by M C Beaton
Cleverly, Benson extracted every last mite of information.
After she left Kennedy, she hurried to Mr. Zeus Carter’s lodgings. That gentleman was lying in his bed, having suffered a bad fall down his own staircase by trying to make the descent earlier that day in all the glory of fixed spurs. One of the sharp spurs had dug itself into the woodwork of the stairs and Mr. Carter had fallen heavily and twisted his ankle.
Benson was ushered into the darkened bedchamber. “I hope you have brought good news,” said Mr. Carter faintly.
The lady’s maid approached the bed. “I bring very good news,” she said.
“Well, well, out with it.”
“Such good news deserves a reward.”
“What!” Mr. Carter struggled up against the pillows, groped for his quizzing glass on the bedside table, raised it to one eye, and stared at Benson.
“I said, sir, that such good news deserves a reward.”
“Nonsense. Take yourself off. Mrs. Deauville shall learn of your impertinence. You will lose your job.”
“My mistress does not have much of a reputation,” said Benson, “but she would have less were I ever to open my mouth. I am sure Lord Rockingham might be interested to learn that while he was paying her keep she was consorting with Mr. Dancer.”
“You would not—”
“And,” went on Benson, “I am also sure the Marchioness of Rockingham would be vastly interested to learn that part of my duties are to spy on her.”
Mr. Carter regarded her with hate.
“How much?”
“Ten guineas.”
“Ten guineas!” screeched Mr. Carter. “You wicked woman. That is a fortune.”
Benson stood before him, hands demurely folded.
“Oh, very well,” he said finally. He paid her the money and then listened eagerly to the news.
“You have done well,” he said when she had finished. “Oh, I wish Maria would return from Paris.”
When Benson had left, Mr. Carter decided that he must be brave and rouse himself that evening to go to the Bellamys’ rout. If there was any love between Rockingham and Lucinda, he would spot it. But if there were none there, then he, Zeus Carter, had nearly five months left of that six-month bargain to make mischief.
He was about to sink back into the sleep that had been disturbed by Benson’s visit when his valet announced that Mrs. Deauville was desirous of seeing him.
“Show her up,” cried Mr. Carter. He could hardly wait to tell Maria all his news.
Maria Deauville had left Paris in pursuit of the marquess, but the ridgepole of her carriage had broken on the route to Dieppe and she had been delayed three days waiting for it to be repaired, so that although the marquess had been held back two days at Dieppe, she found herself still a day behind him on the chase to London.
She felt bitterly that Rockingham had cheated her out of a wedding. Maria knew herself to be good ton. Her reputation was, perhaps, a trifle cracked, but of all the marquess’s mistresses, she was the one who had lasted longest. He had once confided in her his desire for children and she had considered that tantamount to a proposal. She had been proud that she was the only woman who appeared to be able to control his wild moods. She listened with growing excitement to Mr. Carter’s news. But then, at the end of it, he told her pettishly of Benson’s demand for money.
“You did not give her any—of course,” said Maria.
“I had to!” said Mr. Carter. “Why, she said an I did not, for a start she would tell Rockingham that you had been, um, entertaining Mr. Dancer during his absences, and that, for a second hit, she would tell his wife that she was being ordered to spy on her.”
“You numbskull,” hissed Maria. “Do you not see she has tasted blood, and will soon want more—and more—and then in the end she will go to Rockingham. Did we not agree that servants should not be bribed, for bribed servants are greedy and treacherous?”
“You left me alone with the problem.” Mr. Carter sulked. “I cannot think of everything. I am already doing enough. I have twisted my ankle, yet I am prepared to rouse myself from my sickbed to go to the Bellamys’ rout this evening so that I may observe the Rockinghams together. If there is no love there, then we have plenty of time.”
“We have no time at all unless I do something about Benson,” Maria snarled. “Oh, go back to sleep, you milksop. I came straight here before going home. Can I expect to find my maid there?”
