The Danbury Scandals (8 page)

She shivered
involuntarily as she crept forward. The room was made almost entirely of glass
and was lit only by the light showing through from the ballroom windows. She
almost stumbled over a couple sitting on a low bench with their arms entwined.
The young man muttered an oath and the girl hid her face in her hands, as
Maryanne hurried past them, eyes averted. Was that what Adam expected from her?
How foolish she had been! Almost in panic, she turned to go back. Someone
reached out from beside a huge tropical plant and pulled her behind it. She
opened her mouth to shriek but it was immediately covered by a large hand.

‘Be quiet, you
little silly. It’s only me.’ He took his hand from her mouth.

‘Let me go
back,’ she whispered. ‘I wish I hadn’t come. If anyone sees us I’ll be ruined.’

‘Why did you
come, then, if you are so careful of your reputation? Intrigued, were you?
Curious? I told you about curiosity killing the cat, didn’t I?’

‘I...I don’t
know. I didn’t mean to, I just found myself here...’

‘Found yourself
here!’ He laughed harshly. ‘You are no different from the others, after all.
You tantalise a man, lead him on and then your courage deserts you...’

‘That’s not
fair! You said you had something to ask me. What is it? Ask it and let me go
back to my friends.’

‘Friends, are
they? I wonder.’ He shrugged, then smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose they are more your
style than an unknown Frenchman without a name.’

‘You seem to
have two names,’ she snapped. ‘Though I wonder if either of them is real?’

He looked at
her sharply. ‘I was wrong, I should not have asked you to meet me. I am sorry.
Let me take you back.’

‘I would rather
go alone.’

‘Yes, of
course.
Adieu, ma petite
.’ He bent over her and his lips, brushing her
hand, sent a shiver through her. ‘I doubt we will meet again.’

‘No,’ she
agreed. Why did the prospect of never seeing him again fill her with such
despair? She didn’t want to leave him but she knew if she stayed there would be
no repairing her tattered reputation. And he had changed; his voice and manner
were rough, as if he could not keep up the pretence of being a gentleman any
longer and must revert to his roots. What were his roots? She turned back
towards him. ‘Mr Saint-Pierre...’

He saw the
bleak look in her eyes, felt her sway towards him and caught her in his arms.
Sacre
Dieu!
What had possessed him even to think of confiding in her? She
deserved her comfortable little corner in the life of the Danburys, might even
be happy as Mark’s wife. If only he could be sure of that, he would go back to
France and leave well alone. Now he realised the only way he could retrieve the
situation was to make light of it, pretend to a flippancy he was far from
feeling, make her think he had wanted her alone only to flirt with her. ‘I
shall be as my lady wishes,’ he said. ‘But first I intend to claim recompense...’

‘Recompense?’
Her voice was a thread of a whisper. What was the matter with her? Could she be
falling in love, in love with someone she knew nothing about and, what was
worse, a probable enemy of her family? The idea was preposterous.

‘For losing you
to another.’ He took her in his arms and kissed her lips, gently at first,
light as a butterfly, and like a butterfly her heart fluttered beneath his
hand. The pressure of his mouth on hers grew harder, more demanding until her
lips were forced to part. She tried to think coherently, but could not; she was
drowning in a sensuous delight which took no heed of time and place, carrying
her helplessly to heights she had never even dreamed of and depths she never
knew existed. She rode a see-saw, a whirlpool, a carousel. She did not want it
to stop.

Suddenly he was
wrenched from her and Mark’s voice, venomous with anger, hissed, ‘Go back to
the others, Maryanne, and leave him to me.’

She could not
move and watched in horror as Mark let fly with a clenched fist. Adam put up a
hand as blood poured from his nose, but he did nothing to defend himself. Mark
stood with feet apart and hands raised in a belligerent attitude. ‘Come on,
man, fight if you have any guts. I demand satisfaction.’

Adam smiled.
‘Here and now? Is that wise?’

