Lady Margery's Intrigues

by Marion Chesney

  “Oh, Freddie,” said Margery mistily, “you are a very generous young man.”

  “Ain't I just,” grinned Freddie, “and Toby and Perry send their regards too.”

  Both ate their breakfast in companionable silence and then Margery volunteered to show Freddie the grounds.

  “This is just like old times,” said Freddie enthusiastically. “You're the only female I ever met who didn't make me feel awkward. Wish you happy, Margery.”

  “I am happy,” cried Margery. She stood on tiptoe to give him a sisterly kiss on the cheek. At the same time, Freddie turned his head in surprise and received the kiss full on his mouth.

  “Oh, Freddie! How fast you must think me!” cried Margery.

  “Don't think of it,” said Freddie cheerfully, tucking her hand in his arm. “Supposed to kiss the bride anyway, you know.”

  The marquess let the curtain drop. He had been fooled like a regular greenhorn. She had walked straight from his arms into Freddie's. No need to call Freddie out. That passionate kiss had been entirely Margery's idea.

  Then if she wanted marriage à la mode she should have it. Two could play at that game. He pulled savagely at the bell rope and gave his surprised valet orders to pack.

  Margery and Freddie turned at the end of the long drive and made their way leisurely back to the house. The tall Tudor chimneys of Chelmswood rose above the trees, which whispered in the lightest of summer breezes. There was no worry or care left in the world for Margery.

  Then she and Freddie drew back hurriedly to the side of the drive as a traveling carriage pulled by four matched bays came hurtling down the drive towards them. As it swept past, they were afforded a fleeting glimpse of the Marquess of Edgecombe's excellent profile.

  Margery looked at her companion in dismay. “Why didn't he stop, Freddie? Where can he be going?”

  “Must be something up with his father,” said Freddie anxiously.

  They hurried towards the house. Chuffley was waiting for them with an unreadable expression on his face. He mutely held out a small silver tray bearing a long letter. With trembling fingers, Margery tore it open.

  Its message was brief.

  “Madam,” the marquess had written. “Since you have obviously gained what you wanted from this marriage and your wants do not include me, I trust you will enjoy your first love—your home— and your second loves, of which you obviously have many.

  “I am determined, however, that we present a respectable front to the ton. I shall expect you to join me at my town house for the start of the Little Season.”

  It was coldly signed “Edgecombe.”

  Margery stood reading it over and over again. What had made him so angry? What had she done?

  She suddenly recalled her passionate lovemaking of the night before and felt ready to sink with shame. What had seemed so natural and so beautiful to her must have seemed an everyday occurrence to such an experienced man. Her inexperienced lovemaking must have seemed gauche and tepid.

  Her eyes filled with angry tears. What else did he expect from an inexperienced girl? He had not given her a chance to prove her love. The cold letter was like a slap in the face. Never again should he make her tremble with passion. There was no real world outside the covers of a three-volume romance. Love in reality was a charade and marriage a sham.

  She and her father were indeed a sorry pair, both tied to heartless fribbles.

  She would join him for the Little Season, and, with the help of Battersby's genius, she would prove to the sneering, heartless aristocrat who was her husband that there were at least other men who would appreciate her.

  * * * *

  The crisp autumn leaves crackled under the curricle wheels as the marquess edged his way through the fashionable press.

  It was the fashionable hour in the park when everyone turned out to see or be seen.

  “Thought you'd given up all this nonsense,” said Toby from his perch beside the marquess. “What are we doing here, anyway?”

  “Shopping,” said the marquess briefly, his eyes raking over the crowd.

  Toby opened his mouth in surprise and then closed it again. He didn't understand his friend one bit. Charles had been deuced odd since his wedding. Never mentioned Margery, and received all congratulations on his marriage as if they were insults.

  He came out of his reverie to notice that the marquess had reined in beside a smart-looking landau. The occupant was equally dashing and was smiling up at the marquess in an intimate way that made Toby sigh with envy.

  “Mrs. Harrison, I believe,” said the marquess, bowing low.