“I suppose so,” Mr. Carter mumbled, pulling the blankets up to his chin. “Do not look so fierce, Mrs. Deauville. You see before you a grievously injured man who is yet prepared to pull his poor tortured body from this bed to venture out this evening on your behalf.”
“And on your own, my dear friend. If you are trying to make me believe you have forgot for one moment that you are Rockingham’s heir, then you are an even greater fool than I believe you to be.”
This was too much for Mr. Carter. He pulled the blankets right over his head and waited until he heard the light patter of her feet descending the stairs.
Benson was relieved that her mistress showed no signs of having visited Mr. Carter, and no signs of making preparations to do so. Maria told her maid she had just returned from Paris, and there was nothing in her manner to show she knew of the maid’s blackmail. Benson knew a horrendous scene would descend on her the minute Mrs. Deauville did find out, but it was pleasant not to have to face up to it right away.
She busied herself therefore in preparing her mistress’s bed and lighting a fire in the bedchamber, confident that Mrs. Deauville would wish to sleep after her long journey. But Maria surprised her by saying she was stepping out again for a few moments.
But she was gone for almost an hour and, on her return, she appeared very excited and told Benson that they were to go a little out of town to a certain inn where they would meet a man who had intelligence which would ruin Lucinda in the eyes of her husband.
Benson was ordered to make ready to go with her mistress.
“The fellow is demanding a great deal of money in small coin,” said Maria. “Put this money belt around your waist and keep it safe.”
The maid gasped at the weight of the belt. “It’s so heavy, madam, I don’t know that I can stand.”
“You will be traveling in a carriage, not walking,” Maria snapped.
Benson was thin and slight and middle-aged. But she was tough and wiry and soon became accustomed to the heavy weight about her middle.
She became increasingly elated as the carriage bore them out of London. If Mrs. Deauville was prepared to pay such a large sum—for, small coinage or not, the terrible weight still meant quite a bit of money—then surely she would pay up handsomely to her, Benson, as well.
The carriage finally halted on Maria’s instructions in the courtyard of a quiet country inn a little way from the main Richmond road. The day was fine and Maria asked the landlord to bring them glasses of ratafia out-of-doors.
There was a pretty garden at the back of the inn beside a lily pond. Maria ordered the table and chairs to be moved into the sun, then into the shade, and then finally placed at the edge of the water.
Glad this exquisite customer had finally made up her mind, and reminding himself to keep checking on her in case she wanted anything further, for the table was now placed out of sight of the windows of the inn, the landlord beat a thankful retreat.
“Oh dear,” Maria exclaimed, “I have left my stole in the carriage and it is become a little chilly.”
“Would you not care to remove to inside the inn?” Benson asked.
“No, no, silly woman. I went to all this trouble because I desire secrecy when this fellow arrives. In fact, as you pass through the inn, tell the landlord not to appear again until I send for him.”
“Very good, madam.” Benson went off to carry out her instructions and, as she did so, the maid could not help wondering about the character of the man who was coming to sell news of Lady Rockingham. Would he be clever and wise like
herself, or merely a low cunning person? Perhaps he might be the sort of man with whom she could join forces. Benson was well and truly wrapped up in this rosy fantasy by the time she returned with her mistress’s stole.
She stood to attention behind Maria’s chair.
“No, you may be seated,” said Maria. “You will observe I ordered ratafia for you as well.”
“Very good of you, madam,” said Benson, sitting down on a chair with her back to the pond.
“In Paris,” said Maria with a little laugh, “the maids can drain off a little glass like this in one gulp. Can you do the same, Benson?”
“Oh, easily, madam,” said Benson, tossing the contents down her throat.
Odd’s fish, will she never die? thought Maria impatiently as the effects of the arsenic she had put in her maid’s drink took violent effect. How she does gargle and choke and drum her heels on the grass! I hope she does not alert the landlord.
But Benson at last lay still, conveniently at the edge of the pond. Maria stooped and rolled the body in. The pond, as she knew from a previous visit, was deep and weedy. The lifeless body, weighted down with the heavy money belt which Maria had filled with lead, sank down into the murky, opaque green depths of the pond. A few ripples spread out. A duck put its head on one side and surveyed Maria with such a comic expression of surprise that she nearly laughed aloud.
