by M C Beaton
Mr. Dancer thought furiously. He had been taking things very easily, noticing the increasing glow of welcome in Lucinda’s eyes. He must move very quickly. He wondered if Rockingham had heard of his courtship of his wife.
“You are very pale,” he said sympathetically. “Will he rage at you?”
Mr. Westerville’s daughter had a conscience which told her she should not be discussing her husband with anyone, but Lucinda felt frightened and very alone. “I am sure he will,” she said. “But he is my husband, after all, and I must learn to put up with it.”
“Were you my wife,” Mr. Dancer said in an intense voice, “then I would cherish you.”
“Do not speak thus,” Lucinda said breathlessly. “You should not.”
“I cannot bear to see you suffer. The man is a monster—a libertine.”
“Such has been said about you yourself.”
“Alas, my poor reputation. And yet my feelings for you are pure. If I were as black as I have been painted, would I have held my passions in check for so long? I respect you and I love you.”
“Mr. Dancer!” cried Lucinda, tears starting to her eyes. “I did not guess for a moment your feelings were seriously engaged.”
“Do not stay with Rockingham. Run away with me.”
“No,” Lucinda said. “That I cannot do.”
“Then promise me if you need me, you will send word to me.”
“Yes, I promise. Now, do not let us talk about such painful things. Look! The opera is about to begin again.”
When Mr. Dancer’s carriage rolled into Berkeley Square later that night, the Marquess of Rockingham’s house was a blaze of lights. The curtains of the downstairs saloon were drawn back and a tall figure could be seen pacing up and down.
“I had better set you down here rather than take you to the door,” said Mr. Dancer nervously. “He may challenge me to a duel, and I would not have his blood on my hands.”
Lucinda was set down on the opposite side of the square. Just as she was approaching the house, the marquess’s broad shoulders blotted out the light in the saloon and his face was pressed against the glass.
He saw her approach, and by the time Lucinda was walking up the front steps, he had the door open and was standing there with his arms folded.
“Well, madam wife?” he demanded.
Lucinda pushed past him and went into the saloon. “Faith, I am tired,” she said, sinking into a chair and kicking off her shoes.
“Did you not get my letter?” he shouted, striding into the room and glaring down at her.
“Oh, that,” Lucinda said. “Well, sir, as you see, the house was ready for your return and the servants waiting.”
“But not you!”
“What a tedious bore you are, Rockingham,” sighed Lucinda. “It has been so peaceful here, and now you are back ranting and raving.” She rang the bell and when Humphrey answered it, Lucinda ordered brandy.
“At least you have the decency to see to my wants,” the marquess said sarcastically.
“Did you want brandy as well? I ordered it for myself.”
Before the marquess could say anything, Humphrey appeared with the brandy. The marquess was in such a rage, he did not realize it was very odd for the brandy to make its appearance so quickly, not knowing Lucinda had warned Humphrey to have a decanter and two glasses ready in the hall should her husband be waiting for her when she returned home.
Humphrey poured out two glasses, bowed, and left. Lucinda fished in her reticule and took out a flat case. She extracted a cheroot, heaved herself out of the chair, took a taper from its pot by the fire, and lit the cheroot. Then she picked up her glass of brandy, winked vulgarly at the marquess, and said, “No heel taps.”
The marquess snatched the cheroot out of her hand and threw it in the fire. Lucinda reached over and grabbed his brandy glass and threw that in the fire as well. There was an explosion as the spirit hit the flames, followed by a sinister rumbling from the chimney.
“I knew I had forgotten something,” Lucinda said. “I forgot to have the chimneys swept.
The rumbling grew louder. Lucinda ran to the door. “No you don’t,” yelled the marquess, seizing her around the waist. “If you behave like a doxy, you will be treated like a doxy.”
There was a great whump from behind him as a huge pile of soot landed on the hearth. Then it spread out over the room, turning everything black.
