by Regina Scott
More footmen directed them through the house, although, Thomas reflected, they had only to follow the crowds. Margaret blinked again as they stepped into a round hall, easily one hundred and forty feet in diameter. The walls were draped with white muslin, and the roof was painted a dull white to match. A Grecian temple in the center was surrounded by silk flowers. By the gentle rhythms emanating from it, he would guess it had been designed to hide the musicians who were playing for over a hundred couples. It was a sign of Margaret’s amazement that she did not immediately clamor to join them.
“This is Nash’s work, I’ll wager,” he told her, thinking of the flamboyant architect the Regent had brought into prominence. A passing servant offered champagne, which Thomas accepted for himself and Margaret. She took the gilt-edged crystal, but her gaze continued to dart among the bejeweled, satin-gowned ladies and velvet-coated gentlemen like a hummingbird among a garden of flowers.
“It is most impressive,” she managed.
Thomas nodded to several acquaintances, looking pointedly for Court, who would be a good choice to discuss Margaret’s bill. Among the press, he did not spy the viscount easily. Tucking Margaret’s hand in his elbow, he guided her through the crowd, stopping here and there to make introductions and exchange pleasantries. They made their way through the receiving line, greeting the Prince, several military leaders, and finally Wellington himself.
“He must be a better general than a statesman,” Margaret commented as they moved back among the promenading couples. “That long hawkish nose might be considered impressive, but his mouth is far too expressive. He seems to be either amused or dismayed by this honor.”
“He is not one for ostentation,” Thomas acknowledged, appreciating her quick assessment. He led her back through the crowd, searching for a likely lord. Even though he knew she had a goal in mind, he could see her gaze moving more and more toward the dancers. If he did not find her a debate partner soon, she was likely to succumb to her favorite pastime.
Halfway around the hall he spied Lord Malcolm Breckonridge, leader of the moderate Whigs, and moved in to introduce Margaret to him. He had wondered whether he would have to help steer the conversation onto the amendment, but she proved her usual direct self.
“And how do you plan to vote on the Poor Laws amendment, my lord?” she asked as soon as the fellow had straightened from his bow.
Thomas watched as Breckonridge raised a craggy black eyebrow. A tall, powerfully built fellow with unkempt raven hair and rugged features, he had cultivated a reputation for intimidation, physically and intellectually. Margaret remained undaunted, a fact that clearly impressed him.
“The bill would appear to be timely,” he allowed. “But I’m not sure how effective it would be at solving the problem.”
Thomas hid a smile at the carefully worded statement. Margaret immediately set out to convince him of the bill’s many flaws. A half hour later, she had gathered a crowd of two earls, a duke, five members of the Commons, and seven assorted ministers. He watched her argue passionately while around her, his fellow Parliamentarians nodded and questioned and jostled each other to get in on the debate. He stepped aside to let another eager lord through and found Lady Sally Jersey at his side.
“That’s certainly the first time Miss Munroe has ever drawn such a following,” she remarked with her typical waspish humor.
“Even the jaded ton can recognize sincerity,” he replied as Lord Breckonridge chuckled at something Margaret had said. He didn’t think he’d ever seen the man laugh before.
“So can I,” Lady Jersey told him. “Let Miss Munroe know she has other supporters, from a constituency less visible, but no less powerful.”
Thomas inclined his head. “I thank you for the lady.”
Her eyes smiled at him before she strolled away.
The interest in Margaret’s expostulation did not wane until supper was called. Then Thomas had to elbow his way to her side to prevent one of the other gentlemen from claiming her as a partner. Her color was high, and her blue eyes were bright, but he doubted she had taken more than a sip from the champagne she still held.
“A triumph, my dear,” he proclaimed as he led her down one of the covered walks to a tent set up in the gardens. There were several such tents, each lined with transparent murals through which candlelight glowed. The mural on their tent seemed to have something to do with the defeat of Napoleon, but the neoclassical figures were so overdrawn he could not be sure. As he turned to locate a pair of seats, he was pleased to find Court winding his way toward him and held up Margaret to wait.
