by M C Beaton
Lady Sally drifted up to him and put a hand on his arm. “I confess I weary for the elegance of London. Too many clodhoppers here.”
“Nonsense!” said the marquess spitefully. “I find it very refreshing.” The supper dance was coming up and the marquess, who had never had to pursue a female in his life before, realized he would now have to do just that if he meant to retain any of Miss Lindsay’s fickle attention.
A noisy set of the Lancers came to a stop and Lady Sally pouted as the marquess stepped forward as Jean was curtsying to her partner who held her arm possessively.
The orchestra started up the strains of the waltz and he pulled Jean into his arms, holding her closer than the proprieties allowed. The proximity was too much for both of them and they began to stumble and fall over each other’s feet. “I must be fatigued,” said the marquess, gallantly taking all the blame. “Let us go into the supper room ahead of the others.”
“What for?” asked Miss Lindsay. “To eat rock-hard jelly and hundred-year-old rout cakes?”
“My own chef, I assure you,” he said soothingly, leading her out of the ballroom.
He guided her to a table for two in a corner over by the window and told the footman to bring them a selection from the buffet. The footman was Henry and Jean blushed in an agony of embarrassment and wrapped her legs tightly around the leg of the table. Raising her eyes to the marquess’s face, she encountered such a blazing look of passion that she blushed again and dropped her eyes to her plate.
Then as Henry arrived and was arranging the selection of food before them, Jean felt the marquess’s hand under the table, stroking her thigh. How she contained herself until Henry left, she never knew, but no sooner had he departed than she gave the offending hand a stinging slap with her fan.
“Why so missish all of a sudden,” drawled the marquess. “You take delightful liberties with my person, my sweet, and I will take delightful liberties with yours.”
Jean stared at him with her mouth open.
“Good God, girl! Don’t you know what you are doing.”
In sudden confusion, Jean realized that, instead of wrapping her legs tightly around the table leg, she had wound them around a muscular one encased in a Greek sandal.
“Oh, my lord. Indeed I am sorry!” said Jean. “I thought you were the table leg.”
The marquess’s eyes flashed anger and then his sense of humor saved him. He roared with laughter. “My dear delight. What will you think of next? Shall we start all over again as if we had just met? There are a few things in our acquaintanceship I would like to forget.” He stroked his nose. “For example, you have a very punishing left.”
Gray eyes met green in perfect understanding. For a few glorious seconds, the ballroom went away as they sat perfectly still at the enchanted island of the corner table.
Then the moment was shattered rudely as the Spirit of Liberty pulled up a chair and plumped herself down at the table.
The marquess groaned inwardly. Lady Frank was obviously in her cups and in that glorious state where she fancied herself a regular buck. Lounging back in her chair with her legs stretched out in front of her, Lady Frank slapped each of them heartily on the back in turn.
“Well, an’ if you both ain’t smellin’ of April and May,” roared Lady Frank with the devastating perception of the very drunk. “But have a care… have a care!” She wagged her finger roguishly in Jean’s face. “This young bucko breaks hearts for breakfast.”
Lady Frank pushed back her hideous purple turban from her sweating forehead and knocked back a bumper of champagne as if it were water. “Hey, John! ’Member the time you was up from Oxford with Freddie and there was that very grand Lady Whassername stayin’. Big, high-nosed woman. Very grand. Anyway, she wasn’t too grand to creep into your bedchamber at night, hey John?” She nudged the marquess in the ribs. “Then her husband comes gallumphin’ along and catches the pair of you, and Freddie and me was laughin’ fit to bust and wonderin’ if the old boy would call you out.”
Memories of Lady Cynthia flooded into Jean’s mind. So the marquess not only consorted with beauties but was evidently not averse to philandering with ladies who looked like brood mares.
Under cover of Lady Frank’s hoots of laughter, she cast a piteous look at the marquess.
The marquess was savagely regretting that one could not challenge ladies to a duel or land them a facer or do any one of a hundred things that would shut Frank up.
