Maulever Hall (27 page)

Stammering her thanks, Marianne thought him the most perfect gentleman she had ever met. Nothing in his behavior gave the slightest hint at their unexpected arrival and bizarre appearance. He was urging the Duchess, now, to the chair by the fire that he had vacated and bringing up another for Marianne. “You must be quite perished with the cold.” He seated her. “And are come direct from Devon?” The question was for his aunt.

“Non-stop.” She smiled up at him with evident affection. “We found
o
urselves in need of a protector, and are come, of course, to you.”

“I am delighted to hear it.” He smiled back at her. “Not that I believe it for a moment. When you need a protector, aunt, chaos is come again.”

“Thank you.” She stretched out her booted feet to the fire. “But just the same, we have a great many problems, Miss Lamb and I. We need clothes, to begin with. My house burned down, night before last.” She threw it in quite casually.

“Your house! The rioters? Impossible!”

“Yes, quite impossible. Not rioters. Miss Lamb’s husband, we think, if he is her husband.”

“I notice you call her Miss Lamb—excuse me.” He turned to Marianne. “This must be a painful topic to you.”

There was something warming about his smile. “Please don’t apologize,” she said, “I am used to it. And, Your Grace, I must thank you—”

“Oh, come,” the Duchess interrupted her. “Are you my ward, Marianne, or aren’t you? If you start calling poor John ‘Your Grace,’ we’ll all be exchanging formalities here till Doomsday. And as for thanking him, why not thank me. I made him do it.”

The Duke laughed kindly down at Marianne from his great height. “You see,” he said, “she bullies us all. But, no thanks, Miss Lamb, I am only happy to think that I may have been of some service to you. And—I hope I have better news. Have you ever been to Romney Marsh?”

“Not that I know of—but of course that does not mean much.”

“‘Quite so. But did not this man, Rossand, who pretended to be your husband, talk of marrying you at a little church on a hill?”

“Yes?”

“Well, there you have it. Paul Rossand married Marianne Loudon at Dymchurch, in Kent. I cannot, offhand, t
hink
of a flatter bit of England. You could no more talk of walking down the hill from church—if it had been Rye or Winchelsea, it would have been something else again, but Dymchurch—I can only assume that his memory betrayed
him
when he was inventing corroborative detail for your benefit.”

“You mean—he’s not my husband?”

“It seems to me most unlikely. I think it far more probable that he searched the records until he found a marriage that fitted in with his story and contrived to obtain a copy of the certificate.”

“So his name is not Rossand, and mine has never been Loudon?”

“Precisely.” He looked pleased, as with an apt pupil. “So that in a way you are no further on than before—but at least you are not married.”

“At least!” Oh, what a gullible fool she had been to accept the
soi-disant
Rossand’s story so easily—and yet, he had known so much about her. She colored at the memory.

“I take it,” went on the Duke in his measured tones, “that
he produced sufficient evidence to convince you—at the time—that you had been married to
him
.”

“Yes.” He seemed to share his aunt’s gift for reading one’s thoughts.

“The trouble is,” he said thoughtfully, “that you are in such an exposed position, undefended by memory. After all, he may have known you—but not as a husband. I
think
you were entirely right to come to London, aunt.”

She twinkled at him. “I am delighted to have your approval. Yes, I think Marianne’s public appearance, in our protection, should precipitate something. Clearly impossible to go on as she is. Ah, is that breakfast? Good to see you, Mrs. Melton. Come to make sure it’s really me?”

The black-garbed housekeeper rustled forward: “Yes, breakfast is ready in the small breakfast room, Your Grace. And may I say you’re a sight for sore eyes, ma’am. I never thought I’d live to see you back where you belonged.”

“No tears, now.” The Duchess rose to her feet. “The time for them is past. Besides, I want my breakfast. You’ve worn well, Melton.” And then, with one of her swift changes of tone: “Shouldn’t you be in bed, John? Up all night in that stuffy chamber. Don’t wait on us; Melton will manage.”

“No, no.” He opened the door for her. “This is much too exciting an occasion for anything so tame as sleep. Besides, I want to hear your plan of campaign, aunt. I have no doubt you have it all mapped out—and still less that I am to play a part. Best break it to me now.”

She laughed and helped herself to scrambled eggs. “You’re right, of course. Nothing wrong with your wits, John, I’ll say that for you. I thought a ball—a welcome home for the Mad Duchess—appropriate, surely?”

He laughed. “The least I can do. When?”

“The sooner the better. I want Marianne to surprise the world when I launch her; no time for gossip first. Two weeks from today?”

“I don’t see why not. But do you mean to keep Miss Lamb mewed up here in the meantime?”

“Impossible. I wish I could, but she and I have clothes to buy. I’ll need my diamonds, John; all of them. As for Miss Lamb; no introductions; policy of mysterious silence; get them all agog; introduce her at the ball and see what happens.”

“But, ma’am.” Marianne could keep silent no longer. “You cannot mean to give a ball for me!”

“I don’t. Told you it was John’s ball—and my welcome
home. But the ideal opportunity for you to make your debut.”

“But, consider! I may be nobody—worse.”

“I’ll chance it.” She shrugged and drank coffee. “Known as mad already; what’s the difference? Besides, I don’t believe it. What megrim have you in your head now? Decided you’re someone’s by-blow and least said soonest mended? Well, I’ve thought of it myself, but what’s the odds? We’ll ask the Duke of Munster and all the other FritzClarences to make you feel at home. Anyway, I don’t believe it. Wouldn’t explain Mr. Rossand—or whatever his name is, for one
thing
.”
She turned back to her nephew. “Very well, two weeks from today. We’ll make the arrangements; I know you’re busy. Weippert’s music still the best?”

“I believe so. You will have the bills sent to me, of course.”

