by M C Beaton
Jean did as she was bid but found it hard to sleep as her brain buzzed with excitement. Whoever the footpad had been, she should be grateful to him for having brought the stately marquess into her arms.
Two squares away, the marquess threw his ruined cravat on the floor and swore roundly. Until recently, his life and thoughts had been cool and ordered. Passion was not foreign to him since he had enjoyed many successful affairs with opera dancers, actresses and ladies of the fashionable impure. But the other emotions roused in him by Jean of compassion, pity and affection were novel and at the moment, unpleasing. Toadied to from his birth and hunted down assiduously by every matchmaking mama in London, the marquess had settled down to view life with bored indifference. As long as his lands were kept in order and his tenants well-housed, he felt he had fulfilled his obligations to Society. He would marry one day, of course, and beget an heir. But it would be to some lady his equal in birth who would turn a blind eye to his bachelor pursuits and not to some green-eyed chit from a Scottish manse.
But as he huddled in his dressing gown, fastidiously wrinkling his long nose at the smell of pond-weed and waiting for his valet to draw his bath, he reflected that his original idea of marriage would simply extend the boredom of his life. If he offered for Jean, he would only need to stoop a trifle. She was of excellent birth and there would certainly be no doubt that she would accept him. What woman wouldn’t, thought the marquess cynically. He was not ill-favored, but even if he had been a hunchback, his ancient name, title and fortune were prime attractions.
Certainly, the girl was soon to have a fortune of her own, but that did not matter; give it to her horrible uncle for all he cared. And of course, she didn’t know yet that she was an heiress. Her naïve idea that one hundred guineas was a fortune must have vanished after a week in the metropolis, so she would be doubly gratified to accept his offer.
As he sank luxuriously into the warm water, the thought of Jean’s gratitude seemed sweet. He would propose to her tonight, he decided, suddenly feeling very good and Sir Galahad-like. He should really obtain her uncle’s permission first but to hell with the old fool! If Jean accepted—what on earth was he thinking?—when Jean accepted, he would then see the old man on the morrow as a matter of form.
Chapter Four
The party that assembled that evening in the Marquess of Fleetwater’s box at Vauxhall Gardens was a gloomy one. In order to cover the bruise, Jean’s abigail had been liberal with powder, which only succeeded in making her look pale and wan, added to which her gown of white silk, unrelieved by any jewelery, heightened the ghostly effect. She was very silent, still feeling the effects of the blow on her head. Lady Harriet had had more than enough of Hamish’s constant company and was wondering if she would ever have enough courage to persuade the old man of the benefits of frequent bathing, since he carried with him a constant and all-pervading odor of stale wine, snuff and what Lady Harriet privately designated as “something worse.” Lord Freddie Blackstone was also heartily sick of the reverend and kept trying to move the bowl of rack punch out of his reach. Freddie had borne the brunt of many of Hamish’s impromptu sermons when the old man was in his cups and, as he confided to the marquess, “If the filthy old ragbag calls me a limb of Satan again, I swear I’ll call him out, demme, see if I don’t!”
But soon the effects of the punch and thin wafers of ham, myriads of lanterns, a balmy evening and the promise of a stupendous firework display cheered the party. Vauxhall was famous for its entertainment, and when the reverend eventually lurched to his feet and announced that he was going to promenade, the evening looked as if it might be a success after all.
Lady Harriet watched the marquess conversing with Jean, the gold head bent close to the red one, and reflected that never before had she seen him look so animated. His blue silk coat was so beautifully tailored across his shoulders that it must have taken the efforts of two footmen to get him into it. His cravat, tied in the Mathematical, was a miracle of snowy perfection. Now there was a man indeed! It was a pity that Jean was not up to snuff tonight. She should have kept her in bed but the girl was determined to come. Could it be that she had developed a tendre for the dashing marquess? Harriet smiled dazzingly at him as he bowed before her and politely begged her permission to escort Jean to the firework display.
