by M C Beaton
Jean sighed and snuggled down into the bedclothes but sleep would not come. Long after Frank left, she lay wide-eyed, thinking only about the marquess and wondering if he still loved her. No sisterly love from Frank, no affection from Freddie, could ever replace him. At last, having come to that sorrowful decision, she fell asleep.
Before dinner, Freddie essayed several times to strike up a conversation with the marquess and was snubbed for his pains. The marquess was again the urbane leader of London fashion, seemingly secure and impenetrable behind a mask of chilling manners and impeccable dress.
Jean’s timid approaches to him were met with calm, brief replies and the marquess turned to give all his attention to Lady Sally.
Freddie, for his part, found he could only elicit polite little comments of “yes” and “no” from Jean and finally gave up and stood moodily kicking the fire, and ruining a brand new pair of Hessians.
Lady Sally was looking her best in a gold sarcenet gown with no less than five deep flounces, drawn from her seemingly bottomless wardrobe. Lady Frank sat scratching her hair under her turban with a long knitting needle and wished them all to the Devil.
Uncle Hamish and Lord Ian arrived to swell the general gloom. Fortunately, Sir Giles carried the conversation at the dinner table, describing an unsolved series of murders in the district, which he considered were done by the same man.
“There’s enough death these days with footpads and highwaymen attacking innocent wayfarers,” said the magistrate, “but this is something out of the common way. This felon has been breaking into respectable households and stabbing the occupants as they sleep. Nothing is taken. It almost seems as if he simply enjoys killing.”
Lord Ian nudged Hamish. This was a blessing indeed!
“It could be a lady,” tittered Lady Sally with a malicious look at Jean. “Some women do the strangest things.”
“They do indeed,” said Lady Frank roundly. “Like makin’ silly, nasty, little remarks that no one wants to hear.”
“Well, really,” breathed Sally as both women glared at each other from across the table. “Are you referring to me?”
“If the cap fits, wear it,” snorted Lady Frank.
Sally bridled. “I have never been so insulted in my life.”
“Then it’s high time you were,” snapped Lady Frank.
With quivering lip and tremulous voice, Lady Sally turned to her hostess. “I thank you for your unusual hospitality, Lady Carol, and take leave to tell you, I shall be leaving on the morrow for London.”
The marquess shifted slightly in his chair. “May I offer you my escort, Lady Sally? I too shall be leaving.”
Jean gave him a stricken glance which went unnoticed since the marquess had addressed his remark to his wine. Freddie brightened considerably and Hamish and Lord Ian exchanged gleeful glances.
“The Lord obviously means us to do this deed,” muttered Hamish under his breath.
Lord Ian shuddered and drew away. The old man was obviously as queer as Dick’s hat band.
At last, Lady Carol rose to lead the other ladies to the drawing room and leave the gentlemen to their wine. She sighed to herself. What an uncomfortable house party. Lady Frank was snorting like a warhorse, Sally was chilly and Jean was looking white and pinched.
Outside the dining room, Lady Carol’s courage deserted her. “If you will excuse me, I must see the housekeeper directly.” Lady Sally also paused.
“I shall not be joining you,” she said icily, addressing Lady Frank and Jean. “But I would like to take this opportunity of saying…”
“Don’t,” snapped Frank.
“What?”
“I said don’t say what you was goin’ to say,” remarked Lady Frank, eyeing Sally with distaste. “I ain’t landed a woman a facer yet but there’s no sayin’ I might not start. So I’m tellin’ you now, Sally, up those stairs you go at the double or I’ll draw your cork!”
Sally picked up her skirts and fled, reflecting that at least she had her triumph. She would have the marquess all to herself in the morning. And what lovely gossip it would make for Almack’s—Jean asleep all night in the Barminster Assembly Rooms and Freddie’s terrifying sister threatening to punch her.
Frank put a comforting arm around Jean’s shoulders and led her into the drawing room.
“These itsy-bitsy girls always diggin’ away with spiteful remarks. Can’t bear ’em. It’s why I don’t like livin’ in London. Now, about you, m’dear. Like to come and live with me? Lead a quiet life, you know, but we do have some parties and balls and things like that.”
