by Rakes Reward
The butler flushed guiltily. ‘I was just about to summon a messenger, sir, and—’
‘Don’t bother me with your lame excuses, man. Hand it over.’
The butler produced the letter and retreated with rather more haste than normal.
Kit strode across the room and threw the letter down on his desk. ‘It is your fault, you know, Hugo,’ he said with a wry grin. ‘You reminded me—unwittingly, I admit—that it does not do to respond just when, or how, a lady expects. I think that, on this occasion, the lady shall be made to wait a little longer. You never know, it may do her good.’
He turned to where Hugo stood, intrigued, and clapped his brother on the shoulder. ‘And now,’ Kit said smoothly, ‘if you are ready, shall we go?’
‘Beware, Kit,’ said Hugo. ‘One day it may be you on the receiving end of such cavalier treatment.’
Kit looked hard at his brother and shook his head. ‘Not I,’ he said firmly. ‘Not from any woman alive.’
Approaching the receiving line, Marina followed dutifully two steps behind Lady Luce. It was a very grand affair indeed. Marina’s simple amber silk gown, which she had thought so splendid when she first tried it on, was very dull by comparison with the finery of the other guests. She would be able to merge into the background, yet again.
Introductions completed, the Dowager led the way into the ballroom and stood for a moment surveying the scene. She called Marina close with a beckoning finger. ‘Do you see those two ladies over by the window?’ she whispered, indicating with her fan a pair of richly dressed matrons. ‘The one wearing that appalling puce gown is William’s wife, Charlotte. Never did have an ounce of taste! Never a beauty, either.’
The Dowager’s daughter-in-law was both plump and plain, but she had a decided air of consequence, even from a distance.
‘She was passable when she was younger, I’ll admit. Lost her figure—and her looks—through too much child-bearing. Much too much. Ten children, indeed! An heir and a spare should be enough for any man.’
Marina was hard put to stop herself from laughing aloud. But the Dowager’s next words banished any hint of mirth.
‘So—what do you think of your exalted cousin?’ Seeing Marina’s obvious surprise, the Dowager said, ‘The lady standing beside Charlotte is the present Viscountess Blaine.’
Marina saw a thin woman with an overlong nose and a modish but very unflattering hairstyle. She was wearing too many jewels. ‘She looks…’ Marina could not find any words. Even to the Dowager, she could hardly say that Lady Blaine looked like a horse.
‘Quite,’ said Lady Luce with a tight smile. ‘Come. Let me make the introductions.’ She strode across the room much faster than seemed possible for such a tiny person, forcing the other guests to make way for her. Marina followed in her wake, more than a little reluctant to face one of the relations who had treated her family with such contempt.
‘Good evening, Charlotte. Good evening, Lady Blaine.’
The two younger women returned Lady Luce’s greeting without any sign of pleasure. Both ignored Marina completely.
‘I should like to present my new companion, Miss Beaumont,’ said Lady Luce neutrally.
Both ladies turned to glance at the companion for a second. They were clearly far from satisfied with what they saw. Neither offered a hand.
The Dowager eyed Lady Blaine with disfavour. ‘Surprising that you have not met before, is it not?’ she said. ‘Considering Miss Beaumont’s mother is full cousin to your husband. But then, he has been out of the country for some months, has he not?’
The younger Lady Luce had started in surprise and now lifted her lorgnette to inspect Marina more closely. Marina felt as if she were being examined for flaws like an insect impaled on a pin. She lifted her chin, turning all her attention to the Dowager and Lady Blaine.
‘So this is the gel I recommended to you,’ said Lady Blaine at last.
She had the kind of voice that reminded Marina of fingernails scraping across a chalkboard. How could anyone bear to be in the same room with her?
‘I hope she is giving satisfaction,’ continued Lady Blaine, for all the world as if Marina were not present. ‘You must understand, ma’am, that I recommended her only because of the urgency of your son’s request. I could think of no one else who could be procured at such short notice. If I had had a little more time, I am sure I could have found someone to suit you admirably.’
