by M C Beaton
“You mean… you… me… people would think… you think,” spluttered the enraged Perry. “Well, sirrah, if that is how you regard my devoted friendship… you may name your seconds!”
“I have absolutely no intention of getting up at dawn so that you can put a bullet through me,” said the Marquis. “Take a deep breath and think, man… think how you sound.”
“Jealous,” replied Perry gloomily, with his usual forthright honesty. “Sorry, Chemmy. I’m jealous of a girl. But, damn, what kind of a girl is it that wants you in name only? Answer me that!”
“An enchanting, spoiled little minx,” said the Marquis, smiling reflectively.
“And to add to the complications, Miss Bemyss is in love with her first cousin, Guy Chalmers.”
“Not that loose screw,” gasped Perry. “It’s as well she can’t marry him. Ruining servant girls and rolling old women in the kennel is more in his line.”
“Tell me more,” said the Marquis. “I do not know anything of Mr. Chalmers.”
“He claims to be a Corinthian, which is simply an excuse for sloppy dress and the manners of the rabble,” said Perry roundly. “He tries to emulate everything that set does, only he does it all badly. He boxes badly, shoots worse, wounded a gamekeeper at Lord Belling’s shoot instead of hitting the bird he was supposed to, attends cock fights and bear baitings at Islington in the most shady company, claims to be up to every rig and row in town, claims to be a lady’s man and yet when he stayed at the Harrington’s a month ago, ’tis said he got Mrs. Harrington’s maid with child and then paid the girl to say that Mr. Harrington was the father, except that she confounded him by telling the truth… do you want to hear any more?”
“No,” said the Marquis faintly. “I think I’ve heard enough.”
“You say this marriage will not affect our friendship,” went on his friend relentlessly. “But what of Mrs. Waring’s ‘friendship?’”
“Alice Waring knows my intentions towards her are, and always have been, strictly dishonorable,” said the Marquis. “She will soon find another protector.”
“Not her!” cried Perry. “I’m sure she thought you would marry her, sometime or other. After all, you haven’t looked at another woman these past few years.”
“You must be mistaken,” said the Marquis, jolted slightly from his customary good humor. “I am not a fool, Perry. Had I thought that Alice expected more from me than the payment of her rent and jewels, I would have terminated that connection long ago.”
“You ain’t a fool,” said Perry slowly. “But sometimes you can’t see what’s under your nose.”
“Enough!” said the Marquis. “You will be best man at my wedding, I hope?”
“You mean you’re really going through with it?”
“Oh, yes. I’m really going through with it.”
Then I shall stand by you,” said Perry.
“Thank you,” said the Marquis, and then surveyed his friend’s brooding face. “I would appreciate your loyalty to my bride, Perry,” he said quietly. “You are not to give her that piece of your mind you have so obviously reserved for her.”
Perry flushed slightly. “Oh, well,” he said sulkily. “But life won’t be the same with Miss Jennie Bemyss around. Just you wait and see!”
After Perry had taken his leave, the Marquis sat for a long time, deep in thought. He had not intended to honor the betrothal. Although he had been aware from a long time back that it existed, he had never taken it very seriously. His parents had firmly believed in arranged marriages and had been close friends of Jennie’s parents. Before their death, from one of the many typhoid epidemics which ravaged the English countryside, they had told the young Chemmy of the beautiful baby girl who would grow up to be his bride. He had put it far in the back of his mind, being for years too concerned with the managing of his estates which he had found in bad repair after a three years’ absence in the Peninsular Wars.
As the years passed and no communication arrived from the Bemyss family, the Marquis had begun to think they had either forgotten about the whole thing or had found this “baby betrothal” as ridiculous as he did himself. That was until a letter had arrived from Lord Charles informing him bluntly of Jennie’s approaching eighteenth birthday and firmly stating that the Marquis was expected to honor his dead parents’ wishes.
So he had traveled to Runbury Manor to tell Lord Charles, in the politest manner possible, that he had no intention of wedding some young miss who was little more than a schoolgirl.
