Lady Lucy's Lover (6 page)

His business being settled, he made a brisk farewell to Mr. Barrington and a tender one to Harriet and took himself off to Asprey's in Bond Street to find a present for his wife.

After some deliberation, he chose a diamond pendant on a delicate gold chain and diamond earrings to match.

Feeling virtuous, he arrived home in triumph and dropped the box in Lucy's lap.

To his surprise, she did not scream with delight on seeing the expensive baubles, but sat very still, turning them over slowly in her small hand.

“I-I made a list of the bills in your desk, Guy,” she faltered.

“That is not your business,” he said, still too surprised at her reaction to be angry. “Try them on, Lucy.”

“But… but… the bills amount to fifty thousand pounds, Guy. All of them
unpaid
. And… and… I became worried because you are always saying we must retrench. And, oh! it is wonderful of you to think of me, but…”

“Silly, puss,” teased the Marquess, trying to fight down his rising rage. What had come over the girl? She was normally so sweet and acquiescent. The buying of the baubles, he had hoped, would give his guilty conscience over his marital infidelity a sort of immediate absolution.

“My man of business is dealing with them right away,” he said.

“Mr. Stockwell is dealing with it
all?
”

“Not Stockwell… that preaching old Methodist. A new fellow, Barrington.”

“Oh,
Guy
. That is the man I was warned against. It is said…”

“A pox on what was said!” howled the Marquess, snatching the jewels and cramming them back in the box. “The fact is you are childish and ungrateful and do not deserve
anything
.”

“But,
listen
to me,” cried Lucy, jumping to her feet.

“No, I'll go and listen to someone who will appreciate me.”

“Harriet Comfort, no doubt.”

“Why not?” he sneered. “She knows how to make a man feel like a man!”

“Quite an achievement,” flashed Lucy, “when he does not know how to behave like one!”

The Marquess slapped her as hard as he could and Lucy went flying while he stormed from the room.

The slap had been so unexpected that Lucy had not resisted it in any way and so it did less damage than it might.

She picked herself off the floor and found to her surprise that she no longer had any desire to cry. She was too furious for that. Furious and worried.

Something must be done to bring her husband to his senses. She was rubbing her stinging cheek when Mrs. Hartford was announced.

Ann was worried. She had heard many reports of Lucy's outing with the Duke of Habard, of how happy the Duke had appeared in Lucy's company and various descriptions of what a handsome couple they had made.

Ann was regretting her remark that Lucy should find a lover. She was worried her young friend might have taken her suggestion seriously. She felt she had joined the ranks of those dreadful women who make it their business to interfere in other couples' marriages.

Never had Lucy found herself so out of charity with her best friend. Ann burst out with, “I saw Guy crossing the square just as I was arriving. He really is a fine figure of a man, Lucy. Where
does
he get his coats made? Weston?”

“Schultz,” said Lucy dully.

“Indeed? I would have said Weston. You have rather too much slap on one side of your face, my dear,” added Ann innocently, not realizing that in using the cant word for rouge, she had described the source of Lucy's one-sided blush accurately.

“Have you heard of a bill broker called Barrington?” asked Lucy abruptly.

“A bill broker? No. Are you in dun territory?”

“I believe so,” said Lucy, suddenly longing to tell Ann about the gift of the necklace and how it had been taken back. To stop herself from being disloyal to her husband, Lucy went on, “Probably I am making too much of it and becoming quite exercised to no good effect. Guy deals with all our business matters and naturally men know better than us women how to handle such things,” added Lucy, trying to believe this to be true.

“Are you going to the Ruthfords' ball tonight?” asked Ann.

“Yes. It is to be a masked ball, you know. I have such a pretty mask, although it was vastly expensive.” Once again Lucy was assailed by guilt. How
could
she be alarmed at her husband's extravagance when the things she ordered for herself were often very costly. But there must be some action she could take… oh, she wished Ann would go away so that she could
think
.

While her mind twisted and turned, she answered Ann's questions about Blackheath in a half-hearted kind of way which reassured that lady immediately. The Duke of Habard had broken many hearts in his time, but never had it been said that his own had been in the slightest touched.

