Lady Margery's Intrigues

by Marion Chesney

  “Will you stop gabbling and get to the point,” the marquess was saying. “We have been walking up and down and up and down and all you can do is bleat.”

  “No need to talk to me like that,” said Freddie, finally breaking into coherent speech. “I ain't a fool, you know.”

  “No, no,” said the marquess in a soothing voice. “You are the veriest wit and a pretty fellow to boot. So out with it!”

  Freddie summoned up his courage. “Don't think it right,” he said. “Shouldn't be promenading round with that female, and you just wed.”

  “And you shouldn't be promenading around with my wife,” said the marquess, viciously decapitating a rose with his swordstick.

  “Not the same thing. No, no, no,” said Freddie. “Not the same thing at all. Different. Not at all alike. Opposite. Vice versa.”

  “Get on with it.”

  “Well, I'm a gentleman, so that's why it's different. I'm respectable,” said Freddie, much struck with this new idea of himself. “Yes. Respectable. Friend of Margery's. Now don't tell me you're out with that bit of muslin for her conversation,” he added with an uncomfortably shrewd look in his weak eyes.

  “This is very, very interesting,” said the marquess in a deceptively mild voice. “I have known you for years, Freddie, but you surprise me, indeed you do. Pray tell me, what gives you the idea you can preach morality to me?”

  Freddie thought about that one very long and carefully. “'Cause I'm decent and I'm fond of you, and I'm fond of Margery,” he said simply.

  The marquess shook his head in exasperation. It was like arguing with a nice-natured child.

  “Don't worry, old boy,” he said impatiently. “Simply attend to your own affairs and leave mine alone.”

  They had turned about during their conversation and were now back at the boxes, which were crammed to capacity with the exception of one.

  “You may rest easy,” drawled the marquess. “My ladybird has flown.” He made a distant bow in the direction of Margery's box and took his leave, wondering all the while why Mrs. Harrison had left and why he should feel so relieved.

  * * * *

  The following morning, a light waft of delicate fragrance assailed the marquess's nostrils. He put down the morning paper and regarded his wife with some surprise. Had last night's humiliations meant nothing to her? She should have at least had the decency to breakfast in her room.

  “Good morning, Charles,” said the marchioness brightly, shaking out her napkin.

  “Good morning, madam wife,” replied the marquess genially. “Which one of my friends are you going to commandeer as escort today?”

  “I haven't had time to think,” replied Margery placidly. “Probably Toby. He mentioned something about driving in the park. Don't grind your teeth, dear. It does wear down the enamel so. Then there is the Choldomeley ball tonight, but then, with your many diversions, I do not suppose you will be present.”

  “We shall both be present ... together. If you have no care for appearances, then I most certainly have.”

  “You have a very odd way of showing it, sir,” said Margery with the same infuriating calm. “I must have been dreaming during my seasons or else the world has changed. I was under the impression that any gentleman who flaunted his inamorata in front of his wife was in danger of being castigated as a shabby dog.”

  “I did not know you would be at Vauxhall.”

  “Oh, indeed!” said Margery sweetly. “That does make a difference.”

  “Don't fence with me,” said the marquess in a thin voice. He threw down the paper and strode to the door, fully aware that his wife was about to attack a hearty breakfast with all the appearance of not having a care in the world.

  He turned in the doorway. “I shall expect your company at eight of the clock, madam.”

  “Very good, my lord,” said his wife demurely.

  There was a stifled exclamation from behind her and the door closed with a crash.

  Margery shut her eyes and gritted her teeth to fight down the sudden wave of pain which threatened to engulf her.

  * * * *

  Resplendent in evening dress, the marquess sat in the drawing room that evening with the decanter for company and waited for his wife.

  He raised his eyebrows as Freddie was ushered into the room. “What the hell are you doing here?” snapped the marquess. “Am I not to be allowed to escort my own wife?”

  “Steady on,” said Freddie nervously. “I've called to escort Lady Amelia.”

  “Aha!” said the marquess sourly. “If you can't drool over my wife you will settle for her nearest and dearest.”

