by M C Beaton
Jean poked moodily among the dusty shelves looking for something to read. Lord Freddie’s family had obviously ordered their books by the yard from the bookseller and had never looked at them since. With relief, she discovered a copy of Maria Edge worth’s Moral Tales and curled up in an armchair. The air was heavy and warm in the noonday sun. Even the dogs had disappeared and a faint aroma of boiling horseflesh indicated that they must be waiting for their meal. Her eyes drooped over the exploits of a villain who rejoiced in the name of Lord Raspberry and in no time at all, she was fast asleep.
The marquess was enjoying a mild flirtation with Lady Sally in an effort to put Miss Lindsay out of his thoughts and nearly succeeding. Lady Sally had hair of spun gold and wide blue eyes like cornflowers. The marquess had just told her that she reminded him of a cornfield in summer and—unlike Miss Lindsay who would have stared at him in a puzzled way and asked “Why?”—Lady Sally dropped her long eyelashes and blushed adorably.
He was just edging his mount closer to hers to continue his gallantries when he espied the distant figure of the reverend flying hell for leather towards the Hall.
Swearing under his breath, the marquess turned to his pretty companion. “Please join the others and forgive me. I must see that Miss Lindsay is all right.” And with that, he spurred his horse and disappeared down the road in a cloud of white dust.
Sally pouted. Anyone would think that Jean Lindsay was his wife! However prettily the gentleman flirted, he never once took his eyes off that carrot-headed nonentity. Sally had never been overlooked by any man. She was the reigning belle of the Season and had angled for the Blackstone invitation to be near the marquess. And she was not going to waste her time. She narrowed her beautiful eyes and started planning a campaign to bring the marquess to the altar.
Imagining all sorts of murders from bludgeoning to slow poison, the marquess hurtled into the entrance hall only to be told by the butler that Hamish was resting in his room and Miss Lindsay was asleep in the library. Finding he had got himself and his horse into a lather for no reason, the marquess let out a peevish oath and strode off to the stables to supervise the rubbing down of his mount.
Jean slept on in the throes of a nightmare. She was at the altar with the marquess but he was about to be wed to Lady Sally and she was the bridesmaid! “If anyone present knows of any just cause why this couple…” intoned the Bishop. “I do! I do!” screamed Jean, rushing to throw herself into the marquess’s arms. She found herself awake, standing in front of the fireplace, waving her arms. A pretty Dresden ballet dancer was swept by her gesticulating hand onto the hearth where it broke into three pieces.
Jean stared at the damage in horror. The only sign of feminine weakness in Lady Frank, apart from her bulging stomach, was her love of pretty figurines. They were the only things in the rambling, messy, cluttered mansion which received any care or cleaning.
She jumped in fright as she heard the whoops and halloos of the returning party and then the sound of brisk steps in the hall. Grabbing the sharp pieces of china, she stood irresolute, and as the library door opened, she dropped them on the sofa cushion and sat down on them.
As they all poured into the room, chatting and gossiping about the day’s ride, Jean felt like an early Christian martyr. The sharp edges of the china were digging through the thin muslin of her dress and shift and into her buttocks. The marquess joined the party and crossed to the sofa to take his place beside Jean.
“How’s our bonnie Jeannie,” roared Lady Frank, giving Jean a hearty slap on the back. To the marquess’s amazement, Jean let out a high, thin scream of pain. The old bastard’s gone and done it! thought the marquess. He’s managed to poison her. The sudden thought of how much she meant to him pierced his heart and he seized her by the arms. Jean screamed again.
“What’s the matter?” queried Frank. “Got a sore tum-tum?”
“A what?” asked Jean faintly.
“She means—have you got a pain in your breadbasket,” explained Freddie crudely.
“Oh, no!” said Jean. “I will be all right if only you will all go away and leave me.”
“It should be the other way around,” said the marquess. “Come. I’ll carry you to your room and fetch Miss Taylor.”
He bent over to pick her up. She shrank away from him and he lost his balance and fell on top of her. Jean let out a full-blooded scream.
