by M C Beaton
The marquess gave a self-conscious laugh.
“We are probably imagining things. Hamish will fuss and fret but that is all he will do. You’ll see.”
The marquess would have been hard put to recognize Jean Lindsay after three months of town bronze. Although Miss Taylor’s training in etiquette had seemed rigorous, it palled before the long list of “don’ts” to be carefully memorized before taking her place in the ton.
There were easy rules such as never walking down St. James’s or staying longer than fifteen minutes in returning a call, but the small ones were the hardest of all to remember. Never cut your thread, always bite it; never sit down on a chair still warm from a gentleman’s vacancy; never, never cross your legs even in the privacy of your bedroom; never glance behind you for the chair when you sit down; and never speak to the formidable patronesses of Almack’s unless spoken to. The list went on and on.
After a few false starts, Jean had mastered them all and become a small success. Lady Harriet Telfer-Billington, Jean’s godmother, was in a quandary as to whether to scotch the rumor of Jean’s fortune or stay quiet and pray that the girl would find a rich husband and make the problem of the dowry no matter.
Not given to long and anguished thought on any occasion except in matters of dress, Jean’s godmother had decided on the latter course. The girl was pretty enough and to explain that she was penniless would not help her socially. Even wealthy merchants looked for at least a title among the ranks of the dowerless.
As they sat together in the morning room of the elegant town house in Cavendish Square, Jean eyed her godmother with affection. Lady Harriet Telfer-Billington was a tiny, brown-haired woman, ever energetic, ever restless, with big eyes like a marmoset. She had seen three husbands to their graves and rumor had it, was seeking a fourth. Jean was at first taken aback and slightly humiliated at being regarded by Her Ladyship in the nature of a new toy to dress and parade but being unused to any affection other than that of Agnes or Miss Taylor, she became grateful for the scatter-brained warmth and generosity of her frivolous godmother.
The day was exceptionally warm for London and Lady Harriet snapped her chicken-wing fan backward and forward while her other prehensile little hand sorted deftly through a pile of embossed cards.
“Ah! Here it is. An invitation to the Courtlands’ ball tonight. Very grand. Wear your gold silk with the matching gauze overdress and we will get Antoine to do your hair. I had it from Sally Jersey yesterday that Fleetwater is in town. You know him, I believe?”
The new Miss Lindsay made a murmur of assent.
Lady Harriet gave her goddaughter a penetrating look. “Very rich you know, and quite the handsomest man in London. Any hopes in that quarter?”
A soft murmur of denial.
Her Ladyship’s large, dark eyes snapped. “It would be marvelous if you could engage the affections of a man like that. Must I needs remind you again that Lord Ian Percy is a gazetted fortune hunter and, were it not that his mama and I are bosom beaux, I would show him the door. Should he ask for your hand, I would be obliged to tell him that you have no fortune whatsoever. Anyway, he is too old.”
“He is a mature man of forty, which is not too old,” said Jean stiffly. “He is a most courteous gentleman and, I believe, likes me for myself alone.”
“He’s as courteous as a ferret and just as trustworthy. Oh, don’t look daggers at me, miss! If I thought it would come to anything, I should be concerned. What your uncle… why here is a letter from him!”
She rapidly perused the crossed and re-crossed missive which looked as if hundreds of spiders had run riot on the paper. “What abominable writing. So difficult. And what’s this?”—pointing to several dark red stains—“Blood?”
“Probably wine.”
“His letter reads as if he were a trifle bosky. Good Heavens! He is coming here! ‘Cannot be parted from my dear niece much longer.’ Sounds like a hum.”
“Indeed it must be, ma’am,” said Jean. “He has shown no interest in me since I left home.”
“He says that by the time I receive this he will already be on the road. Oh, fiddle! I cannot say that your dear uncle will exactly add to your social consequence but mayhap he does not mean to go about much.”
Jean tried to imagine her uncle among the gay, frivolous London crowd and failed. What would Lord Ian make of him? She flushed slightly as she thought of the suave, elegant Lord Ian with Hamish.