‘No!’ Maryanne
cried, trying to put herself between them. ‘Please, don’t fight.’ She turned to
Mark. ‘It was truly nothing, please forget it.’

‘Forget it? He
has insulted you. I demand satisfaction.’ He turned back to Adam. ‘If you will
not fight me now, name your seconds.’

‘I have no
quarrel with you,’ Adam said, mopping up the blood with his handkerchief. ‘And
if the lady does not wish to shed your blood...’

‘My blood!’
Mark was puce with fury. ‘It will not be my blood that is shed.’

‘I assure you,’
Adam said, with a calmness that only aggravated the other’s anger, ‘I can well
take care of myself.’

Maryanne
believed that. She tried once again to interpose herself between them. Adam
took her arm and gently turned her aside.

‘You will not
fight?’ Mark demanded.

‘No.’

Mark was
nonplussed. ‘Have you no honour, sir? Are you content that everyone should call
you coward?’ It was unheard-of for a gentleman to refuse a challenge on his
honour and yet Adam was clearly doing so. Why? Was he a coward? Maryanne did
not believe that for a moment, but she was glad that there would be no duel;
she did not want anyone killed or wounded on her account.

Adam’s brown
eyes turned dark and the scar on his forehead stood out with the tensing of his
muscles as he fought to control his anger. He looked from Mark to Maryanne and
bowed low to her. ‘Your servant, ma’am.’ Then he turned and walked away.

Standing
miserably beside Mark, she watched him go. Was that the last she would see of
him? Did it matter? Yes, she told herself, it mattered terribly. Underlying
their light-hearted banter had been a seriousness which both had recognised and
neither acknowledged. Whatever they had had between them was over before it had
begun.

She pulled
herself together and went over to take Mark’s arm. ‘Please, Mark, think no more
of it. It was as much my fault as his and meant nothing.’ She was aware of the
untruth as she said it.

He shrugged her
off. ‘I told you to go back inside. What were you thinking of to come out here
in the first place?’

‘I was hot and
I felt faint.’

He snorted.
‘And a kiss like that was meant to cool you, I suppose.’ He grabbed her arm.
‘Good God, Maryanne, don’t you know how this makes me feel? I must take that
fellow’s insult and do nothing because he is too much of a coward to stand up
to me.’

‘You should not
have challenged him in the first place.’

‘I had no
choice. Finding you like that.’ He was hustling her back into the ballroom as
he spoke. ‘Did you not know I meant to propose to you myself?’

‘No.’ She was
too agitated to stop and consider the meaning of what he had said. ‘And that is
hardly a romantic proposal.’

He laughed
harshly. ‘You did not give me the opportunity for that, did you?’

‘And now you
have changed your mind.’ She turned to the attack. ‘How fickle you are! But at
least it will save me having to turn you down.’

He stopped in
the doorway to stare down at her. ‘Would you have turned me down?’

‘I should
certainly have thanked you for the honour you did me, but I would also have
asked for time to think about it.’

‘Hm.’ He took
her arm and led her through the couples who were forming a quadrille, smiling
to right and left at acquaintances, pretending all was well. ‘We must dance or
the old gabblegrinders will have a field day.’ He found a set wanting a couple
and pulled Maryanne into it. ‘Smile!’ he commanded, bowing over her hand as the
music began. ‘We are in love, so play your part, if you ever want to hold your
head up in Society again.’

She curtsied
and smiled, danced up and down, bowed this way and that, laughed and pretended
to enjoy herself, but all the time she was asking herself, Where has he gone?
What was he going to tell me? Why do I ache inside so much that I must hurt
Mark, who loves me enough to protect me from scandal?

She had no answer
and was glad when Mark said they could leave without comment being made, though
it was still an hour or two before dawn. Caroline, who was flirting with half a
dozen young men at once, all of whom had drunk more than enough, was
understandably reluctant to leave.

‘I had Cousin
Henry eating out of my hand,’ she said. ‘He was on the point of agreeing to
have a ball at Wiltshire House and now I shall have to sweet talk him all over
again...’ She followed reluctantly as they went to find their hostess to thank
her.

