Freddie was nearing the end of the bottle and already looking hopefully round for more, but Margery did not want him to forget one iota of this important meeting.
She moved into the attack. “I have often found, Mr. Jamieson, that gentlemen who appreciate good wine are often good dancers.”
“Quite so,” said Freddie, who was in fact an excellent dancer. “I don’t wish to seem vain, ma’am, but even the Prince Regent himself commented that Freddie Jamieson could shake a nifty leg. His ’zact words, ma’am. Shake a nifty leg.”
“Shall you be at the opening ball at Almack’s?”
“I wasn’t planning to go,” said Freddie. “They’ve got nothing there stronger than orgeat and lemonade.”
“It seems a shame that ladies such as myself should be deprived of a good partner,” commented Margery, looking directly into Freddie’s eyes.
He began to feel slightly hunted. Then he remembered that, were it not for this little girl, he would still be standing over a glass of negus. And Brummell had introduced her, which meant she must be all the crack.
Freddie made a great decision. “Tell you what, Lady Margery, I’ll come to Almack’s just for the pleasure of standing up with you. There!”
Lady Margery looked suitably gratified. To Freddie’s surprise, she opened her reticule and took out a small piece of paper and a pencil. “Write it down,” she said.
Freddie’s mouth fell open and his chin rested on the starched folds of his cravat.
“Eh?”
For a minute, Lady Margery reminded him less of his old school chum and more of his former schoolmaster.
“Please write it down,” pleaded Margery prettily. “Now, I know a gentleman like you, Mr. Jamieson, will have lots and lots of ladies trying to get you to dance with them. I must make sure you remember your promise.”
“Oh, since you put it that way,” said the much-gratified Freddie, “I will.”
He carefully printed a note to the effect that one dance was promised to Lady Margery Quennell and then tucked it in his pocket. “Keep it next to m’heart,” he said with great daring.
His companion did not let him down. She blushed rosily and hid her face behind her fan. “Oh, Mr. Jamieson,” she sighed.
By now, Freddie had forgotten to look for another bottle of wine. He felt no end of a splendid fellow. He leaned forward to make another dashing and witty remark and then stared in amazement. His companion had gone.
He looked moodily at the empty bottle and then peered into it as if to see if Lady Margery had been some sort of genie. Then he noticed she had left her fan.
The Marquess of Edgecombe was strolling among the tables at Watier’s, wondering whether to go home or whether to settle down to a mild rubber of piquet.
He stopped, amazed, at the unusual sight of his friend Mr. Jamieson, who was sitting in an armchair in one of the corners and fanning himself lazily with a little black lace fan with wrought-ivory sticks.
The marquess sank into the armchair opposite. “Joined the Macaronis, Freddie?”
“Eh, what!” said Freddie crossly, annoyed at having his splendid dream disturbed. “Oh, it’s you Charles. Macaronis? Fiddlesticks! Do I look like a Macaroni? Do I wear blue-powdered hair? No. Clocks on my stockings? No. Lace handkerchief? No. Perfume? No. Stays—”
The marquess gently interrupted this catalogue with, “Do you carry a fan? Yes.”
Freddie blushed. “Oh, damme—er—this. Belongs to a charming little lady,” he said dreamily. “Know who she reminds me of? That little chap in our form—Sniffy—you know, chappie with the yaller hair.”
“You’re in love,” teased the marquess, expecting a furious denial.
To his surprise, Freddie gave him a soulful look and said, “Yes. That’s it. That’s it in a nutshell. Haven’t had a drink since that demned musicale of Auntie’s, and I feel in top form. Must be love.”
Freddie joyfully waved the feminine little fan to and fro in the excitement of his discovery. A faint scent of gardenias escaped from it and drifted across the smoke-laden masculine air of Watier’s.
The marquess studied his friend with narrowed eyes. “The lady’s name, by any chance, would not happen to be Quennell?”
