Lady in Red (12 page)
Marcus shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. Of course you can have my chaise and coach, and I’ll just use yours until one of my others can be brought to town.” In truth, he possessed far more carriages than that, but kept only four in town; a high perch phaeton, a light curricle for warm days, a traveling chaise, and the coach, which was a monstrous affair in buff and blue, the family coat of arms painted on the sides.
“Thank you, Marcus! That will be wondrous indeed. Now… there’s one more thing I must ask…” Brandon paused as if to gather his thoughts.
Marcus’s gaze narrowed. “Why do I feel as if you’re about to deliver some bad news?”
A faint smile touched Brandon’s mouth. “Because I am. Not only do I need to borrow your coach and chaise, but I will need the services of your two best coachmen as well.”
“What?”
“I don’t have time to locate capable individuals. I must get the coach and carriage and horses to Dover as quickly as possible. I don’t have time to send back to my estates for one of the underlings.”
“This just gets better and better.”
Brandon grinned. “There is one more thing…”
Marcus waited.
“Herberts.” Brandon took a drink of his port that was more a gulp than a sip. “He is yours to command.”
“Your coachman? The one who steals?”
“He doesn’t steal from us. He just steals from other people.”
“Oh lovely. That will make me popular with the Prince.”
“You don’t like the Prince,” Brandon pointed out. “And since you rarely venture out into society anymore—”
“Blast it all, I am not a hermit and I wish people would stop hinting that I am!”
“I never said you were any such thing, Marcus. Look, just forget the whole thing.”
Marcus thought of Anthony’s words at White’s.
Had
he become closed off to his family? And to everyone else?
He looked at Brandon. “Very well. I will keep your ill-sprung coach and your sticky fingered coachman while you are in Italy. How long will you be gone?”
“Thank you! I think two weeks, perhaps more, depending on how things stand.”
Well. Two weeks wasn’t that bad. Not really. “I shall have to lock up all the silver in the house until you return.”
“Oh come now. Herberts is not as bad as he once was, you’d have to admit that much, at least. He usually only steals from people he thinks have slighted him.”
“Just two weeks ago when you came by while I was out of town, your coachman talked his way into the kitchen via a simpering maid and helped himself to two large hams. My chef almost had an apoplexy. He was threatening to quit and had worked himself into such a fit that by the time I returned, I was forced to offer him an exorbitant increase in wages just to get him to stay.”
“Antoine is a bit high strung.” Brandon sighed. “Look, I know I am asking a lot, but frankly, I am afraid to leave Herberts at home alone. He has such address that he is quite capable of talking the other servants into all sorts of ill conceived plans. And I cannot take him with me; Verena’s father has already caused a ruckus with the local authorities. The last thing I need is Herberts filching the silver out of the pocket of someone important.”
“But you said he only did that to people he thought had slighted him.”
“And the French.”
“Ah. He’s not only loyal but patriotic. How fortunate for England.” Marcus leaned his head back against his chair, noting the faint circles beneath Brandon’s eyes. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I said you could leave him here and so you can. And I promise that he will still be here when you return.”
“Thank you, Marcus! Herberts never misbehaves around you. Verena and I both have noticed that before.”
Marcus looked into his glass of port, which was depressingly full. Really, it was outside of enough that Brandon wanted Marcus’s carriages and both coachmen as well, but to foist his own ill-trained servant on Treymount House… Marcus paused. His brothers were getting rather annoying in their tendency to judge his more disciplined outlook on life of late. Perhaps if he took Brandon’s rambunctious coachman and, with solid discipline and stern oversight, turned him into a model of decorum, some of this dissatisfaction would dissipate. Perhaps then his brothers would realize the value of a life devoted to order.
It was an idea. A very fine idea, now that he contemplated it. Furthermore, it would answer Anthony’s complaint that Marcus had grown hard-hearted and never put forth any effort on anyone’s behalf. Why, doing this one favor for Brandon would quite disprove Anthony’s overly harsh analysis.
Marcus drained his glass in one long pull and then set it on the table beside him. “Two weeks?”
“No more than two weeks, I promise.”
Bloody hell, the things one did for one’s relatives. But if it would muffle some of the outcry… well, it needed to be done. “Very well. But see to it that you return as soon as possible.
With
my carriages
and
my coachmen.”
Brandon’s grin spread from ear to ear. “Thank you, Marcus. You don’t know how much this means.”
“And you don’t know what a pain this is.”
“Nonsense,” Brandon said, already up and heading for the door. “Herberts is a bit of a bother, but he has a heart of gold. I wish you well!”
“Herberts has a heart of gold and fingers made of sticky paste,” Marcus retorted, but he wasted his breath because Brandon was already gone.