“Tell you what,” said Freddie, sotto voce, to Mr. Fairchild. “Don’t it look like some of them moral pictures? Rape of the Virgin, what?”
The marquess extricated himself and pulled her roughly to her feet and the pieces of china, caught in her dress, plopped one by one onto the floor and rolled across the carpet. Bursting into tears of embarrassment, Jean fled from the room.
Lady Frank was the first to break the shocked silence. “She was sittin’ on my china. Sittin’ on it and breakin’ it with her demned bum!” Bess, Mary and Sally shuddered deliciously and covered their ears.
“Here, here, sis,” said Freddie, rolling his eyes desperately in the direction of the marquess. “There’s probably a simple explanation.”
“Simple, be demned,” roared Lady Frank, hitching up her riding habit and bending to retrieve her broken treasure. “You, Fleetwater, you’re responsible for bringin’ that… that… Scotch thing here. Maybe it’s a social pastime in the Highlands to go around sittin’ on Dresden. That’s why they wear kilts so they can go around enjoyin’ themselves, plankin’ their great bums on china like a lot of demned fakirs sittin’ on nails.”
Freddie, crimson to the roots of his curly hair, hustled the young ladies from the room and then hurried back to drag away Mr. Fairchild, who seemed to have gone into a state of shock.
The marquess, left alone with Lady Frank, eyed her with disfavor.
“Really, Frank, your language is only fit for the stables. The girl probably broke the figurine by accident and tried to hide it. I’ll replace it with the best that Asprey’s has to offer.”
Much mollified, Frank tossed the china fragments into the coal scuttle and plopped herself down on the sofa. “Very decent of you, John,” she growled. “But are you sure the girl’s all right?”
“She is very young and shy,” said the marquess. “And she must be feeling wretched at the moment.”
Frank’s kind heart was moved. “I’ll go up to her and tell her it’s all right.”
“No. Leave it to me,” said the marquess, hurriedly taking his leave.
He knocked on the door of Jean’s sitting room and was admitted by Miss Taylor. Jean sat in a chair in the corner, staring out of the window with reddened eyes.
“Look, my dear,” said the marquess. “You are taking it all too seriously. Frank has forgiven you and everyone else will have forgotten about it by dinnertime. Come. Walk with me in the gardens and calm yourself.” Jean rose, without a word, and took his offered arm and they left the room together, under the speculative gaze of Miss Taylor.
Jean sedately promenaded with the marquess in the weed-choked rose garden. Blackstone Hall was a haven for sloppy servants. A strong smell of ale wafted in the sunny air as the gardener snored comfortably on a bench. One of the undergardeners sat motionless in the middle of a flower bed and stared vacantly into space.
The grooms, the stable boys and the parlor maid who dusted the china were all excellent hard workers. The rest of the army of servants did pretty much as they pleased and Lord Freddie’s table was reputed to be the worst in England.
The marquess’s gray eyes raked over the gardens, looking for a secluded spot where he could re-experience the interesting emotions aroused in him by kissing Miss Lindsay.
“Coo-ee!” They both turned as Lady Sally came fluttering toward them, a vision in white muslin embroidered with blue forget-me-nots and a poke bonnet with wide, blue satin ribbons tied over her blond hair. The marquess graciously offered Sally his other arm and, as he stared down at her enchanting face, he wondered for the thousandth time why he was so besott
ed with Jean.
Sally chattered and flirted prettily, making great play with her fan. If she wasn’t rapping the marquess on the arm with it in reply to some supposed piece of audacity, she was spreading it open before her face and batting her eyelashes over the top.
“Like a cow looking over the top of a fence,” thought Jean bitterly, and then blushed fiery-red as she realized she had spoken her thought aloud. Sally glared and the marquess tried hard not to laugh.
“Tell me, Miss Lindsay,” said Sally sweetly. “You puzzle me. You are such a serious sort of girl, I would have thought you would have preferred to remain in your Highlands, helping your uncle with his good works, rather than embarking on a Season.”
“I came to find a husband,” said Jean in a flat voice.
“And have you found one?” asked Sally, twinkling roguishly at the marquess and inviting him to share the joke.
