by M C Beaton
She was sure the marquess would never offer her a carte blanche. He showed all the signs of a gentleman on the edge of a proposal. Her birth was impeccable, she must not forget that. “We will be married by special license,” said the dream marquess. “I can wait no longer….”
Jean frowned. The dream marquess was always saying that he could wait no longer and the real life marquess seemed to be taking his time coming to the point, blowing hot one minute and cold the next.
Chapter Nine
The marquess was lost in a happy daydream of his own. He intended his proposal to be a masterpiece of elegance. There had been enough of the hurly-burly life in the past few weeks. He would dazzle Miss Lindsay with his address so that she would fall gratefully into his arms. He selected a fresh cravat from his valet and proceeded to sculpt the linen with his fingers into one of his famous works of art.
Both Lady Sally and Jean were late in making their appearance in the saloon that evening, both wanting to make an entrance, and it was with little pleasure that they met at the top of the stairs. Sally was wearing a gown of rose-colored slipper satin trimmed with seed pearls and her golden hair was topped with a dainty tiara of diamonds of the first water, Jean, who had felt she looked magnificent in the privacy of her bedroom, began to lose confidence. Sally had never looked more beautiful or more ethereal. Instead of making the grand entrance she had planned, Jean followed very crestfallen in Sally’s wake.
She did not know that she herself had never looked more attractive. Her hair burned like a flame in the candlelight of the green and gold saloon. She wore a dress of gold silk, cut low over the bosom, with an overdress of gold gauze edged with bugle beads and her mother’s garnet necklace around her neck.
The marquess moved forward to congratulate the ladies on their appearance. He looked every inch the aristocrat, thought Jean, the severe black and white of his evening dress relieved by the brilliant sparkle of diamonds. There were diamonds in his snowy cravat and on his long fingers. The marquess privately thought that he had overdone it a bit but Jean thought he looked magnificent. Freddie was impeccable as ever and Lady Frank stunned them all by appearing in a huge, forbidding turban studded with an enormous ruby and topped up with a waving ostrich plume.
“If I’m goin’ to sit with the dowagers, I may as well look the part,” she laughed. Sir Giles and Lady Carol, who had opted for a quiet evening at home, were taken aback by the splendor of their guests.
“It’s only a local dance,” said Lady Carol, eyeing them doubtfully. “We don’t boast a spa like Bath or Tunbridge Wells, you know. Our dances are not very grand.”
“Then, we’ll make ’em grand,” said Freddie, holding out his arm to Jean who hesitated, looking shyly toward the marquess. But his fair head was bent over Sally and he did not seem to be paying attention. With a little sigh of disappointment, she allowed Freddie to help her into the large, closed coach and had the doubtful pleasure of subsequently facing the marquess and Lady Sally who were sitting side by side.
Flambeau sputtered and flared from sconces in the wall outside the Assembly Rooms. A number of guests were arriving on foot across the square led by the bobbing lanterns of the link boys. How Bess would sneer, thought Jean.
Jean could hardly contain her excitement as she heard the musicians striking up. This, she decided, was to be the most memorable evening of her life. She would enjoy the dance, the marquess would propose, and the rest of her life stretched before her without a shadow.
Freddie claimed her for the first dance, leaving the marquess to dance with Lady Sally. Jean suffered Freddie’s exuberance for the next half hour, looking forward to the moment when the marquess would be able to lead her to the floor.
But no sooner had the country dance finished than Lady Frank introduced her to the son of a local squire who led her off into a rowdy set of the Lancers. And no sooner had that exhausting dance finished than the broad back of the marquess was seen retreating into the card room.
Jean bit her lip and, refusing the offers of several young gentlemen, went to sit beside Lady Frank who was in close conversation with a terrifying-looking dowager. Some of Jean’s expectancy began to fade and, as Freddie led her off to the supper room and she caught a glimpse of the marquess in the card room with Jack Cartwright—both engrossed in a rubber of piquet—she began to feel bewildered. The marquess had shown all the signs of a man deeply in love. By rights, he should be sitting across the table from her, gazing into her eyes.
