The Savage Marquess

by M C Beaton

  “But, as I remember,” Lucinda said, advancing on him, “you are Rockingham’s cousin and boon companion.”

  “I lied,” squeaked Mr. Carter. “Rockingham despises me.” He burst into noisy tears and ran from the room.

  Rockingham should be here to help me with this, thought Lucinda. But he is no doubt safely in the arms of his scheming mistress. Bah! There is one who would aid me.

  She called a footman and sent him with a note to Mr. Dancer’s lodgings and then sat down to wait.

  Mr. Dancer came very promptly, since Lucinda had had the foresight to put in her note that Rockingham was not at home.

  When Lucinda had explained the problem, Mr. Dancer’s eyes narrowed. He did not want Maria to be found guilty of anything or she might turn on him and tell Lucinda about the plot to ruin her. He decided to help Lucinda track down her maid and see if he could find some opportunity during the day to press his suit. Maria’s reward was no longer the incentive. Mr. Dancer was convinced he loved Lucinda to distraction.

  He told her that he had seen Maria in Oxford Street. Since she was gone from home, he would take the opportunity of calling at Manchester Square and questioning her servants. He promised to return as soon as possible.

  He was absent only a half-hour. On his return, he said that on the night Benson had disappeared, Maria had driven off with her to an inn somewhere off the Richmond road. Find what happened to Benson, said Mr. Dancer eagerly, and then you will find what happened to Kennedy. He had obtained the name of the inn from one of Maria’s grooms. Furthermore, Quinton, Maria’s butler, had said that Kennedy had called to try to find out what had become of Benson and had looked most upset.

  “And what is the name of this inn?” asked Lucinda.

  “The Red Lion, near Syon Park. Allow me to take you there.”

  Mr. Dancer hoped to have a chance of awakening some reciprocal passion in Lucinda’s bosom before the expedition was over.

  “Very well. I shall go and put on my cloak, for the day has turned cold.”

  Lucinda was about to leave her bedchamber when she turned back. She should not really be driving anywhere with Mr. Dancer. Trying to revenge herself on her faithless husband by appearing to behave the same way did not give her any satisfaction. On the other hand, she was determined to solve the mystery of Kennedy’s disappearance.

  She sat down at a little desk in the corner and wrote a note of explanation, saying that as she badly needed help to be driven to the Red Lion near Richmond in order to find out what had become of Kennedy and because he, Rockingham, was no doubt otherwise engaged, she had called on the services of Mr. Dancer. She sanded the letter, rang the bell, and told Humphrey to give it to the marquess when he returned.

  As they drove out of London, Mr. Dancer reflected that had Maria been stupid enough to murder her maid, then she would surely have covered her tracks. He expected the investigation to come to a dead end. The inn sounded secluded. Perhaps a good place to woo Lucinda.

  The day was humid with a busy, bustling wind. Dust from the road blew into Lucinda’s face and she wished she had brought a veil and defied the fashion critics who damned veils as vulgar.

  Lucinda kept thinking about her husband and Maria, and the more she thought about it, the more wretched and miserable she became. Long before they reached the inn, Lucinda had decided to ask the marquess for her freedom. She cast a sidelong look at Mr. Dancer. He appeared as handsome and pleasant as ever. And yet Lucinda felt there was something vaguely sinister about him. Against the backdrop of the West End of London, he looked very urbane and sophisticated, one of many fashionable men. Now, against a view of summer fields and grazing cattle with great puffy clouds like galleons being tugged across the sky above on a high wind, he looked out of place, wrong… false.

  All Lucinda decided she wanted to do was to find out what had become of Kennedy and then return to her father away from this bewildering world of vicious, idle people.

  Having reminded herself that all she had to do was to flee from both her husband and Mr. Dancer as soon as possible, Lucinda felt more composed as the carriage swept into the inn courtyard.

  * * *

  The Marquess of Rockingham stood at the counter of Rundell and Bridge’s turning necklace after necklace over in his fingers, holding first one and then another up to the light. After Maria had whispered to him in the square that she bore him no ill will and wished him well in his marriage, the marquess—not knowing that Maria had said the first thing that came into her head because she knew Lucinda was watching and wanted to create a picture of intimacy—felt like celebrating. He had anticipated a scene. To his surprise, he found his ideas of celebrating seemed to have changed. He wanted to buy his wife a present.