“Now, my wife,” said the marquess, oblivious of the fact that he and Lucinda were now as black as chimney sweeps. He forced his mouth down on her own. Lucinda groped desperately at a brooch on her dress, got it unfastened, and stabbed him in the arm.
He let out a cry and released her.
Lucinda looked at the marquess. His face was completely black except for his lips. She began to giggle. “You do look silly, Rockingham,” she said, and then she turned and ran from the room.
The marquess could never in all his life remember being so angry. He walked to the desk, took out a pistol and primed it, and then mounted the stairs.
Lucinda heard him coming but she was not afraid. Encouraged by Mr. Dancer, she had drunk a great deal of wine at the supper which followed the opera. There was nothing Rockingham could do. The door was firmly locked.
And then there came a deafening explosion as the marquess shot the lock away.
But Lucinda had had a bolt put on the door as well.
The marquess kicked in the door, sending splinters flying everywhere.
He grabbed Lucinda by the hair and began to kiss her, savagely and passionately and without one single scrap of love or affection.
Lucinda fought desperately. Several times she managed to tear herself out of his embrace, but before she could reach the door, he dragged her back again.
Finally he threw her on the bed and pinned her beneath him. “Now,” he said, “we shall taste some of the favors you have been giving Dancer.”
Beaten and frightened, Lucinda lay still in his arms while the tears began to course down her cheeks.
The marquess felt the wetness against his own cheeks and raised his head and looked down at her, more shocked than he would have been had she struck him.
“No, not like this, Lucinda,” he whispered. “What a mess you are! All black face and white tear marks. Hush, love, I have a filthy temper. You must not cry.”
“You are horrible… horrible… a beast!” she sobbed.
“I know. Hush now. It is all right. I shall not take you by force. Hush.”
He rocked her in his arms until her sobs died away. Then she lay quietly in his arms, looking in wonder at his altered face. “Your wild ways frighten me, Rockingham,” she said at last.
“I have a devil of a temper. When did you start drinking brandy and smoking cheroots?”
“Only this evening,” said Lucinda. “I wanted you to get a taste of your own medicine. If you can sleep with Maria Deauville, drink to excess, and smoke cheroots, then why can’t I behave just as badly?”
“How did you find out about Maria?”
“It was not difficult. Ismene told me the gossip the first day I arrived in London. And the lady herself told me she had been in Paris with you.”
“I left the minute she arrived. There are no women in my life, Lucinda.”
“How can I believe that?”
“A little patience, a little trust. What of you and Dancer?”
“He was friendly. I was lonely. I don’t know. But I have not been unfaithful to you. You should know I could not do that.”
“No, perhaps not. But women are cruel and changeable.”
“Perhaps the women you have known. Why do you behave so badly?”
“Boredom. Besides, it always annoyed my parents, and from an early age, I would do anything to annoy them.”
“That is dreadful. One must honor one’s father and mother.”
“You have met my mother, have you not?”
“Yes. But… I do not know much of the world. My own mother was loving
and kind, my father also.”
“My parents were monsters of cruelty. They did not discipline me, they tortured me. I grew up cold and cynical. I trust no one, except perhaps Chumley.”
“And yet you expect my trust?”
The marquess dropped a light kiss on her sooty nose. “I demand so much and yet know so little of you, madam wife.”
She was still pressed closely against him and her body began to burn and throb. She could almost feel her lips swelling as they ached for his kiss. She could not understand it. Her mind was telling her he was dangerous and not to be provoked but her wanton body was sending out shameful messages. She hoped he would not notice.
But the glow in the strange green eyes so near to her own told her he had noticed. He bent his head and softly kissed her eyelids, and then his mouth moved to the nape of her neck.
“Don’t,” she whispered weakly. “It is too soon.” She tried to conjure up Mr. Dancer’s face, but found she could not even remember what he looked like. Her husband’s hands were stroking her body and making every part of it strain toward him.
His exploring mouth moved to the tops of her breasts and then nuzzled the material down, searching further. “Please stop,” said Lucinda. “Oh, please,” she moaned.
