by M C Beaton
It was prettily done, but Mira was still turning over the events of the night before in her mind and so was not aware of Drusilla’s startled and petulant look of surprise. Drusilla had been looking forward so much to scoring over Mira that Mira’s calm acceptance of her engagement took all the excitement out of it, and for the first time Drusilla began to wonder uneasily if she really wanted to be married to Charles. And what had happened to little Mira, accepting a glass of champagne and looking very much the mistress of herself and her emotions?
Charles talked about how he planned to sell out of the army and discussed a “tidy property” near their own in the country that he had his eye on. And Mira, drinking and listening to him, could no longer see him with the eyes of love. He seemed a staid man, middle-aged before his time, and rather pompous.
“We are to attend the Freemonts’ ball in Kensington tonight,” said Mrs. Markham with satisfaction, for to have one daughter engaged so early in the Season was a triumph, and although the announcement would not be in the newspapers until the following morning, Mrs. Markham intended that people should know of her triumph as soon as possible.
Mira hoped the marquess would not be at the ball. He had suddenly become a stranger to her, an incalculable man rather than a friend. But he had given her good advice, and she would take it. If she married someone, say, like young Mr. Danby, then she would have an establishment of her own, her own horses and dogs, and children. Children! She had not thought of children before. If she had children, she could teach them to ride. If she had girls, she would not produce another Mira. She would train a daughter to be a young miss from the beginning. And a son? Her eyes grew misty with dreams.
Charles, glancing at her, was arrested by the transformed glow on her face. How odd Mira was, he reflected. He had always accepted the Markham family idea that Mira was the plain one, and yet she seemed to have a strange, almost fey beauty. He found himself reluctantly remembering her courage and humor. Mira would never have expected you to leave the army, said a treacherous little voice in his head. He turned quickly and looked down at the beauty that was Drusilla Markham. He would be the envy of every man in London.
The marquess took Lady Jansen out for a drive that afternoon. The fact that he found her company unexciting and undemanding soothed his guilty soul. Damn Mira and her wild, unconventional ways. He realized his companion was asking him whether he meant to attend the ball in Kensington that night. Damn Mira again! She would be there, and how on earth was he going to approach her? He had, he admitted to himself ruefully, enjoyed her easygoing friendship, and now he had shattered that.
“You have not replied?” admonished Lady Jansen, tapping his arm playfully with her fan.
“I am sorry. I was daydreaming. Yes, I will be there.”
“And Miss Mira?”
He gave her a sharp glance. “I believe so. Why do you ask?”
“I wondered whether I ought to beg her forgiveness.”
His face cleared. He found himself liking her very much.
“I do not think that at all necessary. It is better the matter be forgotten.”
She gave a little laugh. “Nonetheless I should never have repeated such a story. You may trust me now. I could not bear such shame again.”
“As I said, it is forgotten. Miss Mira will no doubt soon be engaged to a fellow of her own age and pursuits.”
Lady Jansen tried to feel comforted by that remark, but she kept seeing Mira’s bright face turned up to his under the parish light in Drury Lane. If only she could find some hard proof of the marquess’s liaison with this girl, then Mira would soon be sent out of London in disgrace, never to be heard of again.
When the marquess escorted her home, she rested for an hour on her bed without sleeping, thinking all the time of how to obtain the necessary proof. And then she remembered her friend, Mrs. Jackson, a jealous woman who became convinced her husband was having an affair. Most married society women suspected their husbands kept mistresses but would not dream of raising the subject or doing anything about it. But Mrs. Jackson loved her husband, a rare state of affairs. She had employed a retired Bow Street Runner by the name of Diggs. That was it, Diggs. Lady Jansen rang the bell, rose, and went to the writing desk next door in her boudoir. She scribbled a note to Mrs. Jackson, folded it, sanded it, and sent the footman, who answered the summons of the bell, to go directly to Mrs. Jackson’s with it and wait for a reply.
By the time she set out for the ball, she had secured the address of the retired Runner.
At the ball, when the marquess approached her first and led her onto the floor, the better side of her nature decided to forget about the ex-Runner. If she just went on the way she was going and remained uncomplicated and friendly, she was sure the marquess would propose marriage to her.
But she was becoming rapidly obsessed with the marquess, with his splendid figure, his golden hair, his strong face, and the way those gray eyes could look down into her own so intently when she said something to catch his attention. So her feelings when Mira Markham walked into the ballroom were of rage and sick, poisonous jealousy. Some might say that Mira was not a beauty, that her cheekbones were too high, her hair too frizzy, but she had youth and a gracefulness of movement.
