by M C Beaton
‘How came it you landed in at Baddell Castle? Pole break?’
‘No, worse than that,’ said Belinda. ‘The driver was drunk and fell asleep. The coach left the road and we landed in the middle of a river. It was there that the marquess found us.’
‘Well, if that don’t beat all. What an adventure. Were you hurt?’
‘I sprained my ankle.’ Belinda poked a neat foot forward to show him an ankle wrapped in a bandage.
‘I say, you should rest that. Better get Mama to find you a bedchamber. Hey, Mother, this lady’s hurt her ankle. If you ain’t got any bedchambers made up, Miss Earle can have mine. She’s old Bellamy’s great-niece, by the way.’
‘How is he?’ asked the countess.
‘Dead, my lady.’
‘Sad. What of?’
‘A seizure, my lady.’
‘And what of that moralizing wife of his?’
‘At The Bath, my lady. I am to stay with her.’
‘Sorry for you and that’s a fact.’ The countess fell silent, for the Judds were preparing to sing again. They sang several popular duets and rounded off their recital with a rousing rendition of ‘Rule, Britannia!’
Amid the noisy applause, the countess strode over to the piano and accosted them. She began to question them about themselves and, on finding out all about the seminary, and then about the Marquess of Frenton’s introductions, an idea hit her. She knew that her peers considered her an eccentric and the only way she could ever outshine anyone was on the hunting field, but since only ladies of her own rather masculine stamp hunted, there was not much of a feeling of success in that. But if she could produce these singing Judds in her own drawing-room in the town house in London as her find, she would be able to put a good few aristocratic noses out of joint. Overwhelmed with gratitude, the Judds breathlessly agreed. Satisfied and delighted with their gratitude, the countess rang the bell and ordered bedchambers to be made ready for the stage-coach passengers whom she had previously expected to bed down on the floor of the servants’ hall.
The marquess was wondering what to do. He wanted to talk to Belinda but she was being monopolized by Lord Frederick. His eyes drifted over the assembled company. Miss Wimple, wearing a tremendous turban to disguise her shaven head, was talking in a low voice to the Methodist minister. The marquess studied the minister and his eyes sharpened. Hannah, watching from her corner, noticed that Mr Biles saw the marquess looking at him and the way Mr Biles flushed and averted his eyes.
Penelope at that moment caught Lord Frederick’s eye and beckoned to him. With a hurried excuse to Belinda, he rose and went to join her. The marquess took his vacated seat.
‘I am pleased to see you again, Miss Earle,’ he began.
Belinda bowed her head but made no reply. Her eye-lashes were very long and silky, the marquess noticed. Belinda Earle was like a good painting that one could examine at length and each time discover something new and pleasing. ‘I was on my way to The Bath,’ he said, unable to bring himself to say that the sole reason for his journey was to look for her. ‘I was very surprised to find the Jordan family here.’
Belinda looked at him, startled. ‘I had assumed you came with them!’
‘No, unfortunately they had to leave the castle.’
She had a sudden hope that he had sent them packing. ‘Why?’
‘Because I am having all the rooms redecorated and, alas, Miss Jordan is made quite ill by the smell of fresh paint.’
Meanwhile, Lord Frederick was telling a highly irritated Penelope about Belinda’s good social standing. ‘Odd, is it not?’ he asked.
‘What is odd?’ snapped Penelope.
‘That Miss Earle should choose to travel by the stage.’
‘There is a great deal odd about Miss Earle,’ said Penelope, lowering her voice. ‘Do you know she had the temerity to make an assignation with the Marquess of Frenton?’
‘When? Where?’
‘She sent him a letter. My maid told me of it and I thought I had better warn that travelling companion of hers, Miss Pym, about it as her real companion was ill. But Miss Pym, as far as I can guess, did nothing. Miss Earle is a well-known hussy.’
‘How shocking,’ said Lord Frederick. ‘Thought Frenton was courting you, or rather, that’s what the gossips said.’
‘He was,’ said Penelope in a sad voice. ‘But I asked Mama and Papa to take me away, for I fear I and the marquess would not suit. He is a trifle old and set in his ways.’ She cast Lord Frederick a languishing look. ‘I prefer younger men.’
