by M C Beaton
“No, leave her,” said Mary. “Just take me to Hubert.”
“He left with Lady Clarissa. That is he left the room,” said Major Godwin pulling feverishly at his sideburns.
“Oh,” said Mary in a small voice.
“Look here,” said the Major awkwardly. “Hubert’s the soul of honor. We’ll look about. Bound to be somewhere around.”
They entered the hall in time to witness the arrival of Viscount Peregrine St. James, Clarissa’s fiancé.
Lord Peregrine looked as unappealing as ever, despite the magnificence of his evening dress. His great hooked nose seemed almost to reach his blue chin.
“Where’s Clarissa?” he demanded.
“We’re just looking for her,” said Major Godwin so ingenuously that Mary felt a sudden stab of sympathy for Lucy. “She’s with Lord Hubert.”
“Is she, by God,” said Lord Peregrine unpleasantly.
“I think perhaps I shall not trouble Hubert…” began Mary weakly, but Lord Peregrine had turned his great head and summoned one of the footmen. “In the library, eh?” he said after a low-voiced consultation with the servant. “Follow me!”
They trailed awkwardly behind him as he threw open the library door.
Clarissa had been disappointed and furious at Hubert’s coldness. She heard the steps outside, and thinking that with any luck it might be Mary, she threw herself again into Hubert’s surprised arms and pressed her mouth hotly against his own.
The library door swung open.
“You harlot!” said Lord Peregrine thickly. “I’ll horsewhip you.”
“Can I depend on that?” asked Clarissa, her green eyes alive with amusement. “Perry darling. How marvellous to see you.”
She ran forward lightly and tried to embrace him but he pushed her aside.
“I demand an explanation, Challenge!” his voice grated.
“I haven’t got one,” said Hubert lazily, although he looked past Lord Peregrine to where Mary stood, clutching Major Godwin’s arm. “Do you demand satisfaction?”
Lord Peregrine flushed. He knew Lord Challenge to be one of the most notable shots in England and a fine swordsman. “Don’t talk fustian,” he blustered. “I shall ask Clarissa.”
“Do that,” said Hubert with insolent contempt. “And now if you will all forgive me, I will take my wife home.”
“No,” said Mary in a sudden burst of rage. “Major Godwin shall take me home.”
The Major looked awkwardly at Hubert, but at that moment Lucy’s tinkling laugh sounded from the ballroom. “Oh, my dear sir, what husband?” she said.
“Yes, I’ll take you home,” said Major Godwin.
“It’s my wife, Freddie,” said Lord Hubert lazily.
“I shall not interfere between man and wife,” said the large Major stiffly.
There was a commotion behind them as the Marquise sailed into the hall with her entourage. “Oh, there you is, my pet,” called Biggs cheerfully.
“Oh, Bi… I mean, Marquise. Take me home.”
“Home it is,” said the Marquise, the boot-button eyes darting from Hubert’s mocking face, to the Major’s stern one, to Mary’s pleading eyes burning in her white face.
The Marquise gathered Mary in one plump arm. “Come along precious,” she said in a gruff voice. “Men, my love, are all a lot of rots!” And with that the Marquise bore her charge off into the night.
“Well, I’ll be demned,” said Colonel Fairfax.
“Probably,” said Hubert, staring with hard eyes in the direction his wife had gone.
The Duchess of Pellicombe came sailing up. “I trust you gallant gentlemen are enjoying my little affaire?” she called gaily. “What think you, Lord Challenge?”
“I’m getting out of here,” said Hubert still staring at the door. “This is a madhouse—a veritable madhouse!”
“Oh!” wailed the poor Duchess. “Whatever have I done?”
But Lord Hubert had gone.
He walked through the pouring rain to cool his fast-rising temper. By the time he reached St. James’s Square, his reason had taken over and he was feeling heartily sorry for Mary. She must consider him the worst sort of rake. She must be crying her eyes out. Poor thing. And she had looked so pretty and, dammit, he was proud of her. There might be more to this marriage business than he had imagined. He would take her in his arms. He would tell her about Clarissa. He would convince her that it was all over. Finished and dead. Feeling very noble he let himself in with his own door key and hastened up the steps to her room.
Empty.
It was four in the morning. Where could she be?
He ran down the stairs to the hallway again and was about to ring the bell, when he heard the sound of laughter from the servants quarters. He pushed open the green baize door and walked lightly down the shallow steps, his dancing pumps making no sound upon the stairs.
He pushed open the kitchen door.
His wife and Biggs were seated on either side of the kitchen table with two empty champagne bottles between them, laughing uproariously. Biggs’s face had a scrubbed look and his hair was unpowdered, and his livery looked as if it had been thrown onto his stocky body from a long way off.
Both saw Hubert at the same time. Biggs leapt to his feet and stood swaying slightly. Mary giggled and hiccupped, and the tighter and sterner her husband’s face became the more she giggled.
