by M C Beaton
She watched Jean closely as the girl came into the room, a slim, breathtaking figure in sprigged muslin. But Jean made her good mornings in a cool, correct manner, showing no undue warmth to either gentleman.
Lady Harriet sighed and then mentally shrugged. As far as money was concerned, the girl’s future was secure and she felt the gentlemen’s efforts to find her a bodyguard extreme to say the least. She had heard the story of the dinner party and thought the company had taken the matter far too seriously. Lord Ian Percy would not dare show his face in England again.
Jean thanked both men prettily for their efforts on her behalf and, at the end of their call, reminded Freddie that she was to go shopping that morning with Lady Frank.
“We are both in need of new summer clothes,” explained Jean. “I fear it has become prodigiously hot.”
“Told you—Brighton’s the very place to get some fresh air,” said Freddie.
“I have decided to join you in Brighton after all,” said Jean, “if it will not be too much trouble for you and Lady Frank.”
“Nonsense!” said Freddie bracingly. “Got bags of room. House on the Steyne, y’know. We’ll all be cozy together.”
“Perhaps,” interrupted the marquess, “Miss Lindsay and Miss Taylor would prefer to set up their own establishment. My agent could find you a very suitable place.”
Jean frowned. “I already consider Lady Frank and Freddie as my family and look forward to sharing their home.”
The marquess bowed, gave her a mocking look from under his drooping lids, and took his leave.
Infuriating man! thought Jean. Why, she could swear that he had been trying to put her off from sharing a home with Freddie and his sister. She could not see the point of it at all.
But as the dusty traveling carriage rolled to a stop in front of Lord Freddie’s house in Brighton a few days later, she began to have an inkling as to why the marquess wished her to choose an establishment of her own.
The sun was sparkling gaily on the rows of mansions on the Steyne with the exception of Lord Freddie’s, which was set back from the rest and overshadowed by the buildings on either side. Jean’s heart sank as she saw the familiar figure of Muggles weaving on the doorstep and Henry, the footman, already helping to carry in the luggage.
She followed Lady Frank into the cavernous hall and stepped back with a shriek of alarm. A huge stuffed elephant dominated the center of the hall, a tribute to the taxidermist’s art. It had obviously been shot while on the rampage and had been stuffed accordingly. One huge foot was raised menacingly, the huge ragged ears were spread, enormous yellow tusks curved up to the ceiling, and wicked, red glass eyes glared down on the visitors.
“Marvelous, ain’t it,” said Freddie, appearing around its rump. “Rented the place from a nabob and the whole house is full of great stuff.”
Jean gazed in awe at the assortment of dusty palms in brass bowls, tiger skin rugs complete with heads, glaring eyes and sharp yellow teeth, and elephants’ feet placed at strategic points to hold a plethora of walking canes and polo sticks. Various Indian deities spread their many arms in the gloom and the heads of every type of Indian animal stared down from the walls.
“The old boy was a great traveler. Spent some time in China and the Far East as well,” explained Freddie as he led the way into the drawing room which was so crowded with Buddhas of various shapes and sizes that there was little room left for human company. “That’s his portrait over the fireplace.” He pointed to a picture of a very stout gentleman with huge military moustaches who was mounted on a horse, waving a saber and obviously putting down a whole Indian mutiny single-handed.
Jean sank down onto a sofa only to leap up again. She bent down and unearthed a knobbly bone from under the cushions.
“Oh, didn’t Frank tell you she’d got the servants to bring the dogs,” said Freddie somewhat shiftily.
A burst of joyful yelps and barks from the hall bore out his remark. Lady Frank seemed to be borne into the drawing room on a wave of happy dogs, rolling and scampering about her skirts.
“Well, I must say, all this is very cozy,” said Frank, sitting beside Jean and looking about her with a pleased air.
Jean breathed in the familiar Blackstone air of damp dog and cabbage water. “Did you bring your own chef?” she asked Freddie timidly.