  Everything about Lucinda hit him in a sort of rush—her spirit, her gallantry, her courage, her elusive charm. He began to feel light-headed, almost as if he had been drinking.

  He could not remember her wearing any jewelry at all. So he stood in London’s most famous jeweler’s, looking carefully at necklaces, determined to buy the most beautiful one in the shop. Diamonds were out of fashion. Semiprecious stones were all the rage. And yet there was one magnificent necklace the marquess found he favored above the rest. It was made of huge rubies set in old gold. It was heavy, almost barbaric, but the stones were magnificent, burning in the gloom of the shop with a red fire of their own.

  “Buying another bauble for one of your mistresses?” came a voice from behind him.

  The marquess turned slowly around and found himself facing his mother. He turned back. “I shall take this one,” he said, stuffing it in his pocket. “Send me the bill.”

  Without another look at the duchess, he opened the shop door and went out into the noise and racket of Ludgate Hill.

  The old restless feeling came back and with it all the old misery. But the weight of the necklace dragging at his pocket was a comfort. A smile curved his lips. Would his incalculable wife accept it with grace or throw it in his face?

  He sprang into his carriage and set out for home, looking forward to seeing Lucinda’s face when he gave her the present.

  The inn was deserted. Sounds came from abovestairs. Mr. Dancer saw the green of the garden at the back and suggested to Lucinda that they wait out in the fresh air until the landlord appeared.

  The table Maria had had shifted about was still placed at the edge of the pond. Mr. Dancer thought it looked a romantic spot. He would wait until she had asked her tiresome questions and then he would get down on one knee—he hoped the grass was not damp—and swear everlasting love.

  The landlord came into the garden. “Good afternoon,” he said, bowing low. “I thought I heard someone arrive. What is your pleasure?”

  “Let us order some wine first,” urged Mr. Dancer, “and you may question this fellow when he returns.” Lucinda said she would prefer lemonade. Mr. Dancer ordered a bottle of burgundy. The landlord bowed and left them alone.

  The irritating, gusty wind had died down and a mellow golden light bathed the pond and garden. A blackbird sang with aching sweetness from the branch of a lilac tree. Lucinda’s eyes filled with tears.

  Mr. Dancer seized her hand. “My lady, your distress cuts me to the quick. Pray forget about this folly of looking for a tiresome servant, and—”

  But Lucinda snatched her hand away. “I am in no mood for dalliance,” she said. “I wish you had let me question the landlord right away.”

  “I think that you forget I love you passionately,” said Mr. Dancer in a low voice.

  “Please do not go in this strain,” said Lucinda. “You forget, I am married.”

  “And yet, in your trouble, you sent for me.”

  Lucinda bit her lip. Oh, if only she could return to town, tell her husband she was leaving him, and retire back to the country and forget about Kennedy! But she must try to find out what had become of her lady’s maid. Mr. Dancer’s beautiful blue eyes were surveying her sympathetically, and yet for the first time Lucinda
seemed to catch a glimpse of something lurking in the brilliant blue depths, something predatory. For the first time, she began to feel a little afraid of Mr. Dancer.

  “I should not have traveled with you,” Lucinda said. “Mr. Dancer, I fear I can never return your love.”

  There came a chinking of bottles against glasses from the direction of the inn. Mr. Dancer muttered something under his breath.

  It was not the landlord who was approaching the table, but a tall, angular woman in cap and apron. No doubt the landlord’s wife, he thought.

  Then he realized Lucinda was staring at this female, her face white.

  The maid put the bottles and glasses on the table and curtsied. “Can I fetch you anything, sir, madam?”

  “Kennedy,” whispered Lucinda. “It’s Kennedy!”

  The maid looked at Lucinda with a puzzled expression in her eyes. “Beg pardon, mum?”

  “Kennedy, do you not know me? It is I, Lucinda, Marchioness of Rockingham.”