“I shall do nothing of the kind. My house, isn’t it? My ball? My idea? Very well then.”

He did not argue the point further, but Marianne noted, with amusement, a tiny glint of determination in his eye. It would be interesting to see who won. But she had her own protest to make. “I cannot let you do it,” she said. “And, besides, I have no clothes
...
”

“Just what I said. We are going to be busy, you and I. Are you up on the latest fashions, John?”

He laughed. “I’m afraid not.”

“Wretched boy. Well, do you know if Madame Breguet is still making?”

“Yes. I heard two ladies complaining most bitterly of her bills only the other day.”

“Good. Send a message to her for me, John. I will see her, here, at five o’clock. And now, to bed with you; you’re out on your feet. And, to tell truth, we’re not much better. Do you think the admirable Melton will have our rooms ready yet?”

“I’m sure of it.”

Marianne was still trying to protest as the housekeeper led them upstairs, but the Duchess made short work of her. “Haven’t paid you any wages, have I, all the time you’ve been with me? Doing the work of an entire staff, too. What do you pay your servants, John? All of them? No, no, never mind, no need to work it out. Marianne takes my point. She’s not stupid. Besides”—a brown hand rested, for a moment, lightly on Marianne’s—“I shall enjoy it. Never
had daughters
...
never had children, come to that. It’s a lot to miss. Let me dress you, my dear.”

This was unanswerable, but Marianne addressed a last protest to the Duke. “But the ball ... Sir, you cannot wish to be involved in such a proceeding. As your aunt says, I may be anything
...”

He smiled down at her very kindly. “Why, so you may, and you surely cannot be so brutal as to deprive me of the pleasure of finding the answer to your mystery. I am sure my aunt is right; this is the way to do it. Besides, you know as well as I do that she always gets what she wants. My only stipulation is that you save me the first dance at your ball.”

It was too much. Marianne fought down tears and retired hastily into the bedroom that had been allotted to her, only to be overwhelmed all over again by its luxury. Strange to think of the Duchess leaving all this for the cottage in the valley. Or—not so strange. Velvet curtains, linen sheets, down pillows—she settled luxuriously on the bed—what was the use of them after all? The Duchess was kind; her nephew was wonderfully so, but what good was that? Mauleverer would be asked to the ball, no doubt—and dance all evening with Lady Heverdon. Luckily for her, she was too exhausted to be kept awake, even by tears.

The session with Madame Breguet was exhausting too, and dazzling. The voluble little Frenchwoman began by welcoming the Duchess back to London, almost with tears in her eyes. “The belle of her day,” she explained to Marianne in her strongly accented English: “Ah, the costumes we have designed together, Her Grace and I. And now, we begin again, is it not?” The black eyes flashed knowingly. “A ball dress for a
jeune fille
who makes her first appearance? Silver tissue over white satin,
sans doute?
Caught up, here and there, with pure white roses. Or will there be jewels, perhaps?” The black eyes were asking the Duchess a question.

“No, no”—she sounded amused—“no jewels, Madame Breguet. Just a young girl at her first ball. How I detest these puffed sleeves, but they will suit you, Marianne. And a white rose for the headdress, too. Is it Isidore, these days, Madame Breguet, or Nardin?”

“You have not lost touch, I see, Your Grace! Either is excellent. Myself, I prefer the effects M. Isidore achieves; specially for a very young lady like Miss here.”

Very well, Isidore it shall be. Remind me, Marianne,
to make the arrangements. And as for me, I shall be the
complete dowager in black velvet—and diamonds.”

The two weeks that followed were strange ones for Marianne. At Lundy House, preparations for the ball went apace, and the Duchess entertained herself and her visitor with the daily roll call of acceptances. “Of course, it’s curiosity in the main,” she explained. “They’ve all heard about me; I expect they want to see if I wear Hessian boots to dance in. Not that I shall dance, of course. I shall leave that department to you, my dear. Which reminds me: Can you dance?”

Marianne laughed. “I think so.”

“I hope so.” And she took advantage of the Duke’s early return, that night, from the House of Lords, to make him lead Marianne through the steps of a few of the most popular dances. “Yes”—she nodded approval at last—“you can dance. But you do not remember London?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“It’s very strange. I cannot understand how a well-brought-up girl like you should have missed coming here. But you don’t know the people either.” She had tried firing off the names of her prospective guests suddenly at Marianne, in the hope of getting a reaction, but without the slightest success. Some names of course, Marianne knew. She was frightened to think that the Duke of Wellington was coming—“No need to put yourself in a pucker about him, my dear; he’s an old friend of mine. But you don’t remember Melbourne, or D’Orsay, or Alvanley?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“It’s very strange. But depend upon it, someone will remember you. In the meantime, we’ll go nowhere. I wish you to come as a complete surprise.”

“But, poor Miss Lamb,” intervened the Duke. “You cannot, surely, intend to keep her locked up in the house here for two weeks?”

“Oh, no. I’ve no objection to her going out, so long as she does not go into society. It’s hardly the weather for riding in the Park, though. I do not see why Miss Lamb should want to go out.”

“No reason to go out? With all of London to be explored? You do Miss Lamb less than justice, aunt. Now, I was considering inviting her to come and see the new printing presses Mr. Barnes has put in at the
Times
newspaper with me. And then there’s the Mint, and the Tower of London and the new London Bridge and all kinds of things that I am sure she would
l
ike to see. I do not suggest the Houses of Parliament, though I suspect it is what she would like best, because there, unlike the other places I have named, we might perhaps meet someone in society.”

The Duchess laughed. “You might indeed. But, for the rest of it, if it will amuse you, my dear, I have no objection. And if you should meet anyone, John, you must just suffer from a temporary lapse of good manners and fail to introduce Marianne. Pretend you have forgotten her name—anything.”