The Savage Marquess

by M C Beaton

  “Miss Benson is by way of being a friend of mine,” said Kennedy.

  “In that case, we don’t want your sort around here. Be off with you!”

  The door began to close.

  Kennedy jammed one of her large feet encased in a serviceable half-boot against the door.

  “What do you mean?” she cried. “You must tell me. I am a respectable woman. I am lady’s maid to the Marchioness of Rockingham.”

  The butler thought quickly. Like the rest of Mrs. Deauville’s servants, he was well aware of the affair that had gone on between the marquess and Mrs. Deauville. He had also heard of the marquess’s marriage and knew that his mistress had gone to Paris in pursuit of Rockingham, only to return alone and in a furious temper.

  He made up his mind.

  “You had best come in,” he said, standing aside and holding open the door.

  He led the way into the servants’ hall, pulled out a chair for Kennedy, and sat down next to her. “It’s like this,” Quinton said. “Benson went out driving with Mrs. Deauville the day madam came back from Paris. Mrs. Deauville returned alone and set up an alarm that Benson had stolen a valuable necklace. I suggested calling the Bow Street Runners, but madam wept so bitterly and said she could not bear the scandal.”

  “Where was Benson last seen?” asked Kennedy.

  “At some inn on the Richmond road. She ran away there, the coachman said, although he said it was odd, for he did not see her emerging from the inn.”

  “And what is the name of this inn?”

  “I do not know,” said Quinton. “If you are not in league with Benson—and you look like a respectable lady to me—then it is well to leave things as they are.”

  He leaned closer to Kennedy. “Things have been mortal bad in this house ever since the Marquess of Rockingham got married.”

  “Why? What has his marriage to do with Mrs. Deauville?”

  Quinton looked nervously about and then whispered, “Madam was the mistress o’ the marquess—and a mort o’ money he spent on her.”

  “Oh, my poor lady,” cried Kennedy, putting her hands up to her hot cheeks.

  “Can’t see it’ll bother her,” said the butler cynically. “These lords always have a bit of pleasure in keeping, married or not.”

  Kennedy took her leave, determined to forget about Benson. But before she left the street, it hit her that Benson might have been trying to elicit gossip on the instructions of her mistress. What had once seemed like friendly, curious questions from one lady’s maid to another now took on a sinister cast. For this ex-mistress had no reason to feel charitable toward the Marchioness of Rockingham.

  Kennedy wheeled about and took up a position at the corner of the square, waiting for Mrs. Deauville’s return, hoping that lady had only gone out on a call.

  A half-hour later, Kennedy saw Mrs. Deauville arrive back, waited until she saw her go inside, and then followed the carriage around to the mews.

  The coachman was just heaving himself down from the box when he found Kennedy waiting for him. He watched Kennedy’s face curiously as the maid asked for the name of the inn where Benson had disappeared. “I am the Marchioness of Rockingham’s lady’s maid,” ended Kennedy, “and a respectable body.”

  “It was at the Red Lion, a little way down Wise Road before you gets to Syon Park.”

  Kennedy thanked him and moved away. She knew she should now return home, but she felt she could not rest without trying to find Benson. Kennedy had become devoted to Lucinda. Her initial desire to find Benson had been to reassure herself that she, Kennedy, had not betrayed Lucinda’s trust. Now she felt it was imperative to find Benson, for surely Mrs. Deauville was hatching some plot against Lucinda. If Benson had disappeared at the inn, then it argued that Benson might be found close by. Mrs. Deauville had made no attempt to recover the necklace; therefore it followed that Benson guessed that was the way she would react, and had decamped in an area she already knew.

  Thankful that she had money with her, Kennedy hired a post chaise and driver and set out.

  Mrs. Deauville was preparing for the evening when her new lady’s maid told her that her coachman wanted to see her on an urgent matter.

  Curious, Maria told the maid to send the man up.

  She listened wide-eyed as the coachman told her of Kennedy’s visit. Maria’s heart did a somersault. Benson must have betrayed her to this Kennedy and now Kennedy was seeking incriminating evidence.