“You, madam, are drunk,” said Hubert furiously. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Why not ask Clarissa?” giggled Mary.
“Biggs, you are dismissed,” said Lord Hubert, his eyes glittering with rage.
“Very good, my lord,” said Biggs woodenly.
“Shan’t!” said Mary, leaping to her feet, staggering wildly and ending up falling against the butler. “I made Biggsy drink with me. Made him, d’ye hear? I ordered him. Stuffed shirt. Stuffed stupid lecherous owl.”
“My apologies Biggs,” said Hubert coldly, not noticing in his rage that his butler could hardly stand. “I understand you were obeying orders. I shall take her ladyship upstairs. Come, Mary.”
“Shan’t. Stay with Biggsy. Only friend I’ve got. Biggsy.”
Hubert picked her up and threw her over his shoulder and marched off up the stairs, not releasing her until he reached her bedroom where he deposited her unceremoniously on her bed and stood looking down at her.
“Pig,” said his wife pleasantly. “Lecherous piggy-wiggy-wig.”
“I shall talk to you in the morning, madam,” said Hubert. “Get your clothes off. I do not want your maid to find you in this state.”
“What will the servants say,” exclaimed Mary with an awful titter. “Pig,” she added flatly. “Owl. Greater stuffed owl.”
He deftly removed her clothes until she was naked. She lay back against the lace pillows with her hands locked behind her head, and stared blandly up at him with drunken unconcern while the candlelight flickered over her body.
It was a slim body with skin like satin, and small high breasts. He felt his pulses begin to quicken. He knelt beside the bed and put a hand over her breast. She studied the hand, with its large sapphire ring, with clinical interest and then yawned. “It should be through your nose,” she said clearly. “That’s where pigs wear them.”
His hand moved gently and slowly over her breast and he bent his mouth to hers, kissing her long and deeply and feeling waves of almost suffocating passion rise to his brain.
But the passion was all his own. When he at last removed his mouth, it was to find his wife had fallen asleep. He lifted her gently up, and covered her with the blankets and then went slowly downstairs to the kitchen.
Biggs’s hair looked wilder than ever, for he had guessed there was a confrontation to come and had gone and put his head under the pump.
“Well Biggs,” said Hubert. “How much did my lady drink?”
“Two bottles,” said Biggs in a low voice. “Said she needed a laugh.” His little eyes peered shrewdly at his master. “Didn�
�t stop ’er my lord for she was a-crying when she came in.”
“Very good, Biggs,” said Hubert curtly. “I understand in this case. But my lady is not to be found in such a situation again. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, my lord. Very good, my lord.”
Hubert stalked off up the stairs and Biggs sank wearily down and rested his head on the table. What a night!
Chapter Five
Mary crept slowly downstairs in the morning. She felt strung up and nervous. The storm had blown itself out and yellow watery sunlight blazed in at the windows, hurting her eyes and making her head ache. Her mouth was dry as dust and she longed for a cup of tea, since the thought of her usual morning drink of chocolate made her feel acutely ill.
Memories of the end of the evening came to her in bright flashes of color interspersed with long vistas of cloudy gray. She remembered arriving home tearful and distressed. She remembered begging Biggs to stay with her for a little and Biggs, who was cheerfully drunk, suggesting they should repair to the kitchens after he had changed, in case Lord Hubert should find them. After the first bottle of champagne, she remembered talking long and earnestly to Biggs about love and life. After the second, Biggs’s stories had seemed excruciatingly funny, and after that she could not remember a thing.
Tea! Fragrant Bohea in a thin cup drunk in a cool, silent room would put her to rights. She pushed open the door of the breakfast room.
Her husband was seated at the end of the table reading his newspaper. Biggs was not on duty. She ordered tea in a faint voice and he lowered his newspaper and looked at her. Mary had never realized how much noise a freshly ironed morning paper could make, and put her hand to her brow.
“That is a very becoming dress, my love,” commented her husband. “Gray with touches of pink. It matches your eyes.”
“Very funny,” said Mary sourly. “Must you crackle and rustle so, Hubert?”
“I am not crackling and rustling,” he said mildly. “You are suffering from the effects of too much champagne.”
“Fustian,” said Mary, raising her cup and drinking thirstily. “Pray return to your paper, sir. I am not in the mood for conversation.”
Last night she had been dying by inches because of love and jealousy. Now she simply wished he would go away. His strong aura of sexuality seemed to fill the room to suffocation. Nonetheless, some imp prompted her to add: “Or perhaps you have some pressing social business… like entertaining Clarissa.”
“I am glad you reminded me,” he said putting down his paper. “I am driving with Clarissa this afternoon.”
“You sit there as cool as… as cool as… as… as anything and tell me that you’re going to drive out with that trollop!”
“Now listen to me, Mary,” said Hubert. “I had a certain involvement with Clarissa before our marriage. It is finished, over and done. I wish to make it quite clear to Lady Clarissa that there must be no repetition of last night. I am doing it for your sake.”
