by M C Beaton
As they entered the Blue Saloon, the marquess caught his breath. Never had Jean Lindsay looked so magnificent. Her sea-green gown set off the whiteness of her skin and her eyes shone like huge emeralds.
He wished to whisper compliments in her ear, but Miss Taylor, who had seemed to favor his suit, stayed firmly by her charge’s side and showed no signs of leaving.
After dinner, a musical evening had been planned, much to Freddie and Frank’s disgust. It had come about that Mr. Fairchild was possessed of an extremely charming tenor voice and made up in his singing for what he lacked in general conversation.
As Miss Taylor was about to take her place beside Jean, Lady Bess called her over to help choose silks, and Miss Taylor, with the thought of her pension ever in mind, had to comply.
Jean gazed blurrily around the room for the marquess and at last focused mistily on a tall figure in bottle green next to her. The marquess had a very fine evening coat of bottle green superfine so it must be he. Jean decided to give him some encouragement to divert his attention from Lady Sally. Forgetting that the Blackstone servants’ livery was bottle green, she reached out and took the hand of the second footman in a warm clasp.
Henry, the second footman, looked down into the green eyes gazing adoringly into his and the sweat started to run down his forehead under his powdered wig. This was his big moment. This is what the older footmen had often whispered about below stairs. That marvelous moment when a lady of fashion falls for you!
“They lets you know they wants you in their boodwars by little signs,” the older men had said. “They strokes your ’and or chucks yer chin or gives yer meaning little looks.” But never in his wildest dreams had Henry expected the approach to be so blatant.
The marquess glanced across the room and froze at the sight of his beloved handclasped with the second footman. He was getting to his feet when an insistent hand tugged at his sleeve.
“She has belladonna in her eyes. I think she thinks that she is holding hands with you,” hissed Miss Taylor.
The marquess marched over and with a flick of his hand and a glare sent the footman from the room and, taking Jean’s hand in his, stood prey to a mixture of emotions. How could he possibly consider making this impossible child his marchioness? He would be the laughingstock of society. As Mr. Fairchild’s voice soared on the penultimate line of the love song, he looked down into the green eyes and mentally shrugged. After all, he had long planned to retire from Society and spend more time on his estates—and holding the girl’s hand in public was tantamount to a declaration.
Jean was apprised of her conduct before going to bed by a very angry Miss Taylor, who failed to tell her that the marquess had taken her hand when the footman was dismissed, so Jean was left to cry herself to sleep, thinking she had held hands all evening with the second footman.
The night was close and thundery and Jean tossed and turned as clap upon clap of thunder rocked the old house, causing the dogs to howl and scrabble at the bedroom doors in hope of human comfort.
One particularly loud crack of thunder wakened Jean from her fitful sleep and, as the echoes rolled away, she became aware of a scratching at the door. Thinking it was one of the dogs, she pulled back the bed curtains and groped her way to the door, damning all four-footed animals under her breath, from dogs to horses. She flung open the door and retreated with a gasp as Henry, the second footman, calmly walked into the room and slammed the door behind him.
Farther down the corridor, Uncle Hamish was receiving frights of his own as a tall figure bent over him and shook him roughly awake. “May the good Lord protect me!” he cried out in fright.
“Call on the Devil, you old hypocrite,” hissed a nasty, well-remembered voice. Lightning flashed through the room and showed Hamish the pallid face and glinting eyes of his visitor, standing in the livid glare like Satan himself.
“Lord Ian!” cried Hamish. “What brings you here!”
“I am come to expedite the murder of your niece,” said Lord Ian.
“’Tis not murder, man. ’Tis my rights. I am an instrument of the Lord,” babbled Hamish.
“Stow it, you old fool,” said Lord Ian brutally. “Or call it what you will so long as it gets done.”
“Well, now,” said Hamish, lighting a candle. “Let us make plans.”
“Enough of plans. We go down the passage into the girl’s room, strangle her, and arrange it to look as if someone broke in.”
“Could we not wait a bit?” pleaded Hamish. Dreams of gold and murder were one thing, reality another. After his amateurish attempts at drowning Jean, shooting Jean and locking her in the closet had failed, he had hoped Lord Ian would handle the business himself. “I’m giving you half the girl’s fortune after all.”
