by M C Beaton
The cup which had held Amaryllis’s morning tea had been washed clean. James, the second footman, was absent, but it was explained he had been given his annual leave to go and visit his family.
It was unfortunate for the Marquess that while the Warburtons were being questioned, Mr. and Mrs. Giles-Denton should take that moment to call, since they lived nearby, to find out if there was any news of the missing culprits.
Out came the whole story of the passionately embracing couple. But was it not the case, asked the Marquess desperately, of Lord Donnelly holding an unconscious female in his arms and appearing to kiss her? Was not Miss Duvane wearing a bonnet, and did not that bonnet shield most of her face?
But Mrs. Giles-Denton held strong views on the immorality of the new generation and insisted that Miss Duvane had been all too wide awake at the time.
And so the Marquess found at last that the authorities believed Amaryllis Duvane to be a thief who had had a lucky escape from justice. In soothing voices they advised the Marquess that it would be better to forget the whole thing.
In vain did the Marquess plead Amaryllis’s innocence.
He returned at last to the inn, where Amaryllis was now dressed and waiting in an upstairs parlor. She listened in dismay as he described what had happened at Patterns.
“And the worst of it is,” he ended, “Donnelly has escaped scot-free.”
“Bad people never escape, John,” said Amaryllis. “They punish themselves in the end.”
“Nonsense,” he said, made rude and cross by frustration and fatigue. “The Warburtons will go on with their stupid bullying ways, and, having got away with this, next time they will do something worse. And the same might be said in Donnelly’s case.”
“But we have each other,” pleaded Amaryllis. “No one can come between us now.”
He gave a reluctant smile and folded her tightly in his arms. “I am ungrateful, my sweeting,” he said. “Let Donnelly and Warburton go to the devil. We will be married by special license. I am taking you to my aunt.
“My servants are below with my carriage. They also collected your belongings, and, I may add, poor Joseph Chalmers, who had just removed to the inn at Caddam.”
Amaryllis looked up at him anxiously. “And you will not continue to thirst for revenge? There does not seem to be much we can do now.”
“No, of course not,” he smiled. But there was certain hardness behind his blue eyes which worried Amaryllis.
Four weeks had passed since Amaryllis Duvane had been dragged from Patterns.
The Warburtons were resident in Bath. Lord Warburton was suffering from gout and was bad-temperedly drinking sulphurous water daily in the Pump Room in the hopes of a cure.
The Warburtons had rented an elegant residence in the Royal Crescent, Lord Warburton having been convinced that the clean air high above the city might do something as well as its waters to alleviate his gout.
Cissie and Agatha were in seventh heaven. Since they were as yet unknown to many of the gentlemen, they were much admired by many for their blond beauty. Their pushing and common manners which had given London society such a disgust of them had not been too much in evidence as yet.
Lady Warburton had discovered a new range of patent medicines in the apothecaries’ shops and was happily inflicting as much damage on her brain and liver as she could.
So it could be said that the Warburtons were a tolerably happy family, and Amaryllis Duvane was seemingly wrong in her forecast that the Warburtons’ sins would find them out.
Since no mention had appeared in the press of any marriage between Amaryllis Duvane and the Marquess of Merechester, Cissie and Agatha often speculated with malicious pleasure that the Marquess had quickly grown tired of Amaryllis and that she was leading a miserable and ruined existence somewhere or another.
The fact was that Amaryllis and her Marquess were already married. The Marquess had arranged that they would be married again after their honeymoon with all due pomp and circumstance in St. George’s, Hanover Square. He planned to insert a notice to that effect as soon as their honeymoon was over.
And then one bright, wintry morning while the Warburton family were seated in their drawing room in Royal Crescent, looking out of the city and planning their day’s amusement, Lord Donnelly was announced.
With one sharp command, Lady Warburton sent Cissie and Agatha scurrying from the room.
Both Lord and Lady Warburton sat very still and upright in their chairs as Lord Donnelly sauntered in.
“I’ve come for the rest of my money,” he grinned.
