by M C Beaton
He raised his hand as Jean would have protested. “Do believe me, Miss Lindsay. You are very young and should at least have some balls and parties before settling down to the responsibilities of your estate, although that will be the task of your future husband.”
“I shall never marry.”
“Tish, tish, lassie,” said James, patting her hand in an avuncular manner. “You are now eighteen and the world does not end at eighteen, although it may feel like it.”
Overcome by the kindness in his face and the Scottish burr in his voice, Jean began to cry dismally. She made no sound. Only the large tears welled out of her green eyes and rolled unchecked down her cheeks.
James felt nonplussed and mistaking her grief as being sorrow over the death of her uncle, pointed out, in what he hoped was a rallying way, that Hamish had been little more than a murderer. Since his words seemed to have no effect, he ran the bell and, summoning Jean’s maid, advised her to go and lie down.
Jean retired in disorder to her room and, overcome with emotion, fell into a dreamless sleep. It was well into the afternoon before she again awoke, still feeling a dull pain in her heart, but readier to cope with life. She would employ Miss Taylor as a constant companion and, with her newfound wealth, they would travel abroad—somewhere which was still free of the presence of Bonaparte.
She would dress only in black and, heavily veiled, would tread the streets of some foreign capital while the Cosmopolitan world speculated on the nature of her sorrow. As this romantic but dreary picture formed in her mind, Jean began to brighten. She was eighteen years old and an heiress. Perhaps life was not so bad after all.
As she searched her wardrobe unsuccessfully for funereal gowns, Jean began to weave dreams about the immediate future. She would treat the marquess with cool, mysterious dignity. Not for one minute should that cruel, laughing, unfeeling rake know how badly he had hurt her.
Having decided on her plan of action, she rang for her maid and was assisted into her prettiest gown of pale blue sarcenet. Her mourning dresses would need to wait until she got to London and was able to order a fresh wardrobe. After an hour with the curling irons, she felt brave enough to meet the world.
The first person she saw as she descended the staircase was Freddie, who whispered to her mysteriously that he wanted to speak to her in private. He ushered her into the library and closed the door.
Jean watched in amazement as Freddie carefully selected a cushion, placed it on the floor and dropped to his knees in front of her.
Seizing her hand, he began, “Miss Lindsay, I have long admired you and enjoyed the tender feelings you arouse in me. I…” He broke off in confusion and then said in his old manner, “Oh, Jean. I do love you awfully. Say you’ll marry me.”
Still holding her hand, he got to his feet, gazing at her with a very earnest, serious look on his boyish face.
“Oh, Freddie, I can’t. But I wish I could,” said Jean hugging him impulsively. “I’m very, very fond of you. But I can’t think of you in that way. Only as…”
“As a brother,” Freddie finished gloomily.
Jean felt a great rush of affection for him. “Look, Freddie. So much has been happening to me, I don’t know what to think. Perhaps when things have settled down and I have time to consider…”
“That’s the ticket!” said Freddie joyfully, kissing her on the cheek. “Well, when are we going to be married?” he teased.
The marquess, who had opened the library door in time to see the embrace and hear Freddie’s last sentence, closed the door and stood in the hallway, staring at the fire, uncertain what to do. He suddenly felt young and lost and terribly vulnerable. So Jean Lindsay was to marry Freddie. He thought of his laughter of the night before and cursed himself for an insensitive fool. But she had looked so funny and he had felt so sure of her. With a weary sigh, he mounted the stairs and ordered his valet to begin packing.
Chapter Ten
Jean found the renewal of her Season in London much as the shrewd lawyer had predicted. Cards and invitations poured into the elegant town house in Cavendish Square.
Lady Bess and Lady Cynthia Lamont had ceased their malicious gossip after finding that they had lost their audience.
“Nonsense! The girl is charming. A hundred thousand pounds, I hear. Perfectly charming!” was the general view of even the highest-nosed dowagers.