To the marquess’s horror, Jean looked directly at him and said forthrightly, “I am beginning to think so.”
For the first time in his life, the marquess blushed. He did not like the sudden feeling of being pursued rather than pursuing, and said acidly, “I hope you find someone worthy of you, Miss Jean.”
Jean looked at him in astonishment. “Well, of course you know him better than anyone. Why, it’s…”
If I were a woman, I’d faint, thought the marquess, as he pinched her arm to keep her quiet. The points of his cravat suddenly seemed too high and too hot. The girl was impossible. No modesty. No finesse. She must learn to appreciate him and be aware of the great prize she was about to receive.
“It is time we changed for dinner,” he said and almost dragged both ladies back to the house.
Jean was puzzled and upset. She had thought she had only to go to the marquess and say “Yes” and all would be settled. But now it looked as if he had changed his mind and preferred Sally. Really, she must try to outdo Sally in some way. She must plot.
Unaware that a more sinister plot was being hatched under her nose, Jean prepared for dinner.
Along the corridor, Hamish helped himself liberally from the decanter and mulled over the afternoon’s events. Instead of visiting the church as he had said, he had rendezvoused with Lord Ian at a nearby inn. It was decided that until Lord Ian could figure out a plan to get himself invited, Hamish should try to fabricate “accidents” any way he could. A visit to a nearby cloisters was planned for the morrow. He would bide his time and see what opportunities arose.
The company assembled in the Blue Saloon before dinner, the exquisitely gowned ladies fluttering and vying for the gentlemen’s attention. Mr. Fairchild seemed to be carrying on a kind of strangulated flirtation with Lady Mary, Lord Freddie was known to be notoriously petticoat-shy, so that left Bess, Sally and Jean to fight for the marquess’s attention.
Well aware of the fuss he was creating, the marquess stood with one elegantly shod foot on the hearth and lapped it up, his eyes occasionally sliding around to see how Jean was coping with the competition. Her green eyes held a vague, dreamy look and the marquess felt piqued. He did not yet know her propensity for vanishing into dream country. Bess and Sally, not knowing that Jean was just asking them sweetly in her mind to be her bridesmaids, flirted on regardless.
He crossed the room to offer Jean his arm into dinner. “I do,” she said dreamily and, unaware of his startled glance, drifted into the dining room.
Really, thought the marquess, staring at his plate, how could he tell if Hamish was trying to poison Jean with food like this!
Even Jean’s excellent appetite had begun to pall when faced with the Blackstone cuisine. “What’s this?” she whispered nervously to the marquess, pushing her food around with her fork. The marquess leveled his quizzing glass at the plate. “Boiled Hessians with a side dish of toadstool, I think.”
Jean shuddered as horrible entree followed even more horrible entrée and was glad when the meal ended and the gentlemen elected to join the ladies, instead of lingering over their wine.
Lady Sally went immediately to the pianoforte, requesting the marquess to turn the music for her and Jean watched them, listening to the perfect, bell-like voice, in agonies of jealousy. She was grateful when Lady Frank let out a stentorian yawn and said, “All this music bores me. Used to have better fun when we was young. Played games like hunt the slipper.”
“Why not play hunt the slipper now,” said Freddie enthusiastically. He was as bored by the finer arts as his sister.
The young people agreed and the marquess elected to hide one of his own slippers. Then the party set off, laughing and shouting, along the rambling rooms and corridors of the mansion.
Jean was determined to find that slipper. She could not outshine Sally in anything else, so find that slipper she would. As she wandered farther into the partially unused section of the West Wing, she had the uneasy feeling that someone was stalking her. The sounds of the others were very far away and her candle flame flickered in the draft, sending multiple shadows of herself dancing and racing up into the rafters like so many ghosts.
Just as she decided to turn back, she noticed a thick oaken door of a closet under the attic stairs. Jean decided to take one last try and then give up the hunt. With candle held high, she swung open the door and peered inside. A tremendous shove from behind sent her flying head first into the closet, the door was slammed tight behind her, and the key turned in the lock.