Then she sat down and finished her own drink after rinsing out Benson’s glass in the pond.
Then she went into the inn and paid for the drinks, asking the landlord if he had seen anything of her maid. When he said he had not, she replied that the silly woman must already be in the carriage. She then went out to the carriage and told the coachman that Benson had looked most peculiar and appeared to have run away. What was the reason for it? Had Benson been up to anything? The coachman shook his head and said she had gone out and about a lot while the mistress was in Paris.
On her return, Maria conveniently found a diamond necklace missing and raised the alarm. Her butler suggested calling the Runners but Maria wept pathetically and said the scandal would be too much for her to bear.
As ladies’ maids were the most unpopular creatures next to governesses in any household, since they had to be waited on by the servants just as if they were the aristocracy, the other members of Maria’s staff were gleefully prepared to believe the worst of Benson.
The maid had never talked of any family, had never seemed to have either friends or relations. Maria was confident that she would soon be forgotten.
And as Benson’s still body moved sluggishly to and fro in the depths of the inn pond, Maria Deauville, resplendent in agates and a gown of gold tissue, set out for the Bellamys’ rout.
8
The Bellamys’ home was in Chelsea, which was considered to have the advantages of being nearly in the country without being too vulgarly isolated from the center of the town.
Beside Lucinda in the carriage sat Kennedy, the maid, hoping that Benson might be there. Kennedy often accompanied her mistress to various ton affairs, but so far Benson, and her mistress, had been absent from them all. But if this Mrs. Deauville were indeed such an elderly lady and addicted to travel, then it surely followed that she would not be in the habit of attending the same functions as the Marchioness of Rockingham.
Lucinda had waited and waited, hoping that her husband would return and escort her. She had chided herself during the day on her lack of courage in fleeing when he had smashed her breakfast. And of what good would it be to flirt with this Mr. Dancer if Rockingham were not there to see it?
Lucinda’s dress had been hurriedly altered by Mrs. Meyer at the last minute to turn it into a bolder style than she usually wore. It was of green-and-white-striped silk, cut in the French manner—that is, in a simple demure style which nonetheless managed to show off a great deal of her figure. Mrs. Meyer had said cynically that French designers were a miracle of how to make a lady appear seductive without making her look like a demirep.
The Bellamys’ house was a pleasant Queen Anne mansion surrounded by a high wall. As was the custom when giving a rout, all the curtains were drawn back and there was a blaze of light from top to bottom.
Lucinda was no longer afraid of these social affairs. She had made a few friends, enough to guarantee she had someone to talk to. She felt she did not belong in London society and therefore treated all their peculiar shibboleths and taboos with all the wary respect of an intelligent explorer staying with a curious, slightly dangerous, and primitive tribe.
As Kennedy arranged Lucinda’s dress in the anteroom reserved for the ladies and pinned up some stray tendrils which had come loose from underneath her mistress’s headdress of twined vine leaves and seed pearls, Lucinda once more found herself surrounded by ladies anxious to find out the name of her dressmaker. Lucinda was feminine enough to want to keep the name of this treasure to herself, but, on the other hand, she was very much her father’s daughter, and so she gave out Mrs. Meyer’s direction. There were many flutterings and exclamations of “Whitechapel!” as if Lucinda had said Mrs. Meyer were in Labrador instead of the East End of London.
Lucinda and Kennedy then lined up on the staircase, inching up slowly a little bit at a time. A rout was a peculiar affair. The people were the only entertainment. Neither dancing, nor refreshments, nor cards was supplied. About half an hour was spent trying to get into the saloon where one’s host held court, half an hour of socializing, then another half hour fighting out, and then at least an hour waiting on the step while one’s coachman battled his way through the press.
At last Lucinda was able to make her curtsy to Lord and Lady Bellamy. Then she turned to search the overcrowded room for a sign of a familiar face. She saw Lord Freddy and his sister, Agatha, over in a far corner and started to make her way toward them, but glancing all the time from right to left, wondering which of these gentlemen was the famous rake, Mr. Dancer.