  Kennedy put a work-worn hand up to her brow. “Silas,” she called suddenly. “Silas, come quick!”

  The landlord came running out of the inn. “What have you been doing to upset Jane?” he demanded.

  “But this is Kennedy, Amy Kennedy, my maid,” said Lucinda.

  “My love,” said Mr. Dancer smoothly, “it is obvious you have made a mistake.”

  “No,” said Lucinda stubbornly. “She must have lost her memory.”

  “Well, that may be the case,” said the landlord. “I am Silas Snodgrass. This woman I call Jane came wandering into the inn one night—’twas the night of that fearsome storm. She was soaked through and had a huge lump on the back of her head like she’d been struck by something, and she didn’t know who she was or where she came from. I’m a widower, see, and I need a housekeeper here bad. So after she recovered her health, I asked her to stay on so’s she could earn her keep till her memory come back. We suit very well, me and Jane, and fact is, we was going to get spliced come next Martinmas.”

  Kennedy looked at Lucinda. “I do know you, my lady, and yet I don’t, if you take my meaning.”

  “Kennedy,” said Lucinda gently, “you evidently came to this inn to look for a friend of yours, a maid who had also disappeared. She was called Benson.”

  But Kennedy was hardly listening. “If I am who you say I am, my lady, you must not order me back, for I am mortal fond of Silas here.”

  “No, no, Kennedy. You may stay. I have no hold over you. But listen again. Benson. A maid called Benson. Maid to a Mrs. Maria Deauville. She came here with her mistress and was never seen again.”

  Kennedy wearily shook her head.

  “When would that be, my lady?” put in the landlord. “For a lady come here the night of the storm and gave a note to my stableboy to give to another lady what come in a post chaise. He’s shortsighted and didn’t get a good look at either of them.”

  “No, it was before then,” said Lucinda. “I cannot give you a description of Benson—”

  “Ah, but I can!” cried Mr. Dancer. “She is of middle-age, thin and wiry, with dark hair streaked with gray.”

  The landlord looked puzzled.

  “Her mistress, then,” said Mr. Dancer. “An exquisite creature dressed always in the first stare with golden hair and blue eyes, very beautiful and very dainty.”

  “Ah, her,” said the landlord, his face clearing. “I mind her. And you’re right. She had a maid with her just like what you described. Let me see. She messed about a bit, getting me to move tables here and there in the garden. Why! She was setting right here. Right at the edge of the pond. Now, she ordered two glasses of ratafee. I could not see her from the windows, for you’ll see this table is out of sight of them. Her maid comes back through the inn and says to me not to bother them till I’m summoned. She was going out to the carriage to fetch something. Now, I swore I caught a glimpse of her coming back, but the carter arrived and I went out to see him.

  “Then the lady comes into the inn and pays her shot and asks for her maid. I says I haven’t seen her and she says, oh, she must be in the carriage. That’s all I know.”

  There was a long silence and then slowly everyone’s eyes turned in the direction of the pond.

  “No, I cannot believe it, even of her,” said Lucinda.

  “You are quite right. What you are thinking is ridiculous.” Mr. Dancer laughed. “How gothic.”

  “If only Kennedy could remember something,” said Lucinda.

  “I’ve got an old boat hook out back,” said Silas Snodgrass. “I’ll fetch it direct and fish around the pond a bit.”

  “No!” cried Mr. Dancer, but the landlord was already making his way rapidly toward the inn. There came the sound of a carriage arriving. Kennedy bobbed a curtsy. “I’ll just attend to whoever has arrived, my lady,” she said, “and then I will come straight back.”

  If Maria had been stupid enough to kill her maid and dump the body in the pond, thought Mr. Dancer desperately, then Kennedy, who might regain her memory, would be taken back to London to accuse Maria. Mr. Dancer was sure from the landlord’s tale that of the two women who had visited the inn during the storm, one of them had been Maria and the other Kennedy. Maria probably thought she had killed Kennedy. Perhaps she had struck her and left her for dead.

  His frightened thoughts swung back to Lucinda. If he could get Lucinda to run away with him, then he could take her out of London.