“If you have finished with your tales of my misspent youth, Frank,” he said icily, “you might spare a moment for your duties as a hostess. Your butler is about to pass out.”
“What!” Lady Frank sprang to her feet and then tottered back to support herself on the table. “Where?”
The marquess languidly pointed his quizzing glass in the direction of Muggles, the butler, who was sitting at the end of the buffet, his head lolling toward a nearly empty decanter of madeira.
“Muggles, c’mere, Muggles,” roared Lady Frank. Muggles started to his feet in alarm and tried to approach Lady Frank, who was trying to approach him. Both took three steps forward and two back until they finally met in the middle of the room, advancing and retreating as if performing the steps of the minuet.
Jean looked coldly at the marquess who was doubled up with laughter at the spectacle. She must have been out of her mind to consider even for a minute, tying herself up for life to this rake. Probably his proposal of marriage had been all a hum and he had only been using it to lead her virginal steps into an affair. After all, he had not approached Lady Harriet or Uncle Hamish for her hand.
Suddenly noticing her expression, the marquess stopped laughing. “Come, Jean. You are not going to get upset over the follies of my youth.”
“It’s not the follies of your youth I’m worried about. ’Tis the follies of your middle age,” said Jean coldly. “Take me back to the ballroom. I am beginning to miss the fun of dancing with people of my own age.”
“Why must you always go into such a huff over trivialities,” said the marquess furiously, beginning to feel all of his thirty years.
Concerned over Jean’s future behavior as the Marchioness of Fleetwater and having drunk a little more than was good for him, he began to deliver himself of a very stuffy lecture on how a lady should comport herself at all times, only to be interrupted in the middle of it by a loud “Fiddlesticks!” as Miss Jean Lindsay got to her feet and marched off to the ballroom, leaving him feeling extremely foolish.
Jean was accosted at the door of the ballroom by Lord Ian who requested a dance. “I have promised the next dance to Lord Fleetwater,” said Jean mendaciously, in order to get out of dancing with Lord Ian, who she was beginning to dislike.
Lord Ian moved away from the ballroom with a satisfied smirk on his face, and, as he heard the band strike up a lively Cotillion, he spied Henry standing on duty in the hall, staring vacantly into space, his hands behind his back.
Moving up behind the footman, Lord Ian whispered, “Would you like to make a guinea for a few minutes’ work. No, don’t turn around.”
Henry nodded vigorously. A hand slid a note into his followed by a guinea. “Then give this note to the lady who is dancing with the Marquess of Fleetwater when the Cotillion has ended. Make sure no one sees you.”
Henry clutched the note and nodded again. After a few minutes he turned around but whoever had spoken to him could be any one of the slightly tipsy young bloods who were crossing and recrossing the hall between the card room and the dance.
The footman waited twenty-five minutes until he judged the dance would be nearly over and stepped into the ballroom. The marquess was performing the steps of the dance with Lady Sally, watched by an admiring audience of dowagers. They were undoubtedly the handsomest couple Society had seen for a long time.
As Lady Sally made her curtsy, the marquess had his arm seized by Lady Frank, anxious to pour her tale of the butler’s iniquities into a sympathetic ear. Henry slid the note into Lady Sal
ly’s hand.
Lady Sally took the note to the seclusion of a corner behind some potted palms and opened it.
“Dear Lady,” she read. “I can wait no longer to declare my passion for you. Meet me at the ruin in the gardens at eleven o’clock, I beg you. Yrs. Fleetwater.”
She had triumphed after all. Lady Sally noticed that it was already quarter to the hour and hurried to her rooms to fetch a warm cloak.
The marquess had finally got rid of Lady Frank and was searching the ballroom for Jean when Hamish caught him by the elbow. “My lord, a word in private with you.”
“What about?” asked the marquess suspiciously.
“Well, my lord,” cringed Hamish. “I have been speculating upon ‘Change and would have your opinion on some West Indian stocks.”