“That’s it!” said Freddie, delighted. “’Course you know all the beauties,” he added gloomily.
“And how did she bring about this introduction?” asked the marquess coldly. “Did she sprain her ankle or faint in your arms?”
“Neither,” said Freddie, surprised. “Brummell introduced us. The Beau was uncommonly taken with her himself.”
The marquess began to feel that there must definitely be a new Lady Margery on the social scene. This enchantress, who had not only bowled over three of his misogynist friends but had captivated the great Brummell himself, could not be the dowdily dressed little girl who had graced the walls of Almack’s so many times.
“Remember last season, Freddie? Remember the last ball at Almack’s, I asked you for the name of the girl who was sitting out with a plump lady and I subsequently asked her to dance? You told me then that that was Lady Margery Quennell, daughter of the Earl of Chelmswood.”
Freddie racked his feeble memory. “Can’t be the same girl,” he said at last. “I would have noticed.”
“Whoever she is,” said the marquess smoothly. “Has it ever occured to you, Freddie, that you are a very wealthy young man and that she may be setting lures out to trap you into marriage?”
Freddie looked at him for a long minute while he digested this piece of information. He began to get angry. “Look here, Edgecombe,” snapped Freddie, “just because you fancy yourself as a bit of a ladies’ man, there’s no reason to sneer at me. I liked the little lady, ’pon my soul I did, and if you cast… cast…”
“Aspersions.”
“Aspersions at her, I’ll have to call you out.”
And, tucking the fan carefully into his waistcoat, Freddie stalked out, walking between the tables of Watier’s without stumbling for the first time in his life.
The marquess sat for a long time lost in thought. He was very fond of his cheerful, innocent friends. They had all been in short coats at Eton together. He did not want to see them duped by an adventuress.
At last he came to a decision. He would find Lady Margery’s address and pay a call. The marquess was well aware of his attraction for the opposite sex. If Lady Margery hoped to trick one of his friends into marriage, then she would have the Marquess of Edgecombe to reckon with. He would make her fall in love with himself. And that would teach the designing minx a well-deserved lesson.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Must you do that?” said the marquess crossly.
He was sitting patiently in Beau Brummell’s drawing room, waiting for the leader of London fashion to finish his toilette. It was not the extensive barbering that so annoyed the marquess but the fact that George Brummell, not content with Robinson’s meticulous shaving, was carefully going over his face with a pair of tweezers to make sure that every single hair was gone.
“My face is my fortune,” remarked the Beau, unmoved. “Also my mannerisms, my dress, and my ability to stare duchesses out of countenance. You, dear Charles, are not normally a devotee of my levees. I can see from the martial glint in your cold blue eye that you are excessively put out. What is the cause?”
“Lady Margery Quennell. You promised to reduce her to an unfashionable wreck and instead all London is buzzing with the news that the great Brummell took her to supper and seemed to be enchanted with her company.”
“I was,” said the Beau, tying his cravat in the tròne d’amour, a very well starched style, with one single horizontal dent in the middle; color, yeux de fille en extase. “She is not an adventuress, Charles, for I know the breed well. She told me she collects originals.”
“That’s a damned insulting way to refer to my friends.”
The Beau cocked a quizzical eyebrow at him. “Take a damper, Charles. It is not like you to take the opinion
s of any lady so seriously. I shall not cut her, you know. She has great charm.”
“Then I shall deal with her myself,” said the marquess, striding from the room and leaving his friend to stare after him in amazement.
It was easy for the marquess to find that Lady Margery was resident in Berkeley Square. An aged butler ushered him into the drawing room and departed to inform Lady Margery of his visit.
The marquess looked round the small but tastefully furnished drawing room and wondered why Lady Margery had not taken up residence in her father’s great barracks of a place in Grosvenor Square. It would be a more suitable background for her if she meant to cut a dash.
Perhaps Lady Margery did not like the new countess. After some reflection, the marquess decided that no one he knew much liked the new countess, who was often pointed out as an example that an old family line did not necessarily mean good breeding.
