by M C Beaton
“Oh!” said Frederica in a small voice.
“We shall be going to the Queen’s House together this evening?” When she nodded her assent, he suddenly bent and kissed her lightly on the cheek and then left.
When Chuffy arrived she was still holding her hand to her cheek and staring in a bemused way at the door.
Frederica hurriedly made her apologies and ran to change. When she returned, she was dressed in a blue velvet carriage dress with a fur lined blue velvet coat and an enormous swansdown muff.
The only thing warm about Chuffy’s dress was his cravat which was tied in the Mail Coach, a style, according to the publisher Stockdale, in his pamphlet “Neckclothitania, or Tietania: Being an Essay on Starches,” worn by “all stage-coachmen, guards, the swells of the fancy and Ruffians.” It consisted of a large Cashmere shawl with one end brought over the knot, spread out and tucked into the waist. It was mostly worn with the many-capered livery of the Four-in-Hand Club but Chuffy had elected to sport it with a jacket of the thinnest silk, skin-tight leather breeches and boots with white tops.
London was grey and black and bitter cold. Chuffy decided that they should take a short drive round St. James’s Park and then return. He accordingly edged his chariot in that direction through the press of traffic. London seemed to be bursting at the seams and the hotels were crowded. Stephen’s in Bond Street was full of the army, Ibbetson’s crammed with undergraduates and clergy, the Clarendon with gourmets, and fusty and dreary Limmer’s chock-ablock with country squires and race course touts. At last they reached St. James’s Park and Chuffy reined in so that Frederica could admire the view.
Still thinking of her husband Frederica looked around vaguely at the desolate park. Fog was beginning to creep towards them as if pale ghosts were emanating from the Queen’s House at the other end. It hardly merited the title of ‘park,’ being a long dirty field intersected by a wide dirty ditch and thinly planted with rotting lime trees.
Chuffy shivered in his thin silk and once again mourned the loss of his swansdown waistcoat. He had never had the heart to order another. What a terrible day that had been with the long ride to Barnet and then tripping and falling in front of Lady Jersey at Almack’s. But good old Pegasus. Even the Duke had been amazed at the old animal’s stamina. “Do anything for oranges,” said Chuffy dreamily.
“Who?” asked Frederica, turning her eyes away from the gloomy view.
“Pegasus. M’horse. Henry couldn’t believe the way Pegasus flew up that hill to Barnet when we was lookin’ for you.”
A cold hand clutched at Frederica’s heart.
“When did you go to Barnet?” she asked.
“Didn’t I tell you? Suppose not. After the accident to my waistcoat, damme if everything else wasn’t driven out of my head. It hurts a chap deep when things like that happen. Did I ever tell you of…”
“Yes,” said Frederica. “Why were you in Barnet?”
“Lookin’ for you,” said Chuffy, surprised. “When the Duke came back from Scotland, he says, ‘Where is my wife?’ I said, ‘I don’t know. Think she’s gone to Richmond with that Comte fellow.’ He said, ‘What?’ I said, ‘The Comte Duchesne.’ He said, ‘Never heard of him.’ I said…”
“Oh, get to the point,” screamed Frederica, scaring a covey of mallards out of the rushes.
Chuffy looked at her in surprise. “I was getting to the point but if you’re goin’ to shout at me.…”
“I am not shouting,” shouted Frederica and then, forcibly calming herself, she went on in a gentle voice, “Dear Chuffy, just tell me simply why you and my husband went to Barnet.”
“Well, to look for you, o’course,” remarked Chuffy. “Told Henry I thought the Comte looked a havey-cavey fellow and he had faked that letter from the Jenningtons and we went off to Barnet but couldn’t find you.”
“How did you know I had gone to Barnet?” asked Frederica quietly.
“I can’t remember. I suppose Henry knew somehow,” said Chuffy, forgetting all about the visit to Clarissa.
Frederica sat as if turned to stone. If her husband had known she had gone to Barnet then he must have known about the Comte… even have paid the Comte.…
“But you should have seen old Pegasus,” Chuffy went on. “Do anything for oranges that old boy would. Hey! It’s getting demned foggy. Let us go back.”