  With a forced little laugh, Maria tossed her coachman a guinea and told him to forget about the matter. But as soon as he had left, she hurriedly dressed and put on a warm cloak, and told her maid she was going off on a discreet visit.

  The maid assumed Maria was going to meet some gentleman. Although Maria tried to maintain the manner of a respectable lady of the ton, her drawing room was always graced with unattached men or men without their wives.

  Like Kennedy, Maria went to a livery stable, but ordered a racing curricle and said she would drive it herself. The owner of the livery stable was so nervous about the fate of his cattle that Maria had to leave a large sum of money with him as security.

  She sprang the horses and set out at a breakneck pace in the direction of Richmond.

  Many carriages flew past Kennedy’s post chaise and so she did not recognize the cloaked figure in the racing curricle when it passed her just as she was approaching Wise Road.

  When she got to the inn, Kennedy told the driver of the post chaise to wait. She was about to go toward the inn when the little ostler who had run forward to catch the horses’ reins turned and handed her a note. Kennedy carried it over to where a light swung over the courtyard entrance. She read, “Do not go into the inn. Dismiss the carriage and walk back along the road a hundred yards in the easterly direction. Your loving friend, Benson.”

  Kennedy decided to do as requested. She felt very brave and very intelligent for having guessed that Benson had not gone far from the inn.

  She paid the post chaise, wincing at the cost and wondering how she was going to get back to London, for the inn looked too small to boast any rentable carriage and horse at all.

  Then she walked down the road in the greenish twilight. It normally did not get dark at that time of year until about ten in the evening, but the black clouds which had threatened all day were slowly covering the whole sky. Far away sounded the low, menacing growl of thunder. Kennedy was just wondering whether she had walked far enough when she heard a faint whinny of horses a little to her left. She stopped, hesitating. But a fugitive Benson would hardly have horses hidden among the trees like a highwayman.

  Then a soft voice whispered, “Hist! Over here.”

  Kennedy looked to the left from where the voice had come. The bushes and trees by the side of the road were shrouded in approaching night. The road gleamed ahead of her with a metallic sheen. Kennedy had an impulse to take to her heels and run away along that glittering road as fast as she could. The thunder rolled again, nearer this time.

  Kennedy took a step toward the bushes. For Lucinda’s sake, she must speak to Benson.

  She walked boldly into the woods.

  The darkness was absolute. Kennedy stopped and listened.

  And then those old primitive instincts, so long dormant, told her that Evil stood nearby. Old legends of goblins and witches, heard at her mother’s knee, came rushing into Kennedy’s frightened mind.

  She turned to flee just as a great flash of lightning lit up the sky.

  A heavy blow struck her viciously on the back of the head and the maid fell forward on the grass.

  Maria Deauville lit a dark lantern and knelt beside the maid. She then took Kennedy by the heels and dragged her through the underbrush until the trees and bushes opened to reveal the dull silver of a winding river.

  She rolled the body over and over until it slid into the river. Panting, Maria seized a branch and pushed Kennedy’s body out from the shore.

  A drop of rain struck her cheek. Why had she not ordered
a closed carriage? She could not shelter at the inn, for the landlord would recognize her.

  Feeling that life was very unfair, Maria led the horses out from the shelter of the trees onto the road. She picked up the reins and set out for London at breakneck speed. She was lucky. The full force of the deluge held off until she reached Hyde Park turnpike and saw the red-brick front of Apsley House on her left and the red brick of St. George’s Hospital on her right.

  By the time she had driven the short distance to Manchester Square, she was soaked through. The death of two women did not lie heavily on Maria’s soul. They had been servants and their extermination was as justified as the extermination of black beetles in the kitchen. Maria could not bring herself to dispose of Lucinda so easily. Servants and lower orders did not have immortal souls. To murder Lucinda would mean bringing down Divine punishment on her head in the afterlife. Maria did not believe God could punish her while she, Maria, was alive. For Maria had given up praying a long time ago so that God would not know where she was.