  “You're like a dog with a bone,” said Freddie amiably. “But the fact is, I like Lady Amelia. Know where I am with her. Know what to expect. Widow, ain't she? Well, then...”

  The marquess raised his quizzing glass. “Lady Amelia is at least twenty years your senior.”

  “Getting very nice in your tastes, ain't you?” said Freddie, with a sneer sitting oddly on his normally amiable features.

  Both friends glared at each other like two tomcats squaring up to fight.

  The marquess gave a sudden shrug and pushed the decanter across the table. “Help yourself, Freddie,” he said in a more friendly tone of voice. “I don't know what has come over me. Women are the very devil.”

  To his surprise, Freddie refused to drink, and he realized that it had been some time since he had seen his friend in his usual half-intoxicated condition.

  At that moment his wife walked into the room followed by Lady Amelia. Margery was wearing a violet satin slip of a gown with an overdress of gold gauze. Small white rosebuds had been twined into her hair, and she wore one magnificent white rose on her bosom. There was an almost ethereal air about her, and the marquess caught his breath. She had never looked more beautiful. He remembered the feel of her arms round his neck and the silk of her skin. A flood of emotions assailed him all at once—anger, jealousy, passion, and possessiveness—and out of them all, love rose like a pale ghost and hovered in the stuffy overfurnished drawing room, where the Edgecombe ancestors seemed to stare down in perpetual surprise at the weakness of their descendant.

  Then she touched the rose at her bosom and smiled. “Isn't it pretty? And so kind of Perry. He sent me such a pretty poem, as well. How did it go, Amelia?

  * * * *

  “Aske me no more where Jove bestowes,

  When June is past, the fading rose;

  For in your beautie's orient deepe

  These flowers, as in their causes, sleepe.”

  * * * *

  “How lovely,” sighed Lady Amelia. “Quite in the Elizabethan manner.”

  “It should be,” drawled the marquess. “It was written by an Elizabethan—one Thomas Carew. I would not have credited Swanley with plagiarism.”

  “He didn't say it was his own,” said his wife crossly. “'Tis very affecting, nonetheless. Shall we go?”

  His newfound love for Margery had made the marquess more than ever determined to hurt her in some way. How dare she sit so calm and smiling while he sighed and suffered? Perhaps the Choldomeley ball would supply an opportunity.

  And opportunity presented itself almost as soon as they had entered the ballroom, in the voluptuous shape of Lady Camberwell.

  Lady Cecilia Camberwell had enjoyed many affairs and liaisons. She had an unassailable social position and a knack for discretion. She had outlasted a score of lovers and two husbands. Although nearly in her fortieth year, she was a magnificent figure of a woman with a creamy skin and masses of midnight-black hair. Her lazy smile was a seduction in itself. The marquess knew she was searching for a new amour. He abandoned his wife and marched purposefully off in Lady Camberwell's direction.

  Margery danced determinedly with Toby (who breathed heavily in her face and trod on her feet) with his brother, Lord Brenton (overly familiar) and only once with Freddie, who seemed to prefer to join Lady Amelia in the row of chaperones. Viscount Swanley had not put
in an appearance.

  Viscount Swanley arrived only when the supper bell was rung. An Indian summer had been warming London's autumn, and tables had been set up in a marquee in the garden. The marquee was very grand, being made of purple silk with its sides raised up on gold poles rather in the manner of an exotic Oriental tent. Margery was therefore afforded an excellent view of her husband vanishing into a rose-strewn arbor with Lady Camberwell.

  Margery gathered the attention of her audience, which consisted of Freddie and Lady Amelia, Toby and his brother, and Viscount Swanley. She pointed her fork in the direction of the arbor into which her husband had just disappeared.

  “That arbor is vastly pretty. But it is too late for roses to be growing, outside of a succession house. They must be made of silk.”

  “Clever, that,” said Freddie indifferently.

  “I would like them,” said Margery, examining a lobster pattie.

  “Eh!” said all of the gentlemen in chorus.

