The Marquess and Miss Davies (2 page)

* * * *

Miss Isolde Davies woke that morning and immediately looked around for her sister. The twins shared a bedroom, which was entirely by choice, since Cardingham House was large enough to accommodate any number of family, sons, daughters or third cousins.

There had simply never seemed any point to separating the two of them.

Carys’s bed was empty, the blankets and counterpane pulled into some order, and the pillows thrown atop. Gone again, thought Isa, with a small sigh. Another walk in Green Park. Of course. Along the entire length of Constitution Hill, probably, and even into the palace gardens. Carys’s walks had been getting longer by the week, to the point that she was often gone an hour and two at a time. If their mother knew, there would be no end to the fuss.

Isolde sat in bed for a few minutes, staying warm beneath the blankets and wondering how likely Lady Davies was to ever wake early enough to discover that one of her daughters was missing. The probability was low, she decided, but there was always Thaxton; the butler never slept as far as Isa could tell. When they were children, the three of them—Isolde, Carys, and Talfryn—occasionally hid in odd spots around the house, just to see if he really could appear from nowhere.

She heard a soft scratching at the door.

“I’m awake,” called Isolde.

“Chocolate, miss?” asked Janie, the twins’ maid, holding a salver with a tall chocolate pot and its matching cup.

“Yes, thank you.”

“I’ll send the boy.”

Janie left and Isa hopped out of bed, her feet sinking into the thick carpet. She sat in the front window seat and cradled the cup with both hands, grateful for its warmth. ‘Twas a chilly day for spring, and neither she nor her sister was willing to ask one of the scullery maids to set a fire at some miserable hour of the morning. But Gillie—’the boy’—would be up soon.

I wish Talfryn was here, thought Isolde, who was never quite at ease while Carys was gone. She was worried about her twin, worried about these early morning expeditions. About what they meant.

“I’ll be fine,” Carys had said, when Isa protested that London was not Cornwall, hoping to dissuade her by this small practicality. “Who is going to accost me between here and Green Park? Lord Marbrey?”

“You know what Tal would say.”

“That’s why I have never asked him.”

“Our mother—”

“Our mother does not wake before ten. Besides, I could always tell her I have an assignation with some gentleman, and she would be happy enough.”

Which was probably true. Lady Davies had been pressuring Carys—ever since they had returned to town from Cornwall—to show more interest in the gentlemen of the
ton
. Any gentleman, it sometimes seemed, as long as he was presentable and reasonably rich. She had made it clear, on depressingly regular occasions, that marriage should be the focus of a daughter’s existence, leaving the vivacious Isolde to her own resources, but despairing of Carys, who was ever the subject of admonition and advice.

“My dear, you must go to the Terrences’ ball.”

“Lady Braebere is having a musicale tonight, which I’m sure will be delightful. You must go, my dear.”

“Dearest, why did you turn down Lord Cartwell for the waltz?”

In the beginning, when they had just returned to Cardingham House and everything was new and still exciting, her twin had acceded to these requests, but Carys was now saying ‘no’ with frequency, the effect of which was to make their mother ask doubly often.

Isolde knew that Carys was restless, tired to death of
ton
society, and liable to do something unpredictable. She wished that her sister
liked
London as much as she did—Isa found it wonderful—but she did not, and there was an end to it.

Perhaps Tal and Lady Reggie would like a visitor, once the baby was born. Carys could take care of the child—

But Isa did not believe that the role of spinster aunt would suit her sister either. There was a passionate nature underneath that calm demeanor.

And when it found its outlet—watch out.

Lord Leighton returned to his own home by a roundabout way that morning, avoiding the busier streets where he might be recognized. Once fully awake and on his feet, he realized that his appearance was, if not scandalous, at least remarkable, in the sense that he could already imagine the remarks that might be made by the wits of the
ton
.

“My dear marquess, up with the cabbages were we? Smelling of them as well, I hear!”