Lord Ian opened his snuffbox and eyed the shivering minister with contempt. “We do it tonight. I’ll do the deed and you come with me. I’ll not have you crying murderer at me so as to keep my share for yourself.” He held out his long, bony fingers. “One squeeze and Miss Jean Lindsay breathes her last!”
At that moment, Jean was already fighting for breath as she was pressed passionately to the chest of the second footman and nearly smothered in an overwhelming odor of attar of roses.
“My little darling,” whispered Henry. “When you ’eld my hand, I says to myself, I says, ‘’Er is as ’ot with passion as wot I is.’”
“It was all a dreadful mistake,” sobbed Jean, trying to push him away. “I thought you were the marquess. There was something up with my eyes.” Henry was about to put this down to maidenly modesty when he received a vicious kick on the shin.
“Ouch!” yelled Henry, hurt in body and soul. “That for a Banbury Tale. You have bin trifling with my affections, that’s wot.” He edged closer again. “But if you was to give me some gold, perraps them wounded feelin’s would ’eal.”
Jean backed across the room pursued by a now very angry Henry. She was about to reply, when they both froze as the door began to creak slowly open and two dark figures crept in and made their way to the bed.
“Ho, Miss Modesty,” yelled Henry. “Two of them. A regular turnpike you are, you slut!”
Jean’s nerve cracked and she threw back her head and screamed and screamed. The two figures made a dash for the door but there were already cries and lights in the corridor. In the vanguard was the Marquess of Fleetwater, attired only in his nightshirt and clutching a drawn sword. A flash of lightning lit up the tableau and he stopped, amazed, as Hamish was revealed trying to burrow under the bedclothes, Lord Ian, who had him by the leg, was trying to pull him back, and Henry was in the act of sidling out of the door.
The marquess deftly caught Henry by the arm, and, dragging him into the room, held his sword to Lord Ian’s throat. “An explanation, gentlemen, if you please.”
“She lured me! She lured me!” yelled Henry.
“Enough, man,” said Lord Ian, smoothly. “Put up your sword, Fleetwater, and don’t be so demned dramatic. I was visiting in the district and my horse fell lame. I did not want to waken the household so I went to ask the reverend for help. We had heard noises coming from Miss Lindsay’s room and we found her with this servant.”
Lord Freddie and Mr. Fairchild arrived on the scene, waving a dueling pistol apiece. “Servant, Miss Lindsay,” said Freddie, sweeping off his nightcap and making his usual impeccable bow. Amid her embarrassment and confusion, Jean could still wonder that the gentlemen had more lace around their nightshirts than she had on her more modest attire.
Freddie suddenly caught sight of the terror-stricken footman. “Hey! That’s my dressing gown. Hey, Muggles, demmit—Muggles. Where is the curst fellow?”
“H-here, m’lord,” hiccupped the butler, Muggles, from directly behind Freddie, making that young gentleman jump.
“Demme, what a household. You’ve been thievin’ my brandy by the smell of you and this fellow’s paradin’ around in my best dressing gown.
“I’m too easy-goin’,” said Freddie righ
teously. “But it’s goin’ to stop right now. You, Muggles, will get that skinful of my brandy taken off your wages and you can take that… that”—he pointed at the shivering footman—“down to the stables and have him horsewhipped.”
“Wait a bit,” said the marquess. “I mean to get to the bottom of this. All of you go away and leave me to have a word with Miss Lindsay. I shall speak with you later, Mr. Lindsay, and cease muttering about harlots or I shall call you out.”
The party shuffled out, and, leaving the door punctiliously ajar, the marquess turned his attention to Jean, who was laughing hysterically.
“Shut up!” he said pleasantly, slapping her efficiently across the face. As she gasped and gulped, he threw her her wrapper and motioned her to sit down. Like a giant with dyspepsia, the thunder rumbled away in the distance.
