Tamed By The Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Scarlett Osborne

  Chapter 7

  Suspicions

  The Travellers fell silent at the sight of Domnall standing in the dark, haloed by the campfires.

  Cormac came to his senses first. “Domnall! By the good God! Is it yerself or a ghost?”

  “‘Tis myself,” Domnall said wearily. “I’d take a sup o’ that whiskey, if ye can spare it. ‘Tis a long evening’s walk, from the town to here.”

  As he slumped to the ground, they crowded around him, barraging him with questions. He tried to explain why he was still alive, though he hardly knew himself.

  “The magistrate found the three of us guilty, and guilty we were, if you call it a crime to kill a few game birds to keep from starvation. Then we were herded into the gaolhouse again, this time by a back door. They took Padraig out first, and I heard that bloody crowd. Then they came for Dristin, and it was the same thing. ‘It’s me next,’ I thought, ‘and God, let me face it on my feet like a man.’ But the gaoler just came back in and sat down, like he was waitin’ for something. He was trimmin’ his nails with a pocket knife and singin’ a little tune. I was goin’ to ask him if he was on his way to a love tryst, what with the preenin’ and singin’ like a turtledove.”

  This drew some laughs from the Traveller crowd.

  “A couple of hours must have past, and him still sittin’ and trimmin’ and hummin’. It got quiet outside, like all the people had gone home. Then a soldier comes in, whispers something to our boy there, and leaves again. The gaoler laddie comes and turns the key in the lock and opens the door. ‘All right, out with ye,’ he says. ‘Get out of here and go back to the vermin that bred ye.’”

  “Did he, the bastard!” yelled one Traveller from the back of the group. But the others hushed him.

  “So out I came, with none to hinder me. And here I am back with ye. And if any of ye can make sense of it, ye’re smarter than I am.”

  The men sat for a bit, puzzling over this story. But then the air was rent with happy yells—someone had gone to fetch the Bagley women, who fell on Domnall with hugs and tears.

  No one could understand it. But for the moment they were happy for Domnall and his womenfolk, as much as they grieved for Dristin’s and Padraig’s kin.

  It was much later, sitting by his own campfire in front of his own caravan in the small hours of the morning, that Domnall spoke of the mysterious visit he had had from the young nobleman. Maggie Mae and Joanna were there, of course, and a handful of the men—Cormac, Beathan, and a few others.

  “It was the strangest thing,” Domnall reflected. “The young man knew my name. And he argued with the gaoler till he agreed to give me a parcel.”

  “What was in the parcel?” someone asked.

  “Blankets. Bread and meat. And a full bottle of spirits, that went down sweeter than honey.”

  “Fancy that,” Cormac said. “A young fellow, you say? There, now, Dom, yer secret is out. Mebbe back in yer youth ye bedded a noble lady, and now this was yer long-lost son, begat on the wrong side of the blanket as they say, come back to save ye.” And from there, they continued with their guesses, increasing in ridiculousness as they went.

  As they all joked with Domnall, no one noticed the sudden change in Joanna’s face, as if someone had just given her a gift of immeasurable value.

  * * *

  In truth, though, the young lord’s gallant gesture caused Domnall as much trouble as it caused himself.

  Once the initial euphoria over Domnall’s return had subsided, the Travellers again dwelt on the terrible deaths Padraig and Dristin had suffered. The more belligerent young men of the clan began to advocate revenge. “Blood for blood,” they said. “Before we leave for the West.”

  Domnall was among the more reasonable voices, calling for restraint. “Do ye think we could win, with their soldiers and bayonets? For God’s sake, let’s leave this awful place with no more among us slaughtered.”

  Some agreed with his wisdom, but others began to look at him askance. It was fine for him to urge restraint, but he wasn’t one of the men so brutally executed, was he?

  In fact, he had come waltzing back into camp with hardly a scratch on him, his courage fortified—by his own admission—with the Outsiders’ own fine brandy. While the mutilated remains of two of his fellows called from their graves for revenge.