A great deal of the magic had fled from London, Jean considered, now that she was socially acceptable everywhere. She was subjected to the most blatant advances from the town’s notorious fortune hunters. Her fortune caused impoverished younger sons to send her flowers and sonnets and ancient roués to beg her to go driving in the park. Jean preferred Lord Freddie’s company above all, since at least he knew where he stood and the marquess watched their growing friendship from afar with a jaundiced eye and wondered why the betrothal had not yet been announced in the Gazette. No one expected Jean Lindsay to maintain a state of heavy mourning in the circumstances. He avoided both Lord Freddie and Jean and flirted with all the prettiest debutantes in London and felt perfectly miserable.
Sometimes, in all the glory of her newfound wealth, Jean would consider that she had successfully got over the marquess. Then he would walk into a drawing room or ball and her heart would give a painful lurch. For never before had the marquess been more elegant or charming. If he was forced to meet Jean face to face, he merely exchanged a few pleasantries in a cool, bored voice and made it plain to the rest of society that he found the new heiress uninteresting. Where previously this would have meant social ruin, it now did nothing to alter Jean’s impeccable social position. As a wealthy heiress, she was invited everywhere.
At last she had learned to mask her feelings and the marquess tried to persuade himself that he was well rid of a heartless flirt. Gossip had informed him that Miss Lindsay meant to retire to Scotland at the end of the Season and, with a heavy heart, he decided to join the Prince Regent’s set in Brighton and forget all about her in the summer round of royal gaiety. Unaware that Freddie had almost managed to persuade Jean to spend some time in Brighton before going north, he moodily watched her animated face one evening down the length of the Glenrandall’s dining table and wished he were dead.
The affair was a small dinner party given by the Duchess of Glenrandall at the ducal town house to celebrate Jean’s new fortune. All the familiar faces were there. Ladies Bess, Mary and Sally, Lord Freddie and Mr. Fairchild, Lady Frank—who had joined her brother in London because it was all so “demned dull” after they left—Miss Taylor, looking positively pretty now that Jean had secured her financial future, the marquess, Sir Edward and Lady Cynthia Lamont.
The footmen were pouring out the wine and the marquess smiled dryly to himself as he remembered how drunk Jean had got at the Lamonts. He noticed idly that the livery of the footman who was refilling Jean’s glass was a different shade of scarlet from the others and that he looked more like an ex-boxer and was patently in need of a shave. The marquess watched the footman leaving the room rather hurriedly and turned back to watch Jean, who was in animated conversation with Freddie, raise her glass to her lips.
A horrid feeling of danger flashed into his mind. Jean was too far down the table to snatch the glass from her hand. He grabbed an orange from the epergne and, blessing his cricket days at Eton, hurled it down the table. The orange struck the wineglass dead center and sent its contents flying over the Brussels lace cloth.
Everyone sat in shocked silence as the marquess ran from the room in search of the mysterious footman.
The duchess was the first to break the silence. With an imperious wave of her hand, she signaled for the butler and asked him in a loud whisper if the marquess had been drinking heavily. The butler, in a more discreet whisper, answered that the marquess had hardly touched his wine.
“Well!” said the dutchess dramatically, “I suppose he must be suffering from the sun. It has been uncommon hot lately and you gentlemen will drive in the park in these open
carriages.”
At that moment, the marquess returned, looking very grim. “Forgive me. But the footman who poured Miss Lindsay’s wine did not belong to this household. I fear the wine may have been poisoned.”
“But this is ridiculous,” spluttered the duchess, calling forward her butler again. “Strangers can’t just come in and wait on table.”
The butler coughed nervously. “The footman in question arrived this morning with a letter from His Grace saying as how we were to give him immediate employ. I can fetch the letter now, Your Grace.”
The company waited in silence until he had returned and handed the letter to the duchess. She glanced over it. “But that is not my husband’s handwriting and it is certainly not his seal!”
“Oh, dear,” groaned Lady Frank, echoing the thoughts of all the guests. “Here we go again.”
“Can it be anything to do with Lord Ian Percy?” asked Freddie. “I mean, it can’t, can it? He won’t get a penny now if anything happens to her.”
