by M C Beaton
“Good,” he said, “but you will find me an indifferent dancer.”
“Then why bother asking me?” said Lucinda crossly, but one hard hand took hers while the other pressed firmly at her waist.
“I can feel your bones,” remarked the infuriating marquess. “Why are you so thin?”
“Because my father and I are very poor and did not often find much to eat,” Lucinda said, deciding to tell the truth and give him a disgust of her so that he would leave her alone. “We do not have servants so I performed the housekeeping duties and gardening duties myself.”
“And now you are companion to Lady Ismene,” said the marquess. “You poor little thing.” He smiled down into her eyes while his hand tightened at her waist.
Lucinda, who stood at five feet eight inches in her stocking soles, had never thought anyone would ever call her little. The marquess was well over six feet. She tried to recall his bad reputation, but there was something infinitely comforting about the strength of his hold on her and something magnetic about those odd catlike green eyes.
She gave herself up to the enjoyment of the dance and the music.
There were murmurs of surprise and admiration. No one had ever seen the marquess dance so elegantly. The way he looked down at Miss Westerville with a tender, amused look on his face began to make many females think it would be worth trying to see if they could get him to look at them like that.
The dance over, Lucinda retired quickly to her corner. The marquess had enjoyed his dance with her. It had put him in a good mood. He danced and flirted expertly, not knowing his new, charming behavior was rapidly making him the most desired man in London.
Lucinda sat and thought about the feelings she had experienced during that dance with the Marquess of Rockingham. She decided, rather sadly, that the predominant feeling had been one of safety. Most odd.
3
Lucinda sat meekly with her hands folded on her lap, preparing to face Ismene’s wrath. Ismene enjoyed bullying—but bullies enjoyed bullying only those who cringed under the lash of their arrogant behavior. Lucinda was determined to be brave.
She was so preoccupied with her thoughts that for some moments she did not realize a gentleman was standing in front of her, looking down at her curiously.
He cleared his throat and Lucinda looked up. She saw a thin, waspish, middle-aged man who looked vaguely familiar.
“Miss Westerville?” ventured this gentleman. “Is it Miss Westerville?”
“Yes, sir. And you…?”
“I am Chamfreys.”
Lucinda’s face hardened. Now she knew why that face was so familiar. Lord Chamfreys was admittedly no close relative, only her mother’s fourth cousin, but he was extremely rich. Lucinda had written him a pathetic little letter begging for help for her father, but had received only a curt note from Lord Chamfreys’ secretary saying that his lordship was persuaded that Miss Westerville was overdramatizing the situation and that her father would prove to be merely suffering from a passing ailment.
“What brings you to London?” Lord Chamfreys went on.
“I am working for my living,” Lucinda said. “I am companion to Lady Ismene, the Earl of Clifton’s daughter.”
“A relative of mine… working!” exclaimed Lord Chamfreys in horror.
“The Earl of Clifton is taking care of poor Papa and paying his medical expenses in return for my services,” said Lucinda primly.
“Indeed! Why was I not informed of this?”
“You were,” Lucinda said crossly. “You replied in a pooh-poohing sort of way.”
“I,” said Lord Chamfreys awfully, “never pooh-pooh. What ails your father?”
Lucinda sighed. “He had the French sickness,” she said, meaning influenza, “and it left him weak and ill. He needs good food, rest, and medicine, all of which it was not in my power to give him… until now.”
Ismene came on the scene and interrupted their conversation. Ignoring Lord Chamfreys, whom she judged to be an elderly admirer of her companion, she said harshly, “I told you not to dance, you disobedient girl. If you are going to go on in this wayward manner, then I shall have to tell Papa you are not at all suitable.”
Lord Chamfreys turned red. “Do you mind introducing yourself, miss?” he said to Ismene. “Miss Westerville is a relative of mine.”
Ismene dropped a reluctant curtsy. She was even more furious. A Lucinda with powerful relatives would prove to be a Lucinda harder to bully. She introduced herself. Lord Chamfreys put up his quizzing glass and studied her for some moments while Ismene fidgeted and blushed. “I am Chamfreys,” he said at last. He turned to Lucinda. “Good evening to you, Miss Westerville. You shall hear further from us.”