Marcus sighed. The clock on the mantel chimed and he stood. He wanted to see Lord Melton before the man had time to drink himself into a stupor. Since Melton’s financial difficulties had begun, he was rarely seen without a glass in his hand and his cravat askew. It was sad how some people allowed their emotions to get the better of them. Thank goodness he was better than that.
Mon dieu!
First she tells me she wants her hair up. Then she tells me she wants it to the side. Then she tells me that she thinks I am an imbecile because I cannot seem to make up my mind! Next thing you know, it will be my fault she is fat!
Lady Southland’s new French maid to Lord Southland’s valet, while sitting at the upper stair servant dining table
The dangerously swaying coach racketed down the cobblestone drive of Oxbridge House, whisking past the line of waiting carriages, mud spraying each one from the large rear wheels. By the time they reached their destination, the horses were lathered, the body of the carriage splattered with mud and road dirt, and the driver grinning from ear to ear.
The footman assigned to opening carriage doors immediately came forward to do his duty, but to his astonishment, the lanky, cadaverous-appearing coachman jumped down from the carriage seat and elbowed the man out of the way.
“‘Ere now, that marquis belongs to me, if ye don’t mind!” Herberts said, glaring. “Keep yer mitts oaf’s ‘imp!”
The footman blinked. “B-But I was just going to open the door.”
“And keep the vale fer yourself, oiye don’t doubt. Well, this marquis
and
his vales are mine. And don’t ye be forgettin’ it, neither, ye greedy fool.”
The footman cast a wide, wild look at the upper footman, who had been left in charge of the arrival of the guests. That stalwart individual, after a stunned moment, managed a confused shrug. Left with no more direction than this, the lower footman flushed a dull red and fisted his hands.
“Aye now, is that the way ye wants it?” Herberts wiped his nose with his thumb and then lifted his fists, his elbows cocked out to each side. “Come at me then, ye bovine spirited fool!”
The footman looked as if he was more than happy to oblige Herberts’s request, but a sharp cough from the upper footman stilled that desire. Jaw set, the young footman glared at Herberts a second more, bowed and then moved aside.
“That’s more like it,” Herberts said, adjusting his new neck cloth and opening the door wide. “Out ye go, guv’nor!”
No movement came from within the coach.
Herberts leaned forward, peering into the darkness. “‘Ere now! Are ye there?”
Still no movement or sound appeared.
Herberts cupped a hand about his mouth and yelled, “
‘M’lord!
Are ye asleepin’?”
A faint moan was heard; but nothing more.
“Of all the lazy gents!” Herberts stuck his head into the door and eyed Marcus for a long moment. “There now, guv’nor! Do oiye need to shake ye awake?”
Marcus forced himself to open his eyes, pressing a hand to his quavering stomach. He had to swallow twice to get the words past his clenched jaw. “Have we stopped moving?”
Herberts chuckled. “Indeed we have, guv’nor!” The coachman stepped back and opened the door wider yet. “Out wid ye now!”
Marcus managed to climb out without stumbling too badly. His entire body protested the sudden move and he was certain his face had a nice greenish tint as he stepped down the final stair. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, clutching the carriage door with both hands. The entire world seemed to be slowly moving, left to right and then, just as confusedly, right to left.
Herberts grabbed Marcus’s arm and held him upright. “A drinker, are ye? Who’d have thought? Already shot in th’ neck and we’ve just arrived.”
“I am not drunk, dammit,” Marcus managed to say through his teeth, though his stomach protested even that small expulsion of air. “There are no spirits in the carriage, though I wish there had been for I would have drunk them all.” The heaving ground slowly sifted into a semblance of stillness. “You drive like a—a—”
“Pro-fes-sion-al?” Herberts asked in a hopeful tone.
“No,” Marcus said, yanking his arm free. “More like a bloody loon.”
Herberts puffed up his chest. “Oiye tol’ ye that oiye’d get ye to the ball afore the strike o’ midnight and here we are! O‘ course, oiye had to drive up on the walkway a bit when we came ’round that last corner, but there was no one but a flower girl there after all and oiye’m sure she’d a never sold those wilted violets anyhows.” His brow lowered. “But ‘tis a pity about that tilbury goin’ into the ditch. Oiye didn’t loike the way the driver screamed at us, but that’s neither here nor there, is it, guv’nor? Ye wanted to arrive on time and so we have. And wif a good ten minutes to spare!”
Marcus took a deep breath, pulling the welcoming cool night air through his nose. “Surely you have not been driving my brother and his wife about town in such a reckless fashion.”
“Not the missus. She has a bit of a stomach, if ye know whot oiye mean.” Herberts shook his head. “Womens are a bit squeamish.”
Marcus pressed his hand to his own midsection. “I can’t say as I blame her.”
“Yer brother, now. He’s a roight one, he is. Why, he once’t offered me twenty quid if oiye could get him to Grosvernor Square from the old bridge in under seven minutes.” Herberts beamed pleasantly. “Oiye got me twenty quid, oiye did.”