Ann went on to describe the latest terrible road accident. The Honorable Mr. Butler and his sister, the Marchioness Mariescotti, had been returning from Ascot races in Mr. Butler's phaeton. He had been driving four blood horses of different colors at great speed from Englefield Green down Egham Hill, when traces, collars, and breeches had broken away and the phaeton was overturned with such force that it had
shivered
to pieces.

The leaders were killed and Mr. Butler had been pulled from his seat and dragged along the ground. The Marchioness's arm had been broken in two places and two London surgeons had been called upon to attend her and her situation was still uncertain.

And Lucy murmured shocked remarks, her mind still racing.

At last Ann took her leave and Lucy was left in peace to search for a solution to salvage the wreck of her marriage.

But try as she would, she could not think of any ideas. She did not think for a moment that the Duke had been mistaken about Mr. Barrington. He was too much a man of the world for that.

She was still turning the problem over in her mind when her parents were announced.

Mr. and Mrs. Hyde-Benton were disappointed to find the Marquess from home, but were determined that Lucy should make up for his absence by describing all the Notables she had met so that they might join the ranks of the aristocracy by proxy, as it were.

Mr. Hyde-Benton was tall and sallow with a long lugubrious face. Mrs. Hyde-Benton was fair and faded, showing some traces of earlier beauty lurking in a weak, rather silly face.

Lucy obliged them as best she could, but somehow could not bring herself to describe her day at Blackheath. Her parents, she knew, would immediately demand an exhausting and exhaustive description of everything the Duke had said and done.

Instead Lucy found herself asking, “Do you know of a Mr. Barrington who is a bill broker, Papa?”

“I have no dealings with him, but I have heard of him. Why?”

“Someone was talking about him. He has an office somewhere in the City, I believe?”

“Six Fetter Lane,” said her father promptly. “But bill brokers are not fashionable. Have you seen the Prince Regent this Season?”

“I saw him briefly at the Courtlands' ball,” said Lucy. Suddenly an idea of how to win back her husband's love came to her in a blinding flash. “I think we are going to a reception at the Queen's House.”

“Oooh!” exclaimed Mrs. Hyde-Benton. “'Tis montrous exciting. You will need a court dress and a hoop and…”

“Exactly,” said Lucy firmly. “I do not wish to ask Guy for the money because men do not understand the excessive cost of these things.”

“Do not worry, my love,” said her mother. “Papa will gladly fund you. And… and… you must have your portrait painted. The Queen's House. Oh, dear! I shall die of excitement.”

“How much?” asked Mr. Hyde-Benton.

Lucy took a deep breath. “Fifty thousand pounds,” she said.

“Fifty thou—” gasped Mr. Hyde-Benton. He had thought that nothing more in the way of inflationary Regency prices could shock him. But this!

“Lady Londonderry paid a deal more,” said Lucy, her heart thumping against her ribs. “You see, Papa, one's gown must be embroidered in precious stones and it is the thing to have the heels of one's shoes encrusted with diamonds. But it
is
excessive. I am flying too high.”

Mr. Hyde-Benton took a deep breath. He could well afford even this vast sum of money. His daughter's social success meant everything to him.

Lucy watched him anxiously. She had no fear of her parents arriving on the supposed night of the royal reception in order to see her finery. The Hyde-Bentons were so obsessed with social climbing that they thought very little of their own status and were always careful to call on their daughter when they were sure she would not be entertaining any of her grand friends. Lucy's success was enough for them. Every time her name appeared in the court circular, they cut it out and carefully pasted it into a gold-embossed book.

“Very well,” said her father. “I will give you a draft on my bank. Perhaps I should give it to Lord Standish.…”

“Oh, but he wouldn't understand,” said Lucy quickly. “And he would be shocked at the extravagance. Confess, Papa. You are shocked yourself.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Hyde-Benton again. “Now, Lucy, did the Prince Regent speak to you? What was he wearing? And is it true that…?”

