot of water and slimy mud.
Lady Margery turned and pushed her way through the amused and curious crowd. Lady Amelia fussed after her, pointing out that they might as well go home. After all, the gentlemen would hardly be returning all the way to Richmond after they had changed into dry clothes.
But Lady Margery elected to stay. She found to her surprise that Mr. Brummell's approval was all-powerful. She did not lack partners and danced resolutely on the uneven floor until the sun came up. She had believed that the marquess might return. He did not.
She felt immeasurably tired.
During the days before the opening ball at Almack's, Lady Margery had the pleasure of being escorted on various occasions by Toby Sanderson, Freddie Jamieson, and Viscount Swanley.
Sometimes the infuriating marquess would pop up when she was out for a drive with Toby or appear suddenly behind her shoulder when she was walking with one of the other two gentlemen. His presence always meant the end—for the time being anyway—of the gentleman's courtship, whichever one it happened to be. The marquess always had distracting plans for races, bets, cockfights, or mills.
At the end of her tether, Lady Margery called a council of war. It was the afternoon before the opening ball at Almack's and she could see another ruin of a season stretching before her.
She explained the predicament of the marquess to Lady Amelia and Chuffley.
Lady Amelia's plump, motherly face was creased with worry. “I don't know that we can do anything about him, my dear,” she said after much thought. “He is exceedingly wealthy. It is a pity he is not enamored of you.”
“I would not marry him an’ he were,” snapped Margery.
The old butler gave her a thoughtful look. The marquess's reputation as a lady-killer was well known, and he feared that for all her protests his young mistress was not immune to the lord's attractions.
“If I may make a suggestion, my lady,” he said apologetically. “Perhaps if my lady presented a bolder front.”
“Do you mean compromise one of them?” said Margery with horror.
“No, my lady,” replied Chuffley. “I mean if my lady were perhaps to be open and honest with these gentlemen and explain the nature of her financial problems and were to say—lightly, mind—that she will be obliged to marry the first who proposes. And then—just a suggestion, of course—if my lady were to hint that one of the other three had already proposed and that she felt herself obliged to accept but she would in fact prefer the gentleman she was talking to...”
His voice trailed off and the two women looked at him in surprise.
“Play one off against the other,” mused Margery. “It might just work.”
Lady Amelia let out a squeak of alarm and clutched wildly at her cap. “You cannot do such a thing, Margery. Only think if anyone should hear of it or if the gentlemen confide in each other.”
“I don't think that they will,” said Margery slowly. “Good man, Chuffley. I shall try this very evening. The Marquess of Edgecombe can hardly start dragging his friends off to cockfights in the middle of Almack's."
* * * *
Lady Margery could not restrain a trembling feeling of nervousness as she entered Almack's ballroom on the plump arm of Lady Amelia. She wished she had not worn quite so daring a dress. It was of scarlet satin with matching velvet insets but cut dangerously low on the bosom.
They had arrived fashionably late and already the heat from the hundreds of candles was suffocating. All the familiar smells of hot wax, sweat, and a hundred assorted perfumes assailed her nostrils. Then the scent of a particularly ripe cesspool floated past her. She gasped and held her handkerchief to her nose. “What on earth is causing that dreadful smell?” she whispered to Lady Amelia.
Lady Amelia looked round and then gave her young companion's arm a comforting squeeze. “Move quickly to windward, my dear,” she whispered. “'Tis only Lord Ellington. Do you know that he asked Forbes-Bennington for a cure for rheumatism t'other day and Forbes-Bennington said, ‘My dear chap, you might try changing your shirt.’ I declare, Ellington gets riper every season.”
Margery found her hand immediately claimed for a country dance by Toby. She plunged nimbly into the dance, seeking an opening for conversation, but it was not until they were prancing gaily round in the ronde that she had an opportunity to whisper, “Oh, Mr. Sanderson. A word in private with you, sir, if you please. I am in such distress.”
“'Course,” whispered Toby, his bulging green eyes riveted to her delightful expanse of white bosom. How it had stayed covered during all the hopping and bouncing of the dance seemed like a miracle to him.
After the final chord, he bowed and led her over to a small sofa in the corner. “Now,” said Toby jovially, sitting dow
n very close to her. “How can I be of assistance, my lady?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Margery saw the Marquess of Edgecombe entering the room and looking in her direction. She would have to be quick.
“Oh, Mr. Sanderson,” she breathed. “I am in sore distress. To put it bluntly, I must marry well. My family home, Chelmswood, is about to go under the hammer.” She held a wisp of handkerchief to the corner of one dry eye. “A ... a ... certain friend of yours has already proposed and I feel obliged to accept him ... but ... but I fear he is weak. I need the advice of a strong man.”
Toby ground his teeth. So either Perry or Freddie had stolen a march on him, eh? Well, he still had a chance. Before he knew quite what he was about, he had proposed marriage himself. She should travel with him tomorrow to meet his mama. He would arrange a small party in her honor. Local gentry, of course. Let her get a feel of her new home. Damme, if he wasn't the luckiest man in the world. For Margery was smiling mistily up at him and breathing a tremulous “Oh, thank you!"
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Freddie, who reminded Lady Margery that she had promised him the Scottish reel.
Toby watched her flitting off on Freddie's arm like..."liked a demned fairy,” he thought with a sudden rush of proprietary pride. Lady Margery had whispered just before she left that they must keep their engagement a secret for the moment. Feminine nonsense! He wouldn't announce it tonight, of course. But he would send a notice to the Gazette first thing in the morning.
A Scottish reel is even less conducive to intimate conversation than a country dance, but when everyone else was getting helplessly tangled up in the figure-eight and Freddie and Margery were laughing and waiting for them to rearrange themselves, she managed to explain her predicament. Freddie's chest swelled. “Marry you meself.” She blushed and thanked him and begged him to keep it a secret for the moment. “Of course,” answered Freddie, pressing her hand warmly and privately planning to put an end to the nonsense by sending a notice to the Gazette in the morning.
Lady Margery's Intrigues Page 6