‘By George! And so you should, a delightful beauty like yourself, Miss Jordan.’
Lord Frederick’s brain, usually not very agile, appeared all at once to be working at a great rate. He had every intention of proposing to Penelope. She was rich and she was beautiful, and he could not understand why she had not been snapped up before. Lord Frederick was very much a man of his age. Love and marriage in his opinion definitely did not mix. One needed a pretty wife to grace one’s bed and table, but real pleasure was to be found elsewhere. He paid Penelope further compliments while his hot eyes ranged in the direction of Belinda Earle. He was sure she was the reason the marquess had pretended to need shelter from the storm. On to a good thing, too, thought Lord Frederick. He himself wouldn’t mind getting a leg over that. Young and sweet and, what was more important, no fear of the pox. Might try his luck with her himself.
The marquess, by talking on general topics and showing her every mark of respect, was trying to repair the damage he must have surely done in treating Belinda so vulgarly.
Belinda replied automatically, her spirits very low. It was obvious to her that the marquess had only kissed her because he thought she was damaged goods. When he had found out she was not, he had decided she was like any other boring female of his acquaintance, someone to talk civilities to. She did not know that behind the marquess’s calm eyes his brain was furiously working out some way in which he could get a chance to kiss that glorious mouth again. He was not yet sure whether he wanted to marry her.
The countess interrupted their conversation, asking the marquess again why he did not hunt, and Belinda was left with her thoughts. Penelope was flirting with Lord Frederick. How could she? marvelled Belinda. Lord Frederick, despite his fine evening clothes, had a low forehead and a leering, nasty look about the eyes. But Penelope was glowing and her beauty gave Belinda another sharp stab of jealousy.
Belinda furtively fingered her own thin, finely arched eyebrows and then looked miserably at Penelope’s thick, luxuriant ones. Also, as Penelope raised an arm to adjust a curl, she revealed a strong bush of hair growing in her armpit.
It was an age when gentlemen preferred ladies to have a lot of hair – everywhere. Never had false hair been in such demand. Not only should the hair on one’s head be thick and luxuriant, but the eyebrows were supposed to be thick, and the arms and the armpits seductively hairy. Some ladies, Belinda had heard, even shaved their arms regularly in the hope of encouraging growth. The newspapers abounded with notices advertising not only wigs but false eyebrows, and there were even advertisements for pubic wigs, complete with illustrations, there for anyone to see. Belinda saw the marquess looking at her and blushed deep red. No young lady should even think about pubic hair.
Hannah Pym was now holding a skein of wool for the poor relation. She saw the way Penelope leaned forward intimately to talk to Lord Frederick and then the way that gentleman’s eyes widened and he stared across the room at Belinda.
Hannah glared at Miss Wimple. She blamed the companion for starting all the gossip about Belinda, forgetting in her distress that it was Belinda herself who had given Penelope suspicions about the innocence of her character by writing that letter to Frenton. Damn Miss Wimple, thought Hannah. If only she would get really drunk and disgrace herself. But she was so taken up with that Methodist minister that she was behaving like a virginal miss in her teens.
Finally, the countess rose as a signal that the evening was at
an end. Belinda, Hannah and Miss Wimple found they were to have a room each, the hunting-box having plenty of bedchambers so as to accommodate quite large parties of huntsmen.
Hannah would have preferred a room next to Belinda’s but found she was in the floor above. She decided to read one of her guidebooks before going to bed. A hush had descended on the house. Hannah read on and then decided Belinda was safe for the night. If only the girl could avoid the marquess for a little longer; Hannah was sure Frenton would propose to her.
Belinda, too, was reluctant to sleep. The marquess had looked as if there were many things he wanted to say to her. Perhaps he would call on her. And yet if he did, it meant he was of the same mind as before. He thought she was easy game.
At last she blew out the light and settled herself for sleep. One moment, she thought it would never come, and the next, she had plunged down into oblivion.
