The Marquess and Miss Davies (13 page)

“I am not informed of his lordship’s plans,” said Carys.

A few days later the Marquess of Clare saw Lord Harcourt at White’s, and was informed that the Misses Davies would be attending Telford’s ball. Benjamin had received this communication from Isolde, who was never one to waste time.

“And you will be there as well, I assume?” Harcourt asked him.

“Yes,” said Anthony, who was already planning to ask Miss Carys Davies for the first waltz. Although there was a new element in his plans, an unanticipated complication.

“Jo returned to town yesterday,” he told Benjamin, choosing that moment to turn away and pour himself a finger of brandy. “She will be accompanying me.”

For a moment, nothing. Then— “Ah. She is back in town so soon?” Lord Harcourt’s tone was as pointedly casual as the marquess’s own.

“Yes.”

Josephine and the Earl of Chalcroft had spent their honeymoon at the earl’s estate near St Albans; they had not been expected to return for some weeks more. Lord Leighton disliked exceedingly the information he was about to impart, but better from him than Benjamin run into his sister by chance.

“The earl is still in Hertfordshire,” added the marquess. “Jo has chosen to return for the ball, I believe—you know that she was quite friendly with Anna Telford.”

“Of course,” said Lord Harcourt, easily.

And no more was said of the matter.

* * * *

The Countess of Chalcroft,
née
Lady Josephine Leighton, daughter of the late marquess and sister of the present, was indeed back in London, having turned up at the doorstep of Clare Manor late the previous evening, accompanied by her lady’s maid and a small mountain of luggage. Anthony was ashamed to admit that his first reaction upon seeing her, despite her undoubted position as his favorite sister, despite his usual enjoyment of her company—was horror.

“Jo! What are you doing here?” were the first words from his mouth when Dean—the butler—showed the countess into his study.

“And a good welcome to you as well, dear brother,” said Josephine, dropping a largish bag on the floor and collapsing into the nearest armchair. “How is your health? How is our mother?”

“I ... I had simply not expected—”

“Yes, yes, I know. Honeymoon and all that. But Chalcroft is swamped with business at the estate, and I thought I would take the opportunity for a ball or two. You don’t mind?”

“Of course not, but—”

Odysseus padded over to Jo and received a good scratch between the ears. “You haven’t rented out my bedroom, have you? Or given it over to mother for her painting?”

Lord Leighton sighed. “It is good to see you,” he said. “But Jo, why are you back so
early
?”

Mrs Bess bustled in at that moment, wreathed in smiles and exclaiming over her dear, dear child, who was entirely too thin—did they not feed her in Hertfordshire? The earl’s cook must not be up to snuff—this last with an accusing look at his lordship, as if ‘twas his fault. Tea was called for immediately, and the housekeeper was followed by a parade of excited footmen and scullery maids, all of whom Josephine addressed by name. His sister was even more favoured by the staff than the marquess himself, the latter being a bit formidable for anyone other than his valet.

“I am fine,” Josephine told him, when they had finally settled down to tea. “‘Tis not necessary for a husband and wife to be in each other’s pocket every minute of the day, you know. ‘Tis hardly even done.”

“After a year or two of marriage, perhaps, but not after a few weeks.”

“Pah. Oddy, stop drooling.”

“But—”

“You need not worry. You are not responsible for me anymore, you know, and I’ve no intention of being anything other than the very respectable Lady Bainborough, Countess of Chalcroft.”

“People will talk that you have returned without the earl.”

“Do you care?”

Anthony hesitated. “No. Do you? Does Chalcroft?”

Lady Bainborough shrugged.

“Gods, Jo.”

“Oh, enough of this fussing. I should go see mother. Is our dear marchioness still destroying the music room with her paints?”

* * * *

The next days were a confusion of visitors to Clare Manor for Jo, and questions for his lordship from all and sundry. Why was Lady Chalcroft in town? How long was she planning to stay? Had she and the earl quarreled?