The Dowager’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘You have made yourself quite useful enough, my dear,’ she said. ‘I suggest you take your satisfaction from that. Leave the good deeds to those more accustomed to them. Come, Marina.’ The Dowager moved Marina away before Lady Blaine’s affronted gasp could be turned into words.
‘Ignore her,’ continued the Dowager. ‘She has no breeding. Blaine married her for her money, of course. The men of that family always marry money and spend it on their mistresses.’
What an outrageous old woman she was! To be able to say such things! As a poor relation, Marina must always mind her tongue, but living with the Dowager would certainly never be dull.
The Dowager immediately began to point out other notable guests and to regale Marina with salty stories of their exploits. It was most entertaining. ‘That beanpole of a gel over there,’ she continued, pointing most impolitely with her fan, ‘is Lady Blaine’s eldest. Milly, or Tilly, or some such. Her face has too much of the dead horse for perfect beauty.’
Marina’s eyes widened. How could she?
‘Gel like that will never take. Especially since her mother persists in dressing her in white. Makes her look positively ill with that sallow complexion. The woman has even less taste than Charlotte.’
Marina tried not to nod. Her brother would be ashamed to learn that his sister could do anything quite so uncharitable, however satisfying it might have been to learn that her cousin was even less attractive than herself. In Miss Blaine’s case, a handsome dowry might provide some slight compensation.
‘Oh,’ breathed Marina, catching sight of a couple dancing the waltz, ‘who is that beautiful fair-haired lady?’
‘What? Oh, that one,’ said the Dowager, suddenly less animated than before. ‘That, child, is Lady Stratton, who was Emma Fitzwilliam before her marriage. She is waltzing with her husband, Sir Hugo Stratton. Don’t hold with it myself. Living in each other’s pockets like that.’ She shook her head.
The dancing couple turned at that moment so that Marina could see Sir Hugo’s face. Even though this man was much older, and his face was visibly scarred, the likeness to Kit Stratton was very strong.
‘Oh,’ breathed Marina, ‘is he—?’
‘Yes, he is Kit Stratton’s brother,’ said the Dowager grimly, ‘and as plump in the pocket as any man in London. Emma Fitzwilliam was the catch of the Season when he married her. No doubt her money helped to compensate for the scandal.’
‘Scandal? I…I don’t understand, ma’am.’
‘No. Why should you? You’re too young to know. It is just one more reason to beware of Kit Stratton, that is all. He ruined Emma Fitzwilliam, but he refused to marry her. Left that task to his elder brother. That’s why he has spent the last five years abroad.’
Marina looked back at the couple on the floor. Sir Hugo Stratton and his wife were smiling at each other in a way that made Marina’s heart turn over. Whatever might have been the reasons for the marriage, there was no doubt in Marina’s mind that it was a love match now.
‘Good gad!’ exclaimed the Dowager a moment later. ‘There’s no avoiding the man, even here. Keeps turning up like a bad penny.’
Kit Stratton had just entered the room and was threading his way through the crowd of guests. Marina’s stomach lurched at the sight of him. Her palms had become damp inside her borrowed evening gloves. Why did he have to be here? Why now? Would he recognise her?
He stopped some distance from them and sketched an elegant bow to a haughty dame in a feathered turban. Their exchange was very brief. Then,
with a barely suppressed grimace, he left her for the dance floor, where he tapped his brother on the shoulder and impudently stole his partner. Sir Hugo simply smiled on the departing couple and strolled off, stopping here and there for an animated conversation with some of the other guests. He did not glance back even once towards his brother. Instead, he looked lazily round the ballroom, as if to assess how many of the guests he knew. His glance flickered over Marina and the Dowager, hesitated barely a moment, and then moved casually on.
‘There seems to be no bad blood there,’ Marina said, unwisely voicing her thoughts.
‘Hmph,’ snorted Lady Luce in disgust. ‘It’s all for show, I don’t doubt. Come, Marina,’ she added, turning for the door. ‘I have no intention of remaining here a moment longer. I had not expected the air at this ball to be quite so polluted.’