To Lucy, with the draft on her father's bank firmly in her hand, it seemed only fair to please her indulgent parents as best she could, and so, with only a little twinge of guilt, she invented a long and fictitious conversation with the Prince Regent, and, after some time, her parents left, feeling quite dizzy and exalted at the thought of their little Lucy sitting talking to His Royal Highness for quite half an hour.

The Duke of Habard waited patiently in the traffic jamming Fleet Street. Not for him the impatience of the flogging whip or loud oath.

Sooner or later, the press of carriages and brewers' drays would start to move. He found himself thinking of Lady Standish. She came so suddenly and vividly to his mind that he half turned his head, expecting to see her.

The slight form of a heavily veiled woman was turning into Fetter Lane. There was something in the walk… in the turn of the head…

The Duke frowned. The figure scurried quickly along and then turned into the dark court which led to the offices of Mr. Barrington.

The traffic began to move, and, almost against his will, he swung off Fleet Street, into Fetter Lane and the court that led to Number Six. His gaze ranged over the handful of unsavory characters who were lounging about and he was glad he had brought Harry, the burliest of his grooms, along instead of his small tiger. He did not fear for himself but for the welfare of his horses.

But he found himself reluctant to climb down and ascend the stairs to Mr. Barrington's office. He had been thinking so intensely of Lady Standish that surely it followed that he imagined the veiled woman to be she. Then if it did turn out to be Lady Standish, surely it was entirely her own affair whether she wished to apply to Barrington for help. But such a lamb in the clutches of such a wolf! Then again, whatever she did was her husband's affair, not his. At last, he came to the conclusion that unless he found out what exactly was going on in that office upstairs, he would not be able to enjoy the rest of the day.

The staircase leading to Mr. Barrington's office was dark and dirty and smelled abominably. Near the top were two burly individuals, leaning on either side of the wall.

The Duke tossed the nearest one a guinea and said in a low voice. “Be off with you and drink my health. I have private business with Mr. Barrington.”

The fellow hesitated and looked at his companion, who shrugged. They were paid sixpence an hour to “defend” Mr. Barrington, but so far there had been no cause for their services. And there was only a slip of a girl in with the old man. The man with the guinea winked. “We'll just step out for a minute, guv,” he muttered, and, jerking his head to his friend to follow him, he ambled off down the stairs.

The Duke waited until they had gone and then moved silently up to the door. Voices came faintly from within but he could not make out what they were saying.

He turned the handle very gently and gave the door a little push, hoping it would not creak.

Now Lucy's voice came clearly to his ears. “I do not understand, Mr. Barrington,” she was saying. “I have here fifty thousand pounds in order to pay those bills of my husband's. None of them is yet overdue and yet you dare to demand some extortionate amount of interest.”

“Your husband was well aware of the arrangement,” replied Mr. Barrington, sounding highly amused. “He signed these papers, agreeing to the stipulated amount of discount.”

“My lord is careless,” said Lucy, “and I do not believe for a moment that he knew what he was signing. I will take you to court.”

“I do not believe that,” came Mr. Barrington's voice. The amusement had gone and he sounded irritated. “The court would uphold my claim.”

“But it would expose your sharp practices to the eyes of the newspapers and public,” said Lucy. For a moment the Duke could hardly believe this was the porcelain-miniature Lady Standish.

There came the sound of a chair shifting. “Look here, my little lady,” said Mr. Barrington and his voice was no longer jovial but tinged with menace. “You are threatening me and
I don't like threats. I see you are veiled and I should guess that you came here unattended. It would be a pity if anything should happen to the delightful Marchioness of Standish.…”

The Duke of Habard pushed open the door.

Mr. Barrington paused in midsentence, his mouth open. Lucy swung around. She was seated in a high-backed chair facing Mr. Barrington across the desk.

The Duke raised his quizzing glass and studied the tableau.

“My Lord Duke!” gasped Mr. Barrington, who made it his job to recognize all the members of the Quality. “We have just completed our business and Lady Standish is just leaving.” Mr. Barrington began to rub his thick hands. The Duke of Habard was a big fish and he was anxious to speed this irritating little Marchioness on her way.