“You’ll get not a penny out of me,” growled Lady Warburton, reaching for the bell. “You were told to keep Amaryllis Duvane away from Merechester, but you did not take her far enough, and she fell into Merechester’s arms.”
“Ah, but amn’t I here to tell you that’s not the case,” said Lord Donnelly, sitting down in the most comfortable chair in the room and stretching out his legs. “You see, I told his lordship that I had . . . er . . . enjoyed Miss Duvane’s favors, and didn’t he just cast her off and not believe a word the poor girl said. He’s a hard man and as stiff as a poker.
“Well, after a bit he writes me a letter and says he is mortal sorry he lost his chance with Miss Cissie, who was everything Miss Duvane was not, and didn’t I write back and tell him I was sure a generous family like yourselves would be ready to forgive and forget.” He cocked his head on one side and surveyed the startled Warburtons. “I told him, of course, that you’d found your jewels and that the theft was all a hum.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Lord Warburton testily. “But you’d better show me that letter from Merechester.”
“I have it right here,” said Lord Donnelly, fishing in a capacious pocket and hoping Lady Warburton would not consider he was as much a forger of letters as she was herself.
It was as well for Lord Donnelly that neither of the Warburtons could spell properly, otherwise they might have been startled at the Marquess of Merechester’s idea of English.
Lord Warburton put down the letter and pursed his lips. “Well, it seems we have misjudged your skill, Donnelly,” he said, “but the affair is over and done with. You have been paid enough.”
Lord Donnelly’s face grew hard and crafty. “Is that the truth?” he said softly. “I was always a great one for the truth, and so, truth to tell, my conscience has been troubling me badly. I think I’ll just stroll down and talk to the watch. As you say, it’s over and done with, and so perhaps it would be only fair if the world knew the truth about how sadly poor Miss Duvane has been tricked.”
About half an hour later, Lord Donnelly left the Warburtons’ house with a sizable sum of money in his pocket. He felt on top of the world and was quite amazed at his own cleverness. As the days had passed, and no announcement of any marriage between the Marquess and Amaryllis had appeared, he had decided to gamble on the Warburtons’ being as ignorant as he was himself as to what had become of Amaryllis.
Whistling a tune, he left the Royal Crescent and strolled down Brock Street, turned into Gay Street, and into the nearest tavern.
After a couple of bottles of burgundy to celebrate his newfound wealth, he felt no end of a buck, and decided to make his way to the Parade Gardens down by the river and ogle all the pretty girls.
The sun sparkled on the water and on the fashionable crowd strolling in the gardens.
He ambled along the Grand Parade, tilting his hat at a jaunty angle and looking out through the arches at the tumbling, glittering weir below Pulteney Bridge.
In truth, he was feeling a trifle fuddled with the wine he had drunk, and so his first idea when he saw the Marquess of Merechester and Amaryllis Duvane coming toward him was that his eyes were playing him tricks.
The Marquess had decided to bring Amaryllis to Bath because he was persuaded she needed building up after her ordeal. Amaryllis was touched by this, feeling that were he beside her, it didn’t matter where in the world she went. The only cloud to ma
r her happiness was the fact that she feared the Marquess still thirsted for revenge. At times, he would be awkward and abrupt in his manner. He would always apologize charmingly. He was a passionate and experienced lover, and yet, at times, it seemed as if his mind was elsewhere.
Amaryllis was as horrified at the sight of Lord Donnelly as Lord Donnelly was horrified at the sight of her and her husband.
Like Lord Donnelly, Amaryllis thought she was imagining things and looked up into her husband’s face for reassurance. What she saw there was enough to convince her that the man standing staring at them was indeed Lord Donnelly. For the Marquess was glaring at him with a sort of savage glee.
Lord Donnelly began to back away, a nervous smile on his face.
The Marquess plunged forward.
Lord Donnelly gave a yelp like a dog hit by a carriage wheel and vaulted over the wall and down into the shallow water above the weir. He began to wade across.
The Marquess pulled off his boots.
“No!” screamed Amaryllis, clutching his arm. “Let him go!”