“I think it could well be,” said the marquess. “I always considered Lord Ian an unstable sort of fellow. He simply wants revenge.”
Jean began to feel sick and faint. The marquess got to his feet. “I myself shall go directly to Bow Street to report this and I suggest, Miss Lindsay, you allow me to employ a bodyguard for you, unless of course,” he added smoothly, “you consider it your responsibility, Freddie?”
“No, go ahead,” said Freddie cheerfully, unaware of the marquess’s startled expression. “You know better than anyone where to get the right sort of fellow. I must say,” he added callously, “Miss Lindsay certainly livens things up. Season was beginning to look awfully dull.”
Reflecting that Freddie’s behavior was unloverlike to the point of idiocy, the marquess made his adieus and took himself off to Bow Street.
The fact was that Freddie was finding being in love a dead bore. The memory of the lively girl who had chased around the countryside with him was beginning to fade as he was daily confronted by a new, quiet Jean Lindsay who always seemed sad and abstracted.
But feeling obscurely that he should make some protective gesture, he urged Jean to accompany himself and his sister to Brighton on the following week.
“Smaller place,” he explained. “Know everyone who’s comin’ and goin’. Sea breezes’ll put a bit of pink in your cheeks.”
Jean made up her mind to go. Lady Frank was a good, uncomplaining friend and her godmother, Lady Harriet Telfer-Billington, was beginning to show signs of tiring of her new toy. It was one thing to play fairy godmother to a Cinderella but boring to chaperone a wealthy heiress who could now move freely in Society and showed every sign of having an excellent dress sense of her own. Also, Lady Frank was the only one who knew Jean was still pining for the marquess and, although she did not lend a very sympathetic ear, at least she was prepared to listen.
Lady Sally bit her pretty lip and eyed Jean speculatively. The Duke of Belmont showed every sign of proposing but he was elderly, fat and overdressed. Every time he bent over her hand, his Cumberland corsets creaked appallingly. Should she risk her time in Brighton chasing the marquess? Oh, if only someone would murder Jean Lindsay.
Lady Bess was thinking much the same. “I wonder what goes on in that carrot top of hers,” she thought viciously. “There has just been an attempt on her life and she sits there smirking.”
Jean had taken refuge in dreamland again. After all, it was a much more comfortable world than the real one. In her dream, the night was black and thundery and the landscape strewn with Gothic ruins and sinister cloaked figures and Lord Ian raced off into the night, holding her a bound prisoner on his horse. She was gagged and could not cry out. But she smiled in her dream for she knew the marquess would rescue her. Lord Ian dragged her into a ruined farmhouse and, watched by a consortium of rats and bats, he tore the gag from her mouth.
“Now my fair wench,” he hissed. But those were the last words he said. A blade flashed and the villain crumpled to the floor of the farmhouse where the rats formed themselves into two lines and began dragging him off.
The marquess, her hero, stood laughing in the moonlight. And laughed and laughed and laughed. “What’s so funny?” Jean asked the dream marquess.
“Why you are,” he giggled helplessly.
“You silly clown! You popinjay,” yelled Jean—and found herself glaring straight into the eyes of the real marquess, who was bending over her chair.
The marquess, who had just spent half an hour at Bow Street and who had expected a warmer welcome, retreated a pace and snapped, “If that’s all the thanks I get for wasting my valuable time trying to prevent you from being murdered, I wash my hands of the whole business.”
Jean blushed miserably to the roots of her hair. “I was thinking of Lord Ian,” she lied quickly. “If only I were a man!”
“Well, you’re not,” said the marquess, still ruffled. “I shall call on you tomorrow morning to discuss what steps we should take for your protection. Freddie will accompany me of course.”
“Why?” asked Freddie blankly.
The marquess groaned. “Are you all mad or am I?”
He signaled the footman to fill his glass and turned with relief to Lady Sally who started to prattle on happily about the gossip of the Season.
He could not help comparing her with Jean. She was so exquisitely beautiful and, although she never said anything very witty or amusing, her behavior was correct at all times. He must see to Jean Lindsay’s protection and then put her firmly from his mind.