Mr. Zeus Carter appeared suddenly in front of her, blocking her way.
He made an elaborate bow and tried to perform his usual flourish with a scented handkerchief, but swiped an angry-looking old lady on the shoulder, who swore at him with all the coarseness of the last century. Mr. Carter shuddered and confined himself to a less dramatic welcome.
“Mr. Carter,” said Lucinda. “How do you do?”
“Tolerable, ma’am. Tolerable. Fell downstairs and wrenched my ankle most horribly. In sickbed. Got physician. Said rest. But decided I must attend to pay my respects to you, dear lady.”
“I think it would be much more comfortable for you to have stayed in bed and waited until you could call on me at our home instead of in the middle of this sad crush,” said Lucinda.
“True. True. But… aha, Mrs. Deauville! May I introduce you to the Marchioness of Rockingham.”
Both Lucinda and Maria stiffened—Lucinda because she knew she was facing Rockingham’s mistress; Kennedy because she could hardly believe this fairylike creature could be Benson’s employer, Benson who had led her to believe Mrs. Deauville was old.
“May I felicitate you?” said Maria. “One never thought the wild marquess would marry.”
“Did one not?” said Lucinda icily, and made to move forward.
But Mr. Carter and Maria stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking her way.
“And where is Rockingham?” cooed Maria.
“My husband is about town somewhere,” said Lucinda. “He is but recently returned from Paris.”
“Ah, yes,” said Maria. “I saw him there. Ah, Paris! A city of love and romance.”
Lucinda felt sick. It seemed that whenever she tried to rationalize her husband’s wild and disgusting behavior, something arose to tell her she could never change him—that she had been a fool to wait this evening, hoping for the return of a man who threw away her breakfast and ordered her from the room.
Although she surveyed Maria with calm, clear eyes, her raging jealous mind was taking in every detail of Maria’s dress and appearance. This Mrs
. Deauville’s gold hair owed nothing to art, and her figure, revealed by a gown of damped gold tissue, was perfect. But her skin owed its seeming purity to a heavy layer of blanc. I hope she dies of lead poisoning, Lucinda thought.
Aloud she said, “You are fortunate indeed, Mrs. Deauville, in finding Paris such a delight. Other members of the ton have informed me it is naught but a medieval sink of vice and filth.”
“Perhaps my company cast a rosy glow on my surroundings,” said Maria maliciously.
Lucinda took a deep breath and her fine eyes flashed fire. “If, madam,” she said in a clear, carrying voice, “you are attempting to tell me you were my husband’s mistress before his marriage to me, then I beg you to save your breath. Rockingham’s stable of doxies is legendary. I beg you to excuse me.”
She forced her way past the spluttering Maria. Mr. Carter let out a nervous titter of laughter and then clamped his hand over his mouth as he saw the rage in Maria’s eyes.
“Who is that magnificent creature?” asked a cool voice somewhere above Maria’s head.
She looked up and saw the handsome face of Mr. Dancer smiling down at her. She collected herself with an effort and gave a little shrug. “’Tis Rockingham’s new bride. A pert country miss of neither breeding nor background.”
“You must introduce me.”
“Not I,” said Maria. She was about to turn away when she changed her mind and turned back. Rockingham had not seen fit to accompany Lucinda. Would Mr. Dancer’s famous charm work with his wife?
“I shall not approach the creature again,” she said, “but perhaps Mr. Carter here will do the honors.” She flashed a look at Mr. Carter, who rallied and said, “Of course, of course. Follow me.”
Lucinda had nearly succeeded in edging her way to Lord Freddy’s side when, to her irritation, she once more heard Mr. Carter’s drawling, affected voice. “May I present Mr. Dancer?”
Lucinda turned to face the man who she hoped would be instrumental in rousing jealousy in her husband’s rakish bosom.
She was pleasurably surprised by what she saw. As with her husband, evil ways and dissipation did not seem to have left their outward mark on Mr. Dancer.