And once the remarks began, the dowager marchioness would hear, and once his mother sunk her teeth into the matter there would be no end to it. Discretion was necessary, therefore; fortunately the back roads of west London were familiar to him, the consequence of a well-misspent youth. He arrived at Clare Manor in good order, and climbed the fence at the far corner of the garden, his route for escape as a boy. His trousers did not survive the final jump intact, but his lordship was past caring about trifles.

The beggar’s coat already lay abandoned in a dank alleyway some distance away, where it would, with any luck, be eaten by the rats.

The marquess crept through the entranceway and foyer of the house as quietly as he could. The familiar sounds of his servants going about their business reached him from behind various doors, and he hoped that none of them would choose that moment to emerge into the hall.

Or, heaven forfend, that his mother might already be awake and taking one of her morning rambles. The marquess crept a bit faster. His own suite was his goal, the only reliable haven of order and peace in the house, and he reached it without problem, shutting the door behind him gratefully.

Only to hear a familiar scratching moments later. Sighing, the marquess opened the door.

“My lord,” said Pettersby, his valet. He had a carafe of strong tea in hand. “I assume you will be requiring the bath.”

There was no fooling Pettersby.

* * * *

 The tea was fortifying, and by the time Lord Leighton had taken his bath and consumed a substantial breakfast—such were the strengths of a young and healthy man—most of the remaining marks of the night’s escapade were gone. The dowager marchioness was, thankfully, already occupied in the music room and Anthony settled into his study at a reasonable hour, where the duties of the day included a review of needed repairs with Mr Grimes, the house steward.

“The back staircase,” said the steward, with a note of utter gloom.

The marquess bit back a groan. He suspected that Grime’s response to the second coming of the Lord would have included a note of utter gloom, but still—the back staircase certainly needed attention.

“Call for the carpenters, then,” said Lord Leighton. “There’s no reason to put this off further.”

“Yes, my lord,” said the steward. “There is also the matter of new firebrick for the kitchen hearth.”

“So Cook has told me. I’ve sent for the supplies already.”

They decided that re-glazing the windows in his own suite could wait until warmer weather, but that Jo’s old bedroom should be stripped down and cleaned, and the south windowsill repaired, now that she was gone. Finally, Grimes bowed himself out.

The marquess sighed and rubbed his temples.

Clare Manor was a rambling old mansion, the sort of house that is sometimes called a ‘pile’, and much as Anthony was fond of the place he was often beset by the thought that without the unending vigilance of the steward and himself, not to mention the work done by a small army of servants, the home would fall down around all of their heads. London weather was difficult; the roof lost one slate after another, the glazing in the windows suffered in the winter, not to mention the bane of their housekeeper’s existence, the London soot. It collected endlessly on every surface, and heaven help the young lady who reclined against an undusted table wearing a white cambric dress. Not that Mrs Bess would allow such a circumstance—

Oh, dear gods, Mrs Bess had asked specifically that he call for the sweep, and the marquess had entirely forgotten the matter in the hubbub over Jo’s wedding. Although the housekeeper normally saw to daily hires, the sweeps were a different matter, as Lord Leighton disliked that children did the work, and insisted that he or Mr Grimes be present during a cleaning. He sent one of the footmen at once to the address in question, a brief note of explanation and apology to Mrs Bess, and turned his attention to the accounts. Once these were cleared, and the most pressing repairs completed, Lord Leighton had promised himself a respite from town, and a return for some months to the family estate, in Suffolk.

Eyes of sapphire blue.

Lord Leighton sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. He had not forgotten the young woman who offered him breakfast and a coat that morning. What must she be thinking of him? That he was merely another of London’s sots? Did she know, did she suspect, that he was something more than that?

“Ha,” he said, aloud, surprising Odysseus, the enormous mastiff who accompanied him everywhere in the house. The dog raised his head and regarded his master for a moment, then sank back into the carpet. “Yes,” he told Odysseus, “I am a model of fine and aristocratic respectability. How could she not see it?”

Oddy may have missed the sarcasm.

Lord Leighton possessed many of the biases of his class and time, but he had never been foolish or self-centered enough to believe that being a marquess made one, by default, a better man. He’d seen entirely too much of the
ton
for that.