He turned, as the door behind him opened, and got to his feet.
His shrewd eyes immediately recognized the old Lady Margery under the chic new Lady Margery’s fashionable exterior. He made her a magnificent bow.
It was really quite a transformation, decided the marquess. The new hair style showed the perfect shape of her small head. The simple sprigged-muslin dress had been cleverly designed in the flowing Empire lines, more suited to a tall beauty. It gave Lady Margery all the charm of a pocket Venus. Her face seemed to have come to life, he decided. It positively sparkled with determination. Lady Margery had found some purpose in life and he believed he knew exactly what it was.
For her part, Lady Margery felt her heart begin to hammer. Dressed in a coat of the finest blue superfine and with a pair of buckskins molded to his athletic thighs, the marquess was much more handsome and disturbing than she remembered. The feminine thickness of his eyelashes only served to accentuate the strong masculinity of his face. He exuded a disquieting aura of arrogance and virility.
She pulled herself together. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your call, my lord?”
“To the beauty of your looks and the exquisite lines of your form,” replied the marquess, with a look which hovered on the edge of insolence.
“I did not think you would talk such fustian,” said Margery roundly.
“I forgot,” replied the marquess, all mock contrition, “you are not practiced in the art of flirtation.”
“I am learning quickly,” said Margery dryly.
“So I gather,” he drawled. “Three of my friends have fallen victim to your charms, and all in one single day. Four. I forgot about Mr. Brummell. You seem to be a very busy young lady. First you bump into Swanley, then you collapse on Toby, and voila! by nightfall, Freddie Jamieson is swooning over you and Mr. Brummell says you ‘have great charm.’”
“Did he?” said Margery, momentarily diverted. “Mr. Brummell said that? You must excuse my delight. I am not yet in the way of receiving compliments, you see.”
“Oh, you are bound to receive lots more if you continue to be so busy about the streets of London.”
“My lord!”
The marquess silently cursed. After all, he had not come here with the intention of making her furious.
He took her unwilling hand in his and gazed into her eyes. “You see, I am jealous,” he said simply.
Lady Margery tried to withdraw her hand. She had left the door punctiliously open, but the servants seemed to have disappeared and there was no sign of Lady Amelia. The house was very quiet. The French clock on the mantel gave an apologetic sigh and then timidly chimed out the hours, and a dancing couple on its ornate top creakily whirred as they bowed and curtsied and danced, forever treading out the measure of the hours.
“You are funning, sir,” said Margery with a breathless laugh and withdrawing her hand with a jerk, only to find it immediately reclaimed. The marquess bent his tawny head and, turning her hand over, placed a light kiss on her wrist.
Margery felt very young and unsophisticated. She should tap him lightly with her fan and laugh; she should turn her head away and blush. Instead, she looked up at him with her lips slightly parted and her eyes wide and questioning.
Slowly he grasped her by her elbows and lifted her up against his chest and bent his head and kissed her. She stayed rigid in his arms until his lips grew harder and warmer and more demanding. She felt a sudden violent fire coursing through her body, and her lips opened under his while the London morning and the faint sounds of a party of strolling entertainers on the street outside whirled and died away, leaving nothing but a world of passion and dark, dark night.
The marquess abruptly put her from him. His breathing was ragged and he felt like a fool. “You are a witch. A damned witch, Lady Margery. But you shall not add my scalp to your belt.”
“I am not collecting scalps,” shouted Lady Margery, blushing and furious.
“Oh, no? What about Toby and Freddie and Perry?”
“Are you asking me if my intentions are honorable? Well, my lord, for your information, they are. I mean to find a husband.”
“There is a name for ladies like you,” sneered the marquess. “Do you intend to kiss all your suitors like that?”
“No,” replied Margery with sudden and infuriating calm. “I thank you for the experience, my lord. The next time I shall be prepared to cope with unwelcome attentions.”
