by M C Beaton
Lucy returned to her own room and sat down in a chair by the window with an angry thump. Something was going on. If she spoke to the Chadburys, Isabella would never forgive her. Whom to ask? Then she thought of Captain James and felt a warm glow. She would not admit to herself that this was a perfectly splendid excuse to call on him. Besides, Captain James was living with her parents, so everyone would think she was calling on them.
When she reached her parents’ town house, she had to step over the elderly retainer, Biddle, who was lying dead drunk at the foot of the stairs. Stokes, the butler, had said that the captain was in the morning room.
Captain James, who had been reading the newspapers, struggled to his feet as Lucy tripped in. He was wrapped in an elaborate dressing gown. “Forgive my undress, Lady Lucy,” he said, “but I did not expect any callers.”
Lucy crossed the room and stood on tiptoe to study her face in the glass over the fireplace. “My nose is not red,” she said triumphantly. “She only said that because she was nonplussed!”
“Who? What? Sit down, my dear. You look most charming.”
Lucy flushed with pleasure and sat down next to him at the table.
“I need your help,” she said. “I followed Isabella this morning, and she met Lord Rupert in the Park. She told me it was by chance, but they were talking seriously and in low voices, and he was making love to her with his eyes. And when she left, he looked after her with such a nasty expression on his face.”
James poured her a cup of coffee and then said, “Begin at the beginning and tell me all.”
So Lucy told him every detail, all the while savouring the intimacy of their situation, he in his dressing gown, the clocks ticking, the fire crackling and the coffeepot hissing on the spirit stove.
He looked at her seriously when she had finished, then appeared to make up his mind. “I am going to break a confidence,” he said. “Your brother has a mischievous streak. He has been posing as the worst of fops to give Miss Chadbury a disgust of him. He says he has no intention of marrying her, and yet for some reason his behavior gets worse and he will not break it off.” He told Lucy about Lord Rupert’s horse ending with, “From what I have told you, Lord Rupert wants revenge on her. But if I tell Harry, he will tax her with it, and she will not believe him. I don’t think now she would believe any of us.”
“If it is this engagement that is driving her into Lord Rupert’s arms,” said Lucy, “then all Harry has to do is to tell her of the game he has been playing.”
“She would be furious, I think,” said the captain. “Don’t you?”
“I suppose so,” said Lucy, downcast. “Love should be so simple.”
“And what do you know of love, my child?”
She looked at him solemnly, her eyes wide.
He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the lips. Lucy mumbled something against his mouth. Startled at his own behavior, he was about to draw back, but two little arms clasped him tightly around the neck and drew him closer. And then it seemed easier to move her onto his lap where he could kiss her more comfortably, a long deep kiss that left them both trembling.
“Lucy, will you marry me?”
“Yes, kiss me again.”
“Child, I am so much older than you.”
“Too old for kisses?”
“Oh, no, my heart’s desire.” He kissed her snub nose, her throat, her ears, and her mouth again.
“Very soon,” he whispered at last against her mouth. “We must be married before I leave.”
Lucy drew back a little and looked at him seriously. “Yes, so that I may come with you.”
“You cannot! It would be a hell on earth. The filth, the wounded, the long marches …”
She laid a finger on his lips to silence him. “I am going with you,” she said.
“I must speak to your parents.”
“Come now,” said Lucy. He kissed her at the door of the morning room and then on the landing outside and then with a laugh, he swept her up in his arms and kissed her all the way to her parents’ bedroom before setting her down outside the door.
“What if they are asleep?” he whispered.
“Then we will go away.” Lucy opened the door.
Her parents were both sitting up in bed drinking hot chocolate. Two of the old dogs lay at the foot of the bed snoring loudly, while another lay on the hearth.
The room smelled strongly of unwashed bodies, essence of old dog, woodsmoke, and heavy perfume. The earl and countess thought washing all over one of those irritating new fads.
“I am come,” said the captain, “to ask you for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
“Lucy?” The countess looked surprised. “Well, if you must, you must. But go away. We do not like to be disturbed so early, do we, my sweet?”
“If you are to be part of this family, you must stop bouncing in and out of people’s bedrooms at this unearthly hour,” said the earl. “It’s only noon. Go away.”
“We are getting married very soon,” said Lucy.
“Why?” asked the countess curiously. “Not got his leg over you already, has he?”
Shocked and red-faced, the captain pulled Lucy from the room.
“Really!” he said, exasperated, “I thought it odd that your own mother should not supervise your social visit to London, but I declare you are better off with the Chadburys.”
“Mama was always rather coarse in her speech,” said Lucy. “I had forgot about Harry. What do we tell him?”
“Tell me what?” demanded Lord Harry’s voice from behind them.
“First,” said James, “that we are to be married, and I do not want any remarks about my age.”
“Congratulations, dear boy.”
“You mean you do not object?”