  The lady let out a little trill of laughter and opened her pretty little mouth. “La! Ain't you the bold one, my lord,” she fluttered, “and us not even introduced.”

  Toby winced at the vulgar whine of her voice and waited for his friend to give her one of his famous set-downs.

  To his horror the marquess said, “Your beauty, madam, is sufficient introduction. But if I have offended you...”

  “Aw, no,” grinned Mrs. Harrison.

  “Then perhaps you will do me the inestimable honor of furnishing me with your direction so that I may ... er ... call on you.”

  “I should be delighted,” said Mrs. Harrison, giving him an address in Half Moon Street.

  “This evening, perhaps?” queried the marquess.

  “This evening,” confirmed the lady with a languishing flutter of her eyelashes.

  “This evening ... late?”

  “I keep late hours, my lord,” said Mrs. Harrison with a genteel simper, awful to behold.

  “I look forward to the delightful charms of your ... er ... company,” said the marquess in a caressing voice that teetered on the edge of insult.

  He bowed and the landau moved off.

  “Not a word, Toby,” said the marquess savagely. “Not a single word!”

  * * * *

  When he arrived back at his town house, he was informed of Lady Margery's arrival from the country.

  The marquess's lips tightened into a thin line. “Pray be good enough to convey my respects to my lady,” he told the servant, “and tell her that I wish to see her immediately. I shall be in the library.”

  The marquess strode into that room and looked around him with distaste. Works of various authors, bought by the yard by his father, lined the walls. His own books lay scattered on occasional tables and in piles on the floor. A long low table covered with magazines and newspapers crouched before the empty fireplace surrounded by massive carved chairs. Like elsewhere in the house, there was no evidence of a feminine touch, and the Marquess felt irrationally that Margery should have done something about it, not pausing to consider that she could hardly be expected to move the furniture around on the day of her arrival.

  The door opened and Margery came in, hesitating on the threshold and giving him an inquiring glance. She was wearing a morning dress of heavy green crepe, slim and high waisted, falling to three deep flounces. Her sandy hair was elaborately dressed and gleamed with highlights in the pale autumn sunshine. The marquess felt angrily that she had no right to look so well.

  For her part, Margery thought her husband looked distractingly handsome and she gave a little sigh of resignation. How could she have expected anyone so devastating to fall in love with little Margery Quennell?

  “Sit down, madam,” said the marquess, waving his hand towards one of the repellent chairs.

  “Oh, call me Margery,” said that young lady with a flash of spirit. “I am well aware that you are in a bad temper about something. Perhaps you would now care to tell me what that something is?”

  The marquess looked at her from under hooded lids. He had not expected such a direct question. How could one possibly tell one's wife that one had doubts about her morals?

  “I have realized that it was a mistake to get married,” he said cruelly. “I am too used to my bachelor freedom. But I will afford you the same freedom, my lady, provided you are discreet.”

&nbs
p; Margery flushed with annoyance. “Very well, my lord. Have you anything further to say?”

  The marquess put up his quizzing glass and surveyed his wife. She stared back at him, resting her pointed chin on her hand.

  “We shall, of course, appear at various functions together,” he said coldly, letting the glass fall. “I would not have it broadcast to the world I had made a mistake.”

  “Have you plans for this evening?” asked Margery, equally coldly.

  “I shall be privately engaged,” he said, crossing to the window and staring out into the street, with his hand holding the curtain.

  “I see,” said Margery, staring at his profile while a cold anger slowly took possession of her.

  There was a long silence. Outside in the street, a group of strolling acrobats were twisting and tumbling to the squeaky music of a fiddle. One of them saw the marquess watching from the window and executed several handsprings, ending in a low bow. The marquess dropped the curtain and turned back towards the room.

  But his wife had gone.

  He felt as if he had just lost some battle. Why should he spend the night sampling Mrs. Harrison's doubtful charms if his wife were to know nothing about it? He came to a sudden decision. He would be seen in public with Mrs. Harrison. Not among the haut ton but somewhere guaranteed to send a little ripple of discreet gossip running across London in Margery's direction.