Jean burst into tears.
“Now then,” said Frank, embarrassed. “No need to be in such a takin’. Think on it. Best thing, y’know. See things in a different way when you get away from ’em.”
“But I love him so,” Jean sobbed.
“Who? Freddie?”
“No. Lord Fleetwater.”
“Wastin’ your time there, m’gel. Much too snobbish. Hey—but don’t you start thinkin’ about settlin’ for anythin’ else. Fallen Women indeed. It won’t do, you know. Lead an awful life.”
But I should be with him, thought Jean. The bewildering happenings of the last few days had knocked her off center and she clung desperately to the one stable fact that she loved the marquess and meant to live with him in any capacity whatsoever.
Lady Frank eyed her thoughtfully and pulled the bell cord. “Get us some brandy,” she informed the startled servant, and, turning to Jean, “Now, let’s repair your face. Nothin’ puts a man off more than a waterin’ pot.”
Jean smiled weakly and dabbed at her face with a wisp of handkerchief and then swallowed the goblet of brandy that Frank pressed on her. A warmth began to seep through her and by the time the gentlemen had arrived, she had downed several and was able to chatter away in an unconcerned manner, leaving the marquess feeling savage and Freddie hopeful.
A crash at the window made everyone jump. Sir Giles peered through the curtains. “Gad, what a tempest,” he exclaimed. “That must have sprung up suddenly. Sheets of rain coming down and branches flying all over the lawns. I’ve never known such erratic weather. I had better see my steward in the morning. The Bar is going to flood if this continues.”
“Do you get much flooding in this area?” said the marquess lazily.
“Not a bit of it. Not since the great rains of 1872. But by the way this is going on,” said Sir Giles, letting the curtain fall, “it looks as if it could happen again. You’d better stay the night,” he added, waving his hand to Lord Ian and Hamish who nodded in agreement.
Lady Frank got to her feet and stretched in a most unladylike manner.
“Well, I’m deuced tired. C’mon, Jean.”
Jean cast a shy glance at the marquess but he was studying the toe of his boot with an abstracted air and even when the gentlemen rose as the ladies left the room, he turned his gaze to the Louis Quatorze clock on the mantelpiece as if he had never seen anything like it before.
She trailed up the staircase in the wake of Lady Frank and decided to go into action that very night. Frank pottered around Jean’s bedroom for what seemed an age, rattling on about what a gay time they would have in the north of England, little realizing that her young companion was only listening with half an ear. At length she left and Jean hurried over to a closet in the corner of the room where she had hidden her secret purchases from Barminster.
Downstairs, Uncle Hamish and Lord Ian left the room together and Sir Giles, after one or two attempts to break the silence, decided to call it a day. Lord Freddie and the marquess eyed each other across the fireplace.
After a few minutes, the marquess rose to his feet and said coldly, “Forgive me for retiring early but I must make an early start in the morning.”
“Sit down!”
“I beg your pardon.”
“I said, sit down,” remarked Freddie, his boyish face unwontedly stern.
The marquess drew a lace handkerchief from his pocket
, brushed an infinitesimal speck of dust from his gleaming Hessians, and stared at Freddie through his quizzing glass.
“Put away that demned eyeglass, John,” said Freddie. “Your Bond Street airs ain’t goin’ to shut me up. I want to talk about Jean Lindsay.”
“Ah, yes,” drawled the marquess. “I believe I am to wish you happy.”
“Stuff!” said Freddie roundly. “I ain’t asked her yet but I’m goin’ to, soon as I get the chance. You ain’t betrothed to her yet, you know, and from the way you’ve been goin’ on I don’t know whether you’re interested in Sally or Jean. Now ’cause I want her, you’re like a demned dog over a curst bone. Well, it won’t fadge. We’ve bin friends for years and I never thought to see the day when you couldn’t take a bit of competition.”
The marquess smiled ruefully and sat down. “Forgive me, Freddie, but ever since I set eyes on that girl, I’m all to pieces. I’ve been behaving like a sixteen-year-old. At one point I thought she was in love with me and now I don’t know.”