Jean tried to control her fluttering heart as she took his proffered arm and strolled down one of the shadowy walks away from the twinkling lights and the cockleshell bandstand with the fiddlers in their three-cornered hats sawing away at sentimental airs. Although she suspected that the marquess’s intentions to any lady must, in the end, be dishonorable, she was enjoying her brief romance and did not wish it to finish.
The crowd gradually thinned as they walked on in silence, past the hermit in his illuminated grove, past the cockneys in their colorful dress, until they found themselves alone in a small grove of cypress. The marquess turned to face the trembling girl and, for the first time in his life, embarked upon a proposal of marriage. He described his wealth and his lands in great detail, the honors she would receive when she became his marchioness, and how he had decided they would deal together extremely well. Looking up into his assured gray eyes, Jean could detect no glint of love or passion. She had an irritating feeling that she was meant to be flattered. She hung her head as the marquess came to the end of his peroration and waited for a reply.
Thoughts tumbled one after the other. As far as getting rid of a future life as a spinster with Uncle Hamish, this was the answer to her dreams. But how could she, at the inexperienced age of seventeen, cope with a rake who was likely to pass his wedded nights nipping in and out of the bedchambers of various titled ladies? Jean had not forgotten Lady Cynthia. Had he taken her in his arms or mentioned one word of love, Jean would undoubtedly have said “yes.” But the silent man before her now seemed a frightening stranger, very much part of the sophisticated London world which only paid lip service to its rigid code of morals. She raised her red head, stared at the marquess, opened her mouth to give an unequivocal “no,” when a bullet zipped past her cheek and vanished into the shrubbery.
For one second the marquess and Jean stood frozen with shock, then, springing to life, he roughly grabbed her arm, and dragging her after him, ran as hard as he could. He knew that to linger and search for an unknown in the bushes might give Jean’s assailant time for another try. When they reached the box where the rest of the party were assembled, the marquess muttered, “Don’t say anything,” in Jean’s ear and thrust her rudely into a chair before running off again.
Fortunately for Jean, everyone was watching the firework display and the marquess’s odd behavior passed unnoticed.
As he approached the spot where he had proposed to Jean, he met Hamish and Lord Ian walking arm and arm.
“Where have you been this past half hour?” demanded the marquess, glaring at Hamish.
“He has been with me,” said Lord Ian. “And I must say, I don’t care for the tone of your voice, Fleetwater.”
“Oh, a pox on you!” said the marquess, rudely pushing past them on the narrow walk and continuing his search. The fact that Hamish was accompanied by Lord Ian seemed to rule him out. Lord Ian had been accused of many petty and vicious crimes but murder had not been among them.
The odd couple watched him disappear.
“Call him out! Call him out!” hissed Hamish. “He insulted you!”
“Shut up, you old fool,” growled Lord Ian. “Fleetwater’s the best shot in the country and an expert swordsman. There are more subtle ways of harming him. Like putting an end to Miss Lindsay.”
“But we must have a plan,” said Hamish, thrusting his face into Lord Ian’s.
“Faugh! Keep your distance, old man,” shuddered Lord Ian, waving a scented lace handkerchief under his nose to dispel the fumes of stale rack punch. “Let me think.”
Lord Ian had bumped into Hamish when he had been stalking the couple himself. Seizing the pistol from the old man’s ha
nd, he had forced him to the ground and leveled it at his throat.
Terrified and half drunk, Hamish had poured out the story of Jean’s inheritance. Lord Ian had kept the pistol cocked as he had run over his financial difficulties in his mind. His funds were in such low water that he could hardly raise the necessary blunt to court Miss Jenkins and he was damned if he wanted to be leg-shackled for life to a family that smelled of the shop. He made up his mind quickly.
“I will remove Jean Lindsay for you for half her fortune, which I suppose you inherit—or I will shoot you dead now,” he had threatened, pushing the pistol against Hamish’s head. “I can always say I killed you to protect the girl.”
Babbling with fright, Hamish had agreed, his ferretlike brain already working out schemes to get rid of Lord Ian once he had played his part.
Now the two conspirators stood in the beautiful surroundings of Vauxhall pleasure gardens and racked their brains as to the easiest and safest way to dispose of one seventeen-year-old girl.