“’Course I did,” he said cheerfully. “Can’t leave all the servants eatin’ their heads off at Blackstone Hall. Don’t know why people are always complainin’ about his cookin’. He cooks good, plain English food. Can’t stand that foreign muck although he’s goin’ to try and give us some curry since we’re livin’ in a bit of India so to speak.”
Jean repressed a shudder and asked to be shown to her room. She followed the housekeeper up the staircase, lit by a square stained-glass window on the center landing, which cast dim harlequin diamonds of color onto the zoo in the hall below.
The housekeeper threw open the door of her bedchamber and sank to the floor in a curtsy from which she was unable to rise without Jean’s help. The aged retainer then stumbled off downstairs, leaving behind a strong odor of spirits. Jean viewed her bedchamber and wondered how Freddie’s staff managed to channel any liquor at all above stairs.
The room was a nightmare of chinoiserie with fiery oriental dragons rioting over the hangings of the four-poster and little, yellow-faced men bowing from the window curtains. Various ivory figurines crowded the mantelpiece under a portrait of the nabob’s lady who had been painted in her best black silk against an exotic Eastern setting which, from the sour look on her face, she obviously despised.
The hangings of the bed began to move although there was no draft and Jean stood paralyzed with her hand to her lips. The thought of Freddie, Lady Frank and an army of servants close at hand gave her courage. She pulled back the curtains and found herself face to face with an enormous Irish wolfhound who had just been in the act of burying a bone beneath the pillows.
Lady Frank walked in as Jean was trying to pull the dog from the bed. “I see you’ve met Cerberus. That’s m’favorite. He has taken a fancy to you,” said Frank, plumping herself down on the bed beside her dog. “Pull back the curtains and let’s see what kind of view you’ve got.”
Jean complied with her request and stared out of the window in delight. The sparkling blue sea seemed to spread to infinity, hundreds of bathing machines added their bright colors to the shore and a fashionable crowd were promenading up and down the red-brick pavement outside.
“The Prince Regent’s in residence at the Pavilion,” said Lady Frank. “We’ll probably get invitations to one of his evenings. He’s a friend of Fleetwater.”
“Can I go sea-bathing?” asked Jean.
“’Course you can,” said Lady Frank, smiling at her enthusiasm. “But rest up this afternoon. We’re havin’ a quiet dinner at home tonight. Freddie’s persuaded John to come.”
At the mention of the marquess’s name, a shadow crossed Jean’s face. “Don’t worry,” said Lady Frank hurriedly. “He didn’t want to accept. Had the cheek to ask Freddie if our cook was goin’ to serve up that elephant in the hall.”
Lady Frank left as Miss Taylor entered the room. “Really, Miss Lindsay,” breathed her companion. “What a bizarre house! But I declare we shall be quite comfortable as long as we do not die of starvation.’”
“We shall dine from home as much as possible,” said Jean firmly.
“I do wish we did not have to take Hoskins with us every step we go,” said Miss Taylor. “Everyone does stare at him so. He does not look in the least like a footman.”
Hoskins was Jean’s bodyguard, an ex-boxer who had had the distinction of fighting the great Molyneux. His days of greatness were obviously over as he shambled after Jean like some great shaggy gorilla with his livery threatening to burst at the seams. But Jean had to admit she found his constant presence comforting.
“The Marquess of Fleetwater will be dining with us tonight,” continued Miss Taylor tenta
tively. “At one time I really thought he was in love with you.”
To her horror, Jean’s eyes filled with tears.
“Tell me about it,” said Miss Taylor gently, putting her arms around her in the way she used to when Jean was a child.
The sympathy was too much. The nightmare of that night had long been burning in Jean’s soul. The horror of the attack on her and the subsequent death of her uncle were as nothing compared to the memory of the marquess’s mocking laughter. Burying her head in Miss Taylor’s ample bosom, she choked and sobbed and poured out all the terrible disgrace of that night at Oakley Manor.
Miss Taylor listened, stricken with horror. The only faint comfort she had was that the marquess would never talk about it.
“We should never have come to Brighton,” exclaimed Miss Taylor. “Every time you look at him you must be remembering…”
“Let us stay just a few more days, Miss Taylor,” begged Jean. “Then we will return to Scotland and I will never see him again.”
