Regency Romp 03 - The Alabaster Hip

by Maggie Fenton

  Dr. Lucas sighed heavily as he studied the scene before him. “I think I just spotted Lady Blundersmith fainting upon somebody. I suppose I’d better do my duty,” he said without enthusiasm, polishing off the rest of his ale.

  The doctor eyed the duke, perhaps hoping Montford might save him from his fate by being violently ill again, but the duke waved him on his way. The doctor’s shoulders slumped.

  The three of them watched in grave silence as the doctor march to his fate.

  “Better him than me,” Sebastian declared pityingly.

  “I don’t think I can do this,” Marlowe murmured, turning to climb back into the barouche. Montford caught him by the collar and hauled him toward the bonfire.

  “Buck up, man,” the duke growled. “And after this is all over, I’ll accompany you myself to the archbishop for a special license. We’ll have you married before Monday.”

  “What?” Marlowe cried, turning to the duke, who’d obviously cast up all his brains along with the ale. “Special license? What are you even talking about?”

  The duke glared at him, though his usual pompous authority was rather diminished by the red banyan and flushed cheeks. “I’m talking about you fixing this mess you’ve made once and for all, instead of all of this blasted brooding. Now go down there and win back your woman, for God’s sake, Marlowe.”

  “Unless you don’t want to wed Miss Jones,” Sebastian murmured, staggering after them and looking far too amused with the proceedings for Marlowe’s taste. “In which case, I don’t know why we’re even here.”

  “Of course I want to marry her. I am just not sure this is the best time to . . .”

  “Nonsense, it is the perfect time,” Montford said, shoving him onward.

  “But look at all of them down there!” he protested. “It’s like Corunna all over again.”

  “Grand Gestures deserve a grand audience,” Sebastian declared, flinging his arms wide and spilling half his drink onto the lawn.

  “Does that stage look like a gallows to you?” Marlowe asked. “Because it certainly looks like one to me. If this grand audience is burning my poetry, then they’d probably like nothing better than to string me up!”

  Sebastian rounded on Marlowe with a growl of frustration, his amusement gone, and handed his drink off to Crick, who’d appeared out of nowhere. He placed his hands on Marlowe’s shoulders and stared at him seriously. “Marlowe, I think it’s about time someone told you the truth.”

  “What are you going on about?”

  “Are you listening?” Sebastian demanded, leaning in close to him with such earnest entreaty that Marlowe started to feel even more apprehensive than he had staring down at the hoi polloi.

  “Yes, I’m listening. How could I not be with you breathing all over me?” he snapped.

  “Marlowe,” Sebastian said, and paused dramatically, “you’re a poet.”

  Good God, he was, wasn’t he? He was a poet. He’d never let himself believe it, not really.

  “I’m a bloody poet,” he breathed.

  “A damn good bloody poet,” Sebastian confirmed. “And they’re burning your books.”

  The word he used in response to this was four-lettered and not likely to ever make it into any of his poems. “They are, aren’t they?”

  “Are you going to let this stand?”

  “No, no, I’m not.”

  “And are you going to let Miss Jones get away without even trying?”

  “No!” he cried. Though Marlowe rather doubted Minerva would appreciate a Grand Gesture of any kind. But then again, she was down there somewhere, standing unafraid against those who would denigrate his work. That was a gesture of a sort—one that made him hope as he’d not hoped in days.

  The least he could do was show the same courage.

  The last time he’d risked his heart, he’d had it shattered nearly beyond repair. It had taken years to piece it back together into some sort of working order, so risking it again was an absolutely terrifying prospect. He’d not thought he’d be able to survive another heartbreak. But after all he’d endured in the past week—losing Minerva, nearly losing Laura—he’d not fallen apart as he might have done even six months ago. He’d grown stronger and wiser these past few years without even realizing it. If he couldn’t repair things with Minerva, he would be devastated, but he wouldn’t break. He would not throw himself to his demons once more.

  But if he had a chance to win Minerva back, he had to take it. And now seemed as good a time as any. He’d beg for another chance with her, and at the same time, he’d own up to who he was, as he should have done long ago. He’d thought he’d cast off his fears, but perhaps he’d merely suppressed them—pushed them deep down into the shadows, where they were lurking, unseen but toxic. What other honest explanation of his stubborn reluctance to claim Christopher Essex’s works as his own?