“I saw you earlier,” Court explained after a stiff bow toward Margaret. “But could not reach you through the crowd. Was it Lord Wellington?”
“Not Wellington,” Thomas replied with a smile toward Margaret. “But someone equally capable of commanding attention. I believe the ton has christened a new Incomparable.”
“Nonsense, my lord,” she answered, sharing his smile. “There is simply a class of gentlemen who enjoy a good debate. I do not doubt that tomorrow I shall find myself once more merely an Original.”
“We should find seats,” Court interjected, nodding to where the supper tables were rapidly filling.
Thomas led Margaret to a nearby table and sat beside her. Court attempted to sit beside him, but a cavalry officer beat him to the chair. Court bowed and went to sit on the other side of Margaret instead. Thomas could hardly fail to notice the tight set to the viscount’s mouth. He found it difficult to credit that his friend still held a grudge against Margaret for beating him in a race, but then the viscount was not known for losing gracefully. Since he so rarely lost, his fits of pique were easily forgotten. He wondered whether it would be advisable to leave them alone, but when he rose to fill their gold plates from the buffet, Court went with him. He had no time to converse with his friend, however, as the press of crowd prevented intimate conversation.
Despite her popularity, Margaret had obviously not lost touch with her goal in attending the fete. No sooner had Thomas brought her supper than she turned to Court. “And what do you think of the Poor Laws amendment, my lord?”
Court eyed her, then slid a glance at Thomas beyond her as if unsure how forthright he was supposed to be.
“Viscount Darton helped pen the bill,” Thomas put in, hoping he wasn’t starting another war Wellington would have to finish. “Go ahead, Court. Miss Munroe would benefit from hearing someone defend the amendment.”
“I take it you have heard something about the bill that distresses you?” the viscount asked Margaret. “You need not worry, Miss Munroe. This bill will do nothing but help the poor.”
“On the contrary,” Margaret declared, eyes flashing like lightning from a darkening sky. “This bill will do nothing but hurt the poor.”
“You are opposed to workhouses, I suppose,” Court replied, sparing Thomas a glance that said he thought Thomas had originated the idea. Thomas shook his head, but Court had already returned his attention to Margaret.
“I find them totally reprehensible,” she was saying. “The Church of England and a host of high-minded citizens have developed a number of practices that lead to rehabilitation for those who have no legal vocation. This bill would undermine everything they have worked to achieve.”
“And those same citizens complain of the high cost of the Poor Rates they pay,” Court countered. “This bill will allow us to cut those taxes in half.”
“But at what cost?” she persisted. “Women and children forced to labor. Families separated. You ask too much, Lord Darton.”
“I fear you view this entirely too emotionally, Miss Munroe,” the viscount chided. Thomas shook his head again to warn the viscount he was moving onto shaky ground, but apparently Darton did not see him. “Governance,” he continued, “is not the for tender-hearted.”
“Nor for the weak-minded,” Margaret snapped.
Court stiffened even as Thomas rolled his eyes at the insult.
“Then it
is a very good thing you cannot vote on this issue, Miss Munroe,” he said before pointedly turning away from her to engage the fellow on his left in conversation.
“Was that last shot necessary?” Thomas murmured, drawing her attention away from his friend. Her eyes still snapped fire, and her mouth was a thin line of annoyance.
“I will not apologize,” she declared. “To you or to him. How dare he placate me! He never could stand to be bested, especially by a woman. If you ask me, that points to an overly inflated sense of self-worth.”
“Or lack of confidence,” Thomas pointed out gently. “He’s still young. Give him a few more years, and he will yet turn into a noted statesman.”