Perhaps she thought nothing at all. Perhaps she had forgotten him entirely. This bothered his lordship more than he wished to admit, and sometime after nuncheon he gave up attempts to put the incident out of mind, and sent round another of the footmen to St James Street, to determine, with all due discretion, the ownership of the house in question. Then he turned his attention to the back staircase, and to the supervision of the carpenters who had now arrived, resisting the impulse to wield one of the hammers himself, and to use his own two hands to tear out pieces of the rotted wood.

* * * *

The footman returned, unfortunately, just as he and his mother were sitting down to tea.

 “Cardingham House,” said Robbie. “Belongs to ‘is lordship the Viscount of Cardingham.”

Lord Leighton nodded, and thanked the man, avoiding his mother’s eye. To no avail.

“Do you have business with the viscount?” asked the dowager. “Dear Lord, Anthony, don’t tell me that you’ve gotten into some kind of trouble.”

He stared at her. “
Why
would you ever think so?”

“Don’t cut up sharp with me! You know you haven’t been yourself, lately. Staying out until all hours—”

“There is no ‘trouble’, I assure you. And if the
ton
did not stay out until all hours there would be no
ton
.”

Cardingham. He knew of the viscount by reputation, a serious young man who had come into his inheritance several years ago and promptly disappeared from society. The marquess considered this. Why had he—

The marchioness was looking at him. Anthony knew that look.

“I’m not acquainted with that family,” his mother said. “Are there any daughters?”

“I’m ... I’m not certain,” said Lord Leighton, which was not precisely a lie.

“A viscount isn’t entirely up to snuff, of course. But—”

And then Anthony remembered. Lord Talfryn Davies had left London some time past to live at his estate in Cornwall, with rumour suggesting that the father had left the place near ruin. He had returned only a year ago to wed ... ah, yes, the Earl of Aveline’s daughter. From gossip overheard at White’s, Lord Leighton believed that the estate, and the gentleman’s finances, were now in fine order.

So. A viscount’s sister, unless ‘twas a cousin or some such. Either way, Lord Leighton felt that he must see those blue eyes again, as soon as possible. But how?

His mother, seeing that no more information was forthcoming, gave up the hunt and returned to the music room. The marquess sat and considered the matter for some time.

Did he want to approach the girl? He did. But interest from a marquess was a major coup in the eyes of society, and if she were a gossipy sort—

She was not. He was certain of it.

The marquess decided that the quickest route to his goal was to consult with Lord Benjamin Harcourt. He returned to his study and scribbled a quick note, and sent Robbie around to Kensington Square, to see if Benjamin could be rousted out of bed.

A week went by. Carys had not really forgotten the unknown man sleeping on the Cardingham House grass, but she had no way to identify him, and the image of his face faded, to be replaced by a vague sense of loss. She continued her morning walks and found herself taking round-about paths to and from Green Park, venturing through new neighborhoods with the idea that—

Well, she wasn’t sure what she expected. To see him asleep on some other family’s lawn?

One day Lady Davies sent for her daughters and suggested that they accompany her, that very evening, to a small dinner given in honour of Lord Ravelstoke.

“Tonight?” asked Carys, frowning.

“We’d be delighted,” said Isolde, who was utterly bored with the day’s activities, or lack thereof, since an afternoon’s rainstorm had curtailed a planned outing to shop for hats. She and Carys had spent the last hour playing Patience in the library.

“Lord Brabury will be attending, my dears, and I’d like Carys—”

“Lord Brabury!” Isolde rolled her eyes and Carys bit back a smile.

Lady Davies ignored them. “Adelaide tells me that Lady Brabury believes it is past time for him to marry—”

Lady Brabury being, in this case, Lord Brabury’s mother.

“—and
I
think he would do quite well for Carys. Now he may not be the most lively of gentlemen—”

That was too much for Isa. She burst into laughter.

“Madam,” said Isolde, “the man has no topic of conversation—none, I assure you—upon which he can be convinced to utter more than two words.”