Jean had met Lord Ian at her first ball at Almack’s and had found his conversation mature and his thin, sallow face and world-weary air fascinating. Warnings from Lady Harriet and a scolding from the Duchess of Glenrandall had left her unmoved. She would choose her own friends. And if Lord Ian did not make her heart flutter quite as the marquess had done, well, look where that had led. His sophistication was intriguing and his attentions flattering.
The butler threw open the double doors and intoned, “Lord Ian Percy.”
Lady Harriet rose in a flutter of irritation as Lord Ian made his bow.
“It is a fine morning, ma’am,” he said. “I am come to persuade Miss Lindsay to drive with me in the park.”
Lady Harriet shut her fan with a snap. “We are terribly sorry. I am sure Jean has other commitments.”
Jean rose gracefully to her feet. “No, ma’am, I am quite at liberty. Allow me but a few moments to collect my bonnet.”
Jean curtsied and left Lady Harriet to eye Lord Ian with ill-concealed disdain. Lord Ian, amused by her scrutiny, crossed to the fireplace and leaned negligently against the mantelpiece.
Lady Harriet came to a decision. “I have tried to convey to you many times my displeasure of your interest in my goddaughter. Contrary to public rumor, the child is dowerless. I have heard from a good source that you are in dun territory but you will find nothing in that quarter to repair your debts.”
Lord Ian flushed with annoyance but his hooded lids dropped momentarily over his eyes to hide his anger. “Doing it too brown, Harriet,” he said insolently. “The Glenrandall gals told me on their come-out that she’s an heiress. Some benefactor up in the North.”
“Nonsense!” said Harriet roundly. “The poor child hasn’t a feather to fly with. I had it from her governess that she had too liberal a hand with servants’ vails on her journey South.
“Bess and Mary are two silly chits who listen to servants’ gossip and Lady Cynthia Lamont is no better. I did not counteract the lie for fear of spoiling the girl’s season but I will not have her waste her time and her future with such as you!”
His eyes blazing, Lord Ian opened his mouth to retort but broke off as Jean entered the room. With a chilly bow he made his adieu’s and departed with Jean leaving Lady Harriet feeling shaky and sick. “I hope I have done the right thing. Faith, I feel I have just turned over a stone and looked at something creepy-crawly underneath.”
The drive in the park was pleasant but Jean noticed that her usually urbane companion was rigid and silent. She was about to ask him what troubled him when he rudely cut across her opening remark.
“Who’s the gal in the yaller carriage?” Startled, Jean looked at the girl in question.
“Why, ’tis Amy Jenkins. Her father is a wealthy mill owner from Yorkshire and, although she does not move much in our circles, I have a slight acquaintanceship with her.”
Lord Ian glanced down at her with something like a sneer on his face. “Doesn’t move in our circles, eh? Introduce me.”
He maneuvered over expertly until they were alongside Miss Jenkins’s landau and Jean effected the introductions. Miss Jenkins was a small, rabbity-faced child of seventeen with an alarming titter, but the sophisticated Lord Ian seemed unaware of it. He was all charm and begged Miss Jenkins’s complacent mother for permission to call. After passing ten minutes of exchanging pleasantries and ignoring Jean, he turned the carriage homeward. “Can you alight by yourself?” he asked distantly when they reached Cavendish Square. “I do not wish to leave my cattle standing.”
Jean got down and looked up into Lord Ian’s stony face. “Is aught amiss?”
“Nonsense. What should be?” And with a vicious crack of his whip, he bowled off around the square at a fast trot.
Lady Harriet watched the drooping figure entering the house and felt like a murderess. She had spent all her courage on Lord Ian and had none left to inform Jean of what she had done.
At the Courtlands’ ball, therefore, Jean felt she had stepped back in time to her first ball. There were uneasy glances in her direction. Several high-nosed dowagers had cut her dead and her dance program was nearly empty.
She was standing listlessly against a pillar when she heard a familiar voice. “May I have the honor, Miss Lindsay?”
It was the Marquess of Fleetwater, resplendent in black and white evening dress with a large diamond glittering in the folds of his snowy cravat. Jean gave a start of pleasure, all bad memories forgotten, as he drew her into the steps of the waltz.