“If he continues this way, he won’t live long enough,” she muttered darkly. “Someone besides me will surely be upset enough to call him out.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow at her vehemence. While he thought he had grown accustomed to her passionate nature, he was surprised to find that she was as firm in her own grudges as she was in her admirations. He wondered just where he stood along the spectrum and was more than a little afraid to find out. But somehow he knew she’d be only too pleased to tell him, if his guarded heart would lend him the courage to ask.
Chapter Fourteen
Margaret was not sure whether to cheer or collapse in a dead faint. There could no longer be any question that the Marquis DeGuis was serious in his courtship. Since the celebration for Wellington, he had called every day. Sometimes they rode, other times they drove out into the country. He escorted her to the opera and the theater. He came personally to tell her that the Poor Laws amendment would not reach the floor before Parliament recessed for the end of the summer, bringing her flowers to celebrate her victory and listening with a smile to her cheers. He had accepted her challenge race each of the six times she had offered it. Although he had yet to waltz with her, one could not have asked for a more attentive, considerate suitor. Her stepmother was beside herself in delight.
He was the perfect gentleman, although Margaret could not quite forget his behavior at Comfort House and their conversation afterward. It could easily be his temper that had frightened away Lady Janice and Allison. She would never have suspected such white hot fury could exist in so otherwise calm a gentleman. Neither did she feel he would ever turn that temper on anyone he loved. However, as she still had no word from her cousin, she could not be certain.
Even more amazing was the day less than a fortnight from their agreement that he came to call on her father. She did not even know he had been there until her father wandered into the sewing room at the back of the house, where Margaret and her stepmother often worked together. That day she was helping her stepmother replace a worn collar on one of her winter dresses. She looked up and smiled as her father came into the room. He winked at her, then went to plant a kiss on his wife’s bowed head. Mrs. Munroe looked up in surprise.
“Goodness, what was that for?” she exclaimed, needle frozen in mid-stitch.
“For shepherding the most clever girl in London,” her father replied cheerfully.
Margaret’s smile deepened, but her stepmother frowned. “You are forever saying that about Margaret. I quite agree with you that she is clever. What has suddenly brought it to your attention again today?”
“My visitor this morning. He was quite insistent on her many fine qualities.”
Her stepmother continued to frown, but Margaret felt her heart jump. “Who was visiting this morning, Father?”
“Who indeed?” Her father chuckled, obviously enjoying the fact that for once he knew more than they did. “A fine fellow, if I’m not mistaken. Tall, imposing, titled.”
Mrs. Munroe clutched the needle. “The Marquis DeGuis? Has he come up to scratch?”
Margaret rose shakily to her feet. “I do not believe it. He wouldn’t be so old-fashioned as to ask you before he asked me.”
“Now, now, of course not,” her father soothed. “Though I must say it did my heart good to hear him praise you so. Let’s see, how did that go? Honest, intelligent, witty, willing to live for her principles. Now, that’s the daughter I raised.”
“Do stop prattling,” her stepmother ordered. “What did he say? Is he going to marry Margaret?”
“And don’t you want to know about his qualifications before I answer that question?” her father challenged.
Margaret knew all about his qualifications, most important of which was the fact that, despite any character flaw, she was still helplessly in love with him. Her stepmother was even less willing to wait.
“I know his qualifications,” she replied with a sniff. “He is rich, titled, and a gentleman. What did he say?”
“There is more to the fellow than that,” her father insisted. “For one thing, he rides. And he rides well. Did you know he’s won eighteen of the twenty races he’s entered?”
“Yes,” Margaret answered with a smile.
“That is hardly important,” Mrs. Munroe protested.
“Furthermore, he tithes ten percent of his annual income to the Church of England, and another ten percent to worthy charities.”
“Really?” Margaret mused, thinking of all the good she might do Comfort House with that kind of funding. She put the thought hastily away. She would likely never be his wife, and it was greedy to think how she might spend someone else’s money.
“That is quite commendable, I’m sure,” her stepmother said. “Now, get to the point, if you please. Did you or did you not give him permission to marry Margaret?”
“I did not,” her father replied.