The royal “we” thought Lucinda, amused despite her distress. She turned to Ismene. “I know you are cross with me because I danced with Rockingham, but I assure you, had I not, he would have made a scene.”
“I am not cross, dear Lucinda,” said Ismene with one of her lightning changes of mood. “You must tell me about Rockingham. They say he has had as many mistresses as I have had hot dinners!”
Lucinda felt an irrational stab of disappointment. “He appeared courteous enough,” she said. “But you do not want to talk about Rockingham, Lady Ismene. Tell me about your beaux.”
Ismene was delighted to oblige. She leaned forward and with many giggled and rolls of the eyes told Lucinda just how many men had been smitten with her charms that evening. “But to return to Rockingham,” she said at last. “I do not think he is the ogre he is made out to be. I have a mind to have him for myself.”
“If gossip has it right,” Lucinda said cautiously, “it appears he simply wants any marriageable female who will put up with him.”
“Here he comes!” cried Ismene.
Lucinda saw the marquess bearing purposefully down on them and she knew in her bones that he intended to ask her for another dance.
Her large eyes looked straight up into the marquess’s with a pleading expression and then flickered sideways in Ismene’s direction.
She is begging me to ask that spoilt mistress of hers, thought the marquess crossly. I have no intention of obliging her.
He bowed to both of them, turned on his heel, and strode away. Lucinda let out a little sigh of relief.
“How odd!” Ismene cried. Then she sat pouting. After a few moments she said pettishly, “Is no one going to ask me to dance? I declare I do not know what has come over the gentlemen.”
“You forget,” said Lucinda gently, “we are quite hidden here.”
Ismene’s face cleared and she jumped to her feet. “Stay where you are,” she called back over her shoulder. “There is no need for you to dance.”
Lucinda drew her chair back farther into the corner. She found herself wishing the Marquess of Rockingham would approach her again, and then immediately wondered why, for such an action on his part would only enrage Ismene.
But, as if in answer to that unspoken wish, the marquess himself appeared before her, holding a glass of lemonade. “Nothing stronger served at Almack’s,” he said, handing her the glass. Then he brought over a chair and sat down next to her.
“You are placing my job at risk,” said Lucinda quietly. “My mistress will not be pleased if she sees you with me.”
“A silly, vain girl,” said the marquess. He waved an eloquent hand toward the floor. “But then, so are they all.”
“You have a harsh opinion of our sex,” said Lucinda.
“Yes.”
“Then you had better not marry, my lord.”
“Oh, I would make a tolerable husband so long as my wife kept out of my way and did not interfere with my pleasures.”
“What a bleak prospect.” Lucinda looked at him curiously. “Perhaps you might fall in love.”
“No, I am too sensible and too honest to dress the desire for heirs up in a pretty name.”
“So you think such a tender emotion does not exist, my lord?”
“Undoubt
edly it does—for poets, fools, charlatans, and weaklings.”
“Then admit to the existence of the higher forms of love—mother love, for instance.”
His face became a hard mask. “For such a beautiful creature, you are sadly lacking in brains,” he said. He got to his feet. “You are like all the rest of your sex, Miss Westerville. You have a mind filled with trivia and sentimental twaddle.”
What an odd world this is, Lucinda thought miserably, watching his retreating back. All at once she felt terribly tired. Would the evening never end!
It was four in the morning before the carriage bore them homeward. Ismene was cross and out of sorts. No one had asked her to dance more than once. Lucinda, seated opposite, was obviously making an effort to keep her eyes open. She should be alert at all times, thought Ismene, glad of a focus for her discontent and anger.
Lucinda was just about to climb into bed when the maid, Kennedy, appeared. “You’re to go to Lady Ismene,” she said.
“Why?” Lucinda yawned. “Is she ill?”
“Not her. Wants you to read to her.”
Lucinda crept wearily through to Ismene’s bedroom. The first thing she noticed on entering was the strong aroma of freshly made coffee; the next was the cup in Ismene’s hand. In a dazed way Lucinda realized Ismene had noticed her fatigue and had primed herself with strong coffee in order to torment the tired companion with a sleepless night.
