Burneck stopped and offered Jackson a knowing grin: from not wanting to tell his story he now seemed to be enjoying doing so—a phenomenon which Jackson had often seen.
‘The thing was—and I can tell you it really knocked me flying—that I knew her. I’d seen her years before when Lord Rupert Cleeve had secretly visited Johnny Hanslope. How she had arrived in Cheltenham with their child was a mystery. There had been a rumour that Lord Rupert had married a Frenchwoman—some said that he’d only pretended to marry her—whatever the truth, here she was, dead, and Johnny Hanslope had her kid.
‘It occurred to me that she might be carrying proof of her marriage, if there had been a marriage—and the child’s birth, and that my pa would be pleased as punch if I stole them for him so that Johnny couldn’t take the child to Lord Yardley. Besides, to bastardise one of the Cleeves would be the sort of caper he’d like, anyways.’
‘Aye, and the idea pleased you, too, didn’t it, Burneck, didn’t it?’
‘If you say so. So I searched her belongings—there weren’t many—and found her marriage certificate and the record of the kid’s birth as well as her diary. I took them and scarpered. I was right about M’lord—he laughed fit to bust, he did, and hung on to them. Johnny never even knew I’d been there. Pa often had a good laugh about it when he was drunk, and when the kid grew up and became a beauty he laughed even harder when he married her, though he was past everything by then, poor devil.’
Devil certainly, but hardly poor—who could pity Sywell, thought Jackson grimly. What he said was, ‘Why have you stopped? What happened to the papers when Sywell was murdered and went to Hell?’
Burneck put his finger by his nose. ‘Aye, well, I knew where he kept his secrets. Them as was sent to solve his murder went through the Abbey and never found his hiding-places, but if they’d done so they’d have found nothing, because I’d been there before them.’ He laughed hard at his own cleverness.
‘So you have them now?’ asked Jackson. ‘First you steal them for Sywell, and then for yourself. What did you propose to do with them?’
‘Knowledge is power, they might come in useful some day.’ And this time he offered Jackson a wink.
‘Not to you, they won’t,’ said Jackson, grinning again, ‘for if you don’t hand them over to me I’ll haul you before the nearest beak for theft—because that wasn’t all you lifted from Sywell, was it?’
‘Oh, I knew you’d cheat me,’ howled Burneck. ‘Never trust a Runner, I should have known better.’
‘Dear, dear,’ said Jackson. ‘Give me the legal papers and the diary and you can keep the rest, by the look of them they’re not worth much.’
‘Only things to remind me of my poor pa—you can have the papers—I’ll fetch them for you.’
‘Big of you,’ said Jackson, ‘seeing that I would have taken them from you without your kind assistance. I want to look at your other booty, too, in case there is anything there that will help me solve your poor, dear pa’s murder. I’m sure you’d want that.’
Burneck gave up. He pointed to a battered trunk in the corner of the room, and handed Jackson its key. ‘At the bottom,’ he almost groaned, ‘inside a Bible my pa once gave me.’
‘Sywell gave you a Bible,’ exclaimed the entranced Jackson, throwing out grubby clothing and a couple of tarnished silver candlesticks in order to find it. Sure enough, there were the papers and the diary which told the truth of Louise’s birth, but the Bible interested him, too. It was an old one, the King James version bound in scuffed and battered leather, and had an inscription in the front: Philip Cleeve, his book, it said, 1642.
‘A bit of Sywell’s loot,’ said Jackson, putting the papers back inside it. ‘I think Lord Yardley might like his property back.’
‘No!’ Burneck shrieked. ‘It’s all I have left of me dad!’
‘Who stole it from its owner. Console yourself with your happy memories of the dear departed,’ said Jackson nastily, ‘and be grateful I don’t haul you off to Newgate for stealing the rest of the stuff in the trunk, which I would, if it were worth anything.’
He laughed to himself as he walked downstairs to the sound of Burneck’s lamentations. Well, at least M’lord Angmering was going to be happy with what he had found and that was all that concerned him.
