by M C Beaton
He could hear a murmur of voices coming from abovestairs. After a few moments, Humphrey descended.
“I regret her ladyship is not available, sir.”
I must see her, thought Mr. Carter wildly. I must see who has stolen my inheritance.
“Perhaps,” he said with a little laugh, “her ladyship is not aware that I am Lord Rockingham’s cousin and, perhaps, his closest friend and adviser.”
“I shall convey that piece of intelligence to her ladyship,” said Humphrey.
Mr. Carter began to pace up and down, nervously chewing at the tip of one deerskin-gloved finger. This time Humphrey took longer.
At last he came back. “Follow me, sir,” he said. He led the way up the stairs to the second floor and opened the door of the drawing room. Mr. Carter remembered that the drawing room had barely been used by the marquess. The ground-floor saloon was the one in which the marquess received any callers.
The drawing room was full of vases of flowers. It smelled fresh and sweet and had lost its old aroma of cheroots, coal smoke, and stale brandy.
The door opened and Lucinda entered. Mr. Carter’s first emotion was one of surprise. How could Rockingham have married such an undistinguished-looking creature with such a lovely as Maria Deauville around?
In order to give herself dignity, Lucinda had tucked her hair up under a cap. She was wearing a severe gown of dark brown tabby. She was very thin, Mr. Carter noticed, and her mouth was too large. Fashion decreed that all ladies must have the tiniest of mouths, and Mr. Carter was fashion’s slave.
“Mr. Carter?” asked Lucinda, holding his calling card between her fingers.
Mr. Carter made his best bow, flourishing his handkerchief and dragging his right leg along the floor with a tremendous scrape. “I am Mr. Carter, ma’am, Rockingham’s cousin.”
“I am delighted to meet you,” lied Lucinda, who had taken a dislike to this effeminate fribble on sight.
“You see before you,” said Mr. Carter, striking his thin chest, “Rockingham’s cousin and boon companion.”
What a lot of counts I am learning against my husband, thought Lucinda. Selfish, drunken, and, if Mr. Carter is indeed his boon companion, weakling and fool.
Lucinda decided to bring the visit to a speedy end. “I regret I cannot offer you any refreshment, Mr. Carter,” she said. “I am much engaged in housecleaning.”
Mr. Carter ignored this. “I was surprised to hear of your marriage,” he said, “and hurt to the quick. I would have thought Rockingham would have seen fit to invite me.”
“Rest assured, Mr. Carter, he did not invite anyone. If you desire any explanation of our marriage, although I am sure a gentleman such as yourself would not even think to be so impertinent, then I suggest you wait until Rockingham’s return from Paris.”
Mr. Carter threw her a baffled look. She was undoubtedly a lady. But too haughty and high in the instep. He longed to take her down a peg. Perhaps, he thought suddenly, she might be blissfully ignorant of the rakish character of her husband. “One has only to look at you, ma’am,” he said with another elaborate bow, “to see that your looks, your figure, you face, are explanations in themselves. But I am here to introduce myself to you as your new friend. Call on me for assistance at any time, I beg you. A word of warning. Do not receive Mrs. Maria Deauville should she call. She is dying with rage, of course.”
“Who is Mrs. Deauville?” Lucinda had forgotten Ismene’s gossip.
“Why, Rockingham’s mis… La, my naughty tongue. Servant, ma’am, servant. I shall call on you again soon.”
He flourished his way out.
Spiteful, horrible man, thought Lucinda. Mr. Carter had been about to say this Mrs. Deauville was her husband’s mistress.
“Well, I don’t care,” Lucinda said aloud. “He can have scores of mistresses so long as he takes care of Papa. What a good thing I am not in love with him!”
6
The marquess, who, like many British people, had journeyed across the Channel for the first time in eleven years, nearly turned back at Dieppe.