This dismal pronouncement brought a fresh burst of tears. But it was a relief to Jean to confide in someone at last. As she finally dried her eyes, she felt considerably better and, with the callousness of youth, did not notice that her poor companion was rigid with shock and embarrassment.
Dinner was a nightmare. Carried away by his surroundings, the Blackstone cook had produced a curry, a great, steaming casserole of burning hot gristle. They were fortunately saved from sampling it by Jean’s bodyguard, Hoskins, who carefully tasted the concoction first from the dish on the sideboard and, with a loud cry of “pisen,” threw open the long windows of the dining room and threw the curry into the garden to the delight of the fashionable crowd walking on the Steyne. Choking and gulping, the poor bodyguard leapt after it into the garden and the bemused party could hear sounds of him being violently ill in the shrubbery.
It was left to the marquess to explain to Hoskins that the Blackstone cook had merely been producing one of his usual culinary delights and not trying to poison Jean. He then suggested that they all repair to the Ship Inn for dinner instead.
The incident had served to thaw out the chilly formality of the party, the night was calm and starry with a fresh breeze blowing in from the ocean, and the marquess and Jean were able to chat unselfconsciously for the first time since Oakley Manor. Jean began to sparkle, her green eyes shining, the long fringed ends of her shawl blowing around her in the summer breeze. She was young, she was rich, she was on her first seaside holiday and the most handsome man in the world was walking with her.
For his part, the marquess felt his hopes rising. The old spell which Jean Lindsay always seemed to weave about him seemed stronger than ever. He felt protective, happy as a schoolboy and about ten feet tall. He caught the appreciative glances a group of cavalry officers were casting in Jean’s direction and took hold of her arm possessively. Immediately a strong current of emotion flowed between the happy pair and they entered the Ship Inn with all the banners of love bravely flying.
Miss Taylor positively beamed on the pair. After all that had gone on between them, the marquess ought to marry Jean Lindsay.
Happiness is infectious. Lady Frank was at her most outrageous, telling jokes, laughing loudly, her great turban bobbing over her plate of prawns. Freddie chattered away, talking nonsense, and even Hoskins, on guard behind Jean’s chair, creased his gorillalike features into an indulgent smile. The marquess and Jean said one thing and said the other and communicated what they really meant to say in the manner of lovers by side glances and inflections of voice.
After dinner, they walked over to view the Pavilion, built by Mr. Henry Holland for the Prince Regent. Jean thought the building with its green-roofed domes and minarets looked like a fairy tale but the marquess damned it as vulgar. “The whole thing is a monument to bad taste,” he drawled. “Although the interior does have a certain florid magnificence. You will probably be invited to one of Prinny’s musical parties, so you will have an opportunity to view it for yourself.”
The marquess took his leave on the doorstep after begging permission to take Jean to Donaldson’s circulating library in the morning.
Jean went to bed in a happy daze. As long as the marquess smiled on her, she would forgive him anything.
The next few days had a dreamlike quality and Jean bathed in the ocean, bobbing around happily in a flannel bathing dress and oilskin hat, took walks along the Marine Parade, attended assemblies at the Ship Inn and actually had her hand shaken by no less personage than the Prince Regent himself at one of the Royal musical parties in the Pavilion.
She was popular. Cards and invitations flowed into the house on the Steyne and that gloomy residence was brightened by the bouquets of Jean’s admirers. Lady Sally and Lady Bess had followed the fashionable crowd to Brighton, only to find the Marquess of Fleetwater dancing constant attention on Jean Lindsay. Jean and the marquess, although never alone in each other’s company, felt they were more in love than any couple had been since time began. The marquess, his normally severe aristocratic features lit by happiness, broke more hearts at the assemblies than he had ever done before and Lady Sally chased after him so blatantly that even Freddie remarked that she was making a cake of herself.
The only cloud on Jean’s horizon was that the marquess had not yet declared himself. After returning from a ball at which he had unaccountably been absent, she was about to retire to her room, when Henry handed her a note. She dismissed him and took it into the drawing room where the lamps were still lit.