With a final lingering glance towards the colourful throng of swirling dancers, and Kit Stratton’s tall, elegant figure, Marina followed her mistress to the exit, totally unaware that she was not the only lady taking an interest in that arrestingly handsome gentleman. Miss Tilly Blaine, half-hidden by a pillar, was gazing on Kit Stratton with wide, glowing eyes, as if she had never beheld anything so beautiful.
Marina spent a disturbed night and then an uncomfortable day, trying vainly to give all her attention to Lady Luce’s At Home. At least neither the younger Lady Luce nor her bosom bow, Lady Blaine, had put in an appearance.
As soon as the drawing-room door closed behind the last of her callers, the Dowager sank back into her favourite chair and straightened her powdered wig. ‘Thank heavens for that,’ she said. ‘I was beginning to think that pair of harpies would never leave.’
Marina smiled but said nothing. The Dowager had obviously enjoyed the afternoon’s verbal sparring with her visitors. The problem with the last two was their failure to fight back when lashed by the Dowager’s acid tongue.
‘And what, pray, are you smiling at, miss?’ asked the Dowager.
Marina considered for a second or two, and then said, ‘I was musing on the definition of a harpy, ma’am. I was always taught that they were fearsome mythical beasts, with murderous claws. But it seemed to me that there was nothing in the least mythical about Mrs Varity and her daughter—’
Lady Luce choked on a laugh. Mrs Varity was a remarkably large woman and totally unsuited to figuring in any myth, except in the guise of a well-padded cushion.
‘And their claws seemed to have been drawn long before they even entered the house,’ finished Marina, undaunted. ‘I cannot think why that should be so. After all, it is not as though your guests are received with anything other than the utmost kindness.’
Lady Luce struck Marina on the wrist with her fan. It was quite a gentle blow, however, and the lady’s eyes were sparkling with appreciative amusement. ‘That is quite enough from you, young lady,’ she said. ‘I fear I am nurturing a viper in my bosom, keeping you here.’
‘I fear so, ma’am,’ agreed Marina, nodding gravely.
‘Hmph! And I will not have you defending that Varity woman, either. She only came in hopes of finding out exactly what happened at Méchante’s t’other evening. Wanted to crow over my losses, that was all. Like a cock on a dunghill!’ She opened her fan and waved it aimlessly to and fro for a moment. ‘I fancy I showed her the dangers of that!’
‘Indeed, ma’am,’ said Marina, non-committally. In fact, Mrs Varity had quit the field in full retreat, and Lady Luce was clearly relishing her victory. Now might be the time to tackle her on the touchy subject of Kit Stratton. ‘Are you expecting Mr Stratton in the next few days, ma’am?’ she asked quietly.
‘What business is that of yours?’ snapped Lady Luce, her geniality gone in an instant. ‘Fallen for his pretty face, have you, eh?’
‘No, no!’ Marina felt sure she was blushing. ‘It was just… I was wondering whether, as a gentleman and so very much your junior, he might not decide that it was…unseemly to collect on the debt.’
‘Not he!’ cried her ladyship, with an explosion of harsh laughter. ‘Kit Stratton does not have a gentlemanly bone in his body. He would sooner cut his own throat than—’ She looked up as the door opened. ‘What is it now, Tibbs?’
The butler bowed stiffly, indicating the salver he carried. ‘A letter has been delivered, m’lady. By hand. The messenger did not wait for a reply.’
Lady Luce stretched out her hand towards the salver.
‘It is for Miss Beaumont, m’lady,’ said the butler, offering the tray to Marina.
It had come! At last!
Lady Luce sat back in her chair with a grunt of disapproval. Marina could feel those sharp little eyes boring into her as she took the letter and calmly nodded her thanks to the butler. In a moment, the Dowager was going to question her about it. What could she say? Penniless companions, newly arrived in London, did not receive letters by special messenger—especially if they had no acquaintance in the city. She should have been prepared for this.
Marina weighed the letter in her hand. It was heavy enough to contain an enclosure. And it must be from Kit Stratton. The handwriting was bold and firm. Definitely not a lady’s hand. Feeling the Dowager’s increasing curiosity on her, Marina stuffed the letter hurriedly into the pocket of her gown.