  The current of the river swept Kennedy out and then back in until her unconscious body bumped against the roots of a weeping willow.

  She opened her eyes, struggled, and immediately began to sink. With a great effort she seized the gnarled roots of the tree and pulled herself to dry land.

  For a long time she lay facedown. She did not know who she was or where she was.

  Half-limping, half-crawling, she made her way away from the river. She came to a road and stumbled along it until she saw the welcoming lights of a small inn.

  Mr. Zeus Carter went to the play that evening and, after the performance was over, he called to see Maria in Montague Street. He hoped to speak to her in private, but there were several gentlemen lounging in the drawing room and Mr. Carter knew from experience that they would probably stay for as long as their hostess would let them.

  Maria had never looked more beautiful. The shadows of fatigue under her blue eyes made them look enormous and lent her face an appealing air of fragility. It was some time before Mr. Carter began to feel that something was missing. Then he realized that Benson, who usually sat sewing in a corner of the room to give the proceedings a spurious air of respectability, had been replaced by a new maid.

  Maria was playing the piano to entertain her guests. When she had finished, Mr. Carter approached the piano and whispered, “Where is Benson? What have you done with her?”

  Maria’s eyes glittered with a hectic light. “Keep your voice down,” she muttered. “Benson is, or was, my affair.”

  Mr. Carter retreated, baffled. Surely Maria had not sacked Benson. A sacked Benson would be vindictive. The only other way to get rid of Benson and make sure she would not talk would be to…

  His mind shied away from the thought. The door opened and Mr. Dancer was introduced.

  Maria tripped forward to meet him, holding out both her hands.

  “And what have you been doing with yourself?” she cried.

  “This and that,” said Mr. Dancer with a malicious smile. “For one thing, I have been entertaining the new Marchioness of Rockingham.”

  For a brief moment the smile left Maria’s face. Then she said brightly, “You must tell me all about it.” She turned and faced the room. “Gentlemen, you all must leave. I have a private matter to discuss with Mr. Dancer.”

  Mr. Carter rose to leave with the rest.

  “Not you,” said Maria. “Stay. We shall entertain Mr. Dancer together.”

  Mr. Dancer leaned against the piano and wondered what Maria was up to.

  “Now,” Maria said, when her guests had gone, “how did you find the fair marchioness?”

  “Delightful. I took her for a drive.”

  “There is no accounting for taste,” said Maria with a shrug. “I would have thought her too provincial to please a man of the world.”

  “Indeed! And yet Rockingham is more man of the world than I.”

  “Ah, but perhaps his bride does not please him. They have not yet lain together.”

  Mr. Dancer studied her face and then turned around and looked slowly at Mr. Carter, who was nervously clicking open and shut a little enameled snuffbox.

  “I have it,” said Mr. Dancer. “You, my beloved Maria, lost Rockingham to Lucinda, and you, Carter, stand to lose all if the couple have children. You are hoping I will seduce the girl and bring about the ruin of the marriage.”

  “Nonsense!” cried Mr. Carter, turning pale.

  “Fustian,” said Maria.

  “Pity,” Mr. Dancer said, leaning forward and extracting a pinch of snuff from Mr. Carter’s box. “For I am quite prepared to oblige you… for a sum, of course.”

  “How much?” Maria demanded as Mr. Carter babbled protests.

  “A trifle. Let me see… about five thousand guineas.”

  “That is an enormous amount of money,” said Maria. “And you are rich!”

  “I intend to stay rich,” said Mr. Dancer, looking amused. “Believe me, I add to my coffers at every opportunity. But perhaps it is too much, my sweetest Mrs. Deauville. After all, how can you be sure Rockingham will fall back into your arms were his marriage annulled?”

  “Tonight, I feel I can do anything,” said Maria, remembering striking Kennedy down—not with revulsion, but with a feeling of power and exhilaration.

  “I wish to be left out of this,” said Mr. Carter. “I no longer wish to be a part of it.”

  “You had better not back out,” said Maria. “You are already in this up to your neck.”