  He’d let fear control him for too long—and it had lost him the best thing that had ever happened to him.

  Well, he’d be a coward no longer. He’d keep no secrets from the world or Minerva, and if he ended up making a cake of himself, well . . .

  There was nothing new in that.

  HOURS LATER, MARLOWE awoke with a splitting headache, his hands bound to a chair, and absolutely no idea where he was. He should have known better than to take advice from his friends when they were all foxed on Honeywell Ale.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  IN WHICH THE VISCOUNT MAKES A GRAND GESTURE

  LADY BENWICK WORE such a smug look as she ascended the stage that Minerva wished she could knock it off her face with her fist. She’d become worryingly bloodthirsty after living with Leightons for so long.

  “Thank you to the ladies of the Ladies’ League Against Lewd and Lascivious Literature and Letters for coming today in support of this worthy cause,” Lady Benwick began.

  There was a smattering of applause among the league’s members, and a ripple of derisive snorts among the duchess’s followers. Lady Benwick stubbornly ignored that side of the fire.

  “Although it seems many here today have come to undermine the proceedings. The league seeks to save our daughters and our nation from the vulgar clutches of our modern poets and philosophers—and if some ladies present cannot see the clear danger in consuming such immoral rubbish, I suggest you are in the wrong place,” she concluded huffily as the dissent from the duchess’s ranks grew in decibels.

  “The only danger I see, Emily, is your little temper tantrum burning down Hyde Park!” Madame la Duchesse boomed. She had a surprisingly loud voice for someone who looked as if her body were being held up entirely by stiff crinolines and sheer bullheadedness.

  Lady Benwick’s face grew an alarming shade of red as her composure began to fracture. “You’re one to talk, Anabel,” the woman hissed, as if the entire crowd couldn’t very well hear her. “Since you burned down a castle last I saw you!”

  “She has a point, Auntie,” Astrid said to Madame la Duchesse. “Though I am worried less about Hyde Park and more about those poor books. Only tyrants and zealots burn books, Aunt Emily,” she called out to the stage. “Have you even read any of the works you are immolating?”

  “I don’t need to read them to know they are a bad influence,” Lady Benwick declared huffily. “Especially that horrid Christopher Essex—whom you foisted upon my poor, innocent Davina.”

  The duchess looked completely bewildered by the accusation. Lady Benwick indicated the gaggle of Misstophers penned in by their mothers, gazing longingly toward Astrid’s side of the fire. Davina, who was attempting to hide among them despite her garish gown, flushed and looked everywhere but at her mother and cousin.

  “You have turned her into a sensational novelist!” Lady Benwick finished with the same weight she might have used to accuse her daughter of murder.

  “God forbid,” Minerva muttered.

  “Now if you would be so good as to let me continue,” Lady Benwick said haughtily.

  Astrid nodded regally. “I should
n’t dream of interrupting you again, Aunt. I haven’t been so diverted in years.”

  Lady Benwick gave her niece a suspicious look before attempting to repair the dignity she’d lost during her argument. She turned back to her followers with a huff.

  “Today we have gathered to take a stand against indecency in modern letters and to rescue our daughters from their own ignorant adulation. Where better to consign the immoral, inflammatory works of libertine thinkers than to the flames?” she intoned, gesturing toward the burning pyre in an obviously rehearsed manner.

  A few of the LLALLLL clapped politely. Most of them gazed at the pyre in alarm and took a few steps back. The flames were getting even higher.

  “To bolster our righteous mission, I have invited the Reverend Mr. Fawkes, Vicar of Rylestone Green, to say a few words today,” Lady Benwick continued doggedly. “He graciously agreed to travel all the way from Yorkshire to support our cause. Vicar?”

  Mr. Fawkes, drifting uneasily in a no-man’s-land between the LLALLLL and the duchess’s ladies, blanched at the summoning and the smattering of half-hearted applause that followed. The poor man looked torn between mounting the stage and fleeing the city, but Lady Benwick’s gaze, which had turned threatening when she saw the vicar’s hesitation, finally spurred the man from his paralysis. He climbed the steps of the platform with the reluctance of a French noble heading for the guillotine.