“When I was last in Scotland, I shot a green-spotted deer with pink antlers and six feet,” remarked Lord Freddie conversationally.
“How nice,” said Jean vaguely.
“Thought you wasn’t attendin’. Anythin’ the matter?”
“Oh,” Jean dragged her thoughts away from the card room. “Sorry, Freddie. I was dreaming.”
Freddie eased his cravat and leaned across the table. “You know, since I met you, I’ve got to thinkin’ about settlin’ down.”
Jean started nervously to her feet. “I hear the music starting up. We had better get back.” She began to move and there was a tearing sound. Her thin overdress had caught under Freddie’s foot.
“It’s all right,” she assured that blushing young man, glad of an excuse to get away. “I’ll go and mend it and it will look like new.” And before he could reply, she hurried off.
She found an empty anteroom and, opening her reticule, drew up a chair behind a draft screen and prepared to repair the damage.
Female voices sounded in the passage outside and then the door of the anteroom opened. Peering through the hinges of the screen, Jean saw two elderly dowagers exclaim over a slight tear in one of their dresses.
“My dear, Mrs. Belfort-Fawcett, let me stitch it for you. I am said to be extremely handy with a needle. These wretched chairs. All nails and splinters, I assure you. The whole Assembly is going to rack and ruin, rack and ruin, and so I told the chairman.”
“We have distinguished enough company, this evening, Mrs. Follett,” remarked Mrs. Belfort-Fawcett.
“Yes indeed,” remarked Mrs. Follett in a booming voice. “The dear marquess. So handsome. But do you know what they are saying at Almack’s, Mrs. Belfort-Fawcett? Our dear Lord Fleetwater has been ensnared by that red-haired chit who was dancing with Lord Freddie Blackstone this evening.”
“No!” An appreciative gasp from Mrs. Belfort-Fawcett.
“Yes, indeed. And I hear that the girl, a Miss Lindsay, is very strange. Why, the Duchess of Glenrandall’s girl, Lady Bess, told some friends of mine that she is reputed to be a witch in her home village in Scotland. And Lady Cynthia Lamont says she drinks.”
“No! How terrible,” said Mrs. Belfort-Fawcett with relish. “Surely dear Lord John cannot be considering matrimony, although she is said to be the granddaughter of General Sir Duncan Lindsay.”
“Of course marriage is out of the question,” replied Mrs. Follett. “Her birth may be all right, but, my dear, her reputation! Furthermore, she is penniless. If anything is in the wind, it is no more than an affaire. Should she return to London, the patronesses of Almack’s are considering withdrawing her vouchers and no one can have any claim to the ton after that.”
“I think she is very pretty,” ventured Mrs. Belfort-Fawcett timidly.
“Nonsense! Those fey Highland looks may have a certain charm for the gentlemen but, for my own part, I think she looks positively farouche.”
They both left the room and Jean sat still as a statue behind the screen with her face burning. The malicious tongue of Lady Bess had obviously been busy before they left for the country and what further gossip she must be spreading now that she was back in town, did not bear thinking of.
Jean’s first thought was to run away. But where?
On their return to town, Uncle Hamish would hear the gossip and then it would be back to a long life of spinsterhood and drudgery at the manse. So John, the Marquess of Fleetwater, would not consider matrimony with such as herself? Then she
would put herself under his protection. She had no reputation left anyway.
Having come to this decision, Jean got to her feet only to sink back into her chair. She had no courage to go back and face the ballroom now that she knew what everyone was saying about her. She was to remember that evening for the rest of her life.
From time to time, voices called her name, several times people came into the room searching, but no one thought to look behind the screen where one young lady sat as if turned to stone. Gradually the music died away, a lackey came in and snuffed the candles, footsteps receded, good nights were called, horses stamped outside and then all was silence, except for the high quavering voice of the watchman calling the time. As she heard the great doors of the Assembly Rooms bang shut and the last footfalls echo away in the distance, Miss Jean Lindsay sank down on the floor beside her chair and cried and cried.