With Napoleon incarcerated on Elba, France was once more wide open to English visitors. But whereas England had forged ahead, France seemed depressingly old-fashioned. Unlike Brighton with its graceful terraces facing the ocean, its libraries and shops, Dieppe was still a medieval town with its back to the sea and sewers flowing down its muddy streets. The marquess was assailed by packs of beggars, proudly displaying their open sores, and poor sticklike children who followed his carriage, crying out curses against Napoleon in the hope that the English milord would throw them money.
The marquess had tucked his marriage to Lucinda firmly in the back of his mind, but occasionally her face rose before his eyes, and he cursed himself for his stupid folly in allying himself with an innocent country girl whom he hardly knew. So he forged on in the direction of Paris through a countryside where time appeared to have stood still for a century. He stayed at grand posting houses with gilt furniture and greasy floors, unswept hearths, and piles of horse dung at the doors. The countryside appeared to have been depopulated by the wars and there were twelve women working by the roadside to every man.
The entrance into Paris was even more depressing. At the northern gate there was a rough wooden palisade guarded by red-capped soldiers with dangling earrings. Then his carriage moved through a labyrinth of high, crazy, crumbling medieval houses with pointed roofs and fantastic gables, shutting out the sky.
Now that war and plunder had ceased, the residents of this bloody and ferocious capital city had thrown themselves into hectic, shameless gaiety, with all the energy they had used in battle and revolution.
The wild mood of Paris suited the marquess’s mood. There were gastronomic paradises such as Very’s, Hardi’s, and the Quadron Bleau to be visited. Gambling was a universal relaxation with both sexes crowded into airless rooms where no sound was heard but the rattling of dice and money. The English visitors, who had hitherto considered London the center of gambling, were shocked by the intensity of the play and the huge sums which were wagered night after night. To them this gambling frenzy appeared even more shocking than the pornographic prints on the walls of their hotel rooms.
The marquess plunged into this devil-take-tomorrow world and forgot he was a married man. But his pleasures were gambling, dancing, and eating, not women. He was just beginning to become jaded after two weeks’ dissipation when Maria Deauville tracked him down. It had been easy for Zeus Carter and Maria to work out that the marquess’s marriage had not been consummated. They had been clever enough not to bribe Lucinda’s servants, for bribed servants, they both knew, often took the money and then told their mistresses and masters of the bribe, therefore gaining more money for their honesty. Instead, Maria’s own maid, Benson, had befriended Kennedy. Kennedy, who had had no friends during her time with Lady Ismene, was glad of company on her afternoon off. Benson was normally never allowed any time off at all, but had been granted the same liberty as Kennedy so that she might extract useful pieces of gossip.
The sight of the charming Maria did not please the marquess.
She came sweeping, unannounced, into his bedchamber one morning.
The marquess struggled up against the pillows with a smile on his face, a smile which was quickly replaced with a scowl. For just at that moment, Lucinda’s face came between his own and Maria’s.
The fact that he had behaved irresponsibly and disgracefully struck him like a blow. In that moment, he decided he must return to London.
“My sweet,” he said to Maria, “what brings you here?”
“The same as yourself,” she said with a charming laugh. “To enjoy myself.”
Maria had decided to make no mention of his marriage until she had him safely in her arms again.
The marquess thought quickly. He wanted to avoid a scene, and he was sure Maria planned to make one sooner or later.
“Do but leave me to wash and dress,” he said. “Come back this afternoon.
”
“At what time?” asked Maria.
“Oh, I don’t know. Say three o’clock?”
Maria’s eyes narrowed a fraction. The marquess’s catlike eyes regarded her blandly. “You are arrived monstrous early,” he said gently.
“Oh, very well. I shall return at three.” She walked over to the bed and bent to kiss him, but the marquess chose exactly that moment to yell, “Chumley!” and the valet entered the room very promptly, almost as if he had been waiting outside the door.
“I need to get dressed,” said the marquess. “But first, show Mrs. Deauville downstairs.”
Chumley bowed and held open the door. Maria threw the marquess a baffled look, but went out, followed by Chumley.