“Well, runnin’ off to London ain’t goin’ to solve a thing,” said Freddie. “Let’s both fight it fair and square.” He held out his hand.
The marquess grinned and shook it warmly. “I never thought to see the day when you would give me a dressing down, Freddie. Yes, I’ll stay… and I’ll stay here right now and broach another bottle of Sir Giles’s excellent claret to celebrate our battle.”
Freddie assented and the couple chatted on into the night, their former friendship renewed.
Upstairs, Jean Lindsay surveyed the finished effect by candlelight. She thought she looked the complete Fallen Woman. A transparent nightrobe of virulent green stopped short at her knees and showed her rouged nipples. On her feet were high-heeled silk slippers with large rosettes. Her face was painted and rouged and her eyelashes daubed with Warren’s boot blacking.
Shivering with fear and excitement, she laid her bolster along the bed under the blankets to look like a body and put the powdered Georgian wig, relic of the Blackstone ball, on her pillow. There! If any inquisitive servant looked in, it would appear that Miss Jean Lindsay was safe in her virginal bed.
For a moment her heart misgave her, then, thinking of life with Uncle Hamish, she squared her shoulders, snatched up her wrapper and, like a young, untried soldier going into battle, prepared to seduce the marquess.
Unaware of what was about to descend on him, the marquess paced his sitting room, still fully dressed. His thoughts were in a turmoil and the ferocious noise of the tempest outside made the idea of sleep seem impossible. With a weary sigh, he picked up a book and threw himself into a high-backed chair by the fire.
There was a sudden lull in the storm and he heard faint sounds from the bedroom beyond. He was about to leap to his feet, when the bedroom door opened and there, in all her glory, stood Jean Lindsay. She closed her eyes, threw back her head, and waited.
There was a long, shock-filled silence. Then as the tempest outside started to howl anew, she thought she heard a faint snicker, followed by a stifled giggle. It couldn’t possibly be! Stoically she kept her eyes closed and waited for the marquess to fling himself passionately across the room.
Again a lull in the storm and weird choking noises could be heard distinctly. Jean’s eyes flew open wide. The marquess was doubled up in his chair, helpless with laughter. He choked, he sobbed, he howled. Jean felt a blush rising from the soles of her feet to the top of her head and a wrenching pain in her heart.
Her ensemble, which had looked so wicked and alluring by candlelight, was now exposed to the full glare of two modern oil lamps. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and nearly fainted. She looked tawdry and ridiculous. With an almost animal cry of pain, Jean fled from the room, pursued by the marquess, who was hiccuping with laughter.
They reached the door of her rooms at the same time. The marquess caught her in his arms to try to explain his odd behavior when, at the same moment, both heard someone in her bedchamber.
The marquess flung open the door. By the light of a single candle which Jean had left carelessly burning on her dressing table, they saw the tall figure of Lord Ian, a dagger in his hand, stabbing again and again at the dummy on the bed.
With one bound, the marquess was across the room. He grabbed Lord Ian as he sprang for the window and, with a crackling blow of his fist, floored Jean’s would-be murderer who fell and lay as still as death, half in and half out of the long windows, while the fury of the storm hurled rain and branches into the room.
Freddie came rushing in followed by Sir Giles and two of the servants. In the commotion, Jean held on to her wits and struggled into her wrapper and scrubbed the paint from her face with the rain-soaked edge of one of the curtains.
Quickly the marquess explained the situation, omitting the fact that Jean had been in his room. He said that she had expected something like this to happen and had left a dummy of herself in the bed to trap the murderer.
“You’ve really knocked him out,” said Freddie, bending over the body. Then he yelled, “The old man! The uncle!”
The marquess swore and dashed to Hamish’s rooms to find the old man already gone. As he ran out into the storm in the direction of the stables, he could dimly make out a figure on horseback racing down the drive.
Soon he was mounted and hot in pursuit. It was a hideous night, full of the sound and fury of tearing branches and howling, buffeting gusts of wind and rattling sheets of rain.