  In the weeks that followed, whispers began, and men started stepping away from Domnall whenever he approached them in good fellowship. Just what was his connection with the murdering Outsiders? Had he somehow sold out Dristin and Padraig to save his own skin?

  Maggie Mae and Joanna heard the whispers. It seemed even Beathan had been influenced by his mother, who was quietly bitter that Domnall had lived when her man had been taken. Appeasing his mother, Athan hardly came around the Bagley campfire anymore.

  Not that Joanna noticed or cared. Beathan was less than nothing to her. Her heart still ached for Christopher. But as grateful as she was that her Da’s life had been spared, there was a new sin added to Christy’s list of transgressions: in aiding her father, he had somehow compromised Domnall’s good name and made him a pariah among his own people.

  Christy, Christy. If only we had never met. But for you, my Da and I would still be happy.

  And so the gypsies ended their stay in Gresham, and pointed their caravans west for the long trek to Stonehenge.

  Perhaps, as the Duke had predicted, they would choose a different place to camp next summer. Gresham had not been a lucky resting place for them.

  Chapter 8

  Hunted Creatures

  The Dukedom of Gresham readied itself for the honor of a visit from the Prince of Wales. The Duke was beside himself with anxiety over the impending arrival, and he made life a living hell for his family and household as a result.

  The ducal manor’s regular staff was to be supplemented with additional help from the surrounding area. Good money was to be made, if girls in newly starched maid’s caps and lads temporarily clad in ducal livery could tug their forelocks and endure the Duke’s violent tempers.

  The Duke’s own family had to endure much more from him. First of all, he wanted his daughters to be a credit to him. He supervised the selection of all their new clothes, from smart riding habits to shimmering ballgowns.

  More than once, he brought Lady Daphne to tears over her sallow coloring and bony figure. “Is there nothing you can wear that makes you even the slightest bit attractive? Am I to be stuck with the ugliest spinster in England as my daughter?”

  Lady Daphne would run from the room at these insults, weeping and sobbing all the way to her bedchamber.

  Lady Henrietta, on the other hand, could not be faulted in looks—her chestnut hair, her peerless complexion, and her hourglass figure were already the talk of the haut ton.

  But although her father favored her because of her good looks, he despaired of her empty-headedness. Lady Henrietta had firm opinions she readily voiced on every conceivable subject, and not a word made sense.

  “Do not talk of Napoleon and the French threat,” her father warned. “You sound like a blithering idiot. Better yet, don’t talk at all. You might actually convince someone you have a brain.”

  Lady Henrietta, whose London Season had been a smashing success, did nothing to change her behavior, regardless of what the old man said. At her coming-out ball, the Prince of Wales had actually danced with her twice, after all.

  Christopher, surprisingly, was not getting anywhere near as much abuse as his sisters. He was toeing the line, as promised. He looked every inch the handsome Marquess. He had stopped prating about his foolish plans to save the world, and he seemed willing to play his father’s puppet.

  The Duke was, in fact, secretly delighted with his son. Clearly, after that gypsy business, Christopher would be no trouble to him at all.

  * * *

  On a fine late summer afternoon, an array of splendid carriages and equipages, drawn by horses of fine breeding and mettle, made their way one by one along the lon
g avenue, canopied by ancient pleached oaks, that led to Gresham Manor.

  Seated in these vehicles was the cream of English society—those dukes, earls, and lords who formed the core of Prince George’s jolly circle. Their noble ladies accompanied them, as did their valets and lady’s maids.

  The day was fine, with the waning summer sun gleaming on branches just starting to change color. The nobility emerged from their carriages into the manor courtyard, like exotic birds in vivid plumage escaping their gilded cages.

  Indeed, the noblemen were more gaudily turned out than their women. Beau Brummell’s taste for restrained clothing notwithstanding, it was still the case that no man could call himself a gentleman who did not pay exquisite attention to his attire. The breeches must be of a certain shade, the cloak must hang just so. The ruffled shirt and silk stockings must complement each other.