Marcus didn’t answer. He was slowly coming to the realization that his own brother was an unfeeling bastard. The sad facts were clear and becoming even more clear by the moment. Brandon had to have known what a dangerously incompetent coachman Herberts was. Which now caused Marcus to wonder at the haste with which his brother had left the country.
Had Brandon been in a hurry because he had a ship to catch and a father-in-law to save? Or had that story been naught but a distraction? Perhaps Brandon had really been in such a rush because he feared Marcus would come to his senses and change his mind about accepting the swap in coaches and coachmen.
Marcus eyed Herberts for a morose moment. “Where
did
you learn to guide a coach?”
Herberts tucked his thumbs into his lapels and rocked back on his heels. “‘Tis a natural talent, rather loike breathin’. Oiye just does it and it does jus’ fine.“
“Natural, hm? Naturally incompetent.”
“But roight fast, guv’nor.” Herberts winked broadly and touched a finger beside his nose. “And thet’s whot really counts.”
“My brother should have left you as a butler.”
“Oh, oiye was a fine butler, indeed. And the vales oiye managed to snipe—” Herberts caught Marcus’s stern gaze and colored. “Not that oiye’m one to borrow things from the gentry as oiye was once’t in favor of doin‘. Why oiye fancy oiye haven’t picked a pocket in, oh, several days, at least.”
“Days? Good God! Well, whatever you did before, you will not thieve while in my employ or it’s to the gaol with you.”
“Easy now, guv’nor! Oiye’ll endeavor to keep me nambers in me own pockets.”
“See that you do.”
Herberts smiled, revealing a myriad of missing and broken teeth, his hooked nose even more pronounced. “Oiye aim to please, oiye do! Speakin‘ of keepin’ me nambers where they belong…” He held out his hand, his none-too-clean fingers cupped as if he expected largesse of no small amount.
Marcus straightened his shoulders, a faint hint of nausea still lingering. “There will be no vales for such a wild ride.”
Herberts blinked. He looked into his cupped hand, incomprehension on his cadaverous face. “No… no vales.” His clawlike fingers closed over his empty palm and he visibly collected himself, blinking his eyes as if to ward off tears. “Pardon me, guv’nor. But did ye say there would be no vales? As in… none a’tall?”
“When we go somewhere, I expect to arrive in one piece and not be tossed about like a salt shaker in a bin.”
Herberts’s hand dropped to his side and his shoulders slumped. “But oiye got ye here, and wif time to spare.”
For a moment Marcus thought the man might cry. Really, it was unseemly. But if he wanted to reform Herberts so that he was a competent coachman, Marcus would have to speak to the coachman on his own level, one obviously paved in gold.
Fortunately, if there was one thing Marcus knew, it was gold. “Herberts, your job is not only to see to it that I arrive at my destination on time, but
also
that I get there in a seemly manner. Once you learn how to do both of those things at the same time, then there will be vales. A
lot
of vales, Herberts.” Marcus leaned forward and added in a low, winning tone, “More vales than you can imagine.”
Herberts’s eyes widened, his downcast expression vanishing in an instant. “Oiye should warn ye, guv’nor! Oiye’ve a large imagination, oiye do.”
Marcus adjusted his cravat. “I’m counting on it. There is another coach arriving, so you must move this one. Return in an hour. I shouldn’t need any longer than that to find Lord Melton and conclude my business.”
Herberts straightened, a renewed purpose in his rather watery gaze. “Aye, guv’nor! Oiye’ll be here at one sharp, see if oiye’m not!”
“Good.” Marcus turned toward the house, then paused, one foot on the steps. “And Herberts?”
The coachman cocked a brow his direction.
“It’s not ‘guv’nor’ but ‘my lord.”“
“Of course, guv—I mean, me lord.” With that promising phrase, the coachman tipped his hat, winked broadly, and then clambered back on the coach.
Bloody hell, that man was a complete mess. Shaking his head, Marcus made his way up the rest of the stairs, the last vestiges of nausea leaving as he did so.
The mansion was ablaze with light and decorated in the latest fashion, if somewhat overdone. Marcus wasn’t sure what it was—the colors were too bright or the furnishings too numerous or the use of gold foil trim painfully excessive— but the result was a flood of color and texture that made one wish to turn and run.
The Oxbridges were new money, having acquired the title after gaining a respectable fortune in textiles only a mere thirty or so years ago. And like all new rich, they had eventually moved themselves to Mayfair. For all their vulgar propensities, they were welcomed almost everywhere. While a few, more traditional members of the ton would not allow that “new money” was necessary to refurbish old fortunes, most everyone else disagreed.