Jean dressed particularly carefully the next morning and had even sent for Antoine, the court hairdresser, to arrange her hair in the most flattering style. James Colqhoun had arranged a draft for her at Coutt’s bank and set up a business manager to handle her bills. Still overawed by the extent of her fortune, Jean had, as yet, spent very little on herself. She had employed Miss Taylor as a permanent companion at a generous salary and had given extravagant presents to Lady Frank, the Duchess of Glenrandall and to her godmother.
Her bedroom window overlooked the square and she had an excellent view of the marquess and Lord Freddie riding up to the entrance. They did not seem to be very much in charity and Lord Freddie’s amiable features were marred by a scowl.
The morning had started off well for the two gentlemen. They had met at Gentleman Jackson’s saloon at 13 Bond Street to ask the famous boxer for the direction of any former pugilist willing to act as bodyguard. Mr. Jackson promised to see to the matter himself and, well satisfied, the two friends set off to Cavendish Square.
“We’re early,” remarked the marquess. “Let’s take a turn in the park. I want to talk to you about something.”
Freddie wriggled uncomfortably. All his life people kept leading up to unpleasant lectures with “I want to talk to you about something.”
They were early enough for Hyde Park to be fairly deserted but Freddie rolled his eyes around, looking for a diversion. The marquess reined in under a tree. “Now, Freddie,” he began.
“Now what?” burst out Freddie. “Thought you was my friend and you’re sittin’ there glowerin’ like m’father.”
“I just wanted to know when it will be in order to offer you my congratulations,” said the marquess smoothly.
“On what?” asked Freddie blankly. “Ain’t bin racin’ or cock fightin’ or anythin’.”
“I meant—when is your betrothal to Miss Jean Lindsay to be announced?”
“Don’t know,” said Freddie, taken aback. “I mean… is it?” he added inanely.
“Good God man,” said the marquess. “I saw you in the library at Oakley hugging and kissing the girl and planning the wedding.”
Lord Freddie blushed. “I don’t know if it’s any of your business, old man. But she refused me.”
What an absolutely splendid day it was, thought the marquess. What gorgeous trees, what splendid birds, what snowy sheep, what…
“She did say, however, that she might change
her mind if I gave her time,” added Freddie gloomily.
What a dreary, dusty-looking park, thought the marquess as a cloud crossed his sun.
“Of course, there’s a problem,” Freddie went on. “Fact is, old man, I don’t know that I care that much for gettin’ married.”
The marquess felt almost personally insulted. If he couldn’t have her, then at least his best friend should be the natural substitute.
“How dare you play fast and loose with the poor girl’s emotions,” snarled the marquess.
“Here! Here!” said Freddie, much incensed. “If there is any fast and loose business goin’ on then Jean Lindsay’s the one that’s doin’ it. I’ve danced attendance on her since we came back to London. Have I been at Cribb’s? No. Have I been at Watier’s? No. Have I been at the Cocoa Tree? No. Have I…”
“Stow it Freddie,” said the marquess rudely, getting tired of the catalogue of bachelor establishments that Freddie had given up visiting.
“Well, anyway,” huffed Freddie, “all I ever get is… ‘How kind you are, Freddie. Just like a brother.’ Faugh! Women!”
“Then you retire from the lists?” asked the marquess.
“If you mean, am I not goin’ to marry her should she want me, I don’t know. Don’t know at all,” said Freddie vaguely.
“Oh, make up your bloody mind,” howled the marquess.
“Don’t speak to me like that either,” snapped Freddie. “If I want to dither, I’ll dither.” And both gentlemen, very cross with each other, made their way to Cavendish Square.
Both were warmly welcomed by Lady Harriet. The shrewd monkey eyes took in all the impeccable glory of marquess’s morning dress. Although he had behaved in a very distant manner toward Jean, Lady Harriet sensed there was a stronger feeling hidden behind the fashionable front which the marquess presented. On hearing that he was removing to Brighton, she had encouraged Jean to go. It would be pleasant to have her goddaughter so well married without having gone to any excessive trouble to bring it about.