Near blinded by the storm, the marquess thundered out of the drive and along the Barminster road. All around him, the great trees at the edge of the estate heaved and groaned as the great gale threatened to pull them out by the roots. Several times, the marquess’s horse staggered as a ferocious buffet of wind tried to hurl rider and horse from the road.
Suddenly, the slashing rain abated and a thin, new moon raced between the black clouds. One glimmer of fitful light showed the road ahead. The marquess was gaining on Hamish and above the sound of the wind, he could hear the old man cursing and praying to whatever demon possessed his soul. Then all was plunged into blackness again.
The road curved, leading to the bridge over the Bar and at that moment the moon raced out of the clouds. The marquess cried out and savagely reined in his horse so that it reared and plunged. For the Bar was roaring in full spate and the timber bridge had been swept away. The figure of Hamish in front tried desperately to check his mount but it was too late. The terrified goaded beast plunged into the river, taking Hamish with it and both horse and rider were swept from view.
Still fighting against the wind, the marquess dismounted and began to pick his way cautiously along the bank. About half a mile downstream, the wind died as suddenly as it had arisen and the moon shone out.
In a quiet pool, guarded by two rocks from the rushing current, lay the broken body of Hamish, his old, white face turned up to the sky, his eyes gazing blindly at the racing clouds. The marquess heaved him out onto the grass and turned wearily in the direction of the Manor to look for help.
Lights were blazing from the Manor when he left his exhausted mount in the stables. Everyone seemed to be awake and talking at once. Jean was crying quietly in the corner of the library, being comforted by Lady Frank. The marquess drew Freddie aside and told him the news of Hamish’s death.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” said Freddie gloomily. “But Lord Ian’s escaped.”
The marquess swore and hurled his riding crop across the room. “How in hell and damnation did that happen?”
“Looks like he wasn’t unconscious after all,” growled Freddie. “Just playing dead. Moment me back was turned, he was out that window and across the park like a hare. We searched for him of course.
“Look,” he added kindly, taking in the marquess’s exhausted appearance and the white lines of strain around his mouth, “ain’t nothin’ we can do now. He’ll never show his face in the country again. Sir Giles’ll have the Runners after him. We searched his room and found this.” Fred
die held out Hamish’s damaging letter, promising Lord Ian half of Jean’s fortune on her death.
“Well, that’s that,” said the marquess heavily. “Jean, my dear.” He stretched out his hand but the sobbing girl shrank from him and clutched onto Lady Frank’s dress like a frightened child.
It was Freddie who drew the marquess aside and, kneeling down in front of Jean, told her in a quiet voice of her uncle’s death. Then Lady Frank led her from the room.
The next day dawned gloomy and humid. Great shrouds of mist rolled around the elegant manor house which was hushed and still with only the sound of dripping water from the great trees in the park breaking the silence.
Jean was awakened timidly by her maid who informed her that a Mr. James Colqhoun, a lawyer from Edinburgh, was awaiting her in the morning room. She dressed slowly and painfully, feeling as if she were suffering from an accident, instead of a broken heart. With a white, set face, she made her way to the morning room, too tired and anguished to even speculate about the nature of Mr. Colqhoun’s visit.
The lawyer was sitting with Sir Giles and both men rose to their feet as she entered the room. After a few hushed condolences on the death of her uncle, Sir Giles left her alone with James.
As if in a dream, Jean heard the lawyer stating in his dry, precise voice the vast amount of her fortune. She shook her head in bewilderment. “Then I am really an heiress,” she at last exclaimed faintly. One of her cherished dreams had at last come true. She could travel, build herself a splendid house, buy land and marry well. She spread her hands out in a gesture of appeal. “I don’t know where to begin, Mr. Colqhoun. Since I came South, there has been shock after shock.”
“Take my advice,” said James Colqhoun briskly, “and return to London and finish your Season.”
Jean faltered. “But there has been much scandal talked of me in London. There is no point in returning…”
James Colqhoun smiled cynically. “My dear Miss Lindsay, a young lady of marriageable age who commands a fortune such as yours, will immediately be hailed as a delightful creature. Minor scandal only sticks to the penniless.”