Then he had seen Jennie. The Marquis smiled reflectively as he remembered the turmoil of his emotions on first seeing that wilful, infuriating, darling little beauty.
If he wished her infatuation for that unsuitable cousin to die out, then he would have to play his cards very carefully and keep a tight rein on his emotions. Miss Jennie Bemyss was going to need very careful handling indeed!
A little distance away in a slim house in Manchester Square, the news of the Marquis’ engagement was received with more horror than even the sensitive and jealous Perry could muster.
Alice Waring was clutching the lapels of Guy Chalmer’s coat and staring up into his face. “Tell me it’s all a hum!” she cried. “Chemmy was to marry me!”
Guy disengaged himself and said cruelly, “You ain’t the marrying kind. Lord Trace was keeping you before Chemmy, and before that, Richards.”
“But I am good ton,” sobbed Alice. “Everyone has liaisons.”
“But not so blatantly as you,” shrugged Guy. “Anyway, you’re nearly thirty, Alice, and Jennie Bemyss is a gorgeous virgin of eighteen. Now, don’t claw my eyes out, and let me think. I can help you.”
Alice Waring dried her tears and looked at him hopefully. She was a statuesque woman with a magnificent figure and a classically beautiful face with a pair of brown, almost oriental, eyes which surveyed the world with lazy sensuality from under a cloud of spun-gold hair.
She was the daughter of a bankrupt Irish peer and had repaired her fortunes by marrying a rich and elderly merchant, Mr. Josiah Waring, who had the good grace to take the smell of the shop and his unfashionable presence off into the other world two months after his marriage, leaving the grateful Alice with his very fashionable fortune. She had not wished to marry again, preferring to enjoy her freedom as a beautiful widow. She could not forget the straightened circumstances of her youth and made sure that her lovers were generous. She had not thought of marriage until the advent of Chemmy. The thought that she was no longer a girl, combined with her ambition to become a marchioness, had made her change her mind. She had convinced herself that Chemmy was as besotted as her other admirers and that it was only a matter of time before he legalized their relationship. The thought that he was now to marry some country nobody who, if Guy were to be believed, had more hair than wit, made her grind her teeth with jealousy and frustration.
“Well?” she demanded impatiently.
Guy looked up. “There is hope for you,” he said. “Jennie don’t want the Marquis. She thinks Chemmy’s a fop and she’s told him she wants a marriage of convenience and he’s agreed to it. It’s up to us to see they keep it that way. Jennie’s in love with me. It’s up to you to keep Chemmy in love with you.”
Alice’s magnificent eyes gleamed with hope. Then she said softly, “And what do you want out of it, my so dear Mr. Chalmers?”
He looked at her thoughtfully. They were seated in her boudoir. She was wearing an elaborate silk and lace negligee which did little to conceal her charms. Her hair, emerging from under her pretty lace nightcap, spread over her shoulders in a golden haze.
“I want what Chemmy’s been enjoying,” he said finally. “Without payment.”
“What?” she gasped. “How dare you! What kind of woman do you think I am?”
“A very desperate one,” said Guy.
“I can give you money,” she said.
“I’ll do without that for once,” laughed Guy. “Old Lord Bemyss and his lady can’t last for much l
onger and they’re not the type to leave their money to a girl so that leaves only me. I know Lord Charles has got it all salted away. He ought to have. Lives like a miser. No, it must be you, my dear, if you want my help.”
Alice sighed and looked at him. Up till this morning’s call, he had merely been one of the many admirers who formed her court. He was not ill-looking, in fact any woman not knowing the vicious side of his nature would consider him handsome, with his strong, straight figure and boyish good looks.
“What if Chemmy should find out?” she whispered.
“He won’t, I promise you,” said Guy, getting to his feet and crossing the little room to stand over her. “You bed with me and I’ll ruin Miss Jennie Bemyss so badly that no one will want her.”
“Very well,” said Alice, moving to lead the way into the adjoining bedroom, but he forestalled her.
“No. Here,” he commanded, taking her in his arms and pulling her down to the floor. “Here!”