“It’s all my fault,” said Jean. “I put belladonna in my eyes and couldn’t see, and this evening I held hands with what I thought was… well, never mind. Anyway, it was the second footman all along and he thought… he thought…”
“It becomes quite obvious what he thought,” said the marquess grimly. “I will be back in a minute. It was wrong of the man to borrow Freddie’s dressing gown but it hardly merits a horsewhipping.” He strode from the room, leaving Jean a prey to jumbled emotions.
Presently he was back, this time warmly wrapped in a magnificent dressing gown. “What am I to do with you, Jean? You have left the schoolroom, you know, and should not keep falling in and out of scrapes like a child.”
Jean hung her head.
He drew her to her feet and wrapped his arms around her. “Oh, my dear, we could deal better than this. If only you would learn to behave like, say, Lady Sally, who is a model of decorum.”
Jean, who had been trembling in his grasp a moment before, broke away from him in a fury.
“Lady Sally. Hah!” shouted Jean, her temper matching her hair. “Why don’t you marry the paragon?”
“Calm yourself,” said the marquess. “You are only jealous. You must admit that you are not yet used to how to go on in Society. Miss Taylor is excellent in the schoolroom, no doubt, but you certainly need some lady of fashion to school you. I could suggest…”
“Why, you insufferable, conceited coxcomb,” shouted Jean, now beside herself with rage and, swinging back her arm, she landed a well-placed blow right on the end of the marquess’s aristocratic nose. He howled with pain and raised his hand to strike her and recollected himself in time.
“It is as well that I have found out in time what a termagent you are,” he said, gathering the rags of his dignity. “And to think that I was about to bestow my name on an ungrateful little piece such as yourself. You deserve only to be treated like the hussy you are.” And grabbing her by the front of her nightdress, he dragged her brutally into his arms and forced his mouth down on hers.
A wave of almost uncontrollable passion swept the two antagonists and they broke apart staring at each other, until Jean let out a sob and, turning about, threw herself on the bed.
The marquess stood stunned for a minute watching her, his hands at his sides. Then, “A pox on all women,” he roared, exasperated, and stalked from the room.
On the road to his chambers, the marquess looked over the banisters and spied a light in the library. He marched down and kicked open the door. Freddie and Mr. Harry Fairchild sat on either side of the fireplace, staring at the brandy decanter.
“Just the man we wanted, didn’t we, Harry,” said Freddie, winking hideously at Mr. Fairchild. “Harry wants to have a word with you.”
The marquess poured himself a liberal glass of brandy and sat down. “This is an evening of surprises, indeed. Silence itself is about to speak. Go on, Harry.”
Harry Fairchild rolled his eyes and shied nervously. A few inarticulate sounds escaped his lips. “What he’s tryin’ to tell you, John,” said Freddie, who usually acted as Mr. Fairchild’s interpreter, “is that he thinks you’re a demned fool.”
“Explain,” said the marquess coldly.
“Well, it’s like this,” said Freddie, sighing heavily. “We’re all friends, ain’t we? Known you since we was all in short coats at Eton. Now, you’re thirty years old and have your pick of the gels and some demned fine high-flyers too. Take that little bit of fluff at the opera, calls herself Madame Duvalle, ’cept she’s really Maggie Blunt from Clapham, and take Mrs….”
“If you are going to catalogue my love life,” said the marquess acidly, “we shall be here all night.”
“The point of the matter is the Lindsay girl,” said Freddie, ignoring the marquess’s glare. “Now, she’s a good-lookin’ chit, no doubt about that, and a sweet gel, but she ain’t for you. Got to think of your family, got to think of your name, got to…”
“Fiddle!” snapped the marquess, doubly angry because that was just what he had been thinking himself.
“And,” continued Freddie, faint but pursuing, “there’s somethin’ up with her toploft. What was that footman-fellow doin’ in her room?”
The marquess explained about the belladonna. “There y’are,” said Freddie triumphantly. “See ’em now pointin’ her out at Almack’s. ‘That’s the Marchioness of Fleetwater. That gel over there holdin’ hands with the footman!’”
“Rubbish!” said the marquess. “I refuse to discuss my relations with Miss Lindsay any longer. But I do need help with another matter…”He outlined his suspicions of Hamish and Lord Ian Percy.
“How did Percy get into the house anyway?”