But he felt a small gloved hand on his arm and, turning, he saw his young companion’s face was wet with tears.
“Oh, I say,” bleated Chuffy. “What did I say? Don’t you like horses?”
Frederica smiled wanly through her tears. “I want to stay and think for a bit, Chuffy. Please.”
Chuffy shivered but was too much of a gentleman to protest. Great yellow clouds were blotting everything from sight and a fine rain of soot was beginning to fall on his wrist bands. His hands under their York tan gloves seemed to be frozen to the reins.
He suddenly spied wavering lights approaching them in the fog and cursed under his breath. In no time at all, a gang of ruffians was upon them, the horses seized by the reins and the carriage encircled by the most evil group of vagabonds Frederica had ever seen, their faces flickering like demons in the light of the flaring tar torches they carried.
“Here’s a fine pair o’ gentry morts for the plucking!” cried the leader. His red eyes gleamed in his pock-marked face and his clothes, like those of his band, were no better than a series of rags held together by a rope round the waist. They were armed with cudgels and chains and their faces were alight with savage glee.
“Let’s get rid o’ the fat un and then we’ll have our fun with the moll,” said the leader placing his greasy, grimy hand appreciatively on the fine silk of Chuffy’s sleeve.
Chuffy shook him off and held up his chubby hand. “Now, look here, gentleman. Have you ever seen a man of quality undress?” And without waiting for a reply, he started to calmly divest himself of his boots which he threw to the crowd. Frederica thought Chuffy had gone made… as did their tormenters. “Three cheers for the fat ’un,” roared the leader. “This is better ’n Bartholomew Fair!”
Surrounded by the grinning faces, Chuffy solemnly removed his silk jacket next and threw it down while the ruffians scrabbled and fought over it like dogs. Then he held up his diamond stick pin so that it winked in the light of the flaring, smoking torches. They watched it as if hypnotised and then Chuffy swung it high above his head and threw it as far as he could. He had meant them all to run after it but the leader stayed beside them and the two men holding the horses stayed firm. Quick as lightning, moving with an incredible speed for so fat a man, Chuffy drew his dress sword and leapt down on the leader and ran him through.
He screamed in his death agony and the others came running back as he fought to pull his sword free. Frederica saw the leader’s torch lying on the ground and jumped down from the carriage and seized it, swinging it in a great blazing arc as the ring of faces closed in on them. Chuffy managed to wound two more before he was brought down by a massive blow from a cudgel.
Frederica was left alone. She bravely swung the torch at the circle of men as they closed around her as if keeping a pack of savage wolves at bay. One finally nipped under the fiery arc and, hooking his hand round her neck, pulled her to the ground. Frederica closed her eyes and prayed for a quick death. The stink of bodies as they pressed over her was nigh unbearable.
In final desperation, she found her voice and screamed and screamed. There was a sound of thudding hooves. Leaping down from his horse with his sword in his hand came the Duke with two of his grooms similarly armed. His sword flashed like quicksilver as he brought down two of the ruffians and routed the rest who disappeared off into the yellow curtain of fog like so many demons fleeing back to hell before an avenging angel.
He lifted Frederica very gently to her feet and held her to him for a long moment. “What in hell’s name,” he said in a thin voice, “were you and Chuffy doing ambling around St. James’s in this fog? If one of my g
rooms hadn’t spied you earlier, I wouldn’t have known where to look.”
“I was sitting thinking,” started Frederica when a low groan made them both turn around.
Chuffy crawled to his feet and with a polite, “Please excuse me,” tottered round the far side of the carriage where he was heard being desperately ill.
“Help him into the carriage,” snapped the Duke. “We will have this out at home.”
The Duke took the reins and drove the sorry pair back to Grosvenor Square. His self control was such that he did not begin his interrogation until Chuffy’s wounds had been bathed and dressed and Frederica had washed and changed.
“Now,” he said sternly, putting a bumper of brandy into Chuffy’s hand. “An explanation if you please.”