The note was brief and to the point. “My darling,” she read. “Come to the Hove end of the beach. I must see you alone on an important matter. I have enclosed a map. Meet me there at two in the morning when we can be private. Do not fail me, John.”
Jean glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was just on midnight Two hours to wait Anyone less in love would have been suspicious but to Jean there was no fault in the message. She had had no opportunity to be alone with the marquess. There was always Miss Taylor or her ever-present bodyguard, Hoskins.
She had forgotten about Hoskins. As she crossed the hall to mount the stairs to her room, he detached himself from the shadows and asked if she would be needing him further.
“No, Hoskins, you may go. I am going to retire for the night.”
She saw the bodyguard looking at the note crumpled in her hand and shoved it hurriedly into her reticule.
Hoskins refused to move. “Henry says you got a message, miss. Strange this late at night.”
“Just a silly little billet-doux,” laughed Jean, moving past him.
Hoskins stood his ground. “I thinks you ought for to let me see it. His Lordship said for me to look for suspicious letters.”
“Nonsense! This is my private correspondence,” snapped Jean and then gasped as one hairy hand neatly twitched her reticule from her fingers and Hoskins extracted the note and ponderously started to read it.
“How dare you!” raged Jean, trying to snatch her precious note from him. “The Marquess of Fleetwater shall hear of your behavior.”
“His Lordship says I wus to look for anything suspicious-like,” repeated Hoskins doggedly.
“Well, and are you satisfied? That message is from Lord John and, believe me, I shall see you are dismissed on the morrow.”
With that she flounced up the stairs, leaving Hoskins to lean against the elephant and look moodily into space. With a shrug he took himself off into the night to drown his sorrows.
The marquess, who had been on a curricle race with Lord Freddie and several young bloods to Worthing, was returning to town in high spirits. He had won his race, the night was fine, and he would see Jean Lindsay on the morrow.
On the outskirts of Brighton, Freddie spied a small tavern and called to the marquess to stop. “It doesn’t look very salubrious,” said the marquess doubtfully. “Let’s ride on till we get to the Ship or the Anchor.”
“I’m demned thirsty and you’re too nice in your choice of ta
verns,” said Freddie cheerfully. The marquess sighed and followed him into the dingy tap room, noticing thankfully that it was deserted apart from a drunk asleep in the corner.
After they had got their mugs of ale from a surly landlord, they turned to survey the room which was dimly lit by cheap tallow candles stuck in bottles. The figure in the corner groaned in its sleep and the marquess, who was going to suggest to Freddie that they leave and find a more cheerful establishment, suddenly noticed that the drunk was dressed in familiar livery. With an oath, he picked up the candle from the bar and crossed the room and found himself looking down at the sleeping figure of Hoskins. Freddie followed him.
“Leave Jean’s gorilla alone,” said Freddie. “He deserves some time off.”
The marquess ignored him and rudely shook Hoskins awake. The bodyguard looked at him blearily from red-rimmed eyes, tried to get to his feet, and collapsed back into his seat again.
“You ludship’s got no right to make asig… asig… meetings with the young lady without a-tellin’ me.”
The marquess felt suddenly sick and shook Hoskins harder to keep the man awake.
“What assignation, dammit! I made none.”
Hoskins sobered with fright.
“You sent ’er a lovey-dovey note sayin’ as how she wus to meet you at the ’Ove end o’ the beach at two of the clock. You sent ’er a map an’ all.”
With a curse, the marquess dragged him to his feet. “Quick man,” he howled. “Come with us and show us the place. Freddie, oh, my God, Freddie! She’s in danger.”
Supporting Hoskins between them, they hurried out to the carriages and sped off into the summer night.
Hoskins was not to know that Miss Jean Lindsay was already regretting his absence. Her dress covered in a long cloak and her bright hair hidden by a hood, she slipped out of the house only to find that the Steyne was still thronged with late night revelers, several of whom seemed inclined to chase the solitary female figure.
Thankfully, she reached the beach unmolested and with a beating heart set out in the direction of Hove.