Returning from a fruitless search, the marquess was also deep in thought. He was sure Hamish was involved some way in the murder attempt; probably he had hired some ruffian to do his dirty work. He must get Jean away somewhere safe. But where? He was sure she had planned to refuse his offer of marriage. The marquess’s gray eyes narrowed.
Aye, that was the rub. Jean Lindsay had been about to refuse no other than John, the Marquess of Fleetwater, But why? A sudden wave of fury swept him. How dare she! How dare this provincial chit from one of Britain’s savage backwaters even consider turning down such a matrimonial prize. To hell with her! Every other woman in England would jump at the chance of sharing his bed and his fortune.
Then a strange feeling crept through the marquess’s body. He did not recognize it, for he had never been made to feel small before at any time in his life. But there it was: the voice of humility was telling him that he was behaving like the veriest coxcomb. He had done nothing for the last few days but think about Jean Lindsay, protect her and worry about her.
He sighed and decapitated a rose with his swordstick. Without Jean, life stretched out in its old pattern of boredom, but The Most Noble Marquess of Fleetwater would make sure that Miss Jean Lindsay was head over heels in love with him before he proposed to her again. And who better than he at making young ladies fall in love with him? His amour propre restored and feeling comfortably like Sir Galahad again, the marquess returned to take his chair beside Jean Lindsay and fight any dragons that might be lurking in the bushes of Vauxhall.
Jean eyed him nervously but he made no reference either to the shooting or his proposal and seemed in such good spirits that she began to wonder if she had imagined it all. She certainly did not want him to press his suit and ruin a pleasant romance, but, on the other hand, she felt he might at least have tried.
The marquess, correctly gauging the thoughts running through her carroty head, smiled to himself. The battle for Miss Lindsay’s heart was well under way, but the first step was to get her away to a place of safety. His own estates lay too far north. He eyed Lord Freddie speculatively. The Blackstone estates lay in Surrey, an easy ride from London.
He moved along the box and whispered in Freddie’s ear, “Walk with me a bit. I would have a word with you in private.”
“Can’t walk,” said Freddie succinctly. “Rack punch got me in the legs.”
“Oh, come on!” said the marquess, dragging him to his feet.
Freddie sprang to life. “You put a wrinkle in my sleeve,” he expostulated, his head clearing at the injury done to his coat “Weston made it. Said it was his masterpiece. Treat it with respect, old boy, and stop maulin’ the thing about.” He huffily followed the marquess out of the box.
“Listen, Freddie,” said the marquess, when they were out of earshot. “I want you to ask a party of young people to your home and include me and Jean Lindsay in the invitation.”
“In the middle of the Season? You’ve got windmills in your head,” said Freddie, raising his quizzing glass to ogle a ripe matron in one of the boxes. “And why the Lindsay chit? She ain’t in your usual line and she’s weak in her loft.”
“You are referring to the future Marchioness of Fleetwater,” said the marquess stiffly.
Freddie’s mouth hung open until he recovered his senses and pushed it shut with the knob of his cane.
“And here’s me thinkin’ I was foxed,” said Freddie indignantly. “It’s that demned punch. Nearly offered for that Friday-faced Chelmshurst girl once after a bowl of it.”
“I am perfectly sober,” said the marquess acidly. “You know Courtland’s matched bays are up for sale at Tattersail’s?”
“What’s that to do with it?”
“An invitation to your home and they’re yours.”
“Courtland’s bays!” exclaimed Freddie, throwing an arm around the marquess’s shoulders. “Tell you what, old boy, you buy me cattle like that and you can bring the whole of Bedlam to m’home. Come to think of it, m’sister’s there. Act as chaperone. She’ll be glad of the company. About to drop her first.”
The marquess smiled. The whole Blackstone family were so horsy that the terminology permeated their speech.
“In foal, is she?” he said sympathetically. “Well, I’ll leave the arrangements to you. Tell everyone the Season’s exhausted you and you’re going to the country on a repairing lease.”