“The Duchess said she wanted to think about something,” said Chuffy. “and she was crying. Hope it wasn’t anything I said. I was only talking about horses and I know that can bore some ladies to tears. Well, figuratively speakin’, that is, never seen any of ’em actually cry before but still…”
“Will you get to the point,” said the Duke testily.
“You know something,” said Chuffy with an air of great enlightenment, “You’re very like your wife, damme if you ain’t. Well, as I was sayin’, we just sat there in the fog until that band of ruffians turned up. By God, you were splendid, Duchess. The way you fought those men and held them off with that torch.”
“Oh, Chuffy,” cried Frederica, “It was you who were marvelous. The way you sprang from the carriage to kill that horrible man.”
“If I may interrupt this mutual admiration society,” said the Duke coldly, “I would like to point out that you both behaved as if you had windmills in your heads. Do you realize, Chuffy, that if any other man were involved in this and I had been told you had been sitting alone in the middle of a fog dreaming I would have assumed that you were so far gone in love that you didn’t even notice.”
“But you wouldn’t think that about me?” asked Chuffy plaintively.
The Duke laughed with sudden relief. “Chuffy, my boy, one of these days someone is going to think that about you. You seemed to have behaved very creditably. I didn’t know you were a man of action.”
“Well, I was for a bit,” said Chuffy. “Although at one time I thought I’d never see any. I was in the China Tenth.”
“What an odd name for a regiment,” interrupted Frederica.
“Well, we was called that because of the Prince being our Colonel—we was supposed to be handled like porcelain, you know. But of course when he became Regent and couldn’t fight with us that was when the fun began. We were renamed the Hussars and sent to the Peninsula.”
“Were you, By George!” cried the Duke.
His face was alight with boyish enthusiasm as he refilled Chuffy’s glass. Both men plunged into reminiscences of their army days and Frederica realized that this was one of those occasions on which even the most attractive women go unnoticed. When she left them, they were sitting in front of the fire using chess pieces and snuff boxes as armies and battalions, obviously the greatest of friends.
A little of her fear had left her as she retired to her rooms. Had her husband wanted rid of her, he would never have ridden to her rescue. She remembered the feel of his arms about her and hugged that thought to her like a talisman for the rest of the day.
Chapter Ten
The great fog still rolled around London in huge billowing, choking clouds. Footmen were dispatched to St. James’s to see if the Queen still meant to hold her reception. The Queen most certainly did and social London braced itself for the ordeal.
The Duke and Duchess, arrayed in court dress, sat patiently in their carriage in the long queue of carriages which stretched from the Queen’s House all the way down through the park. It was a different scene from the one Frederica had looked at earlier in the day. The flaring torches of the outriders blazed dimly in the fog as the cream of the top ten thousand waited as patiently as the beggars in the East End waited in the bread line.
Frederica was wearing the regulation court dress of black muslin over an underslip of rose sarcanet and the Duke was attired in black knee breeches and coat and carried his tricorne under his arm. From time to time, he eased his neck in its high starched cravat and cursed the delay.
“What do you call that one?” she enquired.
“This, my dear,” said the Duke, trying to twist his head to look at her, “is a hellish invention which is a cross between the Irish and the Mathematical—two collateral dents and two horizontal ones. Life was easier before Beau Brummel discovered the starched cravat.”
“What an incredible amount of social power Mr. Brummel has, to be sure,” remarked Frederica as the carriage slowly inched its way forward. “Really, it looks as if we shall never get there. Is the Little Season usually so busy?”
“Not usually,” yawned the Duke. “That’s Brummell again. He keeps in town as much as possible, having a dread of cold country houses and blood sports… although he can be a damned arrogant puppy when he is in the country.
“Archie Hefford was staying at a country home once when Brummel was a guest. Well, the servant was conducting Brummel to the chilly upper rooms where the bachelors are usually put when Brummel halted and said, ‘Stop! I cannot go up and down these infernal stairs! Is there no room lower? Here for example?’ He opened a door into a very comfortable bedroom. The servant explained that this part of the house was reserved for married couples and this room for an earl. ‘The single gentlemen’s apartments are…’ ‘I know! I know!’ said Brummel. ‘So put the earl in one of them—he is a bachelor. There—bring my portmanteau and dressing case.’