He raised his hand and looked at her with a touch of arrogance. “You will need to be my wife in more than name soon enough.”
“But not yet,” she said, closing her eyes. “Not like this. Not without love.”
In the next minute he was off the bed and out of the room, slamming what was left of the door behind him.
Lucinda spent a long time the following morning trying on one gown after another. She felt a need to be armored in the best fashion before confronting her erratic husband at the breakfast table. At last, wearing a gown of pale green muslin with little puffed sleeves and a demure neckline, and with her longer hair piled up on top of her head, she went into the breakfast room.
The marquess was sitting reading the newspaper. He glanced up in an abstracted way as she came in, and then continued reading. Humphrey presented Lucinda with her usual breakfast of tea and toast and then retired. Silence fell on the room, apart from the mournful ticking of the Iphigenia clock and the hissing of the urn.
The marquess was looking very handsome. He was wrapped in a gaudy Oriental dressing gown and his fine cambric shirt was open at the neck, showing the strong column of his throat. His black hair had grown quite long.
“Good morning,” Lucinda said loudly.
Again the green eyes glanced at her with an indifferent look before the marquess hid himself behind the newspaper again.
Lucinda’s wayward body screamed for kisses and caresses. He had kissed her intimately, she thought, turning scarlet as she remembered the feel of his lips on her breast, and yet it meant nothing to him.
“Your hair is too long,” she said in a voice which sounded shrill in her own ears. He put down the paper.
“What did you say?”
“Your hair is too long, Rockingham. You look ridiculous. You look like one of the minor prophets.”
The marquess felt a stab of hurt. He was amazed at that feeling of hurt, but did not spend any time examining it.
“You are hardly in a position to criticize anyone’s appearance.”
“What is up with my appearance?”
“For a start,” the marquess said nastily, “your mouth is much too big.”
“It is not!”
“Yes, it is. Enormous. Ear to ear, I assure you.”
Lucinda seized the tea urn and tried to throw it. It was too heavy but it toppled across the table. The marquess leapt out of the road as a waterfall of scalding tea rushed toward him.
“You silly jade. Have you no consideration for the servants who will have to clean this mess?”
“You talk to me about consideration for the servants! May I remind you, my lord, you could never keep a servant. Or have you forgot? Of course you have. You are so drunk most of the time you cannot remember a thing.”
“I remember kissing you,” he said softly.
“Ooooh!” screamed Lucinda. “I hate you!”
She ran from the room and up the stairs. But once in the sanctuary of her own room and after a hearty bout of tears, she began to wonder whether she were mad. She had not planned to behave so dreadfully at breakfast. But his indifference had hurt. And her mouth was not too big. She ran to the mirror and stared at it miserably, trying by primming up her lips to reduce its generous size.
Lucinda picked up a book, determined to stay in her room until he left the house. The print danced before her angry hurt eyes and she found she was reading the same sentence over and over again. Then at last she heard him mounting the stairs and his voice calling loudly for Chumley. She waited, sure he would come to her. After half an hour, she heard his footsteps going down the stairs and then the opening of the front door. She ran to the window and looked down.
One of the new grooms had brought around the marquess’s phaeton. The marquess said something to the groom, who smiled and touched his jockey cap. How these servants of mine fawn over him, Lucinda thought. Before I came, he could not even keep a groom!
The marquess leapt into his carriage and picked up the reins. Then around the square came another phaeton, driving by Maria Deauville. Jealousy like poison swept through Lucinda’s body as she noticed how competently pretty little Mrs. Deauville handled the reins. She saw her husband stiffen. His hands dropped the reins.
Maria cast a quick look up at the house and saw Lucinda watching, but so quick was that glance that Lucinda did not know she had been seen. Her husband’s head was turned away from her so that she could not see his expression, but she could see Maria’s.
Her face glowed; her glance was caressing. She leaned across her carriage and whispered something to the marquess, who gave an abrupt nod, picked up the reins, and drove off.