The marquess disliked the situation in which he had been placed. In one sense Josephine’s reputation was no longer his responsibility, but one did not stop being an older brother overnight. He used the excuse of the Telford’s ball heavily—Anna Telford might be surprised to know that she was by now Jo’s ‘oldest and dearest friend’—and added bits of his own invention, in one case claiming that the dowager had been feeling somewhat under the weather.

Which annoyed his mother greatly.

“I’m not in my dotage, you know,” she complained to her son.

“Yes, but—”

“Josephine will find her own way. ‘Tis your job to find a wife.”

No letters had arrived at Clare Manor from the Earl of Chalcroft, information which every one of Lord Leighton’s servants would know. They might also know whether his sister had written to Hertfordshire—but Anthony did not.

* * * *

On the day before the Telford’s ball the marquess and Lord Harcourt were to have gone to White’s for an evening of congenial talk and drink, an evening in which the marquess hoped to hear nothing of the Earl of Chalcroft and his wife. But at the last moment Benjamin was occupied by a family gathering of some sort—”Gods, the duke is attempting paternal sentiment,” said Benjamin. “It does not suit him.”—and was forced to cry off. Feeling unsettled and at loose ends, the Marquess of Clare went instead to the boxing saloon on Bond Street, which had been organized these past few years by ‘Gentleman’ John Jackson.

The smell of sweat and blood assailed him as he entered; Lord Leighton knew from experience that within minutes he would hardly notice it.

“Evenin’, your lordship,” said Jackson. “‘Fraid to admit I’ve no pigeons for you today.”

The marquess was known as one of the better boxers of his class; known to some, that is. The young Corinthians who were unapprised of this fact found themselves face down on the floor quite regularly, staring bleary-eyed at his lordship’s boots.

“That’s very well,” said Anthony, looking around. “I’ll fight Bertie.”

Bertie was Jackson’s ring-man; enormous in body and fists, and fast enough. Lord Leighton had fought him once before, when he was drunk—Anthony, not Bertie—and been taken half apart for his trouble.

“Eh, your lordship, I don’t think—”

 “Bertie, my man,” said Lord Leighton, beckoning.

So Bertie was called, and Jackson helped the marquess into a pair of gloves, which he insisted on, all the while giving his lordship a stream of advice, admonition, and warning.

“Watch your stance. You drop your left when you tire. And
don’t
try yer uppercut.”

“Why not?” asked Anthony, absently. The lacing of the gloves was tight and he flexed his fingers and wrists for circulation.

“You’ve never had the knack of it.”

Lord Leighton nodded, not quite believing the man. He felt his blood stir and thought that tonight he could connect with anything.

He wanted to hit something, he realized. Badly. Perhaps this would be the night he managed Bertie. He began to circle his opponent, shifting his weight lightly from one foot to the other, elbows bent and hands in front of his face.

Why was Jo back in London? Had she and Chalcroft argued? Gods, he was tired of the question, which his sister had never really answered.

Bertie threw his first punch. Anthony was lucky; he had anticipated the blow in time to shift his weight and dodge. He countered with a quick jab to the jaw, and managed a glancing contact.

“Well done, your lordship!”

Lord Leighton tried to press his advantage, but Bertie retreated with a quick double-step; back and to the side.

If they had argued—

‘Twas Bertie who connected this time, a ringing blow to the marquess’s midsection. Anthony managed to stay upright, staggering. Then, two more blows in quick succession. Lord Leighton crumpled to the ground and remained there for several long seconds, fighting for breath. Then he forced himself to his feet. The two men circled each other until Bertie caught Anthony again.

“Eh, your lordship—”

“Fine,” said the marquess, gasping. “I’m fine.”

He retreated, but retreat got you nowhere in the end. Anthony tried an uppercut and nearly fell on his face for his trouble. Bertie, to give him credit, did not laugh.

Gods, the man was an ox.

Bertie’s right fist slammed into Lord Leighton’s chin and if he hadn’t seen it coming at the last moment ‘twould have been a decisive blow. Even so, there were stars, and Jackson attempted to call him off; the marquess ignored him. He backed away again, seeking a chance to gain some edge in the contest, but his opponent blurred in his sight. He realized, hazily, that blood ran from a cut on his forehead.

“Bertie—” came a voice, from some distance.