“Well, he was getting ready for dinner when there was a knock on the door and the earl called angrily, ‘Mr. Brummell! Mr. Brummell!’ ‘My Lord!’ Brummell shouted back, ‘I am dressing and cannot be disturbed. I am in my buffs, in naturabulis.’ ‘But this is my room, sir!’ yelled the Earl. ‘Possession, My Lord! Possession!’ Brummel replied. ‘You know the rest! You are single, My Lord. I am a married man. Married to the gout.’ The earl went meekly off and found a room elsewhere.”
Frederica laughed. “Mr. Brummell seems such a quiet gentleman.”
“Oh, he can be quite a rake-hell when he chooses,” smiled the Duke, “especially now he’s out of favor with Prinny. Where on earth are we now?” He peered through the carriage window. “The entrance lodge, thank God!”
But it took them a further two and a half hours to get through the colonnade and to the foot of the grand staircase. The heat and stink were oppressive. Society fought and scrabbled on the stairs to get up and those who had paid their respects fought and scrabbled to get down. Dresses were torn, hats were lost among the multitude of hats lying in piles on the entrance tables, and tempers were frayed. Frederica kept close to her large husband’s side, glad of his protection.
At last they reached the top of the stairs and a final thrust from the crowd behind propelled them into the Royal presence where Queen Charlotte sat, forever dipping her finger and thumb into her gold snuff box and mournfully scattering the powder over her small monkey face.
Frederica was too terrified and overawed by the royal lady to hear what the Queen said or what her husband replied. Then back out they went to fight their way down the stairs.
Frederica clung tightly to her husband’s arm amid the pushing, jostling, backbiting throng. He turned and smiled down at her, “We should never have come,” he said. “This is certainly a day for battles in St. James’s.”
Frederica laughed back and grey eyes met black for a long moment. Clarissa was pushing her way up the stairs when she saw the exchange of looks.
It was certainly time that Jack Ferrand was recalled from the country. She swayed artistically and fell against the Duke as he passed her and clutched at the lapels of his coat. “I am so sorry, Henry,” she breathed. “I am feeling faint.”
He handed her over to the care of her mother but not before Clari
ssa had given him one of her lingering special looks.
The Duke looked round for his wife and then noticed her small figure below him in the throng being pushed and pummelled by the crowd.
With an oath he pushed his way to her side and bundled her into a cloak.
“This isn’t mine!” cried Frederica.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said tersely. “You will never find your own in this crush.” He pulled her out into the night air, fastidiously brushing Clarissa’s powder from his jacket.
“You really must have a word with your stepsister,” he said testily. “Her manner is becoming decidely forward.”
“I must… I mean I shall,” said Frederica, turning a radiant face up to his.
The Duke ruffled her curls affectionately. What an odd little girl she was to be sure. He had just insulted her stepsister and there she stood looking as if it were Christmas morn.
They proceeded back to Grosvenor Square in a tired but amicable silence. The Duke hesitated on the steps of their home.
“I promised to play a rubber of piquet with some friends at White’s. I would stay with you but you look extremely fatigued after your adventures.”
Frederica swallowed her disappointment. She had no claims on his time, after all. “You are right,” she yawned. “I shall go to bed directly.”
“Perhaps we could spend a quiet evening at home tomorrow night,” he said, “instead of all this racketing around.”
“Oh, I would love that,” cried Frederica. He gave her a brotherly kiss on the cheek, told the coachman that he would walk, and strode off into the night.
Frederica stood motionless, watching the tall figure of her husband until he was swallowed up in the fog.
The first person the Duke was to meet after he had crossed the threshold of White’s was no other than Jack Ferrand. He had not heard from Clarissa for some time and was anxious to see how the married couple progressed, or rather, did not progress. The Duke greeted him with extra warmth. He had believed Clarissa’s story of Jack Ferrand’s proposal and assumed that the poor man had been rejected.