‘You may open your letter if you wish, child,’ said her ladyship airily. ‘You must be wishing to know who has written to you.’
Marina shook her head quickly. Too quickly. ‘Oh, I know that already, ma’am,’ she said. ‘There is only one possibility, since I have no friends in London. There is a…a London clergyman who may become a patron to my brother, Harry,’ she said, trying to make the hasty lie sound convincing. ‘You may recall that he is to enter the Church when he leaves Oxford. The reverend gentleman promised that his wife would seek me out when I came to London. It is most kind of them both, I think, since they know nothing of Harry’s sister. The letter can only be from her.’ Marina tried to smile confidently at the Dowager. Would she be believed? It seemed a remarkably unlikely story. What if the Dowager asked Marina to produce this clergyman?
Lady Luce looked assessingly at Marina for a moment. Then she said sharply, ‘You are here as companion to me, my girl, not to be running off to some dogooding parson. Bad enough to have to listen to them on Sundays, without other days of the week as well.’
Marina tightened her lips to hide her smile. Lady Luce made no secret of her trenchant views on the clergy. If she disliked a sermon, she made sure that the whole congregation knew it. She had done so on the previous Sunday, smiling in satisfaction while her son squirmed with embarrassment. Marina had felt it, too, but in truth the Dowager’s outrageous behaviour had been the least of her worries. She had spent Sunday, and most of Monday, wondering whether Kit Stratton would reply. At least she had her answer now.
‘You may visit this parson in your own time,’ Lady Luce continued. ‘Not in mine. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Marina meekly.
‘Oh, get along with you now. Go and read your letter, since it is burning a hole in your pocket. I shall not need you until dinner.’
Marina could scarce believe her luck. It seemed the Dowager believed her story. And as for the degree of indulgence she was showing…
‘Thank you, ma’am. You are very kind,’ she said, rising from her chair to drop a curtsy. ‘I—’
The Dowager waved an impatient hand. ‘I suggest you go before I change my mind,’ she said tartly.
Marina retreated, as quickly as dignity permitted. The butler was hovering in the hallway, so she mounted the stairs at a measured pace until he was out of sight. Then she scampered up the remaining flight and along the hallway to the safety of her room, trying not to slam the door in her haste.
The letter was sealed with a wafer that did not wish to be removed! She cursed softly, trying to tear it apart. At last, the thick paper was undone. Yes, there was an enclosure. Kit Stratton must have taken the bait!
In her haste, Ma
rina dropped the outer letter on the floor. No matter. She would read it in a moment. First, she must be sure that she had the Dowager’s vowel in her hand.
She spread the folded sheet on the little table and smoothed her hand quickly across it. Disappointment hit her like a blow. It was the same black handwriting as the address. Why had Mr Stratton written her two letters?
The answer came in a moment. The inner letter was addressed not to Marina, but to the Dowager herself. And Marina was clearly intended to read it. That was the only reason why he would have left it unsealed.
Marina glanced quickly down the sheet, hardly daring to breathe. Then she let out a tiny cry of triumph. It was as good as forgiveness of the debt. He wrote that he would return the Dowager’s vowel when he called upon her at the end of the week—and that he would not demand the money.
Marina closed her eyes and clasped the letter to her bosom. It seemed almost too good to be true. She had set a trap—and her quarry had walked straight into it. Her future must now be secure.
For almost a minute she sat immobile, while pictures rose in her mind of Mama, comfortably circumstanced at last, and beaming gratefully at her daughter. In just a few short weeks, Marina would be able to send home her very first contribution to that small, spartan household. How wonderful that would be.
Provided Kit Stratton could be tricked out of the second part of the bargain!
Marina opened her eyes with a start. She still had to deal with Kit Stratton’s designs on her virtue. But at least she had secured the Dowager’s debt. That was the first, vital step.
She bent down to retrieve Mr Stratton’s outer letter. What would he have to say to her?
The letter was very short indeed. It contained barely two lines. There was neither salutation, nor signature.
White scarf. Tomorrow. The letter is post-dated and can be publicly revoked.