The marquess swung wildly—ah!—a good blow, perhaps by chance.

Then Bertie hit him again.

Some uncounted time later the marquess staggered from the ring. He had, in fact, managed better than the previous occasion, in that he remained occasionally upright, but in the end ‘twas not a pretty sight. Bertie, said Jackson, had tried to hold back, but the man was never the sharpest quill of the lot, and ‘holding back’ was a difficult concept in practice. Anthony had found himself regularly on the floorboards, which became increasingly marked with smears of his blood.

Jackson was rather unnerved at the sight, it seemed.

“Eh, better have a doctor look at that,” he told Lord Leighton, helping him back into his jacket.

“I’ll be fine,” said his lordship, the fool.

* * * *

Josephine was exhausted from the journey; she climbed gratefully into her old bed—Mrs Bess had aired the bedding quickly, and taken the Holland covers from the rest of the furniture—and closed her eyes, willing sleep.

She found herself thinking of her husband, and wondering what he would think of his first night alone after weeks of marriage. William had not protested her removal to London. William never protested.

“As you wish, my dear,” had been his answer.

‘Is that all you have to say?’ came to the tip of her tongue, but she did not utter the words, which were foolish, and petty, and ... and beneath her.

As she wished. What did she wish?

After a few minutes the countess got up again, and crossed to her writing table. Was it possible that Mrs Bess had seen to a fresh pot of ink?

She had, bless her heart. Jo pulled out a sheet of paper and began a short note to her husband.

William my dear,

I have arrived safely at Clare Manor and will remain—

She paused, quill in the air. That was a question, wasn’t it? For how long would she remain?

Josephine abandoned the letter and padded back to bed.

Why am I here? she wondered, knowing that her real question was—Whom will I see?

Since Carys had decided she would attend the Telford’s ball, there was no need for Isolde to go behind her back to order another gown. Or so Isa thought. In fact, her sister refused to consider anything new, saying that she had any number of gowns in her wardrobe and would be perfectly content to wear some old thing or another.

“This is unacceptable,” said Isa. “You are going to waltz with the man.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Lud,” said Isolde, in frustration. “What objection do you have to showing yourself to best advantage?”

“I am not a horse at Tattersall’s.”

But her sister only laughed. “Do not be naive,” she said. “We all are.”

They compromised on a dress of Isolde’s, a flowing cream silk that she had worn on only one occasion, a musicale at Lady Brindleby’s which featured such a dreadful soprano that surely everyone who attended had preferred to put the entire episode out of mind.

“She screeched,” said Isa. “I hear that there is no dog left within
miles
of the house.”

“That could be useful, I suppose.”

Carys rather liked the gown, which had simple lines and a bodice without embroidery or ornamentation. The neckline was rather lower than she was accustomed to, although not at all unusual for a London ball in those days.

“Do you suppose—” she asked her sister, looking at herself in the mirror.

“I certainly hope so.”

“Well—”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Umm.”

Isa found the matching slippers and a length of silver cording that would look elegant braided into Carys’s hair. They attempted several different styles, and settled on one in which most of her curls were gathered to one side, falling over one shoulder.

“The marquess will hardly be able to keep from touching them,” said Isa, satisfied.

“I’m not seducing the gentleman,” said Carys.

“I can’t imagine why not.”

But this was all preliminary; the ball was not until the following evening, and the twins still had Lady Davies to consider. Neither Carys nor Isolde doubted that their mother had plans for the ball, plans which revolved around the Marquess of Clare. The viscountess was unlikely to say anything directly to Lord Leighton himself, but there were a great many ways to start a rumour, and some gossip was more to be feared than others. Only last year the story had gone round that Lady Compton’s daughter had spent rather too much time on a garden terrace with Lord Tardewell, and a wedding was announced within the week.

“I should guess,” said Isa, “that if you ... you know—”

“I won’t have it,” said Carys. “The whole idea of a forced marriage is humiliating.”

“Hmm,” said Isa, who looked as if she was not willing to give up the idea. “For all we know, the marquess might be relieved. The dowager is said to be eager that his lordship gain an heir—he must have silly chits thrown at him right and left.”