Lady Harriet had done wonders, reflected the marquess. The girl looked quite beautiful. He had already heard the whispered tale that her fortune was all a hum and shrewdly judged that Lord Ian Percy was behind Jean’s downfall. When he first saw the lonely figure by the pillar, he was tempted to break the lawyer’s trust, but decided instead to use his very high standing with the ton to bring the girl back into fashion.
A light flirtation would not hurt her, he reflected, and then in a few weeks’ time, the news of her fortune would be all over London and her future would be secure. For the present, it would be better to keep her safe from prize hunters like Lord Ian.
Jean discovered that her newfound social poise had not deserted her after all and was able to chat easily with the marquess on all sort of subjects including the latest on-dits. For his part, the marquess found the girl delightful and reflected it was just as well that he had resigned himself to bachelordom long ago or he might find his heart in danger.
He led her into supper and they found themselves getting along famously. When he returned her to the ballroom, she was again solicited on all sides. The handsome marquess set the fashion and Jean, becoming aware of the fact, decided to make use of him and keep a firm guard on her heart and her fantasies.
Lord Ian had been watching them narrowly. Had Harriet been lying to him? He had no mind to spend more money squiring Jean to balls and routs until he found out the truth. One of Lady Harriet’s friends had reported the uncle’s visit to London. He would keep on friendly terms until the old man arrived and then try to winkle the truth out of the minister.
All too soon, Hamish arrived. He had traveled by the stage and the morning of his arrival was taken up with his loud lamentations about how he had been fleeced at every posting house and inn on the road. Lady Harriet listened with weary boredom and was relieved when Jean came in from a walk. Immediately, Hamish was all avuncular solicitation. How was his little niece? He had been lonely without her and meant to see a lot of her during his visit.
Jean sighed inwardly and reflected that absence did not make the heart grow fonder. Hamish’s mumbling and fond leering were so nauseating, she would have preferred his customary bad temper.
“I am sure you have people in the church to visit, Hamish,” said Lady Harriet. “Jean goes around with a very young set of friends and I am sure old people like ourselves would be very much in the way.”
Hamish gave an awful smile. “Now, that is where you are wrong, Lady Harriet. A bit of youth is just what my poor old eyes need.”
His “poor old eyes” narrowed suspiciously as the Marquess of Fleetwater was announced. That Jean should inherit all the money and catch a rich husband too seemed past bearing. The marquess made a magnificent leg to Lady Harriet but accorded the grinning and scraping Hamish no more than a common bow.
“I am planning an excursion to a mill near Richmond on the morrow. The Duchess of Glenrandall is going with us as chaperone. Her daughters will be of the party. Lord Freddie Blackstone and Mr. John Fairchild of whom you are acquainted will come with us and it only needs Miss Lindsay to make the party complete. The girls are anxious to try their hand at watercolors, since it is a famous beauty spot.”
As Jean was opening her mouth to accept, Hamish sidled forward. “With Your Lordship’s permission, I would like to join your group. I mean to see as much of my niece as possible.”
The marquess rapidly cast around in his mind for some means of refusal and finding none, gave a chilly nod.
He then took his leave and Hamish, with a coyness terrible to behold, teased Jean about her aristocratic beau until Lady Harriet took pity on her and insisted that the reverend retire to his rooms for a rest.
The party arrived early on the following morning. Bess had already secured a seat beside the marquess in his curricle, leaving Jean, with a flat feeling of disappointment, to travel with Lord Freddie. But the day was fine and Freddie rattled on nonstop about horses and hunting, only expecting an occasional “yes” or “no.”
The mill turned out to be as picturesque as promised and, setting up her easel, Jean prepared to enjoy the day, despite the company of Uncle Hamish.