  “I would like them ... all those roses,” said Margery dreamily. “I have often wondered what it would be like to have masses and masses of roses.”

  “I say,” expostulated Toby. “Can't go around picking roses in the middle of the ball.”

  Margery pouted prettily. “If it were a bet you would do it without thinking.”

  That magic word “bet” roused the gentlemen as if they were warhorses scenting the smell of battle.

  “Wager you an hundred guineas,” said Toby, much flushed, “that I can pick the most.”

  “Done,” cried Perry and Lord Brenton. Freddie for once was silent.

  To the amazement of the other guests, the three contestants plunged into the arbor with loud whoops and yells and started grabbing enormous handfuls of artificial roses. There was a feminine squeal and a masculine oath and the marquess and Lady Camberwell emerged from the arbor. Like Margery, she had been wearing white roses in her hair, and one of the enthusiastic contestants had grabbed at them in the darkness of the arbor, mistaking them for part of the decoration. Lady Camberwell caught the hard stare of Margery's eye and flushed angrily. She had no desire to have her latest flirt broadcast to the world in general and to this formidable little wife in particular.

  The marquess had disappeared, but Lady Camberwell moved towards Margery's table. The contestants were still whooping and yelling and seizing handfuls of roses.

  Lady Camberwell had talked her way out of many scandals, and there was no doubt in her mind that she could sooth this wife's ruffled feelings. She accordingly sat down beside Margery with great aplomb and gave a pretty laugh. “The Marchioness of Edgecombe, is it not? You must excuse me for borrowing your husband. I am a great bird fancier and I was sure there was a white owl nesting in that arbor. But alas! It must have been the roses all the time.”

  “My husband is a bird fancier too,” said Margery sweetly. “I am not surprised at his enthusiasm. He has a great interest in birds of all shapes and plumage. I unfortunately do not share his interest although I take a slight interest in each bird he happens to fancy—their plumage, their habits, their different little cries. We have a very modern marriage and he talks freely about his—er—feathered friends. Then when conversation flags, I tell all my friends about his birds, and they are kind enough to show a most flattering interest.”

  Lady Camberwell gave a lazy laugh. “Come now. All the world knows that Charles never discusses his ... hobbies.”

  “Ah, but that was before he was married,” said Margery, looking straight into Lady Camberwell's beautiful eyes. The gentlemen were triumphantly piling up roses at their feet, but their actions went unheeded.

  Lady Camberwell gave a little nod and then rose to her feet. “A most interesting discussion, my lady,” she said. “It is as well we were only talking about birds. Gossip, in this society of ours, can be a dangerous thing.”

  “Indeed it can,” replied Margery earnestly. “Only think how they applaud a man who has many lovers, and smile indulgently and call him a rake. But a lady ... ah, now, there's the rub. Gossip like that could tear her reputation to shreds an’ you take my meaning.”

  “Perfectly,” said Lady Camberwell with a tight little smile. As she moved away, she heard Freddie bleating, “I didn't know Charles was interested in birds,” and Lady Amelia's warning “Hush.”

  Lady Camberwell met the marquess at the entrance to the ballroom. His mocking smile glinted down at her. “Do you come with me, my lady?” he whispered. “We did not finish our discussion.”

  He looked so handsome. Lady Camberwell gave a mental little sigh of regret. “I have the headache, Charles,” she said firmly. “You must excuse me.” She pushed past him almost rudely.

  He looked after her with his eyes narrowed and then shrugged. He would lie in some woman's arms tonight, no matter who, to try to assuage this aching desire for revenge.

  He looked across the lawn to his wife. She was sitting surrounded by masses and masses of white roses. A light breeze was lifting her hair and her face was alive with amusement as she listened to Viscount Swanley. The marquess swore under his breath. There was always Mrs. Harrison.

  * * * *

  Toby and his brother jolted home together in the confines of a closed carriage. “Know what?” asked Lord Brenton, suddenly breaking the silence. “She's hot stuff!”

  “Hold on,” said Toby angrily. “If you mean Lady Margery, then you're wrong.”