The marquess was having a painful interview with Mr Biles, the Methodist minister. ‘I do not think,’ said the marquess, feeling pompous, ‘that you are setting a good example to Miss Earle by flirting with her companion when you are a married man.’ Mr Biles turned red and then white and then looked sulky. Mr Biles, the marquess knew, lived in a village some ten miles from the castle. He was a wealthy man, son of a prosperous tradesman, and had married the daughter of an equally wealthy tradesman some six months ago. The daughter had been a middle-aged spinster when Mr Biles led her to the altar. She was a fat, plain, rather argumentative woman. It had been assumed her generous dowry had been the attraction, but the marquess was now not so sure. Mr Biles seemed genuinely smitten by the unlikely charms of Miss Wimple, shaven head and all.
‘I am sorry for Miss Wimple. I feel she has an onerous task,’ said Mr Biles defiantly. ‘Miss Earle—’
‘That’s enough!’ snapped the marquess. ‘Not one word. Miss Earle is a highly respectable young lady. Miss Wimple should be more mindful of her duties and guard her tongue.’
Trembling with outrage, the Methodist minister drew himself up to his full height of five feet two inches. ‘Miss Wimple is a precious pearl,’ he said. ‘I would do nothing to harm her. Just because you have a title and lands, you have no call to interfere in my life. You think you can walk over everyone. I, sir, am a Methodist and proud of it. I am not of the Church of England and need not fawn on every lord in the hope of a high living or a bishopric. I spurn you and all you stand for.’
‘Miss Wimple,’ said the marquess with a reluctant feeling of admiration for the minister’s sudden access of dignity, ‘is nonetheless a dangerous gossip. She does not have the interests of her charge at heart. On my arrival in The Bath, I have no other option but to call on Lady Bellamy, Miss Earle’s great-aunt, and tell her I consider Miss Wimple unfit for the position she holds. Good night!’
He walked back to his own bedchamber, but before he reached it, he saw Lord Frederick, in his night-gown, tiptoeing along the corridor. To the marquess’s amazement, Lord Frederick stopped at Belinda’s door, turned the handle and walked in.
The marquess quickened his step and grasped hold of that young man by the shoulder just as he was approaching the sleeping figure on the bed.
‘Wrong bedchamber,’ said the marquess icily, swinging Lord Frederick around.
Belinda gave an exclamation and sat up in bed.
Lord Frederick was holding a candle in a flat stick. The light from it illumined the two men’s faces.
Lord Frederick leered. ‘Sorry if I’m spoiling your game, Frenton.’
The marquess punched him full on the mouth and Lord Frederick went flying. The candle hit the floor and went out.
Belinda scrabbled feverishly with the tinder-box beside the bed and lit her candle.
Lord Frederick was struggling to his feet with a villainous look in his eyes.
‘You took me by surprise, you rat,’ he said. ‘Put up your fives.’
‘Come outside,’ said the marquess. ‘We cannot brawl in a lady’s bedchamber.’
‘Here and now,’ roared Lord Frederick. ‘I don’t care what your doxy thinks.’
The marquess struck him again, this time on the nose, and Lord Frederick reeled back.
‘Stop it!’ screamed Belinda. ‘You are waking the whole household.’
Lord Frederick lurched purposefully towards the marquess, blood from his nose staining the white front of his night-gown.
Suddenly Belinda’s bedchamber seemed to be full of people. Hannah was there, as were the Judds, the countess and earl, the Jordans, and several servants.
‘What are the pair of you doing, punching each other in the middle of the night?’ demanded the countess.
‘I found Lord Frederick in my fiancée’s bedchamber,’ said the marquess calmly, ‘and took appropriate action.’
Belinda blinked at him in a dazed way.
There was a sudden silence. Then Sir Henry Jordan gave tongue. ‘Do you mean to tell me you were courting my daughter while you were already engaged to this … to this …?’
‘Careful,’ warned the marquess.
‘Oh, Lord Frederick,’ cried Penelope. ‘You are hurt. I cannot bear it.’
She swayed and then neatly fell into his arms. ‘The deuce,’ said Lord Frederick, pushing her into her mother’s arms. ‘Let me get at him.’
‘Stop it, both of you,’ ordered the countess, ‘and tell me what this is all about. Frederick! What are you doing in Miss Earle’s bedchamber?’