“Can’t it wait till tomorrow?” said the marquess, his gray eyes raking the room for the sight of a Georgian figure in a black and silver dress.
“No, my lord,” whispered Hamish. “I am a poor man and these financial negotiations are pressing on my mind.”
“Oh, very well,” sighed the marquess. If the old curmudgeon had been frittering away Jean’s thousand a year on ’Change perhaps it would explain a lot. More fortunes were lost that way than at the gaming tables of St. James’s. He led the way toward a private parlor.
As he was dealing briskly with stocks and bonds, he noticed the old man’s eyes constantly straying to the clock, almost hugging himself with suppressed excitement.
Hurriedly the marquess threw the papers on the table. “I insist on dealing with the rest of this matter tomorrow,” he said and, throwing off Hamish’s restraining arm, marched from the room.
Henry was lurking outside the door. “H’everything h’all right, my lord?”
“Yes, thank you,” said the marquess. Really, the insolence of Freddie’s servants was unbelievable. Something in Henry’s manner gave him pause. “Why shouldn’t it be all right?” he asked.
“I did like your friend said and gave your note to the young lady,” leered Henry.
The marquess swore. “I wrote no note. What are you talking about, man? Wait a bit. Whatever was in the note, you read it? Right?”
Henry cringed and babbled. “I just had a peek to see I was doing the right thing and the note said you wanted to meet the lady at the ruin.”
“I’ll deal with you later, you insolent puppy,” hissed the marquess, and brandishing his spear like Paris defending the topless towers of Ilium, he raced from the Hall and out into the night.
Henry moodily decided that he did not like the Quality. In his short time in service, he seemed to be getting blamed for things, left, right and center.
Running through the grounds, leaping over bushes, spurred on by the fear of what he would find, the marquess sped toward the ruin which stood on a hillock lit by the faint rays of a quarter moon.
He could just make out a small, hooded figure in a long cloak and then a taller figure creeping around the corner of the ruin.
“Jean!” he called desperately. “Jean!” Lady Sally heard his shouting, turned and saw a menacing black shape looming over her and let out a terrified scream. Her hood fell back from her shoulders and her gold hair shone bravely in the moonlight. With a curse, her assailant turned and fled, leaving Lady Sally to fling herself into the marquess’s arms and faint dead away.
The guests, including Jean, crowded into the Hall to see who was pounding on the door and waited impatiently as Muggles advanced and retreated until his tottering steps led him to the handle.
He flung the door wide and the company gasped as the marquess stood on the threshold with the inert body of Lady Sally in his arms.
“She has been attacked,” said the marquess. “Freddie, get Lady Sally’s abigail and get the servants out to search the grounds.”
Sally gave a faint moan and opened her blue eyes. “It is all right. You are perfectly safe,” said the marquess tenderly. Miss Jean Lindsay ground her teeth.
The party immediately began to break up. Since most of the guests were young, their parents were anxious to get them to the safety of their homes. In the bustle of departure, Lord Ian went unnoticed as he slipped back into the house. He felt a fool and his hatred of Jean Lindsay knew no bounds. Now he would look forward to killing her.
Chapter Seven
It was a gloomy group who met downstairs next day. The weather, in keeping with their mood, threw buckets of icy rain against the windows, and all the fireplaces smoked abominably.
The only happy ones were the dogs, released from the confines of the stables, who rampaged through the house, leaping affectionately on any hungover person who happened to be passing; and the servants who slopped around in their old lackadaisical manner, glad that Lady Frank’s burst of housekeeping was at an end.
The gentlemen had retired to the billiard room to cool their fevered throats with Mr. J. Schweppe’s soda water and to play a desultory game. That left the ladies to return to the seclusion of their rooms to review the events of the evening.
Lady Frank was suffering from a monumental hangover and monumental feelings of guilt about drinking so much champagne the night before in her condition, and having horrid imaginings about presenting her spouse with a deformed heir.