  * * * *

  Margery sat upstairs in her boudoir. She was too angry for tears. She wanted revenge. She wanted the marquess to know that she, Margery, was quite capable of enjoying as much bachelor freedom as her husband. She scribbled a note, folded it into a cocked hat, and sent a servant off in search of Mr. Freddie Jamieson.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The walks and boxes of Vauxhall pleasure gardens were crowded to capacity as Margery and Freddie strolled amicably along. They had just attended a stirring performance of “The Battle of Borodino” by Mrs. Salmon under the gilded cockleshell in the center of the gardens and were returning to their box to join Lady Amelia.

  “This was such a good idea, Freddie,” sighed Margery. “I should have felt so alone otherwise.”

  Freddie bit his lip. He was once again enjoying the novelty of squiring a lady but he had no wish to see the Marquess of Edgecombe's face blazing at him from behind a yard of cold steel.

  “Charles all right?” he ventured. “I mean to say, newly married and all that. I mean to say, shouldn't you ... er ... Shouldn't he...” He thrust the knob of his cane in his mouth like a stopper and let his eyebrows, which were wiggling up to his hairline, ask the questions for him.

  “It is a modern marriage, you see,” said Margery with a lightness she did not feel. “Charles does not concern himself with what I do.”

  Lady Amelia was waiting for them in their box. She had been joined by Toby Sanderson and an equally large man who bore a marked resemblance to Toby.

  Toby introduced his elder brother, Archie, Lord Brenton, who gave Margery a stiff bow and a very hard stare from the family hallmark of bulging green eyes.

  Margery curtsied and wondered wildly if perhaps this brother had been in residence during her disastrous visit. Perhaps he spent his time walled up in some closet or attic. But it turned out that Lord Brenton had recently returned from Paris. He exuded an air of disapproval of Margery in particular and bad feelings towards the world in general. After several glasses of the Gardens’ famous arrack punch, Lord Brenton suddenly broke into speech.

  “What do you think of my breeches?” he demanded.

  Amelia surveyed them. “Very fine,” she said in a repressive tone of voice. “Margery, do but look at that—”

  “Brummell didn't like ‘em,” said Lord Brenton moodily. ‘How do you like my breeches?’ I said. ‘My dear fellow, take them off directly,’ says Brummell. Ladies present and all. One of the ladies says, ‘I beg I may hear of no such thing, else where would he go in his smallclothes?’ Told Brummell I'd just got ‘em and thought they were rather fine. Know what he said? ‘Bad knees, my good fellow! Bad knees!'”

  “My lord, your smallclothes are not a subject for the ears of ladies,” said Amelia in freezing accents.

  But, undeterred, Lord Brenton lumbered to his feet and struck several attitudes. “There! What d'you think? Knees all right, ain't they?”

  “Sit down, Archie,” snapped Toby. “You're embarrassing the ladies.”

  “Ho! Embarrassing them, am I?” He glared at Margery. “But ain't that the one that Pa said was— Ouch! What did you stamp on my foot for, Toby?” He sat down abruptly and plunged once more back into a brooding silence.

  The bell rang for the fireworks display, and Freddie jumped eagerly to his feet. “Come along, Margery. They've got an extra special display this evening. ‘Course, my doctor still says I have to be careful. Says I have Nerves. Says I have Spleen. Says I—”

  “We'll come too,” said Toby hurriedly, as they joined the press of people moving along the walk.

  Margery forgot her troubles in the delight of the fireworks, which burst and flamed and sparkled against the black velvet of the sky. Everyone else in the crowd was sharing her enjoyment, particularly one lady near their group who screamed like a rabbit in the jaws of the weasel at every burst of stars. There were murmurs of amusement and necks twisted and heads turned.

  Margery turned her head also and found herself staring straight at the aristocratic profile of her husband. There was another piercing scream, which she realized in a dazed kind of way was coming from the marquess's companion, who was hanging onto his arm.

  Mrs. Harrison was in all the glory of a green-and-white striped dress embellished with coquelicot ribbons. She jumped and oohed and aahed and with every jump her magnificent breasts heaved themselves above her neckline.