She came after me, thought the marquess. She knows of my marriage and yet said nothing. That means trouble. Her very clothes spelled trouble. She was dressed like a vicar’s wife and not like a courtesan. So, let me think. That means she wishes to show me that she is of marriageable stamp. But why? I am married. Ah, but she has no doubt learned of my departure immediately after the wedding and has guessed the marriage to be unconsummated, and such a marriage could be easily made null and void. I wonder if she called on Lucinda.
That last thought gave him a painful stab of guilt. Then he began to think of all the others who would most definitely have called on Lucinda—his mother for one.
When Chumley came back into the room, the marquess asked him, “Am I a monster of irresponsibility, Chumley?”
Chumley opened a drawer containing clean cravats. “Yes, my lord.”
“Then why do you stay with me?”
“Your lordship’s irresponsibility stops short of myself. I am well paid.”
“Then earn your keep by making sure we are ready for the road to London by noon.”
The staff of the hotel had reason to curse the thoughtless marquess by three that afternoon when Mrs. Deauville threw one of the worst scenes they claimed they had witnessed since the Terror—although trying to pull the manager’s hair out by the roots was hardly the same as a beheading.
It was unfortunate, reflected Chumley, that his master had met up with such a bunch of rogues on the road home. At Dieppe was a party of bucks and bloods also bound for London. The ship that was to take them across the Channel was delayed for two days, and in those two days the marquess drank deep with his new friends and gambled heavily. The drinking and gambling then continued on board ship and then on the long dusty road to London. One of the party suggested they enliven their arrival with a party graced by a few ladies of cracked reputation. This was hailed with enthusiasm, and the marquess, his green eyes glittering with a hectic light, suggested his town house in Berkeley Square for the event. All remorse over his cavalier treatment of Lucinda had gone.
It was ten in the evening when Lucinda heard the first warning sounds of their impending arrival. She had heard similar sounds of drunken revelry most nights, but for some reason she sensed this row was about to descend on her. She went to the window of the drawing room and looked down.
A line of dusty carriages was drawing to a halt outside. The first down was her husband. He staggered slightly as he reached the pavement. Then came a crowd of highly painted, scantily dressed ladies and boozy bucks.
Lucinda looked wildly around what she had come to consider as her home. New furniture gleamed in the soft light of oil lamps. Silver, china, and glass sparkled. Flowers gave splashes of color to the rooms and scented the air.
I married a rake, she thought sadly. And I had near forgot.
She looked down at her new gown of pale blue muslin. Her hair had grown longer in the weeks the marquess had been away and she had dressed it in one of the latest Grecian styles. She had put on some much-needed weight and the low line of her gown revealed the upper quarter of two perfectly shaped white breasts.
She marched down the steps, waved Humphrey, the butler, to one side, and opened the door. The party, headed by the marquess, who had been about to enter, stopped and stared at her.
“Good evening, my lord,” said Lucinda calmly. “Welcome home.”
“You are beautiful!” said the marquess, blurting out the first thing that came into his head.
“Thank you, my lord.” Lucinda looked haughtily at the motley crowd clustered behind her husband. “Good night,” she said firmly. She took the marquess’s arm so that she could draw him inside and shut the door on his company.
A wicked gleam darted into the marquess’s eyes. “Quite the mistress of the household, my love.” He sneered. “Well, carry out your duties. These are my friends.” He opened the door again. “Come along, everybody.”
There was a noisy cheer and with a charge they all shoved past Lucinda, pushing her to one side.
One man immediately suggested they play a game called Chase the Doxy. The prostitutes giggled and took flight with the men hallooing after them.
The marquess went into the downstairs saloon and began to pull off his boots. “Get us champagne, Chumley,” he roared. Then he looked around him and blinked. Lucinda stood in the doorway watching him. The marquess looked at the new delicate furniture, at the ornaments and flowers, the shining polish on the floorboards, and smelled the delicate scent of flowers and rosewater.
From upstairs came screams followed by the sound of breaking glass. Lucinda did not move. She stood where she was, watching her husband.
Chumley had not left to get the champagne. He stood surveying his master and mistress.