  “Pooh!” said Lord Brenton. “You know and I know that Charles was fooling around in the shrubbery with Lady Camberwell. Margery knew it and she didn't turn a hair. Welcomed the woman to the table and prattled on about birdwatching. She'll soon be looking for her own lover.”

  “Not Margery!”

  “Yes, Margery! Pa was right, you know. He said he could always tell the flighty ones. Think about it, Toby. I can tell by the way she looks at you.”

  Toby thought. It was a painful process, since he was not in the habit of thinking very much about anything.

  “I couldn't ... she wouldn't,” he said finally.

  Lord Brenton nudged him in the ribs and winked fatly in the darkness of the carriage. “Take it from your elder brother,” he said. “She could and she would.”

  The Marquess of Edgecombe presented his card to a trim parlor maid at a slim house in Half Moon Street and requested her to inform Mrs. Harrison that she had a late visitor.

  “Very good, my lord,” said the girl, scurrying up the stairs and throwing the handsome lord an appreciative look over her shoulder.

  There was a murmur of voices from above and a sudden shriek of "No!"

  A few minutes later, the parlor maid came hurrying down the stairs with her eyes lowered. “Please, my lord. Mrs. Harrison, she isn't home.”

  “I see,” said the marquess, slowly reflecting that he did not. He took his hat and cane from where he had so confidently thrown them on the sofa and made his way out into the night. First Lady Camberwell, and now this!

  He must be losing his touch.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  With an abrupt change in the weather, fog and frost descended on the streets of London: thick, yellow, choking fog which crept into the clubs and drawing rooms, soiling the Brussels lace of the curtains and bringing with it a marrow-freezing chill.

  Lady Margery felt immeasurably listless and depressed. She and her husband moved about their town mansion like polite strangers. The chilling weather had allayed the ripe smell of the sewers, but little else could be found in its favor. The marquess's frozen manner seemed an extension of the weather itself. Margery had flirted gaily with Toby and Lord Brenton and Viscount Swanley and even Freddie— although the latter seemed to spend most of his time in Amelia's company—but to all this the marquess seemed to turn a blind eye.

  Toby was particularly gratified by Margery's attentions and felt he was changing into quite a ladies’ man. He affected large nosegays in his buttonhole and had even taken to wearing scent and—wonder of wonders—confessed to having baths at leas
t twice a month. His sporting cronies shook their heads over this, prophesying everything from pneumonia to the plague, and Toby would have dropped this new fashion had not Freddie and Viscount Swanley confessed that they themselves took baths regularly, and as for the marquess, it was rumored that he took a bath almost every day!

  That was enough for Toby. He had no intention of going to such extremes as Edgecombe, but on the other hand he had actually begun to enjoy his twice-monthly immersion in hot water. And, as he confided to the marquess, it certainly kept the dashed livestock at bay and he didn't want to end up like old Ellington, whose wig crawled like a zoo!

  Margery began to feel that her life had always been the same, as grim winter settled over London. Sometimes she felt that she, Margery, was the chaperone and Amelia the debutante as Lady Amelia attended more and more balls and parties, always escorted by the ever-attentive Freddie.

  “How kind Freddie is,” thought Margery. “Not many young men would take such trouble to be kind to a middle-aged lady.”

  The marquess also felt that his life had become stale, flat, and unprofitable. The pain Margery's appearance caused him had remained undiminished, but he had no longer tried to set up an affair with any other woman.

  He was brooding over this one evening while the yellow snakes of fog wound themselves round his library and his wife was off somewhere dancing in the arms of some other man. He prowled moodily along the bookshelves, searching for something to read to pass the long hours before bedtime.

  A wisp of lace at the corner of the sofa caught his eye and he stopped his pacing to pick it up. It was one of Margery's handkerchiefs. Without thinking, he raised it to his nose, smelling the light fragrance she usually wore. He was suddenly attacked by such a rush of passion that he crumpled the fine linen and lace in his fingers into a ball and threw it back on the sofa.