That very afternoon, the Marquis of Charrington surveyed his mistress with something approaching pity. She looked tired, white, exhausted and ill. He thought of what Perry had said and realized his friend might have struck upon the truth. He had not expected Alice to take the news of his marriage so hard.
“I am truly sorry, Alice,” he said gently. “I should have given you warning.”
Alice remembered Guy’s instructions and gave him a brave smile. “I cannot keep you, Chemmy,” she said softly. “But remember, I shall love no one else and I shall always be here if you should want me.”
I really have misjudged her, thought the Marquis with a stab of guilt. I had thought she only cared for my money.
“Come Alice,” he said, kissing her gently. “We shall still be friends, shall we not? We have had many good times together and I do not wish us to part in sadness or in anger.”
Alice smiled at him bravely. “I cannot pretend not to be sad… even for your sake,” she said in a low voice. “But I, at least, will remain faithful to you.”
“There is really no future for us,” he said, dreading to hurt her but feeling he must do his duty. “This betrothal was arranged a long time ago. I did not mean to go through with it but I feel I must have an heir at some time.”
“I could have given you an heir,” she said, staring at her entwined fingers.
“You could equally have given Trace an heir… or Richards,” said a nasty voice in Chemmy’s brain but he remained silent.
Alice rose to her feet and rang the bell. It had been a truly horrid day and she suddenly wanted to be alone. The battle for Chemmy’s heart should commence tomorrow. But not today. Dear God, not today! She was too tired and sore and humiliated to think.
The Marquis took his leave in a thoughtful frame of mind. For all he was sorry for Alice, he was puzzled by the peculiar atmosphere of the house. It almost seemed to smell of another man. He would not have been at all surprised to see someone else’s hat and cane in the hallway. Then he gave himself a mental shake and walked briskly in the direction of his club. He was becoming as hypersensitive and moody as old Perry.
Chapter Three
“Is this the place?” Demanded Perry, chewing nervously on the knob of his cane.
The Marquis took it to be a rhetorical question and did not trouble himself to answer.
Perry climbed nimbly down from the box of the carriage and stared in awe at Runbury Manor.
“Leafy, ain’t it?” he exclaimed in awe. “I’ve never seen so much cursed ivy in my life. Never! Like living in a damned great tree. Are you sure there’s brickwork under all that?”
“Yes,” said the Marquis, climbing down to join him. “Lord Charles likes the ivy. He says it keeps out the drafts.”
The Marquis and Perry had arrived on the day before the wedding to stay at Runbury Manor as houseguests.
He knocked loudly on the door. There was a long silence and then the slow shuffling sound of footsteps.
The door creaked open and Perry stared at the elderly footman in his ancient livery.
“It’s like one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s romances,” he whispered to Chemmy as they followed the aged retainer across the dark hall. “Is it haunted?”
“Only by a pack of elderly dogs,” smiled the Marquis.
They were ushered into the Blue Saloon.
“I shall inform my lord of your arrival,” said the footman before creaking his way out.
Both friends stood and looked around them. The house was very quiet. The sunlight struggled through the ivy leaves and dirty glass to waver and dance and the spindly furniture and the army of whirring and ticking clocks. Several dogs snored and yelped in their sleep. A draft blew under the door and sent great tufts and balls of dog hair rolling gently about the room.
There was a sour smell of drains and dog. The Marquis struggled with the catch of one of the windows and succeeded in prying it open, letting in all the heavy, hot smells of summer to banish the older scents of the stuffy room.
“I shall catch the cholera or the typhoid,” said Perry gloomily. “I only hope the maids of honor are pretty.”
“It’s a very quiet wedding,” said the Marquis. “But for your sake, Perry, I hope there are some pretty faces around.”
The Marquis dismissed two of the dogs from the chairs and motioned his friend to be seated.
Perry sat in his usual pose, right on the edge of his chair, and plugged his mouth with the knob of his cane.
The English countryside was enjoying a rare heat-wave. Perry ran a finger along the inside of his cravat and wondered how his friend could look so cool.