By three in the morning, the anxious house party met together in the library of Oakley Manor. Sir Giles, the marquess and Lord Freddie were exhausted, having ridden all over the countryside.
Lady Frank snatched off her turban and threw it on the sofa. “Maybe she heard what those damned tabbies were sayin’ about her at the ball tonight.”
Everyone stared.
“Bess has been very busy. She has spread some story about the girl being a witch and sent to London in disgrace and something about her gettin’ drunk at the Lamonts.”
The marquess flushed uncomfortably, remembering how he had encouraged her to drink.
“I don’t think it’s all her fault either,” said Lady Frank. “Never knew a gel surrounded by such spite and jealousy and supposed gentlemen.”
“Hey!” expostulated Freddie.
“I ain’t thinkin’ of you, Freddie,” said Lady Frank, staring at the marquess.
There was a silence while everyone looked at the marquess and the marquess looked at the fire.
Suddenly there was the sound of a soft football from the floor above. “She’s back!” shouted Freddie, rushing upstairs with the marquess.
Without any concern for the proprieties, they flung open Jean’s bedroom door. The windows over the balcony stood ajar, the silk curtains fluttering ghostlike in the night breeze.
“There she goes!” yelled Freddie, leaning over the balcony.
“That’s a man!” said the marquess. “Quick! Get our horses and we’ll ride to Blackstone Hall. We’ll catch them yet!”
They ran to the stables, yelling for fresh horses, cursing the sleepy ostlers. When they arrived at Blackstone Hall, there was a light shining in the library.
“They could have cut across the fields,” said Freddie.
The marquess swore. “You didn’t tell me there was a way across the fields.”
“Didn’t think of it until now,” said Freddie woefully. He hammered on the door. “Muggles! Demn you. Muggles!”
Cursing at the delay, the marquess smashed a rock against the hall window and despite Freddie’s protests, opened the latch and climbed through.
They burst into the library and the marquess paused for an instant on the threshold, taking in the scene. Hamish and Lord Ian were sprawled at their ease in front of the fire before a table strewn with cards. His quick eyes took in the scratches and mud on Lord Ian’s boots.
With one bound he was across the room, jerking Lord Ian out of his chair.
“Where were you tonight, dammit,” growled the marquess, shaking Lord Ian like a rat.
Lord Ian gasped and spluttered, his normally sallow face white with fury.
“Unhand me this instant,” he choked and, as the marquess dropped him unceremoniously on the rug, he lay glaring up at his adversary with murder in his eyes.
Hamish uncoiled his cadaverous length from the armchair and roared, “Heathen! Mohawk! We have been at a play at Barminster this evening and the servants can confirm that we have been here since then. I demand an apology!”
Muggles, the butler, stood swaying in the doorway, roused by the commotion.
“Ask the butler,” yelled Hamish, pointing in his best pulpit manner at the unlucky Muggles.
Muggles, who had been allowed free run of the cellar when the couple left for the play, stammered, avoiding Freddie’s eye, “The gentlemen have been here these past four hours.”
“I haven’t even asked you to give them an alibi,” said the marquess suspiciously. “Look you, your niece Jean Lindsay is missing. If she is found harmed in any way, I will come back and murder you both.”
With that, he stormed from the room, dragging Freddie after him.
Hamish and Lord Ian eyed each other uneasily as the sounds of the marquess and Freddie searching the Hall from cellar to attic filtered through to them.
“Here’s a coil,” muttered Hamish. “If we ever do get rid of the girl, we’d better be out of the country on the next boat.”
“He’ll never prove anything,” snarled Lord Ian, getting to his feet and brushing himself down. “With any luck some footpad may have done the job for us. I wonder where she can be….”
It was a gloomy breakfast party at Oakley Manor in the early hours of the morning. No one except Lady Sally had felt like sleeping late. The marquess and Lord Freddie were tired and crumpled, having slept in their clothes, ready to leap to the saddle at the first sign of news.
Lady Frank broke the silence. “I’ve bin thinkin’,” she said wearily. “If I was a young sensitive thing like Jean and maybe heard what these tabbies were sayin’, I’d want to run away.”