If Ismene had struck her, Lucinda could have borne it better. But there was something so cruel and so well-thought-out about such a spiteful action.
There was only one way to cope with Ismene.
“Read to me,” Ismene ordered, holding out the first volume of Mary Brunton’s Self-Control.
“Certainly,” said Lucinda brightly, “for I declare I adore novels and could read all night.”
Ismene put down her coffee cup and looked sulkily at Lucinda, who started to read.
Although the novel dealt with the improbable adventures of a heroine of quite terrifying righteousness, there were times when any fiction at all was a boon to anyone wanting to escape the harsh realities of the present.
Ismene lay back against the pillows while Lucinda read on with every appearance of great enjoyment.
In fifteen minutes Ismene was fast asleep. Lucinda stopped reading and cast her an amused look.
“I think I know how to deal with you now, my lady,” she said in an amused voice as she left the room.
But Lucinda did not yet know the extent of Ismene’s talent for humiliation.
The next day, when various gentlemen who had danced with Ismene the night before came to call, as was the custom, Ismene choked off any masculine interest in her pretty companion by dismissing Kennedy and treating Lucinda like a maid, even ordering her to make up the fire.
Lucinda thought of her father and performed all the tasks set her quietly and efficiently.
The Earl of Clifton would certainly have protested against Lucinda’s being treated so shabbily, but he had retired to his study and his countess never saw anything wrong in her daughter’s behavior at any time.
Then at five o’clock Ismene and Lucinda went off in an open carriage to join the fashionables in the park. There was a brisk wind blowing. Ismene was carrying a dainty parasol. A particularly strong gust seized it out of her hand and blew it across the grass in the direction of the Serpentine. The coachman, hearing Ismene’s cry of distress, reined in the horses.
“Go and fetch my parasol, Lucinda,” said Ismene. Lucinda cast an eloquent look toward the tall footman on the backstrap, who immediately jumped down.
“Stay, John!” commanded Ismene, stopping the footman in his tracks. “My companion shall fetch it.”
Lucinda gave Ismene a startled look, for this was surely persecution beginning to edge on the vulgar. But she climbed down from the carriage and set off in pursuit of Ismene’s lilac lace parasol, which was briskly tumbling across the grass.
She picked up her skirts and began to run as hard as she could to try to stop the parasol before it blew into the Serpentine. There came the thud of hooves, a horse flashed in front of her. Its rider bent low and snatched up the parasol, rode a little way away, wheeled about, and cantered back to where Lucinda stood. Lucinda found herself looking up into the mocking eyes of the Marquess of Rockingham. He swung himself down from the saddle, bowed, and held out the lilac parasol. Lucinda took it and thanked him. He called to Chumley, who came riding up. The valet, who accompanied him everywhere, as his lordship’s grooms never stayed very long in his employ, dismounted and held the marquess’s horse as well as his own.
The marquess fell into step beside Lucinda. “Well, Atalanta,” he mocked, “it was indeed a pleasure to watch you in the chase.”
“I am grateful to you, my lord,” said Lucinda stiffly. “There is no need to accompany me to the carriage.”
“‘Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,’” he quoted. “Remark on her courtiers, Miss Westerville, and see how a harsh tongue and an unpleasant disposition will succeed in attracting only man-milliners.”
Lucinda saw that Ismene was now holding court to five young exquisites. Their high, mincing voices were borne on the wind. As Lucinda approached with the marquess, Ismene said, “Ah, here is my lazy servant at last. Such a problem finding suitable girls these days.”
“La, Lady Ismene,” cried one, kissing his fingers, “would I had the honor to be allowed to serve you.”
The marquess gently tugged the parasol from Lucinda’s hand.
Ismene bestowed on the marquess her most dazzling smile. “Rockingham,” she cried, “’tis most kind of you to help my lazy Lucinda.”
A sardonic smile curled the marquess’s lips. “Your parasol, I think,” he said. He snapped it in two and threw the pieces on the ground.