“Not for our sake?” said Mary, clutching the edge of the table.
“For our sake, then.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“If I returned your brand of trust, my dear, I would assume that you were hell-bent on setting up Freddie Godwin as a flirt.”
“Nonsense!”
“Exactly,” he said with infuriating calm. “I suggest you go and lie down and…”
“Mr. and Mrs. Witherspoon,” uttered Biggs in lugubrious tones from the doorway.
“We are not at home,” snapped Hubert.
“Oh, yes, Biggs, I shall see them,” said Mary blushing under her husband’s surprised stare. She opened her mouth to tell him of her promise to the Witherspoons in Brussels and then closed it again. He would surely consider her a fool.
So under his curious stare, she left to join the leering Witherspoons in the Green Saloon. They had Mr. Trimmer in tow and Mary suffered a most unpleasant ten minutes. The Witherspoons and Mr. Trimmer had learned of her social success and were anxious to stake their claim to her society. She firmly turned down their pressing invitation to go for a drive and subsequently endured Mr. Witherspoon’s particular brand of emotional blackmail.
When the Witherspoons and Mr. Trimmer had taken their leave, she returned to the breakfast room to find that Hubert had gone. She felt strangely flat and sick. Why should she trust him?
She trailed wearily up to her bedroom and fell into a hot, sweating, nightmare-racked sleep from which she arose some two hours later feeling worn out and depressed.
Although all the shutters were closed, the house seemed stifling and hot, and angry bluebottles buzzed over the gallipots with a monotonous drone. She dressed with more care than usual in a light, sprigged muslin gown with deep flounces at the hem and little puffed sleeves.
On descending the stairs again, she learned with some surprise that Viscount Peregrine St. James was waiting to see her.
He was standing in the Green Saloon with his back to the empty fireplace. His hair was powdered and tied at the nape of his neck by a black silk ribbon. This outmoded fashion seemed to add to his brutish air. He surveyed Mary with hot angry eyes.
“If I had a little wife like you waiting for me I would not waste my time philandering with old loves,” he said.
Mary put a nervous hand to the little necklace of seed pearls round her neck.
“I do not understand you, my lord.”
“Your husband and Clarissa. She told me they were going for a little drive in the Park for old times’ sake. Old times’ sake be damned. I know where they are. They are lying in each other’s arms right at this minute in an inn bedroom. An inn off the Chiswick Road called The Green Man.”
Mary began to tremble. “It can’t be true,” she exclaimed.
“I shall take you with me and we shall confront them,” he said heavily. “My carriage is outside.”
“No!” said Mary wildly. “I don’t believe you.”
“You must,” he said with an almost pitying note in his voice. “It is the only way. Unless you see for yourself, you will go on hoping… go on believing… like me.”
“I am loyal to my husband,” said Mary stiffly.
“But he is not loyal to you.” Viscount Peregrine’s flat, reasonable voice convinced Mary more than blustering or rage would have done. Her heart seemed to die within her and she felt faint. Then the faintness was replaced by a burning feeling of rage and desire for revenge. At least all lies would be at an end.
“I will go with you,” she said flatly. “Wait until I fetch my bonnet.”
Lucy Godwin slipped quietly away from the saloon doors and ran lightly down into the hall where she nearly collided with Biggs.
“Didn’t you see my lady?” asked Biggs looking surprised.
“She is driving out with Lord Peregrine,” said Lucy hurriedly. “I shall not trouble her this afternoon.”
“You should have let me announce you, ma’am,” said Biggs looking at her curiously.
Lucy’s beautiful eyes slid away from his gaze. “Yes, so I should,” she laughed. “Do not trouble to tell her I called. I shall let myself out.”
Lucy unfurled her parasol and settled back in her barouche, a malicious little smile of pleasure playing about her mouth. It served prim and proper Lady Mary right. She deserved an unfaithful husband! How dare she hold hands with Freddie! She, Lucy, would drive in the Park and enjoy the cool shade from the trees. Then she bit her lip. She had promised Freddie to go with him to see his mother. But there would be so many dashing gallants in the Park. Freddie must wait, as he had waited before. He would sulk, of course, but she could always charm him out of it. The barouche rolled forwards and turned the corner just as Mary and Lord Peregrine appeared on the doorstep.
Mary began to feel hot and anxious. She wished she had not come. Lord Peregrine was driving at a furious pace. He had chatted amiably enough to her, explaining that he had only just returned from France the evening before, as he skillfully negotiated the Kensingt
on traffic. But once through Kensington turnpike, he had sprung his horses and had set a hell-for-leather pace down the Chiswick Road while Mary clung to the side of the carriage.
Flat, empty, hot fields flashed by on either side and then the carriage veered over as Lord Peregrine swung it off the road and down a network of country lanes.
“Please slacken your pace, sir,” cried Mary, hanging onto her pretty straw bonnet. “You will overturn us!”
“Nearly there!” he shouted over the rushing wind.