  “Lucinda,” he said. He stood up and walked around the table. Lucinda stood up as well. He pulled her into his arms and smiled into her eyes. “Forget this nonsense,” he whispered. “Come away with me. I will keep you safe from Rockingham until your marriage is annulled.”

  “It is not so easy to get a marriage annulled,” Lucinda said, pushing him away.

  “It is easy… if the marriage has not been consummated, as yours has not.”

  Lucinda backed away, her eyes wide with shock. “You know,” she said. “it is all a plot. Benson sent to spy on Kennedy, Benson gossiping to Mrs. Deauville, Mrs. Deauville plotting with you to ruin me.”

  She made to run toward the inn, but he caught her arm.

  And then the Marquess of Rockingham charged into the garden. With a roar of fury, he rushed at Mr. Dancer, picked him up as if he weighed no more than a child, and threw him into the pond. Kennedy and Silas came running out.

  “Come out so I can hit you again!” shouted the marquess, standing with his hands on his hips at the water’s edge.

  Mr. Dancer crawled to the edge. “I was escorting your wife at her request,” he said miserably. “I…”

  Then his face took on a greenish pallor and he stood up. “There is something rotten here,” he whispered.

  He had trodden on Benson’s body, which lay at the bottom of the pond. His foot had struck the rotting canvas money belt and the threads had finally parted. What was left of Benson’s body slowly rose to the surface.

  12

  Half-drugged with opium, Maria Deauville stretched lazily in bed. She glanced at the clock and judged she had at least another hour before rising to begin making preparations for the evening ahead.

  Opposite the bed hung a portrait of her late husband, Henri Deauville, a French émigré, who still had had most of the fortune he had taken out of France just before the Terror, when he had met Maria. He had been considerably older than she and had not lived long after the marriage. Maria never thought about him much and, even at the best of times, she had only a hazy memory of what he had been like. She had a capacity for living in the minute and never agonized very much about what she had done the year before or even the day before.

  Vain and self-centered, nonetheless she had permitted the Marquess of Rockingham to become the only man ever to touch her heart. She reveled in his rakishness, feeling they were both of a kind. But most men, Maria knew, however rakish, could be depended on to settle down at last, and she had had every hope that when the marquess at last decided to marry, he would choose her.

&nb
sp; Her eyes suddenly opened wide at the sound of the commotion in the street below. She rose groggily from her bed and pulled on a wrapper. She tugged aside the curtains and looked down into Montague Street. The first thing she saw was Mr. Carter standing on the other side. His face was so white, his gaze so agonized as he stared at her house, that she threw up the window, leaned out, and looked down.

  One glance was enough.

  She drew her head in quickly, her heart beating hard.

  Down below was a line of carriages. On the pavement stood Rockingham, Lucinda, two Bow Street Runners, a man who looked like a magistrate… and Kennedy.

  Her hand went to the bell to ring for Quinton and tell him to bar the door, and then fell to her side. Quinton would not refuse admittance to the Runners.

  She slung a mantle around her shoulders and then rushed to her jewel box and began to stuff jewels into her pockets and fastened several necklaces about her neck. She clasped bracelets of precious stones about her wrists.

  Putting on a pair of flat shoes, she paused only a moment to listen to the thunderous knocking on the door below.

  She ran from her bedroom and began to climb up the stairs to the attics, where she knew there was a ladder leading to the roof.

  Below her came the thud of footsteps running up the stairs. Once out on the roof, she slithered down the tiles to the parapet and then started inching her way along. Maria meant to try to make her escape along the roofs. But the effects of the opium she had taken made her dizzy. Below her the street reeled and danced. A crowd was collecting, pointing upward, all staring at the fantastic figure of Maria, bedecked with glittering jewels, her cloak open over her nightdress, swaying in the sunlight.

  She had locked the skylight behind her, but with a crash, the lock was shattered and the Marquess of Rockingham climbed through. He, too, slid down to the parapet, then stood upright and advanced on her.

  “You murderess,” he said.

  “I did it for you, Rockingham,” pleaded Maria. “All for you. You should have married me. I love you.”