One of Lucinda’s courtiers began to bluster. “Fie, for shame, Rockingham.”
“Go on. Call me out,” said the marquess nastily.
The five young men began to back away. It was like watching a ballet. With many flourishes of scented handkerchiefs, they continued to edge backward, finally turning as one man and scampering away across the grass.
Tight-lipped, the marquess helped Lucinda into the carriage, bowed to her, and strode away.
Ismene was quite white. “Monstrous man,” she said in a shaky voice.
“Shall I fetch the parasol?” asked Lucinda in a quiet voice. “It is pretty and can be repaired.”
“No, no,” said Ismene, quite terrified. She called to the coachman, “Drive on! Drive on, you great lummox, before he comes back.”
Fear kept Ismene silent for the rest of the outing.
But her spirits rallied soon after their return. She instructed the servants to bring a bath up to her bedchamber and then told Lucinda, after the bath was prepared and scented with rosewater, to wash her back.
There was something repellent, Lucinda reflected as she diligently applied a cake of Joppa soap to Ismene’s back, about being forced to touch the body of someone you detested. They were to go to the opera that evening. Lucinda felt if she did not have some time to herself, she would break down and scream.
She knew Ismene was trying to humiliate her by her very nakedness. No lady bathed naked, even before a member of her own sex.
“I am so glad we are to go to the opera,” said Lucinda gently. “I adore music.”
“You do?” Ismene said, her eyes narrowing.
“Oh yes,” sighed Lucinda. “It is my greatest pleasure and Don Giovanni is my favorite opera.”
Ismene shifted irritably in the narrow coffin-shaped bath. “I have some sewing and mending for you, Lucinda,” she said. “It is better you remain at home this evening.”
“Very good, my lady,” Lucinda said in a voice deliberately laden with disappointment, and then turned away so that Ismene should not see the smile of satisfaction on her face.
After Ismene had left for the opera, Kennedy came into Lucinda’s bedroom and quietly removed the basket o
f sewing. “Have a bit of a rest, miss,” she said soothingly. “I like sewing and she’ll never know it was me who did it.”
Lucinda felt a lump growing in her throat. “You are very kind, Kennedy,” she said, and added with a sudden burst of candor, “Your life cannot always be easy.”
“No, it is not,” said the maid. “But it is hard these days for servants to find good positions—unless,” she added with a grin, “they want to work for the Marquess of Rockingham. He can never keep anyone.”
“Perhaps the living conditions are too cramped,” said Lucinda, who knew from remembered gossip she had heard on visits to her rich relatives that aristocrats often kept their money for their country estates and rented only inferior accommodation in town for the Season.
“No, ’tis not that, miss,” said Kennedy. “His lordship has a fine town house in Berkeley Square, Number 205, with plenty of spacious rooms, but he is so wild and so dissolute that they all give their notice sooner or later.”
Kennedy bobbed a curtsy and left, taking the sewing with her.
Lucinda settled herself in the battered armchair. She reached out to the table beside it, but the novel she had been reading had disappeared. With a cluck of annoyance she went through to Ismene’s bedchamber, confident that the girl had borrowed it. But there was no sign of the novel. Lucinda was about to leave when her eye fell on the fireplace. She stiffened. It was full of blackened, burnt paper. Ismene would not… could not…
She knelt on the hearth. One half-page was all that remained. She pulled out the blackened mess and studied it, and then sat back on her heels, her face white. Ismene had taken her book and had burnt it, the book that had carried a loving inscription from her father on the title page. Such spite was frightening.
“I can’t go on,” whispered Lucinda. “I can’t.”
She rose shakily to her feet and went out and downstairs to the library to find something to take her mind away from the horrors of her present situation. She used the back stairs, not wanting to meet the earl, who she knew had stayed behind. The door to the library led off a small landing on the back stairs. A door to the earl’s study led from the same landing, the door being opposite the library door. Most rooms in the large mansion had two entrances, one for the servants and one for the masters. She gently put her hand on the knob of the library door. And then she heard the earl’s voice coming from behind the study door. He was speaking to a visitor.