And now for home. Dear old London, it might smell bad, but it was still better than these dead and alive holes scattered around the Shire counties!
‘Marcus,’ said his stepmother that same morning, ‘I would be grateful for a private word with you, if you could spare a moment.’
‘Always ready to spare a moment for you, my dear Marissa,’ he said gallantly. He thought that she seemed worried, and he also thought that he could guess what was troubling her.
He was right. Once they had reached her pretty little sitting-room, where they were unlikely to be interrupted, she came to the point at once. Marissa had many practical virtues and was nearly as forthright as Marcus and his father: something which they both valued more than showy good looks, which were often associated with an empty head.
‘It’s your father, Marcus. He is not well—oh, I mean more than that his advanced years are afflicting him, that is to be expected—but after a fashion which troubles me. I think that he has some deep worry which is preventing him from sleeping and which is ruining his appetite. Have you any notion what can be wrong? More to the point, perhaps, have you noticed any change in his manner recently—or am I imagining things?’
‘Dear Marissa,’ he said, ‘I don’t think that you are. I, too, have been perturbed about him recently. To say that he does not seem himself is an understatement. He is very much not himself. True, he and I have achieved a rapprochement which I once would never have thought possible, but even that does not appear to have made him happy. It has made me so, but not him.’
Marissa nodded thoughtfully. ‘True, he told me of it, and I agree with you. I have asked him if there is anything troubling him and he has been unusually brusque in denying any such thing. It occurred to me that it might be something which he did not care to confide to me because I am a woman, or because he does not want to trouble me, so I wonder if I could ask a favour of you…’ She paused.
Marcus said, ‘You would wish me to speak to him?’
‘Oh, if only you would. He’s such a punctilious man, you see, and it’s passing strange that he’s keeping a secret from me. We’ve always told one another our troubles, and this secrecy is most unlike him. I do know that that ex-Runner who keeps popping up has the power to distress him, but why should that be?’
‘You need not worry about him,’ Marcus assured her. ‘He’s been coming to see me rather than father—I’ve asked him to do an errand for me. On second thoughts, perhaps it’s only because I have been refusing to marry that has been distressing him.’
His stepmother shook her head. ‘Oh, he’s spoken of that to me at length—and by the by, he has my full support. You would make a splendid husband and father.’
‘But I’d be pushing the two Neds out of line,’ protested Marcus.
‘Oh, pooh to that. The dowry I brought with me will give them a good start in life, and when I look at the history of the Earls of Yardley I’m not sure that I would wish the title on either of them. Now, you, Marcus, are a different kettle of fish. You are a strong man, stronger even than your father—and I know that you’d look after my darlings. You look after everyone and everything, don’t you? Even that pretty modiste, Madame Félice whom you’ve been meeting secretly!’
Marcus gave a great moan. ‘Now how the devil—forgive me, my dear—do you know about that?’
‘That tattling fool Jack Perceval has been spreading gossip about seeing you with her in Chelsea. If it weren’t that she is a modiste I’d say she would make a good Lady Yardley, and encourage you to offer for her, but marrying out of one’s class is never a good notion.’
Marcus shook his head. ‘I don’t really think that whether or not I marry is worrying him so mu
ch that he is looking ill. After all, there are always the Two Neds to fall back on—even if you’re not too happy about one of them becoming the next Lord Yardley. I promise you that I’ll try to winkle out of father what’s troubling him, but you know how stubborn he is—if he wants to keep mum he will.’
‘Oh, but you’re even more stubborn than he is, so my money is on you. Don’t let me down, will you?’
What could he say but that he wouldn’t, although it was simply one more thing for him to worry about. As for Madame Félice being out of his class—well perhaps Jackson might have the answer to that when he came back from Steepwood. Then he might think about marriage. What was the old saying? ‘Better marry than burn!’
Well, he was certainly burning, so marriage, either in or out of his class, was becoming to look more and more attractive.