“It is well known that your father’s pockets are to let,” said the marquess. “Does this explain your sudden passion for matrimony?”
“My lord Marquess,” said Margery coldly. “If you are going to sneer at and despise every lady who comes to London for a season with the intention of getting married, then you may as well go out and insult every debutante in town.”
“The Honorable Toby Sanderson,” came Chuffley’s voice from the door.
Toby strode in and then stopped in his tracks at the sight of the marquess. “Stealing a march on us, Edgecombe, eh?” he asked, not very pleasantly.
“I simply came to pay my respects.”
“Don’t let me keep you,” said Toby cheerfully, holding the door open.
The marquess hesitated. For the first time in his well-bred life he was aware of having behaved badly.
It went against the grain, but it had to be done. He turned and swept Lady Margery a low bow. “My deepest apologies, ma’am.”
Margery looked into his blue eyes suspiciously, but there was no trace of mockery there. And after all, she had let him kiss her.
“Your apology is accepted, my lord,” she said, inclining her head in a chilly nod in answer to his bow.
The marquess took his leave, and Toby Sanderson experienced the exquisite pangs of jealousy for the first time.
“Better be careful of Charles,” he warned, with his rather bulbous pale green eyes popping from their sockets. “Got a bit of a reputation with the ladies.”
“The Marquess of Edgecombe was all of the most gentlemanly,” replied Margery, and then wondered why she had rushed to his defense.
“Heh! Just as well. Call him out, I would, if he were anyone else.”
Margery reluctantly remembered her role as the future Mrs. Sanderson. “Oh, fie, for shame, sir,” she said. “The poor marquess having to duel with such a formidable opponent!”
“Well, well, well,” said Toby. “Enough of this warring talk. I wondered if you would care to take a turn in the park with me, ma’am?”
Margery found to her horror that the last thing she wanted to do was to spend a sunny morning simpering and flirting with this country squire. But Chelmswood must be saved at all costs.
She demurely lowered her eyes. “I would be delighted, sir.”
“Mr. Freddie Jamieson,” said Chuffley.
“Hallo, Toby,” exclaimed Freddie. “What are you doing here? Brought your fan back, Lady Margery. Wondered if you would care to drive with me?”
“She’s promised to me,” snarled Toby.
Freddie looked mildly amazed at his friend’s belligerent tone. “Don’t matter, th
en,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll take Lady Margery driving another day.”
Lady Margery bit her lip. In her plan of campaign she had certainly thought it would be a good idea to play one off against the other. But she had never envisaged them being in her drawing room at the same time. All it needed was…
“Viscount Swanley,” said Chuffley.
The three friends glared at each other.
Lady Margery retreated to the fireplace and studied her three possible husbands.
Viscount Swanley was undoubtedly the best looking, in his bottle-green coat of Bath superfine and his biscuit-colored pantaloons molded to a shapely pair of legs. He wore his hair in the fashionable Brutus crop. But his face was dreamy and irresolute and he was already looking dismayed at the wrath of his two friends.
Freddie Jamieson was tall and thin, with dark brown hair carefully curled and pomaded. Although he was only in his late twenties, an early life of dissipation had blurred his once handsome features, slackened his mouth, and placed large pouches under his eyes.
Toby Sanderson was broad, squat, and muscular, with an angry red face which belied his normal good humor. He did not aspire to the heights of dandyism, favouring a drab coat and buckskins laced above a pair of Hessians. A Belcher scarf knotted carelessly at his throat took the place of a cravat, and he had innumerable whipcords tucked into his buttonhole.
Lady Margery made up her mind. Let them fight it out among themselves.
“I am going to change into my carriage dress, gentlemen,” she said. “You may decide among you who is going to escort me.”
An awkward silence fell on the room after she had left. She had looked unhappy and slightly shaken, which had the effect of making her seem rather the drab Lady Margery of before.
Viscount Peregrine Swanley cleared his throat nervously.
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