Lady Sally was angry at finding out that the romantic note did not, after all, come from the marquess. Jean was jealous of Lady Sally, Bess was jealous of her sister Mary, who seemed about to marry first, and Miss Taylor dreamt of a quiet, retired life in a Highland cottage.
When they finally left their rooms and descended to seek the company of the gentlemen, all were elaborately dressed and coiffed and laughed and talked in high, strained, tinkling voices like brittle glass. Sally and Jean were especially affectionate to each other.
Lord Ian and Hamish sat in the latter’s bedchamber and accused each other of being bungling fools.
“Her eighteenth birthday is nearly upon us,” said Hamish. “Surely you can get rid of her by then.”
“You mean, surely we can get rid of her by then,” snapped Lord Ian.
“Well, we, then,” said Hamish, scratching his shaven head. He was still in his nightshirt and his wig hung from a stand in the corner of the room. “Keep it simple next time. No secret notes and complicated assignments. Stab her in her bed, for God’s sake!”
“Can’t do it here. Fleetwater’s getting too suspicious. Let’s see what today brings.”
It seemed as if the day would bring nothing but gloom and torrents of rain. Everyone began to get on everyone else’s nerves and the usually amiable Lord Freddie was snappish.
“I’m sick of the whole cursed business,” he confided to the marquess. “An’ it’s all your fault. I could be blowin’ a cloud in Cribb’s parlor right now ’stead of moppin’ and mowin’ round a lot of petticoats. I declare I’m surprised at you, John!”
“I’m surprised at myself,” said the marquess ruefully. “It’s only seven days to go till her birthday and my man of business has had a note from her lawyer. He should be here any day now and then the problem will be solved.”
“Well, demmit, man. Get ’em all in here and make a great, big, whoppin’ announcement that she’s goin’ to be an heiress and if she pops off, the uncle gets it.”
“I promised the lawyer fellow I would keep mum till he arrives,” said the marquess. “Anyway, wouldn’t you like to catch those two villains red-handed?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” said Freddie roundly. “I’m bored with the whole thing. And if you don’t watch, the lawyer will be makin’ the announcement over her dead body. It ain’t like you, John. Egad, you could have had any girl you wanted. All this Gothic carryin’ on is gettin’ on my nerves.”
“Well, I must admit, a life of celibacy doesn’t suit me,” remarked the marquess lazily, chalking his cue. “I might post up to town and see what’s available at the opera.”
“And leave me with m’sister and a passel of virgins! Be demned to you!” said Freddie wrathfully.
She had been taught that the way to a man’s heart was through gold, a well-run household and ladylike accomplishments. The coarser aspects of the case had never been brought home to her.
Through the talk of the women in the village and overhearing servants’ gossip, she had an inkling that “men have certain needs,” as Miss Taylor so delicately put it. But those were things that resolved themselves, surely, in the privacy of the marital bedchamber. Jean, like many young girls of her age, had never paused to think of what matrimony involved after the altar.
In a panic, she decided she did not want to lose the marquess, rake or not. If she allowed him to escape to London and to the sophisticated charms of some opera dancer, then she felt sure all would be lost. But how to reanimate the marquess’s feelings toward her. He now seemed very splendid, elegant and withdrawn. She decided to see what the day would bring, unaware that the two conspirators along the corridor had already arrived at the same conclusion.
By dinnertime, a watery sunlight had struggled through the clouds and a messenger arrived with a note for Lady Frank.
“It’s from Sir Giles Mannering,” said Lady Frank. “He’s our magistrate for the county, y’know. Wants us all to go over there for dinner tomorrow and stay for a few days.”
“Oh, do let’s go,” said Lady Sally. “I am affeared to go out of doors here in case I get attacked. Even though I have a strong protector.” She dimpled prettily at the marquess.
“Capital idea!” seconded Freddie, his good humor returning. “Sir Giles has a cozy manor and an excellent chef.”
“Then by all means let us go,” said the marquess. His chef had returned to London in tears, saying he could not abide the barbaric conditions of the Blackstone kitchens any longer.