  When Lady Benwick moved to relieve him of his clutch of books, however, he clung to them, white-knuckled, until she was forced to give up with ill-concealed consternation. She stepped to the rear of the stage, looking nonplussed by the vicar’s truculence.

  The last of the applause dwindled, and the vicar cleared his throat several times, gazing uneasily from one side of the fire to the other. He tucked his books under one arm and tugged at his clerical collar as if it were choking him.

  “I . . . I m-m-m-must a-admit, m-m-m-my understanding of this . . . er . . . g-g-g-gathering . . . that is to say . . . the, er, sp-sp-speech I had p-p-p-prep-p-p-pared is p-p-p-p-perhaps n-n-not exactly what the L-L-L-Ladies’ L-L-L-League A-A-A-Against . . . er L-L-L-Lewd a-a-a-and L-L-La, L-L-L . . . that is, the L-L-L-Ladies’ L-L-L-League h-h-h-had in m-m-m-mind.”

  He looked toward the duchess imploringly. “So we are sure this is n-n-n-not a l-l-l-l-l-l-literary salon, then?” he finally asked a bit desperately. “B-b-b-because I h-h-h-had a rather l-l-l-lovely sp-sp-speech p-p-p-p-prepared on the subject of Christopher Essex . . .”

  Lady Benwick cleared her throat pointedly.

  He glanced sidelong at her and renewed his grip on his books, paling even further at her expression. “B-b-b-but as you, L-L-L-Lady B-B-B-Benwick, are such a r-r-r-rich m-m-member—er, I-I-I-I m-m-m-mean, a r-r-r-richly v-v-v-valued m-m-member of m-m-my congregation, I shall endeavor to r-r-r-revise m-m-my sp-sp-speech accordingly.”

  Lady Benwick looked somewhat mollified until the silence following the declaration began to draw itself out. The crowd on both sides of the bonfire began to fidget with impatience as the vicar struggled to formulate his next words—even more so than usual.

  Lady Benwick stared at the back of the vicar’s head as if he’d grown horns.

  The vicar looked even more disheartened as the minutes passed and the words wouldn’t come. Finally, he managed, rather half-heartedly: “Well, if it’s cr-cr-criticism you are w-w-w-wanting, then, I-I-I-I have to say I didn’t r-r-really care for The I-I-Italian P-P-P-Poem. I-I-It is b-b-by far Essex’s l-l-least successful work in m-m-my estimation. N-n-n-not that it w-w-w-wasn’t b-b-better than m-m-most,” he hastened on, “b-b-b-but I-I just didn’t enjoy it as m-m-much as Le Chevalier o-o-or The H-H-H-Hedonist . . .” He trailed off, winced at Lady Benwick’s frown, and wiped his sweating brow with his handkerchief.

  Lady Benwick shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose as if struck with a headache, and the LLALLLL members began murmuring indignantly among themselves.

  The Misstophers looked as if they grudgingly agreed with the vicar’s assessment. Minerva certainly did. The Italian Poem was by far her least favorite as well.

  “I believe there has been a misunderstanding, Vicar,” Lady Benwick finally said, stepping forward.

  The vicar took a subtle step away from her, out of arm’s reach, which Minerva thought very wise of him. “I-I-I-I c-c-c-couldn’t agree m-m-m-more,” he murmured warily.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Fawkes,” Astrid called out through her laughter. “You shall still have Montford’s patronage. And I agree with you about The Italian Poem. It was not nearly saucy enough.”

  The vicar’s face went beet red, and he glanced uneasily at the fuming Lady Benwick. “That is n-n-n-not why I d-d-didn’t . . . that is . . . it w-w-w-was the imagery . . . and . . . er, the b-b-bit about the Etruscans I f-f-f-found somewhat l-l-lacking . . . anyway, Essex is m-m-more than just the . . . er, the saucy b-b-b-bits, Duchess. H-h-h-his genius l-l-l-lies in . . .”

  He was cut off by Lady Benwick’s rather less than subtle nudge to his side.

  “But h-h-how about I-I-I speak on Lord Byron?” the vicar tried. “I-I-I am sure I c-c-could f-f-find l-l-l-loads of h-h-h-horrid things to say about him, Lady Benwick.”

  Lady Benwick didn’t look as if she appreciated the vicar’s gesture.

