Marigold's Marriages (3 page)

The last two weeks had been very wearying. She’d left Castell Arnold within an hour of her confrontation with Falk, and traveled to Lancashire to see her mother and stepfather, in the vain hope of finding refuge there. Her mother would gladly have taken her in again, but her stepfather was still obdurate. In his eyes a sin committed at sixteen remained unforgivable at thirty, and that was the end of it.

From Lancashire she’d come south to London, to inquire about positions as governess or lady’s companion, for there was little else that a respectable woman could do. Needless to say, there were more impoverished ladies than positions, and there was nothing immediately available.

For a week she’d struggled to find something, but already what little money she had was running out, and there would be fees to pay when she removed Perry from Eton. So this morning she’d woken up knowing she could no longer postpone the evil moment of telling her son he must leave the school he loved, and that instead of being master of Castell Arnold, he had nothing. What Fate had in store for them after that, she hardly dared think. Tonight, however, she’d put on a brave face, and keep up appearances by staying at a good inn.

She stepped aside as fresh horses were brought for the stagecoach. The first lamps were being lit around the galleried yard, and there were lights inside too, giving everything a warm and welcoming glow. The innkeeper’s name was written above the taproom door;
HENRY
G
.
FINCH
,
LICENSED
TO
SELL
LIQUORS
,
BEERS
,
WINES
,
AND
SPIRITS
. A bird within a bird, she thought, looking at the inn sign of an eagle with outspread wings.

The design was an unpleasant reminder of Falk’s ring, and therefore of Falk himself, and all the feathered inmates at Castell Arnold. She would have preferred the inn to be called the Rose and Crown, the Royal Oak, or even the Pig and Whistle! But then she chuckled quietly as a fat pigeon perched on top of the sign to roost for the night, and promptly deposited a runny white memento which trickled down over the painted eagle. How very appropriate, she thought, thinking of Falk again.

Taking a deep breath, she gathered her skirts to walk around the stagecoach toward the taproom, but suddenly a scarlet curricle swept smartly in beneath the archway from the street, and the nearest of its two dapple gray horses almost knocked her down.

The gentleman at the ribbons hauled his unnerved team to a halt, and leapt furiously to his feet. “Have you no sense, madam? You might have been killed!”

“Forgive me, sir, I fear I wasn’t thinking.” She looked up at him. There was something compelling in his quick hazel eyes. He was several years older than she was, and his sky blue coat and white breeches showed off his tall, broad-shouldered shape. A top hat was tilted back on his unruly black hair, and his tanned face was ruggedly handsome, although marred now by his anger.

“In future, pray save your preoccupation for safer surroundings!” he snapped.

Annoyance stirred belatedly through her. It wasn’t entirely her fault,
he’d
been driving too fast. “And perhaps in future, sir,
you
should drive with more care in such a confined area,” she replied, with a flash of her old spirit.

For a long moment he met her gaze. That he found her retort annoying she did not doubt, but he said nothing more as he gave her the coolest of nods, then sat down to move the curricle on past the stagecoach. But at least he drove sensibly now, she thought with some satisfaction.

Later, after resting longer than planned in the third-floor room, which was all she could afford, she went down to dinner. She didn’t want to enter the dining room unescorted at such an advanced hour, having found over the past week that a woman alone was a magnet to a certain species of disagreeable male.

But tonight she had no choice. She had to eat, and the landlord, Mr. Finch, a burly ex-pugilist known as “Bull” Finch to his friends, had flatly refused to send a meal up to a guest who was clearly of little consequence. Bracing herself, she paused to adjust her gray-and-gold cashmere shawl, then she caught up her lilac skirt to go inside.

To her relief it proved almost deserted. Shadows blackened the furthest corners, and it was partitioned into settle-backed boxes that were only lit when candles were specifically requested. Without looking at any of the occupied tables, she hastened to the far side of the room, and slipped into one of the empty boxes, then sat with her back to the rest of the room, hoping not to be noticed because of the tall settle.

The newly employed waiter, a nervous, large-nosed young man by the name of Bunting, came to take her order of beefsteak pie, potatoes, and peas. Yet another bird, she thought as she asked for a candle and some wine. She was brought both, although the latter might more accurately have been described as vinegar. However, to make a fuss would be to attract attention, so she put up with it.