  And Mr. Carter thought of the missing Benson, shuddered, and sat in silence while Mr. Dancer and Maria got down to business.

  10

  The Marquess of Rockingham remained away from London for several weeks. He had received a letter from Lady Ismene telling him of his wife’s “affair” with Mr. Dancer. The marquess had been highly amused and had thrown it on the fire. After two weeks, a letter arrived from his mother, telling him pretty much the same thing. He had thrown that missive on the fire too, but he did not laugh. Although he knew his mother to be as dead set on ruining Lucinda’s reputation as Ismene, he did begin to think that if he found Lucinda attractive, then it followed that a number of other men must also find her attractive.

  But he was convinced that no one would dare to tamper with his property, which is how he thought of his wife. Since he could not lie with her until the six-month period was over, he did not see any reason why he should return to London to court her.

  He was surprised, therefore, to find the peace of his days ruined since the arrival of his mother’s letter. He had been laying out flowerbeds at the front of the house. He had never bothered about flowerbeds before, thinking lawns cropped by sheep and bordered by evergreens were garden enough. He had plunged into a frenzy of plans for a laburnun walk, an organgery, a pond, and an herb garden. He was sure Lucinda would like an herb garden.

  Chumley saw what his master did not—that all these preparations were being made for Lucinda’s homecoming. But the valet held his tongue and prepared himself for a long and peaceful stay in the country.

  Then a letter arrived from Lord Freddy Pomfret. It was very long and rambling and full of town gossip and trivia. But at the end of the letter Lord Freddy came to the point. He had tried to tell the Marchioness of Rockingham that Mr. Dancer was not a suitable escort, but for some reason, she would not listen to him.

  “I have to go back to town, Chumley,” said the marquess. “Did you read this?”

  “Of course, my lord. I read all your post.”

  “And what do you make of it?”

  “Mr. Dancer is very amiable and handsome and no doubt my lady is bored and lonely. Before she came to town, she led an active life caring for her father. Time must lie heavy on her hands.”

  “Let’s hope that’s the only thing that’s lying heavy on her,” the marquess said. “We’d better go. Who is going to supervise the workmen and gardeners? There is still much to be done.”

  “I would su
ggest Mr. Westerville, my lord. If you do but remember, we removed Mr. Westerville from Lord Chamfreys’ home because Mr. Westerville was restored to health. But saint as he is, I do not think he can find the company of such an ignorant man as his vicar amiable.”

  “You have the right of it. He will be glad of an excuse to retire. This way I can give him more money than he has hithertofore been prepared to accept. We shall call on him, but not a word of his daughter’s adventures in town!”

  Chumley had been in part right when he had described Lucinda’s reasons for letting Mr. Dancer escort her. She had almost forgotten her desire for revenge on her husband. She had, moreover, received a letter from her father praising the marquess to the skies. But she had begun to find Mr. Dancer’s admiration of her very seductive. Lucinda, ready to fall in love and ignored by her husband, began to find her heart beating a little faster when Mr. Dancer’s tall figure entered the room.

  She had also passed her time by making more improvements to the marquess’s town house. In between organizing this work and going to balls and parties, she continued to search for Kennedy. Why should the maid disappear and leave all her belongings behind?

  Lucinda had not engaged the services of another maid, always hoping to hear word from Kennedy. She finally placed an advertisement in the Morning Post, offering a reward for news of the missing lady’s maid.

  She returned to Berkeley Square after placing the advertisement, to find a letter from her husband waiting for her. It was very short, very curt, and to the point. He would be returning on the seventh and expected her to be at home to receive him. Lucinda’s hand, holding the letter, began to shake. That very day was the seventh, and she was engaged to go to the opera with Mr. Dancer.

  Lucinda crushed the letter in her hand. Why should she stay at home for his arrival? He would probably be drunk and offensive.

  To her relief, by the time she left for the opera, Rockingham had still not put in an appearance. She tried to forget about him, but finally, during the interval, found herself blurting out the news of his return.