Mr. Danby, asking Mira to dance, was charmed to receive her full attention this time. As they walked after the dance, she talked easily of horses and dogs and country pursuits so dear to his own heart. He did not feel awkward with her or feel he had to pay her extravagant compliments. He was fascinated by those green eyes of hers and loved to see them sparkle with laughter. He had discussed his interest in Mira with his mother, who had said doubtfully that although the girl had initially disgraced herself, she had behaved prettily ever since. The Markhams were very wealthy, and Mrs. Danby was certainly not going to steer her only son away from a rich dowry.
Mr. Danby was an engaging-looking young man with curly black hair, a rather snub nose, and a pleasant smile. “What a good couple they make,” remarked Lady Jansen to the marquess. The marquess agreed but privately thought Mira was too high-spirited and intelligent for a callow youth such as Danby, and the fact that he had recommended Danby as a suitable suitor to Mira did not help his temper.
He had been taken aback by Mira’s self-possession. He had expected her to look at him reproachfully or blush or show some sign of maidenly distress, but her eyes had met his across the ballroom, clear and unafraid, and she had dropped a brief curtsy in his direction before turning back to her partner.
Perhaps if he had left her to the attentions of Mr. Danby, Lady Jansen would have forgotten about employing Diggs. But something persuaded the marquess that he had to apologize or explain his behavior, and so he joined Mira after the promenade and asked her to save the supper dance for him. This Lady Jansen did not know at the time, but as soon as the supper dance was announced and she looked across at the marquess with a smile of anticipation, it was to see him cross to Mira’s side and then lead her into the steps of the waltz.
They danced well together. People were remarking on how beautifully Mira Markham danced. As their bodies weaved about each other, the filmy stuff of Mira’s gown floating out around her, Lady Jansen saw them in bed together, writhing in bed together, and wondered what society would think of this oh-so-innocent miss if society could but know. She would find Diggs the next day and pay him what he required to expose the guilty couple. A shamed Mira would be sent away, and then the field would be open to her.
The marquess said in a low voice to Mira, “My apologies. I behaved badly.”
He had expected her to blush and murmur that he was forgiven, but she looked directly at him and said, “I do not know, my lord, which is more insulting, the kiss or apologizing for it.”
He gave a reluctant laugh. “You are wasted on Danby.”
“Indeed! I find him all that is pleasant. In fact, I think we would deal very well together. The engagement of Charles and Drusilla, which will be in the newspaper’s tomorrow, has
brought me to my senses. I feel I have grown up. For the first time I have begun to consider marriage a pleasing prospect.”
“With Mr. Danby?” The marquess all at once felt like some species of aging roué.
“He is so cheerful and pleasant. I think we could be friends. I would have my own establishment. And children!”
The marquess wondered how many more blows to the solar plexus this minx was going to deal him. Did she know anything about the begetting of children?
“You would like children?”
“Any woman would,” said Mira. “I would like a son and two girls.”
“Have you told Mr. Danby of your ambitions?”
“I have only begun to speak to him,” said Mira with a giggle. “Oh, you are about to remind me of my manners.” And she turned away to the gentleman on her other side, and the marquess, who had not been going to do any such thing, turned with some reluctance to his other companion.
Mira’s other supper companion was a thin, nervous youth at his first ball. He was painfully shy, and Mira set to draw him out with such success that he was soon talking to her easily. The marquess began to wonder if Mira had forgotten his very existence.
But when she turned back to him, he found he could no longer be easy with her. He tried to keep his eyes away from that beautiful mouth of hers. That was the seductive thing about Mira, he thought. One kept finding little bits of beauty here and there until one could never believe that one had ever thought her plain. Drusilla, on the other hand, was beautiful for all to see, but she had a shallow character. There was nothing further to discover, nothing to excite.
Charles, sitting next to Drusilla, noticed the way the marquess studied Mira so intently and said to his fiancée, “I do believe that Grantley is falling in love with Mira.”
“Nonsense!” said Drusilla roundly. “He is too sophisticated and worldly a man to be attracted by a little hoyden like Mira.”
“Mira has changed,” he said thoughtfully. “She has suddenly become more… womanly.”
Drusilla said huffily, “Dear me. One would almost think you were regretting having proposed to me and would prefer Mira.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Don’t call me ridiculous!”
“But, my sweeting, the very idea…”
“All I know is that you suddenly seem to be watching every move that Mira makes!”
“You are jealous!”
“I! Jealous of Mira? Fiddlesticks. I am accounted the belle of the Season!”
She should not have said that, thought Charles gloomily. A beauty talking about her own beauty suddenly loses a good deal of it.
Drusilla turned a white shoulder on him and began to talk to the man on her other side. Charles turned his attention back to Mira. The marquess was smiling at her with a caressing look in his eyes. Mira’s white gown had touches of her favorite green. Her skin was very pure and white, and that unfashionably generous mouth of hers was curved in a smile. The silent young man on her other side was darting adoring little looks at her and trying timidly to get her attention. A little down the table from her sat Mr. Danby, who kept craning his neck forward to get a look at her. Charles felt uneasy. The pride in having secured the latest London beauty for his own was waning a little. People admired Drusilla’s looks. He could not imagine anyone adoring her.