As she awaited her meal, she glanced around the room. It was long and low, with dark oak beams and uneven walls. The usual sporting prints hung in prominent places, especially those of prizefighters, and gleaming copper pots and pans were fixed around the stone fireplace. Pots of white geraniums stood on the windowsills, and outside the Windsor street was quiet.

A lantern shone on a corner opposite, and a lady and gentleman strolled down from the direction of the castle. Several carriages passed by, and she heard a church bell sound the hour. Her attention returned to the room itself, and suddenly she noticed a picture that was far from being a sporting print. It was on the wall right next to her box, and depicted a robin with several distinctive white feathers in its wings. Her lips parted, and her heart seemed to lurch as for a horrid moment she was back at Castell Arnold, watching Falk Arnold’s precious toupee being dislodged by a tiny bird that was David to his Goliath.... She looked more closely at the picture, and was puzzled to note that it wasn’t protected by glass, indeed it had been subjected to considerable attack with what appeared to be ordinary dressmaking pins. There were pinpricks all over it.

Her gaze was torn from the picture by the sudden arrival in the dining room of two rather affected, noisy gentlemen. Gentlemen? Perhaps not, for like the wine, they were in fact examples of that more vinegary creature, the Bond Street lounger. Drawling, foppish to a fault, and lacking in all manners, they sprawled in a box across the aisle from her.

The other diners fell uncomfortably silent, and a number of them hastily quit their boxes. Those who remained were careful to become as unremarkable as possible. The loungers thundered their fists upon the table for service, for there was no sign of Bunting. “Waiter? Candles! And be quick!”

Marigold had frozen with dismay the moment the newcomers arrived, because she recognized them. Lord Toby Shrike and Sir Reginald Crane—bird names, naturally—were cronies of both Falk and Merlin Arnold, as well as intimate acquaintances of Alauda, albeit prior to Lord Avenbury. Marigold did not doubt that by now they would know about Merlin’s will, nor did she doubt that if they recognized her their taunts would be both loud and insulting.

Thrown into a quandary, she quickly averted her face and moved her own candle so that it cast more shadow over her. Should she remain and risk their jeering? Or would it be wiser to quit the room and go hungry? But just as the latter course seemed the only sensible option, Bunting scurried in with her dinner.

The loungers were displeased. “Demmee, sir! Candles, this instant!” cried Sir Reginald, banging the table. His long nose resembled a crane’s bill, and his trumpeting voice was not unlike that same bird’s call. He wore gray-and-black stripes, and his cheeks looked suspiciously rouged.

Lord Toby flicked his perfumed handkerchief over his immaculate purple brocade sleeve. He was a pale, thin-faced man with brown eyes that somehow managed to look very cold, and he was by far the most unpleasant and dangerous of the two, for if he believed himself even mildly insulted, he demanded satisfaction. To her knowledge, at least two men had died at his hand.

The moment Sir Reginald called, Bunting turned with a dismayed start, for it was the first he’d realized the loungers were there. Sir Reginald drummed his beautifully manicured nails upon the table. “Candles, demmee. We’ll take
that
one in the meantime,” he declared churlishly, nodding at the candle on Marigold’s table without observing whose it was.

Bunting dithered, torn between duty and his dread of loungers. Sir Reginald rose with an oath that would not have disgraced the worst den in the East End, and reached over to snatch the candle. As he did, he at last saw Marigold. “I’ll be demmed,” he breathed.

Lord Toby looked swiftly across, and his jaw dropped. “Well, if it ain’t Merlin’s doxy.” He laughed.

Marigold tried to get up. “Please leave me alone, sirs,” she begged.

Another voice broke in from an unlit corner of the tap room. “Waiter, two pairs of candle snuffers if you please,” drawled an unseen gentleman, who was apparently possessed of precisely the same affected tones as the loungers.

The harassed waiter turned. “Snuffers? Yes, sir!”

Outraged that he should apparently give someone else precedence, the fops temporarily forgot Marigold. Lord Toby jumped to his feet. “You’ll attend
us
first!” he ordered the unfortunate Bunting, and then suddenly pointed toward the picture of the robin. “Remember the wheel.”

Bunting went quite white. “Yes, sir,” he whispered.