“That’s the ticket,” said Freddie. “I’ll leave you to square things with Lady Harriet.”
The marquess returned to the attack immediately by drawing Lady Harriet aside.
“Miss Lindsay is looking peaked this evening.”
“I think she is finding her first Season rather exhausting,” said Lady Harriet.
“Lord Freddie is also feeling the effects of the Season.”
“Oh, really,” said Lady Harriet sourly. “I thought it was the punch.”
“No, upon my honor. He is really feeling weak and is arranging a party of young people to visit his sister. Perhaps you could persuade Miss Lindsay to be one of the party?”
“Gladly. But you must take Hamish with you as well. I cannot tolerate that man and I think I deserve a holiday from his whining and preaching.”
The marquess frowned. This was not part of his plan. But to have Hamish under his nose every minute of the day might be a good idea. After all, the only way to put a stop to the affair, without causing a scandal by calling in the Runners, was to catch Hamish in the act. It might work after all. He smiled and gave his consent.
That evening, Miss Taylor stepped into Jean’s bedchamber for a comfortable coze before retiring for the night. Jean dutifully prattled on about the firework display, the food and the gowns, while all the time she wanted to cry out, “Someone tried to shoot me and Lord Fleetwater proposed marriage to me!” But the marquess had asked her to say nothing of the shooting and anyway, Miss Taylor would think she had imagined the whole thing.
After Miss Taylor retired, Jean puzzled over why the marquess did not wish her to tell anyone about the attempts on her life. Since she did not suspect her uncle, she did not realize that the marquess was trying to prevent a scandal.
Why did her head rule her heart? Jean was beginning to realize that she would love to be married to the marquess. Oh, if only he weren’t a rake. She closed her eyes and drifted off to the altar in her dreams, the sound of the disappointed belles of London, weeping and gnashing their teeth, ringing like music in her ears.
Chapter Five
Blackstone Hall, home of the family since the Crusades, came as a surprise to Jean. She had expected Lord Freddie to live in an elegant, modern Palladian mansion instead of this rambling Tudor pile where one needed a guide to find one’s way to the dining room.
Built of red brick with mullioned windows and towering crenellated roofs, the Hall stood virtually unchanged from the days of Queen Elizabeth. The whole place was permeated by a smell of damp, dry rot and dogs. There were dogs everywhere, yapping, pawing and gettin
g underfoot. Bones lurked under rugs to trip the unwary and particularly knobby ones were buried under the sofa cushions.
Everyone talked about nothing else but horses from morning till night. In fact, Lord Freddie’s sister, Lady Frances—called Frank by one and all—looked remarkably like a rawboned mare.
The party was made up of the marquess, Lord Freddie, the silent Mr. Fairchild, Uncle Hamish, Ladies Mary and Bess, Miss Taylor and Lady Sally Hawkhurst, a dashing young woman who had made a dead set at the marquess on her arrival.
Lord Herbert Elphinstone, Lady Frank’s husband, was abroad on diplomatic service so Lady Frank had deserted her own home in the north of England for her brother’s more congenial estate in the South.
All Jean’s newfound sophistication fled at the sight of Lady Sally. A wealthy heiress and extremely pretty, she seemed to have all the accomplishments that Jean lacked. She embroidered exquisite tapestry, played the pianoforte like an angel and was said to be a bruising rider to hounds.
Thank goodness it wasn’t the hunting season, reflected Jean, who felt she had been put in the shade enough. Were it not for the fact that the marquess insisted she accompany the horsy party everywhere they went, she would have decided that he had forgotten about her completely.
At that moment, Jean was enjoying the peace and quiet of the library. Uncle Hamish had earlier stated his intention of riding over to visit a church in the neighborhood, which was of a low enough Anglican order to suit his Calvinistic taste.
Noticing Jean’s shudder at the thought of another horseback outing, the marquess suggested she might like to spend a quiet afternoon at the Hall. Jean seized on the idea with relief, understanding that he meant to join her, and it was with no little chagrin that she watched him trotting off happily with Lady Sally with all the appearance of a small boy being let out of the schoolroom.