Chapter Six
L ouise could scarcely wait for the weekend to arrive so that she might meet Marcus, no, Mr Marks again. She had visited Berkeley Square once more, to fit out the Countess this time, but he had not been present. Sophia had said something about Marcus having gone to visit an old school friend in Surrey, but he had told her that he hoped to be back in London by Friday at the latest.
One odd thing about the visit was that when she was showing Sophia a new idea for a small crown of silk flowers to wear on her wedding day she had caught Lady Yardley watching her with an odd look on her face.
Now, what could all that be about? Marcus had not told her that Jack Perceval had seen them in Chelsea, for he had not wanted her to worry overmuch about the gossip that would inevitably follow. All the same, Louise worried a little about such a close inspection before telling herself sternly not to see a bear behind every bush. On the other hand, she had survived her unhappy start in life by using her intuition, which had frequently told her much about the people around her—often things which they did not want known.
The only time that her intuition had failed her was when she had agreed to marry Sywell. Thinking about Sywell made her remember her late guardian, and that brought her back again to what Jackson might, or might not, be finding when he started his search for her origins.
Which simply served as an excuse to think of Marcus who had hired him. Marcus, whom she now knew that she loved. Oh, if only they could meet more often, and on equal terms! She hated playing out a charade of the Prince and the beggar-maid with him, even though he tried to lighten that aspect of their relationship by calling himself Mr Marks.
Dear Mr Marks! She was still thinking this when she returned to Bond Street to find Lady Leominster and her suite present in full cry. The lady was demanding a new wardrobe and had been unhappy to find Madame absent.
‘I hear that you’ve been visiting the Yardleys,’ she carolled. ‘Of course, Sharnbrook is biting the bullet at last, is he not? Such a dear girl, Sophia, I hope that you are doing her proud, Madame. Oh, yes, we never thought Sharnbrook would be leg-shackled, and now that he’s gone, one supposes Angmering will be the next.’
‘Oh, m’lady,’ simpered one of her toadies who had been given the lady’s reticule to guard. ‘Have you not heard? He has bet Jack Perceval that he will not marry during the next year. Of all things he said that…’ she crimsoned a little, but her patron, never one to be mealy-mouthed, said forcefully, ‘Spit it out, my dear. I’m sure that Madame will not be troubled if you are over-frank—after all, she is French, and we all know what they are like.’
‘Well, he said that he preferred having an arrangement, if you take my meaning, since the lady who agreed to one would be less demanding than a wife—or something like that…’
‘Spoken like a man,’ said the lady, giving Louise a glance which could only be interpreted as meaningful. ‘One hears that he has found such a lady—I wonder, who can it be?’
She did not intend to be malicious, merely to enjoy herself and her domination of all around her. Louise took the opportunity to hide her crimsoning face by kneeling down to pin up the gown in which her forewoman had dressed the lady before she had arrived from her visit to the Yardleys. She said, her voice muffled, ‘I really have no notion, m’lady. Your guess is as good as mine.’
Far from annoying society’s dictator, this amused her. She had been told the night before, in confidence by Jack Perceval that he had reason to believe that Angmering had taken up with that modiste, Madame Félice. Such barefaced lying was to be admired.
She bent down and hissed sweetly into Louise’s ear, ‘Oh, I’m sure that you know better than that, m’dear, but I wish you well. Angmering’s an admirable fellow but eccentric. Mum’s the word, eh?’
Louise straightened up, stood back, and said, ‘I don’t think that that colour suits you, m’lady, too garish. Would you not prefer another shade? A delicate mauve would be better than purple.’
If a lady could be said to wink, then Lady Leominster did. ‘Oh, I defer to you always, Madame, such discretion, and such taste. You may always dress me in future. That wretched woman I have been using has been making me look like a gypsy at a fair.’
Gypsies at fairs reminded Louise of Marcus, Lord Angmering, who made nasty bets with nasty people like Jack Perceval. She would never call him Mr Marks again. Mr Marks would not pursue poor girls in order to ruin them and win his shameless bet. Lord Angmering, on the other hand, was apparently capable of anything. Just wait until he came visiting again this Saturday. To use the kind of language that that supposed high and mighty lady had just been employing: she would give him what for and no mistake!