“I? Of course not. What a devilish dull evening that was at Almack’s. But I did well, did I not? Stirred the place up a bit. I hate Almack’s with all its rules and tepid lemonade and old sandwiches. Why do you both stare at me so? Have I not given you both my blessing?”
“You had best come down to the morning room,” said the captain quietly. “There is something you should know.”
Once in the morning room, they told Lord Harry about Isabella’s assignation. “And you have only yourself to blame, Harry,” said his sister. “Carrying on like the veriest coxcomb. It is enough to give anyone a disgust of you. And it is of no use lecturing Isabella about this and telling her I have told you, for it will only annoy her the more.”
He shrugged. “Lord Rupert is welcome to her.”
“But I do not think he loves her!” cried Lucy. “I think he wants revenge.”
Lord Harry stood up. “Perhaps I will call on my beloved.”
“Do that,” said Lucy, “and tell her you don’t want to marry her!”
Chapter Eight
LORD HARRY WENT thoughtfully on his way. He was shrewd enough to know that Isabella would not listen to any warning about Lord Rupert Fitzjohn. But he would call on her first and then see if he could find out what Lord Rupert was planning.
The Chadburys received him with warmth to make up for their private doubts about this prospective son-in-law. Isabella was summoned and at last came reluctantly into the drawing room. She was wearing a morning gown of fine white lace, beautifully cut, and her thick hair was dressed in a simple style. She curtsied to Lord Harry and then sat down on a sofa beside her mother.
Mrs. Chadbury thought Lord Harry was looking more—well—hopeful a prospect as a son-in-law than he had done before. He no longer used paint. His well-cut clothes sat easily on his athletic frame, and his blue eyes were serious.
“I am sure, Mr. Chadbury,” she said, rising to her feet, “that we can spare Isabella and Lord Harry a few moments alone together.”
Mr. Chadbury bowed to Lord Harry and followed his wife from the room. There was a long silence.
The fire crackled, the clocks ticked, but Isabella felt none of that cozy intimacy so recently enjoyed with Lucy. Out
side a hawker shouted his wares, and a carriage clattered over the cobbles.
So here we sit, thought Lord Harry, two members of society bound by the conventions. She wants to scream, I hate you, and I? … I should be telling her that it was all a game and that she is free. His conscience suddenly nagged him. That beautiful face across from his was made for love and laughter. But not for Lord Rupert’s kisses, he thought savagely.
“We do not appear to be very suited,” he said at last.
Her hazel eyes filled with hope and she said, “No, indeed, you would be happier with anyone else, I think.”
She moved slightly and carefully arranged the drapery of her gown. He had a sudden fierce longing to clasp her in his arms and was alarmed at the intensity of his feelings. He began to grow angry. “But we are engaged,” he remarked in a neutral voice, “and so must make the best of it.”
The light died out of those eyes. She pleated a fold of her gown with nervous fingers. “You do not need to marry me now,” she said. “You are rich. My money was the attraction, you must admit.”
“It was … but not now.”
“What then, pray?”
“Your face, your figure, your love.”
Startled, she gazed at him. He was no longer the fop. He looked strong and masculine and seemed to exude a mixture of sensuality and predatory maleness. She shuddered and dropped her eyes.
“And so, Isabella, my love, you are going to have to make the best of it.”
In her mind’s eye rose a picture of Lord Rupert’s face. All she had to do was to nod to him at the opera, and then she would be free.
He rose to his feet and stood looking down at her. “I shall be here this evening to escort you to the opera.” He rose and stalked from the room.
Tears welled up in Isabella’s eyes and slowly rolled down her cheeks. Mrs. Chadbury, entering the room, saw those tears. She turned to her husband who was behind her and said severely, “We must talk.” She led him away and into a little used ante room and faced him. “I have been your dutiful and obedient wife these many years, but I will not stand by and see my daughter in such misery. Enough is enough! Isabella must be released from this engagement!”
“To repulse yet more suitors?”
“Mr. Chadbury, if our daughter has set her mind on remaining an old maid, then an old maid she will be. We meet the Tremaynes at the opera tonight. I beg you to speak to them. Think on’t! Are you desperate to have a son-in-law who shrieks in Almack’s—Almack’s, mark you—at the sight of a mouse that strangely enough only he seemed able to see and then, recovered, tells bawdy lyrics to the gentleman? Is he of more value than Isabella’s happiness?”
Mr. Chadbury looked at his wife in silence for a few moments. Then he said harshly, “Have you considered the social shame to yourself not to have secured a marriage for one of the most beautiful women London has ever seen?”
She made a dismissive move with one of her plump hands. “Pooh, what does it matter what they say? There will be no more Seasons for Isabella. We say we have spoiled her and yet apart from this one desire not to marry, she has proved a gentle and biddable daughter. We shall lose her love, and all because we tried to force her into marriage with a decadent popinjay. Would you have such a creature father your grandchildren?”