Lord Frederick opened his mouth and shut it again. Then he raised the hem of his night-gown and mopped his streaming nose. Penelope screamed and averted her eyes. The truculence was dying out of Lord Frederick’s face and he was beginning to look puzzled.
‘Demne,’ he said, scratching his head, ‘looks like I got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Miss Jordan told me this evening that Miss Earle was no better than she should be, and so I decided to try for a bit of sport. Then when Frenton walked in, stands to reason I thought Miss Earle was his … er … little friend, if you take my meaning. Now Frenton says he’s engaged to her.’ He rounded on Penelope. ‘Why did you tell me such a hum?’
‘They cannot be engaged,’ gasped Penelope. ‘They only met the other week for the first time.’
‘It was love at first sight,’ said the marquess in an expressionless voice. ‘I am sorry I hit you, Frederick, but you were misled. My fiancée has suffered enough upset and distress. I suggest you go to bed and let me talk to her.’
‘There’s something havey-cavey in all this,’ protested the earl. ‘You never said anything about being engaged to Miss Earle when you arrived, and yet you must have known she was one of the stage-coach passengers.’
‘I am of a shy nature,’ said the marquess, ‘and my love for Miss Earle made me even more shy. Besides, I was stricken with remorse at having let her travel ahead on the stage in this weather.’
Belinda sat up in bed, unable to move or speak. The sheer gladness that had flooded her body when he had first said she was his fiancée was quickly ebbing away. The marquess’s eyes held a mocking glint now. He was making fools of the Twittertons and the Jordans, that was all.
One by one they all went out, all except Hannah Pym, who stood her ground.
‘You, too, Miss Pym,’ said the marquess.
‘Are you really engaged?’ asked Hannah.
‘Yes,’ said the marquess.
‘No,’ squeaked Belinda.
‘So,’ said Hannah, folding her arms, ‘what is going on?’
The marquess sighed impatiently. All he wanted was to be shot of Hannah Pym and to kiss Belinda Earle’s delicious mouth. He had said Belinda was his fiancée on the spur of the moment and to save her reputation. But now it seemed like an excellent idea. He would have Belinda Earle and that mouth of hers for his sole property for the rest of his life and he found the idea enchanting. On the other hand, he still felt guilty at having behaved towards Belinda in such an ungentlemanly way in the first place, and he had just made a noble gesture. So he opened his m
outh and proceeded to put his foot in it.
‘It was all I could think of,’ he said. ‘Frederick has obviously been misled by Miss Jordan’s malicious and jealous gossip, although when I first saw Frederick entering here, I thought Miss Wimple might have had a hand in it. I had to save Miss Earle’s reputation, and so I said she was my fiancée.’
Belinda groaned and sank down on the pillows and drew the blankets over her head.
‘So now what are you going to do?’ asked Hannah.
‘Why, marry her, of course!’
‘Does she want to marry you?’
The marquess looked at Hannah in blank amazement. When did any woman not want to marry a wealthy marquess?
‘Go on, ask her, while I am still here,’ said Hannah grimly.
The marquess approached the bed. He tugged down the covers. Belinda’s furious eyes glared up at him. ‘Will you marry me?’ he asked.
‘No, I will not,’ said Belinda, and jerked the covers up over her face again.
The marquess swung round. ‘Do leave us, Miss Pym. Miss Earle is not your concern.’
‘No, I will not, sirrah. Miss Earle does not want you and so I shall stay right here until you leave.’
Belinda heard Hannah’s words, and instead of being grateful to her, she was suddenly and irrationally furious. Was her life always going to be dogged by middle-aged people who did not think she had a mind of her own?
She struggled up from under the blankets again. ‘I can fight my own battles, Miss Pym. Pray do as his lordship requires.’
‘I cannot argue with you, Miss Earle,’ said Hannah severely. ‘But I am going to fetch Miss Wimple. You are her concern and she should be here.’
Hannah marched out but left the door open.
Belinda surveyed the marquess with a militant eye. He was still in his evening dress and his hair was powdered. His eyes looked aloof and remote. ‘Well?’ demanded Belinda sarcastically. ‘Tell me all about this love at first sight.’
He sat down on the bed and looked down at her. ‘I was trying to save your reputation.’