Saturday had come and Marcus was all impatience. He had arrived back in Berkeley Square early on Friday morning, and late in the afternoon Jackson had arrived, bursting with news. Marcus had heard him out, and could only regret that he had to wait until morning to tell Louise that she was well and truly Louise Cleeve, and possessed the means of proving it.
For some reason, though, when he arrived in Chelsea the little maid showed him into an empty room and told him that Madame was busy and would join him once she was free.
He had never felt so impatient in all his life, and after half an hour had dragged by he rose to his feet and paced the room agitatedly, although it was scarcely big enough to satisfy his urgent demand for action.
Finally the door opened and his beloved entered. Instead of offering him her usual happy greeting, however, she impaled him with a fixed stare, and said coldly, ‘Well, m’lord, what is it this time that you come so early?’
‘Mr Marks,’ he told her smiling, for he half-thought that she must be playing a game with him, her manner to him being so different.
‘Mr Marks?’ queried Louise. ‘Now, who may he be? I do not know him—and I think that you do not, m’lord.’
Marcus could no longer deceive himself. Something had happened which had revived the haughty creature whom he had first met. All the playful banter which had enlivened their recent meetings had quite disappeared. He moved towards her to try to take her hand, but she retreated from him, the hand upraised to repel him.
‘What is it?’ he asked her. ‘What have I done? What has caused you to treat your dear Mr Marks so unkindly? I thought that we had become friends, nay, more than friends.’
‘How can you ask such questions?’ she told him, her face still frozen, ‘when I learn that the on dit is that not only have you bet that you will never marry, but that you have also proclaimed that an arrangement with a willing woman would be far better. Almost immediately afterwards I discovered that it is all over London society that you are meeting me secretly. That gossiping gorgon Lady Leominster made it quite plain that she knew that we were doing so, and had the gall to twit me with it.’
What he had feared when Marissa had spoken to him of his meeting Louise had come to pass. Regardless of everything, the moment he had discovered that, he should have gone straight to Bond Street to tell her that their secret was a secret no more. Instead he had stupidly hoped that if he said nothing then it was unlikely that, living outside that society, she would ever f
ind out.
He might have known what gossips many society hostesses were, the Leominster creature being the worst of them. She had probably deliberately let Louise know what was being said in order to mischief-make between them. If so, she had succeeded.
‘My dear,’ he said, ‘I have never lied to you. I told you that I wanted you for my mistress—and that the choice was yours. As for the ton knowing that we are meeting, they did not learn that from me, but from that ineffable nodcock, Jack Perceval. What’s more, once you had told me that you did not wish to have a liaison with me I have treated you with as much respect as I would treat my own sister, Sophia—nay, more, for I have always twitted and teased her insufferably, something which I have never done to you. Dear Miss Louise, forgive your cavalier for what he has not done, particularly when he comes to you with such splendid news.’
Louise stared at him. Could she believe him? The trouble was that she knew how unscrupulously the aristocracy and gentry often pursued those well below them in station. She had comforted more than one green young sempstress who had been betrayed by an upper-class lover. They would say anything to gain their ends, and then they would walk away, having deprived their victim of her virtue, or, at the worst, having left her with a bastard child as well as a ruined name.
She had vowed that she would never be such a fool, and until she met Marcus she had never been tempted to be one.
‘Am I to believe you?’ she asked him, her face softening a little. ‘Or are you treating me with such care, such kind consideration, in the hope that one day I shall be foolish enough to give way to you? Can you honestly deny that that has not been your aim?’
Marcus said, and it pained him to do so. ‘You have asked me to be honest, and so I shall be. Yes, in the beginning, after you had first refused me, I had that in mind, but the more I knew you the more it became impossible for me to commit such an act of betrayal. What is more, when I have told you what Jackson has discovered I shall ask you a question which will prove my honesty to you.’
The Missing Marchioness (Mills & Boon Historical) Page 11