Margaret sank back onto the chair, heart dropping to the soles of her feet. “You didn’t?”
“You didn’t?” her stepmother gasped, collapsing against the back of her own chair.
“I didn’t,” her father echoed. He winked at Margaret again. “The fellow admitted he does not waltz. I told him to take lessons.”
Margaret felt a laugh bubbling up. “Oh, Father, you didn’t.”
“Oh, Marcus, you didn’t!” her stepmother cried, straightening again with fire in her eye.
“I most certainly did,” her father countered. “I told him he has permission to marry my daughter as soon as he can acquit himself well on the dance floor, or whenever my daughter informs me that she is willing to have him.”
Margaret sprung from the chair and threw her arms about him. “Oh, Father, thank you!”
“Well, I must say, you took long enough to get around to it,” Mrs. Munroe said with a sigh. But she too rose and enfolded them both in a hug. “Our lives are made, my dears. Margaret, I’m so happy for you.”
Margaret chuckled, disengaging. “Do not crow yet. He hasn’t actually asked me.”
“Oh, but he shall,” Mrs. Munroe predicted. “I can feel it. You will be Lady Thomas DeGuis before the end of the year, mark my words.”
“Sooner than that, perhaps,” her father remarked with a chuckle. “We’re invited to spend two months at his estate in the Lake District.”
“Really?” her stepmother asked with a frown.
“Really,” her father insisted. “And I am getting quite tired of no one believing what I say. You stand there and argue, and our Margaret looks none too pleased. I thought you’d enjoy the visit, my dear. You’ve always said you thought that part of the country sounded heavenly.”
Margaret nodded absently. In truth, everything she had heard about the area, the sparkling blue lakes, the vibrant green hillsides, the towering crags, sounded beautiful beyond words. But in so quiet a setting, wouldn’t the differences between her and Thomas be all the more noticeable? She would probably have no doubts as to his character, and the flaws therein, or his feelings by the end of that time. Somehow the thought chilled her.
“Give her time to get used to the idea,” her stepmother counseled. “I’m sure she’ll be delighted. When do we leave?”
“At the end of the fortnight,” her father replied.
Mrs. Munroe sighed deeply. “Summer in th
e country. It’s been ages since I’ve had a chance. Margaret, promise me you will do nothing to anger the marquis in the next fortnight. I simply couldn’t bear to have this trip canceled.”
Margaret smiled woodenly. “Certainly, madam. I’ll be my usual charming self.”
“That’s all anyone can ask,” her father agreed.
Her stepmother frowned but wisely said nothing. Instead, she hurried from the room muttering about packing.
–
Others had varying reactions to the news that Margaret was to spend two months in the country with the Marquis DeGuis.
“And how are we supposed to get on without you?” Annie Turner demanded when Margaret told her the next day. “What if another cove shows up?”
“You’ve told me repeatedly that you can handle things,” Margaret reminded her. “Besides, it was the marquis who quelled the last fellow, not me. You know that law you were worried about will not come to pass until next spring at the earliest, and I promise to keep campaigning as soon as everyone returns from the summer recess. Is there anything else you need me for?”
Annie tried to look defiant, then her sagging face dropped even further and she threw her arms about Margaret. “I’ll miss you, girl! Don’t you let that fellow lay a hand on you, you hear? You hold out for a golden band.”
Margaret hugged her back. “Do not trouble yourself on that score. I never intended to settle for anything less. If the man marries me, it will be because he loves me.”
Her cousin Reginald, of course, had other ideas.
“Hillwater,” he enthused, beady eyes bright. “Only his intimates are invited there. When do we leave?”
“In less than a fortnight,” her stepmother answered, apparently not noticing Reggie’s inclusion of himself in the matter. Margaret was not so easily swayed.
“We are not leaving at all,” she informed him. “You weren’t included in the invitation, Reggie.”
He drew himself up to his full height, barely looking her in the eye, and raised his quizzing glass. Margaret glared at him, and he hastily dropped the thing.