It was, after all, quite necessary to bring a touch of new money into the family fold every hundred years or so. And since the Oxbridges possessed not one, but two rather attractive daughters and no male heirs, their arrival on Regent Street was even more welcoming than they’d expected. Every younger son in search of a promising bride, and older son attempting to repair the family fortune, made it a point to be present everywhere the Oxbridges deigned to appear.
Thus it was that the Oxbridge ball was filled to overflowing. Marcus, sauntering to the receiving line, absently greeting acquaintances as he went, almost winced at the way Lady Oxbridge drew up on seeing him. She looked rather like an overstuffed sausage, her thick body encased in white feathers and blazing red silk. Marcus had a fondness for red silk, and it made him wince to see the expensive material so strained.
“The Marquis of Treymount!” Lady Oxbridge trilled, just loudly enough to be heard by every person in the grand hall. “What a pleasure to have you at our humble entertainment!”
Lord Oxbridge puffed up as well, blustering out a hello and bowing in a ridiculously fawning manner. “Devilish good to see you, Treymount! Didn’t think you normally attended this sort of ruckus, but I’m glad you did.”
Lady Oxbridge laughed in an affected manner, her eyes blazing a second. “Oxbridge, how you do go on! Lord Treymount is known to be very
particular
in which amusements he attends, but there is no reason to think he will find anything wanting at one of our little events!”
“Indeed,” Marcus murmured, glancing past the florid lady and into the rooms beyond. Where was the card room? He’d wager a crown he’d find Lord Melton comfortably ensconced there, frittering away what tiny bit of income he still had left.
Lady Oxbridge took his interest in the other rooms in a different manner. She leaned over and said in a low voice, “I daresay you came to see Jane, haven’t you?”
Marcus blinked. “I… ah, Jane. I don’t believe I—”
Lady Oxbridge smacked his arm with her fan. “Don’t play coy with me! I can see that you’re pining away to join the young ones on the dance floor! Oxbridge, give the man a bow and let him be on his way.” She leaned closer to Marcus and said in a loud whisper that he supposed she imagined to be an undertone, “My eldest, Jane, is in white and pink sarsonet beside the refreshment table. Tell her to give you her last dance before supper. I told her to save it in case the Prince should have shown.” Lady Oxbridge shrugged. “It doesn’t appear as if he will, so you may take his place.”
Good God, it was more horrid than he’d ever imagined. Even Lord Oxbridge had the decency to look a bit shocked at this loud hint. “Judith! Really now, no sense in teasing the man!”
Lady Oxbridge took immediate exception to this public correction. Turning bright pink, she fluffed up like an outraged cat and snapped back an answer.
Marcus decided now was a good time to make his escape. Without interrupting the quarreling couple, he managed a short bow, turned on his heel and made his way into the ballroom. It was fairly easy to find the card room simply by following the trail of men making their way to two wide doors that were held open by attending footmen.
Marcus immediately spotted his prey; Lord Melton sat at a green-felt-covered table, his cravat perfectly tied, his face flushed from the contents of a half-empty glass at his elbow, a wild, desperate gleam to his eye. He was a young man, always fashionably dressed, and held by most to be both personable and quite handsome. But Marcus knew him for what he really was—a profligate gambler who had sold an ancient estate down the Thames on the flip of a single card.
Yet here he was, drinking and gambling yet again. Marcus moved to one side, offering a polite bow when Melton’s gaze finally found him.
The younger man’s smile—faint as it was—faded from his lips. He paled and grabbed impulsively at his glass and took a gulp, then set it back on the table, his hand visibly shaking. “Treymount.”
The others at the table glanced curiously from the young lord to Marcus.
Marcus nodded coolly, keeping his gaze locked on Melton. “Good evening, Charles. I trust you are well.”
Lord Pultney looked up from where he was shuffling the cards, his extra chins quivering with the effort. “It’s a good thing you aren’t playing, Treymount. The devil’s own luck is in it tonight. Neither Charles nor I have won a hand all night.”
Marcus could feel his teeth almost grinding. Bloody hell, what was the fool thinking? Here he sat, his estates mortgaged to the hilt, his finances in a state of ruin, tossing hand after losing hand upon the green felt table. If there was one thing Marcus could not accept, it was irresponsible behavior. “Melton, I had hoped to see you this evening.”
The young man was suddenly as red as he had been white. He started to lift the glass once more to his lips, but stopped when he realized it was empty. He set it back on the table and forced a broad smile to his colorless lips. “Well, here I am in all my glory!” He suddenly became quite animated, gesturing to a passing footman to refill his glass. “Come, Treymount, have a glass!”
“No, thank you.”
Melton’s eyes rested on Marcus, a strange glitter in their depths. “Too good to have a drink with me? Is that it?”
Pultney glanced from beneath his heavy gray brows at the young lord. “Heigh-ho, Melton. I daresay Treymount has just arrived and, like a shrewd man, is simply pacing himself. Daresay he’d have a spot of the golden with you later.”