“Enough,” said Mr. Chadbury wearily. “But say nothing to Isabella until we have had a chance to speak to the Tremaynes.”
Lord Harry returned to his parents’ town house in a black mood. The elderly retainer, Biddle, was sitting in the hallway playing with a cup and ball.
“Are you sober?” asked Lord Harry.
“I’ve done wi’ drink,” said Biddle gloomily. “It’s what keeps us lower order from rising up against the likes of you.”
“Yes, quite. How would you like a couple of gold sovereigns to fund the English revolution?”
“What have I got to do?”
“Find out what you can about a certain Lord Rupert Fitzjohn.” Lord Harry handed him a piece of paper. “This is his address. Report back to me.”
Biddle picked up an old-fashioned tricorne from the seat beside him and crammed it on his greasy locks. He was delighted at the prospect of some time out on the streets of London. Lazy and old the Tremayne servants might be, but nonetheless, Stokes, the butler, expected them to remain at their posts drunk or sober.
Biddle creaked his way through the streets of the West End. The day was still cold, and a thin fog made the lights of the taverns seem to beckon to him, but he went steadily on. He was fond of Lord Harry. He arrived outside Lord Rupert’s house in Green Street and sat down on the front steps. As he expected, the door behind him soon opened and a butler came out. Biddle, twisting his head round, decided the fellow looked more of a thug than a butler.
“Move on, old man,” growled the butler.
“I’m tired,” whined Biddle.
The street was quiet, and Biddle’s voice was unusually high and penetrating for such an old man. A window opposite popped open and a housemaid looked out, leaning her arms on the sill. She was a pretty girl with red hair and a jaunty cap.
“Get out of here or I’ll throw you in the street,” said the butler.
“Oh, you would, would yer?” screeched Biddle. “Here’s me, an old sodjer what fought them bleeding Americans and got wounded in me back and you wouldn’t even let me rest my bones.”
“Shame!” shouted the pretty housemaid. “He ain’t doing no harm.”
The butler, by the name of Jakes, fancied the pretty housemaid, and so he pasted a smile on his unlovely face and said, “Here, step down to the servants’ hall and I’ll get you some ale.”
With amazing alactrity, Biddle nipped down the area steps and was shortly after admitted into the servants’ hall.
One quick ferrety glance at the few servants who were seated at the table told Biddle that the master was probably a villain. There were two slatternly housemaids, one thin, indolent footman in grimy livery, and a small evil page. All were drinking ale. “Give this old pest some and send him on his way,” growled Jakes before retreating back upstairs to see if he could engage the pretty housemaid opposite in conversation.
One of the housemaids drew a tankard of ale from a barrel in the corner and slapped it down in front of Biddle. “Whose livery is that, then?” asked the footman, eyeing Biddle’s black velvet coat laced with silver.
“Got it out o’ Monmouth Street,” said Biddle, Monmouth Street being where the old clothes were sold. “Me in service? Nah. I wouldn’t work for any of them parasites what battens on poor creatures like you.”
“We don’t do so bad,” said the footman, tilting back his seat and swinging his legs up onto the table. He jerked his thumb at the ceiling. “His lordship is hardly ever home. Eats out the whole time.”
“Decent sort, is he?”
The housemaids cackled with laughter, and the footman gave a sly grin. “He pays good wages so long as we keeps our mouths shut.”
“You’re making it up,” said Biddle. “He’s Lord Rupert Fitzjohn, ain’t he? Can’t hardly be on the thieving lay.”
“No, but he lays everthink else,” shrieked a housemaid and then threw her apron over her face.
“He ain’t laid you, Marion,” said the footman. “Not when there’s all them Cyprians about. You should see some o’ the parties here, old man. Make your eyes pop.”
“Garn,” sniffed Biddle. “I’m a traveled man. The things I saw in ‘Merica. There’s wimmin for ye.” Biddle had never been out of England, but his dream had been to go to America, so much so that in his cups he often really thought he had been there.
“Ah, but them Yankees is puritans,” jeered the footman. “Them and their Bibles. There’s things goes on here you wouldn’t see in them foreign parts.”
“Such as?”
The footman leaned forward with a salacious leer and told Biddle about various parties and how at the end of one of them, Lord Rupert had taken three of the women to bed. “And they wa
s lucky they got a bed,” said the footman, nudging Biddle in the ribs so that some of the old man’s ale splashed on the table. “Mostly he has them anywhere in the house, even the dining table.”
“You set for another party tonight?” asked Biddle. “If so, you’re mighty casual about it.”
“Naw, he’s going to the opera, and then he says he wants ‘is curricle brought round at quarter to five in the morning.”
“Why?”
“Race meeting, I s’pose. But he might have something else in mind. We’ve all been told to stay below stairs for the night and the whole of the following day.” The footman winked. “And if we hears shrieks or suchlike, we’re to stay deaf. So what does that tell you?”