“The stage!” Reanimated, the marquess rushed from the room and could shortly be heard outside, calling for his horse.
Freddie eyed his sister over his mug of beer. “She ain’t got any money with her, Frank, and you said there was nothin’ missin’ from her room.”
“True,” commented Lady Frank, looking at the dregs of her chocolate. “Maybe she just sat down somewhere too ashamed to move.”
Brother and sister looked at each other with dawning hope. “C’mon!” yelled Freddie. “Let’s go!”
Frank shook her head wearily. “I’m done for, Freddie. Can’t move another step. You go an’ bring her back. Tell her she can make her home with me as long as she likes.”
Freddie, moved to a rare demonstration of affection, hugged his sister warmly. “You’re a trump, Frank. The gel’s too good for Fleetwater anyway,” and unconsciously giving his sister a lot to think about, he hurried off.
A thin mist was rising over the spires of Barminster as Freddie rode into town. He saw the marquess’s horse tethered outside the coaching inn but did not check. All was fair in love and war, thought Freddie, spurring his horse on to the Assembly Rooms.
The great doors were opened wide as the servants went about their duties of cleaning up the debris from the ball the night before.
Freddie stomped through the echoing halls, hallooing at the top of his voice. He was about to leave in disgust, when he strode into the anteroom and saw the edge of a reticule peeping out from behind the screen.
He strode around the screen and stood looking down at Miss Jean Lindsay. She was fast asleep, crouched on the floor with her tearstained face lying on the seat of the chair. She looked all of twelve years old.
Freddie gently picked up a lock of red hair and said quietly, “C’mon, Jean. It’s time to go home.”
“Yes, John dear,” she murmured in her sleep.
“I say, it ain’t ‘John dear,’” said Freddie crossly. “It’s me. Freddie. Wake up!”
Jean opened wide her green eyes and looked up at Freddie’s friendly, concerned face. “Oh, Freddie,” she sobbed. “I’m so glad it’s you.” And with that she threw herself into his arms.
Never before had Freddie felt so tall or so gallant. “I’m takin’ you home,” he murmured into her hair. “No runnin’ away again. M’sister says you can stay with her—long as you like. Honest!”
As a proposal of marriage trembled on Freddie’s lips, a voice like ice came from the doorway. “What a charming pictu
re.”
His face drawn with fatigue and anger, the marquess leaned against the doorjamb.
“Just comfortin’ her,” said Freddie defiantly. “And don’t start rippin’ up at me, John. Let’s get the girl home.”
Jean’s hand flew out toward the marquess but he had already turned away, his thoughts hidden behind his usual urbane mask.
“I will ride back to the Manor and have a carriage sent for you directly,” said the marquess stiffly and strode off into the sunny morning, grabbing the reins of his horse from an ostler and cursing the fellow roundly because he dared to mention some inanity about it being a fine morning.
Freddie of all people! The marquess ground his teeth. Then let the ungrateful jade have Freddie. No female in all the length and breadth of the country had ever spurned the Marquess of Fleetwater before. He would leave for London as soon as possible and be damned to her!
A few miles distant, the conspirators were in an equal state of rage. An early messenger brought Uncle Hamish a note from Mr. James Colqhoun saying that the lawyer would be calling on Miss Jean Lindsay on the morrow to apprise her of her good fortune.
“Hell and bedemned,” muttered Lord Ian. “Send a servant to Oakley Manor directly and see if the girl has been found. She must be dispatched today without fail.”
“Fleetwater will murder us,” said Hamish.
Lord Ian shrugged. “There’s nothing he can do if the deed is done without any witnesses. We are not living in the eighteenth century when someone like Fleetwater could take the law pretty much into his own hands. The very presence of the magistrate will protect us. It might look suspicious but then look at all the odd things that have happened to her lately. A little murder will only be a seven days’ wonder.”
Jean had been put to bed and ordered to rest by an unexpectedly maternal Lady Frank. “We will discuss your future when you wake,” said Lady Frank, tucking her in and moving quietly over to the windows to pull the shutters. “In the meantime, don’t worry.”