  “I think you’ve said enough,” she bit out through gritted teeth.

  “I think you’ve all said enough,” growled a new voice—well, it was new to the moment, but not to Minerva. Her heart turned over in her chest as she watched Marlowe himself push through the duchess’s picket line, the Duke of Montford, the Marquess of Manwaring, and—for some unfathomable reason—Inigo flanking him and eyeing the bonfire incredulously.

  For some other unfathomable reason beyond Minerva’s comprehension, the duke seemed to be wearing Marlowe’s favorite red silk banyan, while Marlowe himself wore a tailored cutaway jacket that fit his broad shoulders like a glove. The silver fabric was a bit over the top, more suited to the sartorial splendor of the marquess, but he looked . . .

  He looked dashing. Handsome, even, in a wild-haired, dramatic sort of way as he stalked up to the stage on his long legs and glared out at the gathering.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Lady Benwick cried.

  “What do you think you’re doing, madam?” he shot back, gesturing at the bonfire. He looked outraged, but beneath that, Minerva could see the injury. It couldn’t have been easy to watch a pyre that was fueled mostly by his own works burn to the ground, and her heart hurt for the poet in him in that moment. She was still so angry at him—and confused and unnerved by his sudden appearance—but she mourned his creative loss.

  “How dare you engage in such philistine censorship,” he declared.

  “Philistine!” Lady Benwick cried. “How dare you, Lord Marlowe. What matter is it of yours what we burn?”

  Minerva could see his next words written all over his face before he could speak them, and her heart nearly beat out of her chest with apprehension.

  He wouldn’t, surely he wouldn’t.

  For a split second, a look of utter terror flashed across his face, before it was strong-armed into oblivion by his dogged determination.

  He would. He was going to do it. She didn’t know whether to be proud of him or infuriated. To admit to a half-hostile crowd now what he couldn’t admit to her for months . . . well, she didn’t know how it made her feel, but it certainly wasn’t anything good.

  “It matters to me, madam, because I am Christopher Essex,” he declared.

  The crowd let out a collective gasp. The Misstophers, suddenly galvanized, thrust past their mothers and crowded at the bottom of the stage, tittering and moaning among themselves. Many of the LLALLLL took to their smelling salts once again, including Lady Blundersmith, who looked seconds away from collapsing upon her companion. The vicar, who had been standing awkwardly between Marlowe and Lady Benwick, gazed raptly at the viscount, as bowled over as any Misstopher, while the duchess’s supporters let ou
t an encouraging cheer.

  Lady Benwick looked as if she might cast up her accounts—or shove Marlowe off the stage and into the bonfire, if given half the chance.

  “You!” Lady Benwick scoffed in disbelief. “The Viscount Marlowe? You are Christopher Essex?”

  “Evelyn Christopher Leighton, Viscount Marlowe. My mother’s family name was Essex, and if you are not bloody well convinced, you may ask my publisher,” he ground out.

  Lady Benwick recovered enough from the shock to send a quelling look to the Misstophers—among them her own daughter—who were attempting to ascend the stage to mob the poet.

  Marlowe glanced at the young ladies warily before turning his attention to the rest of the assembled throng. He seemed to be looking for something . . . someone, and Minerva began to have a really bad feeling about what was to come.

  He finally found what he was looking for, and Minerva felt her cheeks flush, for his eyes had landed on her and seemed to have no intention of budging.

  “I am Christopher Essex,” he declared again, as if anyone hadn’t heard him the first time, and . . . oh, god, he was going to make a speech. “Someone told me recently how much of a coward I have been to hide behind my pen all these years, and she was right.”

  Was she? She was beginning to doubt that very much.

  “I was a coward about so many things,” he continued, never taking his eyes off her. “And cowardice and fear have never led anywhere worthwhile.” He gestured toward the bonfire to underscore his words. “Most of all, I was afraid of my own heart—and the fear has cost me so very dearly.” The Misstophers moaned at the devastating words, but Minerva just felt her cheeks get even hotter and her heart beat even faster as Marlowe continued to look at her so imploringly.

  Damn it, he was saying such lovely things, but at the same time she hated what a spectacle it all was. Didn’t he know how little she would want to be the center of attention? Didn’t he know how mortified his Grand Gesture would make her feel?