Marigold glanced at the picture as well. Wheel? What were they talking about?

The voice from the darkened corner came again, and this time was more commanding. “Waiter, two pairs of snuffers,
if
you please!”

Forced into a hasty decision, Bunting scurried away for the snuffers, leaving the two loungers speechless with fury. They glared at the unlit corner, where the interloper’s silhouette was only just discernible. Lord Toby’s face was like ice. “Demmee, sir, I’m of a mind to call you out for your impudence! Can’t think why you want two snuffers when you haven’t even got a candle,” he said ominously, flicking his handkerchief again so that heady waves of cologne drifted over Marigold.

Bunting hastened back with the two snuffers, which were like scissors with flattened ends. He handed them respectfully to the gentleman, who then slowly stood. He’d donned his top hat, tugging it low over his forehead, so his face was impossible to make out in the uncertain light as he made his way toward the loungers, who immediately barred his way.

“I demanded an apology, sir!” cried Sir Reginald rashly.

The gentleman nodded. “Yes, my sentiments exactly,” he replied mincingly. He held a snuffer in either hand, and before either lounger knew what was happening, he’d clamped them tightly to the ends of their noses. “Well, I seem to have caught me two very fine birds,” he declared. “Now, gentlemen, I await the apologies upon which we are agreed.”

They squealed and squirmed, with tears of pain running down their rouged cheeks, but their torturer merely gave a thin smile. “Come now, sirs, I’m still waiting.” Still the affected drawl.

Sir Reginald capitulated, for his beaky nose was by far the easier target of the two. He was released the moment he gabbled the necessary words, and retreated warily until he was pressed against the table.

However, Lord Toby’s mouth remained firmly shut, so the gentleman brandished the free pair of snuffers toward the defiant lounger’s loins. “Be warned, Lord Toby, I am quite prepared to make a capon of you.” At that, Lord Toby’s resistance crumbled as well, and he apologized. The loungers hoped that was sufficient, but the gentleman hadn’t finished with them yet. He clacked the snuffers, and drawled once more. “I think you must also apologize to this lady, for you were unforgivably rude to her.” He nodded toward Marigold.

In spite of his false voice, Marigold suddenly realized he was the gentleman in the scarlet curricle. She thought he could not possibly be aware that one of the fops he was humiliating was Lord Toby Shrike. She sat urgently forward. “Sir ...”

He held up a quick hand. “In due course, madam, first I will have these good fellows make amends for the insulting manner in which they saw fit to address you.” His attention returned to the loungers. “Now then, sirs, what was it you were about to say?”

Again Sir Reginald saw sense first, and hastily expressed penitence, but it was several moments before Lord Toby did the same. Only then were the snuffers lowered. The gentleman nodded. “Well, you were not exactly gracious, but I suppose it will have to do.”

Lord Toby’s eyes were cold in the light from Marigold’s candle. “I will have your name, sir,” he breathed.

The gentleman gave a slight laugh. “My name is of no consequence to you, Lord Toby.”

Lord Toby’s eyes became like flint. “Your name!” he snapped.

“My name is of no consequence to you,” the gentleman repeated.

“It is when I intend to call you out.”

Marigold was horrified, but the gentleman showed no concern, beyond a little mild amusement. “Then call me out, but you may wish you had not.”

Lord Toby’s voice was taut with barely controlled emotion. “I doubt very much if I will have any regrets. Are you familiar with the Druid Oak in Windsor Great Park?”

“It’s a famous enough spot, so naturally I’m familiar with it.”

“I will expect you there at dawn.”

“Oh, very well. Whatever you wish.”

The gentleman waved a languid hand, and his tone was weary, as if Lord Toby were no more than a tiresome fly he intended to swat at his leisure. Marigold stared incredulously at him. Was he
eager
to flirt with death?

Lord Toby quivered with rage. “I trust you still find it so amusing come the morning!” he breathed in a choked voice.

The gentleman shrugged. “Oh, I’m sure I will,” he murmured.

Sir Reginald clearly thought him mad. “For pity’s sake, sir!”

The gentleman glanced at him. “Toddle along, sir, and take your purple friend with you. I mislike purple, it is an unbecoming color at the best of times, but when worn by such a disagreeable bird, it becomes positively stomach turning.”