The Marquess thrust her roughly aside as if unaware who she was. He vaulted lightly over the wall and down into the water. Lord Donnelly tried to speed his steps, but the rocks under his feet were slippery, and the tug of the water as it rushed to the weir made him overbalance. He lunged to his feet for the second time. His hair was seized in a strong grasp, and the Marquess of Merechester said in a nasty sort of silky voice. “Now, Donnelly.”
Lord Donnelly wrenched his slippery, wet hair out of the Marquess’s grasp and with a reluctant grin put up his fists. Crowds gathered along either side of the river. Voices cried, “A mill! A mill!” One enterprising buck promptly opened a betting book. Odds were in favor of Donnelly, who was taking up a professional boxing stance, despite the fact that he was waist-deep in water.
He ducked and feinted with his fists. “Come along, Merechester,” he sneered. “Go to it.”
The Marquess studied him for a few moments without moving. Then his fist shot out and caught Lord Donnelly full on the point of the chin. It was a magnificent blow with all the power of weeks of fury and frustration behind it.
Lord Donnelly, staggered, fell over the weir and sank like a stone. With an exclamation of disgust, the Marquess plunged after him.
The crowd on the banks on either side watched breathlessly. But there was no sign of Lord Donnelly surfacing. The Marquess swam and dived and swam and dived in the icy water, but of Lord Donnelly there was no trace. Men were already putting out in boats to help in the search. The search continued all day and through half of the night. After bathing and changing, the Marquess returned with Amaryllis to the banks of the river and watched as men with boats and grappling hooks searched from bank to bank, their search carrying them farther and farther down the stream.
“Well, that’s that,” said the Marquess at last. “Now to deal with all the questions. I am afraid he must be dead, but I cannot feel in the slightest bit sorry, although I only meant to teach him a lesson.”
During the subsequent investigations, the whole scandal of the Warburtons came out. Again the Warburtons nearly got away with it, but this time, James, the footman, frightened out of his wits by the way things were going, feared his own arrest and went to the authorities and told them the whole plot. Bath was thrilled at the scandal. Lady Warburton, who cared more for appearances than anything in the world, was held up to shame and ridicule. Weary of the publicity, the Marquess decided not to press charges.
Amaryllis and her husband left Bath as quickly as they could to take up their new married life together. A shadow seemed to have left their marriage.
“Don’t you ever feel guilty,” whispered Amaryllis as she lay in his arms one night, “about Lord Donnelly?”
“No, my love,” he said cheerfully. “Not in the slightest. As far as we know he had not yet committed murder, but I am persuaded, with that rogue, it would only have been a matter of time.”
He then kissed her so passionately that she began to tremble in his arms. The ghost of Lord Donnelly whirled away in the darkness and returned to plague them no more.
The Laird of Craigmore cast a fond eye on his two pretty daughters. He did not know yet which one of them this fine London lord preferred, but he was sure it would only be a matter of time before there was an engagement in the family. It was an amazing piece of luck that such a handsome, well-bred gentleman had lost his way and had come to stay at Ardmore Castle before returning south.
They were all seated in the tower room of the castle while the Laird planned a day’s fishing on the loch to entertain his guest.
“The loch is very deep,” said the laird anxiously. “I hope you are able to swim. We had a young guest here who fell from one of the boats during a squall and was drowned before we could get to him. Can you swim?”
“Like a fish,” grinned Lord Donnelly, raising his glass of fine burgundy and stretching his feet toward the fire.
“Like a damned fish.”
About the Author
M.C. Beaton is the pen name of bestselling novelist Marion Chesney. She is a prolific writer of historical romances and small village mysteries. Born in Scotland, the author began her writing career as a fiction buyer for a Glasgow bookstore and has worked as a theater critic, newspaper reporter, and editor.
The author has written under various names, most notably as M.C. Beaton for her Hamish Macbeth and Agatha Raisin series. She also has written under the names Sarah Chester, Helen Crampton, Ann Fairfax, Marion Gibbons, Jennie Tremaine, and Charlotte Ward.
The author lived in the United States, but now splits her time between the Cotswolds, England and Paris, France.