Bess and Mary were both pretty artists and were having a marvelous time demanding that the gentlemen hand them their paint and their brushes. Seeing them all busily occupied on the little hill overlooking the mill, Jean, who had no artistic talent, decided to stroll down and look at the water. A small stand of trees hid her from view and, since the day was warm and humid, she removed her smart chip straw and dangling it by the ribbons, let the faint breeze cool her brow. She perched on a stone at the water’s edge and considered the last few days with pleasure. The marquess had squired her everywhere. Lord Ian had been trying to ingratiate himself but Jean had taken him in distaste. Harriet had finally confided her revelations and there could only be one explanation of Lord Ian’s coldness at the ball.
She had learned from Harriet that the marquess was famous for his flirtations but that they never came to anything and so decided to enjoy his company for as long as she could.
“Let us make our love fast forever,” whispered the dream marquess in her ear. “Will you ma…”
Her dream was cut short as a brutal shove on her back sent her hurtling off the rock into the pool. She surfaced, desperately gasping for air, and a glancing blow from an unknown assailant sent her down to the bottom.
Just as she was losing consciousness, she felt herself being pulled to the surface by a pair of strong arms and into the blessed air.
The concerned gray eyes of the marquess looked down into hers. With a convulsive sob, she tightened her arms around his neck and hung on for dear life. “Someone t-t-tried to murder me,” she stammered.
The marquess looked down at the terrified, childlike face beneath his and bent and kissed her on the mouth. What started as a kiss of concern and affection grew deeper and more exploring and he felt a surge of answering passion in the slim, wet body pressed so tightly against his own.
“Halloa!” A shout from the hilltop made them break guiltily apart. Lord Freddie came bounding up. “What happened? You both fall in?”
The marquess gave Jean’s arm a warning squeeze and replied abruptly, “We were trying to pick water lilies and lost our footing.”
“Well, I’ll be demned! And you a Corinthian! That breaks up the party, I must say. Got to get you both back to town.”
The duchess produced traveling rugs to wrap the bedraggled pair and insisted that Jean should accompany her on the road home but the marquess assured her that Jean would be safe enough in his curricle.
Bess and Mary tittered with envy. They would not have minded a wetting if the marquess had been at hand. Hamish appeared at the last minute and almost overpowered Jean with his concern.
It was a wet and silent pair that headed for London. The marquess sprang his horses and for a while gave all his attention to the road until the others were left far behind. Slowing to a canter, he turned to Jean. “What exactly happened?”
&n
bsp; Jean repeated the sequence of events leading up to her near-drowning. “I swear someone tried to murder me.” A bruise was turning purple on her forehead and she was beginning to feel giddy and faint with reaction.
“Yes, I believe someone did,” said the marquess slowly.
Jean shivered. “It was probably some footpad.”
“Probably,” said the marquess. “We will discuss the matter this evening at Vauxhall when we are both recovered.”
How could he terrify the girl further with his suspicions of her uncle? When they reached Cavendish Square, Jean smiled mistily up at him. “I have not thanked you for saving my life, my lord.”
“Had I not decided to walk in the direction of the pond as well, I should have been too late,” said the marquess, leading her to the doorway. He bent his fair head and kissed her fingers. “Until tonight.”
Lady Harriet came out of the drawing room and started at the sight of the bedraggled figure in the hall.
“Good Heavens, child! What befell?”
Jean smiled dreamily. “Someone tried to murder me by pushing me in the millpond but the marquess was at hand to save me.”
Lady Harriet had been warned of Jean’s habit of daydreaming and scolded her roundly. “Don’t be silly! Murder indeed! You no doubt fell in the pond and were pulled out by Lord Fleetwater. You must stop these crazy ideas. No! Not another word. Go to your rooms and get changed.”
Jean walked slowly up the stairs leaving little pools of water on the marble steps. Miss Taylor, newly arrived, came hurrying after her. She tut-tutted over the bruise on Jean’s head but, like Lady Harriet, refused to hear a word about murderous attacks.
“I declare! You’ve been behaving so prettily since we came to London and now you’re getting your head filled with dreams and rubbish instead. It’s enough to make one weep!” The little governess stamped her foot in fury. “Lie down on your bed, miss, and try to recover. If I did not know that you were in the habit of indulging in fantasies, I would believe that the blow to your head—which you obviously got from hitting it on a stone—had addled your wits!”