  Freddie and Toby had seen the marquess at the same moment and were at a loss what to do. But it was Lord Brenton who hailed the marquess in stentorian tones when the display ended, insisting that he join them.

  The marquess's eyes held a hectic glitter. “Wouldn't think of it,” he murmured. “I am very much engaged.”

  “Can see that,” said Lord Brenton with a roar of drunken laughter. “Some chaps have all the luck, heh!”

  “Better go,” hissed Freddie, writhing in embarrassment. He tugged at Margery's arm and led the unresisting girl away. There was a long silence.

  “Who is she?” asked Margery finally.

  “Dashed if I know,” said Freddie. “Probably some cousin or relative you don't know,” he added, improvising wildly.

  “Do you take me for a green goose?” snapped Margery. “That is a lady of the town.”

  “Well,” mumbled Freddie, desperately wishing himself elsewhere, “don't amount to much, you know. All the fellows ... mean to say ... wouldn't have brought you here had I known. Oh, damn and blast Charles!”

  With dull eyes, Margery noticed the marquess returning to his box. She suddenly clutched Freddie's arm. “Freddie, please go over there and engage Charles in private conversation.”

  “My dear Margery,” said Freddie, with all the enthusiasm of a dissipated sheep. “Not the thing, you know. Just ignore it and we'll go home.”

  "Please."

  “Oh, very well,” grumbled Freddie. “But the mood Charles is in, he's going to make me feel no end of an ass!”

  Margery sat rigidly watching Freddie's progress. Amelia tried to take her hand and was shrugged off for her pains. Freddie was bowing to Mrs. Harrison. He was saying something. The marquess made some reply and Freddie blushed and made half a move to leave. He caught Margery's watching eye and turned back again. After a few minutes, the marquess gave an impatient shrug and got to his feet. Mrs. Harrison was left alone.

  Before Amelia's startled eyes, Margery tripped quickly down from the box and made her way swiftly over to Mrs. Harrison. Toby and his brother watched with their green eyes bulging as never before.

  Mrs. Harrison eyed Margery warily. “It's no use you a-making a squawk,
” she said. “From the looks of you I suppose you're his wife.”

  “Yes, I am the Marchioness of Edgecombe,” said Margery, realizing with a little shock that it was the first time she had used her title.

  “It ain't my fault,” whined Mrs. Harrison. “I—”

  Margery put a hand on her arm. “My dear, I am too

  used to my husband's—er—pleasures to try now to put a stop to them. I am simply concerned for your welfare.”

  “Are you threatening me?” demanded the widow, her beautiful eyes narrowing.

  “No, indeed,” protested Margery. “But you are still young and beautiful and I would not like to see you in the hands of the physicians. My husband, you see, has a certain—er—disorder...” Her voice trailed delicately away and she dropped her eyes.

  Mrs. Harrison stared at her in alarm. “Such a fine-looking lord! You mean he has the ... ?”

  “Exactly,” said Margery in a low voice. “He has been in the habit of obtaining his pleasures by promenading the streets of Seven Dials.”

  “Oh, my Gawd!” One beautiful hand fluttered to Mrs. Harrison's throat.

  She knew only too well that certain degenerate members of the aristocracy were in the habit of finding their sexual pleasures in the back alleys of that filthy and notorious slum.

  “Oh, my Gawd!” she said again. “You poor thing!”

  “As far as I am concerned,” said Margery sadly, “the damage has already been done. But I feel for my unfortunate sisters who may not be aware of their peril.”

  “I'll never forget this,” said Mrs. Harrison, wiping her brow. “Anything I can ever do for you, my lady...”

  “It is enough that you are warned,” said Margery, getting hurriedly to her feet. “Please do not tell my husband I have talked with you. He will beat me.”

  “'Ere! Letmeoutofthis!” gabbled the suddenly terrified widow. With a tremendous flurry of skirts, she jumped over the back of the box and disappeared. With a grim little smile on her face, Margery returned to her own box. Toby and his brother had their heads together whispering and broke off as soon as they saw her. Amelia seemed to be in a state of shock. Margery wondered how Freddie was coping with her husband.