  Christopher stood with his father and sisters in the Great Hall of the Manor, greeting guests as they arrived. His suave, polished expression gave no clue as to what he was really thinking. What a silly gaggle of geese—and the ganders are sillier than their mates.

  As befit a Marquess, Christopher was well turned out for the occasion. A waistcoat of mossy green enhanced the glitter of his hazel eyes and paired nicely with the large green gem that pinned his cravat. Hiding his own mahogany locks, he wore a crisply curled and powdered wig, tied back with a ribbon of the same moss green.

  Joanna would hardly recognize me.

  All the guests were led into the library by faceless, voiceless footmen, indistinguishable from one another in their ducal livery. Sherry and whiskey were passed. The tinkling of well-bred laughter blended with the clinking of lead crystal.

  When all the other guests had arrived, Gresham’s butler—as if directed by a stage manager—solemnly announced His Royal Highness, George, Prince of Wales, accompanied by Lady Frances Villiers, Countess of Jersey.

  The entire room made their obeisances to the Royal Personage. Necks strained to see what the beautiful and notorious Lady Jersey was wearing, and in what mode she had dressed her famous golden hair.

  Prince George—who, gossip said, was growing bored with Lady Jersey, his longtime mistress—was noticed scanning the room until his eyes lit upon the charming Lady Henrietta. Lady Henrietta, for her part, had curtsied very low, to give the Prince a glimpse of her lovely décolletage.

  “Gresham, I look forward to exploring all your manor’s treasures,” said the bawdy Prince with a wink.

  Then the guests left for their rooms to dress for dinner.

  * * *

  Dinner was a splendid affair, as might be expected. Liveried footmen stood silently at a respectful distance behind every chair. The table gleamed with the ancestral silver. Silver chargers, resting under the family china, winked in the candlelight shed from numerous candelabra.

  There were six courses served, each accompanied by a vintage from the Duke’s own well-stocked cellars. The fish course, the game course, the meat course—and as enormous silver platters of food were brought in and carried away, the wine kept flowing. The pitch of the conversation rose, as guests began to relax and enjoy themselves.

  The Duke was holding forth from his end of the table about the history of Gresham Manor.

  “Almost every king of England, from Henry V onward, has stayed here at some time during his reign. We hope your Royal Highness will similarly favor us, when you ascend the throne. You’ll see portraits from the time of Queen Elizabeth. And Henry VIII visited the place often. It was a trysting place for him and Anne Boleyn when they wished to slip away from court together.”

  “Ah, then, it has a long history as a love nest,” His Royal Highness chuckled, giving Lady Henrietta a bold glance.

  Lady Henrietta blushed prettily and artfully lowered her long eyelashes over her lovely green eyes. It was the right strategy for an unmarried beauty of noble birth to take with the Prince.

  Lady Jersey caught the exchange. Christopher saw her give a small, almost imperceptible frown of distaste. She turned to Christopher, who was seated on her left, and smiled.

  Christopher saw the smile. It reminded him of the self-satisfied look of a cobra, about to devour a large, tasty morsel. It disgusted him.

  “You will have to tell me if this place makes a good love nest, Lord Clydekill. I’m sure a handsome young man like you is not without ‘amours,’ shall we say?”

  Her long fingers, encrusted with rings from the Prince and from her own husband, reached under the tablecloth and gripped his thigh like a talon.

  Christopher tried to move away without offending her. She’s like a vicious bird of prey, and I’m the prey tonight. Oh, Joanna, how I wish I were with you instead of here.

  * * *

  There was a general air of lasciviousness among the party as they retired for the night. Lying awake, Christopher could hear surreptitious footsteps in the halls, and the muffled sound of doors being unlocked and locked again.

  A typical country house party among the haut ton. How I wish Joanna were here! When we came together in the caves, our passion was raw and inexperienced. But it was honest, it was pure.