She has made an assignation, Lucinda thought bitterly.
Once more, Mr. Dancer’s handsome face came back into her mind. Now, there was a man who loved her, who would cherish her.
Undecided as to what to do to ease the pain at her heart, she prepared to go out.
As she was putting on her bonnet, Humphrey came in to say that Mr. Carter had called.
“Tell him I cannot see him,” said Lucinda crossly.
“But, my lady,” said Humphrey, “Mr. Carter says it is not a social call. He has called in reply to your advertisement about Kennedy in the Morning Post!”
11
Mr. Carter had been frightened to death when he had seen that advertisement. Benson had disappeared, never to be heard of again. Now it appeared Kennedy, the maid Benson had used to elicit information, had disappeared as well.
He was suddenly sure Maria had finally run mad and killed them both, or had them killed. He knew Maria often took more opium than was good for her. The drug must have turned her brain. Now Rockingham, surely, must know of his wife’s concern for the missing maid, and Rockingham would get to the bottom of it. If he accused Maria, then Maria would bring him, Zeus Carter, down with her.
In his ears, Mr. Carter could swear he heard the tolling of the great bell of St. Sepulchre’s and in his mind’s eye, he could see himself mounting the scaffold outside Newgate, looking down into the avid, greedy faces of the watching mob. Maria and her friends, he knew, enjoyed a public hanging as much as they enjoyed the playhouse. Mr. Carter had accompanied them once and had disgraced himself by being violently sick.
He waited in Berkeley Square until he saw Rockingham leave. The sight of Maria driving up caused Mr. Carter to whimper with terror and dive behind a tree for shelter.
He waited and waited until he was sure there was no sign of either his cousin or Maria Deauville returning to the square. Feeling breathless and sick, he called on Lucinda.
Mr. Carter felt Lucinda was growing more like a haughty marchioness every day. Her height lent her dignity and there was a cold, arrogant look in her eyes as she s
tared down at him. She did not ask him to be seated, but in icy tones demanded the reason for his visit.
“I saw your advertisement, ma’am,” said Mr. Carter. “’Pon rep. I was struck all of a heap.”
There was a silence while Mr. Carter pulled out a little fan and fanned himself vigorously. Lucinda said impatiently, “If you know something about Kennedy, pray tell me.”
Mr. Carter looked at her pleadingly. He tried to think of some light and airy way to phrase it; some way to cover up the intense dread he felt. But he blurted out, “I saw Kennedy, your maid, often in the company of Benson, Maria Deauville’s lady’s maid—a servant who has also gone missing.”
“I cannot believe Kennedy would have gone off with someone—no matter how great a friend—without telling me. Since Mrs. Deauville is a friend of yours, did you not ask her what had happened to her maid?”
“Not a friend of mine. Not at all! I did ask and she said that Benson—let me see how she put it—she said, ‘Benson is, or was, my maid.’”
“No further explanation?”
“To be frank with you, I found I dared not ask.”
Lucinda frowned. “What would Kennedy be about, to strike up a friendship with the maid of a woman who has shown she dislikes me and is jealous of me?”
“Perhaps Kennedy did not know that Benson was maid to Maria Deauville, or perhaps it could be the name meant nothing to her and she imagined Mrs. Deauville to be a respectable lady with no, um, connection with your family.”
Lucinda looked down at him sharply. “You appear remarkably acute at guessing what Kennedy might or might not think. I am beginning to think that perhaps Benson was sent to befriend Kennedy and therefore spy on me.” Lucinda suddenly blushed with mortification. The horrible Maria would know of the lock on the bedroom door, of the scenes.
“I cannot tell you more,” cried Mr. Carter, backing away. “The reward you promised in your advertisement…?”
“As you know, I have no money of my own, and such money as I do have is Rockingham’s. I shall tell him of your visit and no doubt he will call to see you.”
“No, no. Pray do not tell him. Forget the reward.”