Her candle dropped and went out. Hysterically, she pounded on the door and screamed. Very far away, she could hear Freddie tootling on his hunting horn and the rest laughing. They sounded as if they were in another country.
Jean sank slowly to the floor of the closet, her teeth beginning to chatter with fear. Someone was very definitely trying to kill her and it must be someone she knew. The only person she suspected of actively hating her was her uncle but, as far as she knew, he had no motive for killing her. Perhaps Lady Frank’s bluff exterior covered a mad, twisted mind. Perhaps Lady Sally’s Dresden face hid the mind of a cunning murderess. The more her frantic brain turned it over, the more the whole of the house party began to look sinister.
Back in the music room, Lady Sally proudly held up the slipper and coyly demanded a kiss from the marquess who eagerly complied, egged on by cheers from the others. He drew back disappointed. Obviously no girl, however pretty, was going to arouse the fierce passion in him engendered by Miss Jean Lindsay. He sighed. Lady Sally taking his sigh to betoken passion, fluttered her eyelashes and cast a triumphant look at Lady Bess, who stuck her tongue out in return. Bess was feeling extremely sore. She had wasted a chunk of the London Season to no account and made plans to leave as soon as possible.
The marquess realized that Jean showed no sign of returning. Hamish had reappeared and now sat in a corner, apparently comatose, over the decanter. The marquess felt the first small flicker of panic.
“I think we shall have another game,” he announced. “Find Jean Lindsay.” Sally pouted. “She has probably retired.” The marquess insisted, leading the way himself. Freddie, slightly foxed, blew a blast on his hunting horn and the party spread out once more, the ladies searching and calling in a very halfhearted manner.
Now, thought the marquess, if I were Miss Jean Lindsay, what hen-witted place would I decide to go. He stumbled through the rabbit warren of a house, occasionally calling her name and cursing her bitterly under his breath the rest of the time. He was about to give up when he thought he heard a faint noise coming from the West Wing. He raced toward the sound and stopped short by the closet. He threw open the door and saw in the flickering light, Jean, white-faced, terrified, her hands bruised and bloody from beating on the door. He put down the candle and wordlessly held out his arms.
Miss Jean Lindsay, in the manner of her favorite heroines, put one faltering hand to her brow and fainted dead away.
Chapter Six
The visit to the cloisters was canceled until Jean recovered from her fright. She lay in bed, drinking her chocolate and nursi
ng her bandaged hands. The marquess had begged her to say that the whole thing had been an accident so that he could try to catch the culprit red-handed. Jean regretted agreeing to the scheme. It left her feeling unprotected at the most and, at the least, like a fool since the rest of the house party considered her hare-brained.
The long, boring day stretched wearily ahead. How on earth can I be so frightened and so bored? thought Jean. Miss Taylor had called in the services of two footmen to move her to a daybed by the window, so she had an excellent view of the marquess and Lady Sally promenading in the gardens with their blond heads close together.
By late afternoon, she declared herself well enough to go down for dinner and stared moodily in the mirror as the abigail arranged her hair.
“My eyes look very small,” said Jean fretfully. “They are still puffed with crying.”
“I have heard said that the ladies in London use belladonna to make their eyes shine,” said the abigail.
“Can you get me some?” asked Jean hopefully.
“Oh, yes,” said the abigail. “I think there is some below stairs.” She hurried off and returned presently with a vial.
She tilted Jean’s head back and dropped a little of the liquid into each green eye. Jean straightened up and stared in horror at the blur where the mirror was supposed to be.
“I can hardly see a thing,” wailed Jean.
“It’ll wear off after a bit,” said the abigail. “But it makes your eyes ever so lovely, miss. They’re like emeralds.”
“Well,” said Jean philosophically. “Il faut souffrir pour être belle—we must suffer to be beautiful.” She tried to cross the room and fell over a footstool.
“Wait there and I’ll get Miss Taylor to take you downstairs,” said the abigail.
Miss Taylor sighed when the problem was explained to her. “I keep thinking you have done everything socially wrong that there is to do and you think of something else,” she told Jean. “You had better hang onto my arm as much as possible.”