“Demned if I know,” said Freddie. “Servants have run to seed, y’know. M’sister doesn’t keep a tight enough hand on the reins. Probably one of them just let him in without a question. Do you want me to throw him out? Can’t stand the fellow.”
“No,” said the marquess slowly. “Let’s keep them both under observation and trap them when they next make a move. They were probably in her room for some rotten purpose. She’ll need a guard. We’ll take turns. I’ll take first watch.”
“Won’t it look odd,” complained Freddie. “One of us sittin’ outside her door like Patience on the Thingummy?”
“Anyone but us outside her door in the middle of the night shouldn’t be there in the first place. There’s not much of the night left so I’ll watch it out.” He got wearily to his feet. The two friends solemnly watched him go.
“Y’know what?” said Freddie as the door closed behind the marquess. Mr. Fairchild uttered some inarticulate sounds.
“Dashed if you ain’t right,” said Freddie. “Don’t know what I think….!”
In the morning, the storm had blown itself out and the sun shone bravely through the mullioned windows, turning the dust motes to gold and rousing the army of dogs who had been sleeping off their fright of the night before.
En route to the breakfast room, Jean was uncomfortably aware of the furtive, hostile stares of the servants. Henry had been voluble below stairs in his defense and the marquess, that notorious rake, had been espied in the early dawn by the between stairs maid fast asleep outside Jean’s door.
Even the usually amiable Freddie gave her a cool stare over the breakfast table and Mr. Fairchild hitched up the points of his cravat and hunched his face down into the wads of linen to escape her glance. The marquess, heavy-eyed and slightly red about the nose, pointedly ignored her. Bess, Mary and Sally darted curious glances back and forth and began to visibly brighten like the day outside.
Lady Sally looked particularly radiant. An exquisite parasol of lace with an ivory handle had been delivered to her rooms that morning with a note from the marquess. She was not to know that the marquess had bought it for Jean Lindsay before leaving town and had presented it to her instead in a combination of pique and fatigue. Anxious to display her treasure in front of the other ladies, Sally piped up.
“Can we not make the expedition to the cloisters today?”
The gentlemen agreed halfheartedly and were discussing the arrangements when Lord Ian entered the brea
kfast room with Hamish at his heels.
“What in tarnation are you doin’ here, Percy?” asked Lady Frank, throwing the remains of her breakfast to the dogs with blithe unconcern for her oriental rugs. Lord Ian explained his mishap.
“We’ll lend you another mount and then you can be on your way,” said Lady Frank rudely.
“Why don’t you stay with us for a few days, Percy?” said Freddie as the marquess nudged him in the ribs.
“I should be delighted, if it is not an inconvenience to Your Ladyship,” said Lord Ian smoothly.
Lady Frank gave her brother a fulminating glare. “Too right. Demned inconvenient. Place is crawlin’ with people already, crashin’ about all night like herds of wild thingies.”
“This is my house, sis. And I will invite whomever I want,” said Freddie. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, Percy.”
“Charmed,” said Lord Ian, trying to bow over Lady Frank’s hand but was thwarted when she abruptly rose from the table and marched to the door. The man had a hide like a rhinoceros, reflected the marquess bitterly, as Lord Ian calmly took his seat at the table next to Jean.
Miss Taylor bowed her head over her breakfast and tried not to notice the undercurrents. She gathered that her charge was in trouble again and, with a sigh, decided that she was at last becoming accustomed to it.
By the time the party set out later that morning, everyone was again in good spirits with the exception of Jean. Sally, twirling and flirting with her parasol, had left the company in no doubt about the identity of the donor. Freddie and Harry Fairchild positively beamed at the marquess. Their friend was obviously coming to his senses. Lady Sally—now, she was everything that was suitable.
Jean and Sally were taken up in the marquess’s curricle, Jean wedged on the outside, listening to their gay conversation, and feeling wretched.
The cloisters, situated a few miles distant from Blackstone Hall, were all that remained of a once great abbey after Henry the Eighth had finished with it. Gothic gray arches sprang from green lawns as if placed there by magic and formal hedges of yew supplied shade for the party. It was an idyllic setting with the fluttering dresses of the ladies and the gay morning coats and striped waistcoats of the men adding color to the scene.