The starch of his own cravat was losing a battle with the heat and his leather breeches were beginning to feel as if they had mysteriously shrunk.
“It’s not fair,” he burst out, saying as usual what was uppermost in his mind. “We manage to stop powdering our hair because of the price of flour and then, just as we’re getting comfortable again, Brummell invents the starched cravat, and there we are, cornflowered up to the ears! Don’t the heat bother you?”
“It does,” said the Marquis. “I would like a large cool bath… if they have baths in this establishment.”
“I doubt it,” said Perry gloomily. “What I want to know is… do people live here? I mean, is anyone going to come? The place is as quiet as a tomb and just about as busy.”
As if in contradiction an explosion sounded from a distance, followed by a high feminine scream. Both men jumped to their feet and stared at each other. Then there was the sound of light, rapid footsteps and the double doors opened to reveal Lady Priscilla. Her cap was askew, her face flushed, and her dress was running with a nasty, sticky, brown stuff.
Perry thought for one awful moment that her ladyship had crawled out of the drains.
“My brandied peaches,” she wailed. “Oh, it’s the heat. They were fermenting nicely and then… bang! The whole jar exploded over me. And I did so want to have brandied peaches for the wedding breakfast.”
The Marquis drew up a chair, decanting an old dog from it as he did so, and Lady Priscilla sank into it gratefully, dripping peach juice and brandy on the floor.
“May I present my friend, Mr. Peregrine Deighton,” said the Marquis.
“No, you can’t. Not now,” said Lady Priscilla vaguely. “Have you seen Jennie? She will know what to do.”
“I’m here, Grandmama,” said a light voice from the doorway. Jennie Bemyss stood surveying them. Her black hair was tumbled on her shoulders and she wore an old and patched gown, but Perry was easily able to see why his friend had decided to honor the betrothal.
“Oh, Jennie,” cried her ladyship. “It is the peaches, you know. They exploded, just like that, and now we shall have none for your wedding.”
“We shall have fresh strawberries instead,” said Jennie comfortingly.
“But fresh fruit is so uninteresting,” exclaimed Lady Priscilla. Then her face brightened. “I know. I shall soak them in Kirsch. Now, I wonder if we have enough fresh crea
m? No matter. I shall make mock cream. Do you know,” she demanded earnestly of Perry, “how to make mock cream?”
“No,” said Perry, looking at her uneasily.
“’Tis quite simple. You just beat a fresh egg in a basin and slowly pour boiling tea over it. Believe me, no one will ever know the difference.”
“I think I might,” said Perry, ever honest.
“Do you?” queried Lady Priscilla, much interested. “I shall give you a test. It will only take me a minute to make some. I believe Martha… our cook, you know… has some old tea left over from yesterday. I never throw anything away.”
“Please… oh, please don’t,” gabbled Perry wildly. “I mean, it will be too much effort.”
“Not at all,” smiled Lady Priscilla, rising to her feet.
“Oh, no!” cried poor Perry, quite overset. “I don’t want any.”
“Then don’t have any! There!” said Lady Priscilla with sudden petulance. “Who are these gentlemen, Jennie?”
Jennie solemnly made the introductions, reintroducing the Marquis and adding, with a sympathetic look at Perry, that she was sure the gentlemen would wish to retire to their rooms and change after their journey.
To their surprise, it was Jennie herself who led the way up the broad worm-eaten steps of the staircase.
“Don’t you have a housekeeper?” asked Perry as he followed Jennie along a bewildering chain of dark corridors.
“Alas, no,” said Jennie. “Poor Mrs. Briggs died last month. It took us some time to realize she was dead, you know. She was very old and did not move about much. Ah, here are your rooms, Mr. Deighton. She pushed open a heavy door and then turned to the Marquis. “And now if you will follow me, my lord…”
“My friends call me Chemmy,” said the Marquis, bending his head as the corridor roof suddenly seemed to take a downward plunge. Jennie did not answer but led him down a little flight of steps and then pushed open a door. “I hope you will find this comfortable enough.”