Wrapped in his own worried thoughts, he forgot to pay attention to Drusilla or the lady on his other side. He had not really considered this thing called love seriously. That was a matter for poets and playwrights, surely. One found a pretty girl of suitable rank and fortune and settled down. Why now, as he looked across the room at Mira, did his army life call to him, the life he was on the point of rejecting? He frowned. His life, which had stretched out in front of him in an uncomplicated way, now seemed rather flat and dull. He resolved to dance with Mira. It was only right as her future brother-in-law that he should afford her a dance.
But when they all returned to the ballroom, he discovered he could not get near Mira for the rest of the night. Drusilla found she had the humiliation of sitting out for three whole dances. The news of her engagement had spread quickly. She was no longer on the marriage market. But she felt that somehow her younger sister, by eclipsing her, was all to blame.
Lady Jansen had another dance with the marquess, but he did not offer to take her driving again. Resentment and jealousy burned fiercely in her bosom. She became convinced that the marquess, whom she had met such a short time ago, would have proposed marriage had it not been for his silly infatuation with Mira.
Mira, for once free of worries and social insecurities, danced blithely on, unaware of the emotions churning about her. When her mother told her that Mr. Danby wished permission to take her driving, she looked pleased. She still did not know why the marquess had kissed her and did not want to think of it very much, apart from deciding it had been his way of teasing her, brought about by the unconventional circumstances of that ride.
Drusilla, fretting under a new burden of jealousy of her sister, said on the road home, “Charles is most displeased with you, Mira.”
Mira gave a little sigh. “Charles is always displeased with me these days.”
“He said he thought your behavior this evening most unbecoming.”
“What’s this?” demanded Mr. Markham sharply. “I received many compliments about Mira. She behaved just as she ought. I must tax Charles with this.”
“Oh, do not do that!” cried Drusilla in alarm. “He swore me to secrecy.”
“He is shortly to be my son-in-law, and he cannot go about criticizing Mira behind my back. I shall talk most severely to him about this.”
“Well, well, you see,” mumbled Drusilla, “perhaps I was mistaken. He may have been talking about someone else.”
“You just made that up,” said Mira suddenly. “Why?”
“I was mistaken,” shrieked Drusilla. “Let that be an end to the matter.”
Mira gave another sigh. How complicated life had become. She thought briefly of the marquess and then put him firmly out of her mind. She had amused him, that was all, but he had given her very good advice, and for that she was grateful. She would no longer rebel. She would do just as she ought and secure a husband. She leaned back in the carriage and let rosy dreams of a home of her own, children of her own, and dogs and horses of her own float before her eyes, never stopping to wonder why there was no husband in the picture.
Heavily veiled, Lady Jansen set out the next day for an address in Bloomsbury. She could have summoned Diggs to her home, but she did not want any of the servants to see him. When she found concrete proof that the marquess was having an affair with Mira Markham, then when the scandal broke, there must be no way she could be implicated as the breaker of the scandal.
The hack she had hired stopped in front of a tall building. To her relief it looked trim and neat. She had feared she might find herself in a noisome slum.
Mr. Diggs, an urchin told her, resided on the top floor. She made her way up the shallow wooden stairs on the inside of the building.
As she raised her hand to knock at Diggs’s door, she hesitated for a moment. It was not too late to turn back. But if Mira was not exposed and sent away, then the marquess would remain a bachelor.
She knocked loudly and then heard footsteps shuffling toward the door on the other side. The door opened, and an old man stood looking at her.
“Mr. Diggs?” she asked, peering beyond him.
“The same.”
She was disappointed. She had expected a hard sort of ferrety man, not this old man in his nightgown with white hair in elflocks. His face was paper-white and his eyes a faded blue, but at least he showed no signs of being a heavy drinker.
“I am Lady Jansen,” she said. “I have a job for you.”
He bowed and stood aside. “Step in, my lady. Had you sent your footman with a note, then I would have been dressed to receive you.”
“Secrecy is important.” She sailed
past him into a sparsely furnished room and took a chair by the fire.
“A moment of your time,” he said. He disappeared into a far room while Lady Jansen waited impatiently, anxious now to set the wheels in motion.
At last he returned, washed and dressed with his white hair tied back with a black ribbon. He was wearing a buff suit of clothes and old-fashioned square-toed shoes.
“How may I be of assistance to you?” he asked.
She took a deep breath and told him about Mira and the marquess—what she had seen and what she suspected. He listened calmly to her, his hands on his knees, his pale eyes fixed on her face.
“Are you not going to take notes?” she demanded when she had finished.
“I may be old,” he said, “but I have a very good memory. We must fix a price, my lady.”