  For all that they had parted ways, he longed for her—he loved her more than ever. Even if she did appear at the hanging to have forgotten him already for a man of her own kind.

  * * *

  Early next morning, the guests rose to join the Duke of Gresham in the hunt. The dawn air was still misty when the group gathered outside the manor. The gentlemen and ladies sat atop their horses—side-saddle for the ladies, of course—and sipped the warm mulled wine brought out to them by servants. Dogs bayed in eagerness for the kill.

  Joanna, immersed in the chore of packing her family’s caravan, had tried desperately to keep her thoughts off Christopher. To think too much about him would be to drive herself mad.

  But she could not ignore the gossip among the Travellers that the Prince of Wales and all the fine lords and ladies had descended on Gresham Manor. It was said they would all be in the forest today for the hunt.

  Should she try to reach out to him? Not in front of all those grand folk—she couldn’t bear the shame of that, particularly if he pretended not to know her. But a note, maybe? This was her last chance. He would soon be leaving for London, and she for Stonehenge.

  Before her courage left her, she scribbled a note with a piece of charcoal on an old scrap of paper.

  Christy, do you think of me? I am always thinking of you.

  She thought for a bit, and decided to take a gamble.

  If somehow you came to Stonehenge between Samhain and the winter solstice, I’d be there.

  Then she figured there was no point wagering if you didn’t bet everything.

  Christy, I love you.

  She stuck the note in the old hollow tree and walked away, before she could change her mind.

  * * *

  The hunting party made a bold display galloping through the woods. The piercing note of the hunting horns, the baying of the hounds, and the yells of the lords and ladies echoed through the once-silent forest.

  Joanna, hidden from sight, saw them go past. That fine young lady in the black riding habit, her auburn hair piled on her head and set off by a little hat and veil, must be Lady Henrietta. She took the stone barriers and hedges like a man, slashing at her horse’s flanks with her riding crop for speed.

  The poor horse. The poor hunted birds and beasts.

  She saw Christopher gallop past the hollow tree, then check his horse and turn back toward it. He dismounted. Looking around, as if he feared someone would see him, he reached in and pulled out her note.

  She could not read his expression. He thrust the note, still folded and unopened, into his jacket. Then he rode away.

  Chapter 9

  London’s Pleasures

  The Duke and his family departed for London in early October. It was a massive undertaking. Some of the Manor staff had to go in advance to open Gresham House and ready it for the family’s ar
rival. Then the family and its servants, with countless trunks of belongings and other impedimenta, followed in a convoy of fine carriages to invade the capital.

  Gresham House was an imposing white stone mansion in the neoclassical style, sited in the most fashionable part of Knightsbridge. It boasted almost as many guest rooms as Gresham Manor, and it had one of the few full-sized ballrooms to be found in a London private house.

  In short, it was exactly the sort of place one would expect a Duke to inhabit, when he came up to London with his family for the opening of Parliament.

  The family’s first few weeks were hectic. The Duke did not take primary responsibility for socializing, of course—that was what the ladies of the family were for.

  Day after day, Lady Daphne and Lady Henrietta paid calls in their handsome carriage, directing their servant to leave their calling cards at the houses of friends.

  The ducal crest on the carriage door was easily recognizable, and many young ladies and their mothers hoped to see it at their door. A visit from one—or both!—of the Duke’s daughters set a seal of approval on any girl’s career in Society.

  In return, many ladies of rank rushed to leave their cards at Gresham House, and they all hoped to be admitted when the Duke’s daughters were “at home.”

  Both Lady Henrietta and Lady Daphne were well known in Society. Lady Henrietta had come out during the previous London Season, and she was easily the loveliest debutante in her year. Lady Daphne had come out two years before, to more mixed results—but still, she was a Duke’s daughter, and that was enough.

  Christopher had never been to London during the Season. When his sister Lady Henrietta had come out, he was ensconced at Oxford. He did not come to her lavish coming-out ball at Gresham House.