Mark saw them
all into the carriage, but instead of climbing in beside them he turned and
went back into the house. He felt angry and let down, but, what was worse, his
carefully laid plans looked set to be overturned. And for what? A no-good Frenchman.
How long had Maryanne known him? It was the man he had seen leaving Beckford
Church; he was almost sure of it. Who was he? Not a gentleman, that was
certain, for he had not come out of the encounter with any honour. Well, the
world would soon know about it; the tale would go round, though he must be
careful not to tarnish Maryanne’s reputation in the process, and the fellow
would not dare to show his face again.

He went
upstairs and into the card-room, where the gentlemen who did not dance could be
found at the tables. The room was thick with cigar smoke and the smell of good
French brandy which, with the end of the war, was coming into the country
legally again, much to the chagrin of the smugglers. There was ribaldry and
laughter, except at those tables where the play was too serious to admit of
anything but the greatest concentration. Seeing the Duke of Wiltshire at one of
these, Mark went over to him.

His Grace was
corpulent to the extent of being gross; his tight coat of satin was stretched
across a belly that was obviously confined by stays tight enough to make it
almost impossible for him to bend. His purple waistcoat was heavily embroidered
with gold thread and his frilled shirt was topped by a collar whose points
threatened to scratch his cheeks whenever he moved his head. Beneath this, held
by a jewelled pin, was a voluminous spotted cravat. He beamed at Mark. ‘Come
and join us, me boy. Hunter is just quitting.’

‘Cleaned out,
I’m afraid,’ Lord Hunter said, rising from the table. ‘Perhaps you’ll have
better luck.’

Mark sat down
and a new game was started, but he was still too cut up to concentrate and had
soon lost a great deal, and it was no good applying to His Grace, because he
had lost even more. Lord Markham and Lord Boscombe sat with a growing heap of
coins at their elbows.

‘I’ll have to
give you a note,’ His Grace said. ‘Pockets empty. Didn’t intend to gamble
tonight. Got drawn into it by a fit of the blue devils. Not an eligible girl in
sight, except me cousin Caroline.’

‘Caroline!’
Mark said in surprise.

‘Why not? Seems
to me she’ll do very well.’

‘You can’t mean
it.’

‘Never more
serious in me life. Young, healthy and willing...’

‘I don’t
believe it.’

‘Why not?
She’ll jump at the chance to be a duchess, ‘specially if I don’t keep her on too
tight a rein. All I ask is discretion and care. Don’t want to play parent to
anyone else’s by-blows.’

‘Have you asked
her?’

‘Not formally,
but I will. She wants to have a ball at Wiltshire House
 
-well, so she shall - an engagement ball.’

Mark opened his
mouth to protest, but decided against it, and they continued to play, but now
he had something else to occupy his mind besides Maryanne.

Somehow he had
to stop the Duke from marrying Caroline. If they married and she had a son, it
would put paid to his own hopes of the dukedom. The problem concentrated his
mind wonderfully and he was soon winning again, while His Grace found himself
even deeper in debt and the two baronets were just breaking even.

‘I’ll make you
a proposition,’ Mark said, when it looked as though the game was coming to an
end, because even the Duke realised he had gone as far as he dared; the spectre
of his mother’s wrath was large in his mind. ‘Double or quits on a little
race.’

‘What kind of
race?’ the Duke asked guardedly. Mark shuffled the cards, watching his face
carefully. ‘You’ve got a new rig, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, bang up,
and the best cattle in the country.’

‘Then I’ll put
my rig against yours over a measured five miles. If you win, your debt is
cleared; if you lose...’H shrugged, as if it were nothing ‘...the debt is
doubled.’

‘Don’t do it,
Henry,’ Lord Boscombe said. ‘The young shaver is a first-class whip.’

‘And so am I,’
His Grace said. He turned to Mark. ‘ I’ll take you on, young fellow, if you
throw in the rigs as part of the stake.’

‘Done.’