The marquess suddenly sprang to his feet. “Get ’em out, Chumley. Fast.”
The valet’s face creased in a wide grin. “Certainly, my lord.”
The marquess sat down again and leaned back in the new comfortable armchair and closed his eyes. “Come in, Lucinda, and close the door behind you,” he said quietly.
Lucinda came in and sat in a chair opposite him. He remained there with his eyes closed as the sound of screams and curses came down from upstairs to the hall, then into the street, and then there came the sounds of carriages being driven away.
Peace fell on the house. The marquess opened his eyes and sighed.
“My apologies, my love,” he said in a slightly slurred voice. “You see, I did not know I was coming back to a home.”
And with that, he fell fast asleep.
Chumley came in at last with the champagne. “We do not need that now,” said Lucinda. “I am going to bed. I suggest you get your master to his.”
When she got to her own bedchamber, Lucinda realized she was trembling with shock. She sat down on the bed and picked up the letter she had received from her father. It had arrived two weeks ago, but Lucinda had read it over and over again. Lord Chamfreys had obviously told Mr. Westerville nothing of the marquess’s reputation, only of his fortune. Mr. Westerville had written that he had been at first distressed because Lucinda had not waited for his recovery before becoming wed to the Marquess of Rockingham, But on calmer reflection, Mr. Westerville said, he had realized that the marriage was an answer to his prayers. That Lucinda should gain title and fortune and love as well was a true blessing from God.
He will know sooner or later I have married a rake, thought Lucinda sadly. But let me pray that by that time he will be strong enough to bear the news.
After she had said her prayers, she undressed and prepared herself for bed. She was just about to climb into bed when the door crashed open and her husband strode into the room. “What are you doing here?” Lucinda screamed.
“I am coming to bed with you,” he said, unwinding his cravat.
“You promised me you would wait for six months.”
“I don’t want to wait.”
“You, sir, are no gentleman.”
“You should have known that when you married me. Come here.”
“No.”
The marquess took a flying leap and landed on the bed, driving nearly all the breath out of her body. Then he pulled her roughly into his arms and forced her chin up.
“Yo
u enchant me,” he said huskily.
“Faugh!” Lucinda said, wrinkling her nose. “What a disgusting smell.”
The gleam of drunken lust died in the marquess’s eyes, to be replaced with a comical one of pure amazement. “What smell?” he asked.
“You,” Lucinda said. “You smell of stale brandy, new champagne, sweat, cigars, and—pooh!—when did you last take a bath?”
Despite his reputation, the marquess had never experienced any trouble from any woman once he had taken her in his arms. Lucinda’s words had the effect on him of a pail of cold water being thrown over his head.
“I am sorry my body offends you,” he said stiffly.
“Offends me,” said Lucinda. “My lord, it would offend the whole of a city. You are quite rank.”
The marquess swung his legs off the bed, straightened up, and glared at her. “You little whining virgin,” he said. “How dare you insult me.”
“I speak no more than the truth,” Lucinda said breathlessly.
He marched to the door, went out, and slammed it viciously behind him.
After a few moments, Lucinda heard him roaring for Chumley to have a bath carried up.
She lay there for a long time shaking and trembling, quite sure he would come back after he had washed. But the night wore on, and the watch was calling two in the morning before Lucinda fell into an exhausted sleep.
In the morning, Lucinda awoke and rang for Kennedy. When the maid appeared, she said, “Kennedy, find a locksmith this day and get him to put a lock on my bedroom door.”
“Yes, my lady. I would remind my lady she has accepted an invitation to go riding this morning with Lord Frederick. Shall I send a footman with a message canceling the appointment?”
“Why should I want to do that, Kennedy?”
“Because my lord is returned from Paris.”
Lucinda had been escorted on many occasions by Lord Freddy Pomfret. He was genial company, safe, and treated her very much as a married lady.
“It makes no difference. My lord can hardly object to an innocent hour’s riding with the irreproachable Lord Freddy. Lay out my riding clothes.”
