The Marquess and Miss Davies (22 page)

“How have you been, Miss Briskin?” said Jo, with a slight emphasis on the ‘miss’. She could not imagine how the woman thought to make free with first names.

“Oh, la, Jo, I’m sure we were never so formal! You knew I was engaged, did you not? Mr Jenrett is the
most
wonderful gentleman, you must meet him, and I’m sure—”

Lady Bainborough’s thoughts wandered. She imagined how she would describe this meeting later, to Chalcroft, and how he would laugh. William had an attractive laugh.

“But I hear you may have the most interesting news of all!”

“Umm?” The countess found herself missing her husband. The feeling came without warning, and for a moment she was at sea. How could this be? With all of London’s attractions, with all the amusing people in town, how could the one person she most longed to see be the staid and quiet Earl of Chalcroft?

“Although I must tell you, there is talk that she is a twin. And that book! I’m surprised that the marquess—”

‘Twas not the words but something about Miss Briskin’s tone that finally caught Jo’s attention. Something just the tiniest bit triumphant.

“Book?” asked Lady Bainborough.

“Oh, la, Lord Brabury’s latest, of course! ‘Tis quite the
on dit
. And you know what they say!”

“No,” said Josephine pleasantly, “I don’t.” And with a nod to Miss Briskin, she left the shop.

* * * *

A book. On the idea of a moment, and with a growing sense of foreboding, Lady Bainborough directed the coachman immediately to one of the London booksellers.

“Hatchard’s should do.”

“Yes, mum.”

An hour later she was back at Clare House, writing two notes; one was sent to Lord Harcourt, and the other to Miss Isolde Davies.

Lord Harcourt read the frontispiece aloud, frowning. “
To C., my geminate muse
”.

“Indeed,” said Josephine.

“Geminate?”

“It means to make double, as in twins.”

“I dare say no-one will know the word.”

“It is in Samuel Johnson’s dictionary.”

“You are certain?”

Jo stared at him. “I looked it up,” she said, pronouncing each word with emphasis.

“Oh, very well.” Benjamin took a deep breath. “And that silly woman knew of the book already?”

“You should have been in Hatchard’s. The clerk was nearly smirking as he sold me a copy. He said ‘twas their most popular volume of poetry in years.”

Lord Harcourt looked at the cover, which was a florid red leather with gilt lettering. “
‘Fondest
Dreams’
—that does not sound so terribly scandalous.”

“Read one.”

“Oh, but—”

“Read one.
Not
aloud, if you please.”

Benjamin opened the book somewhere in the middle, and made a quick perusal. He began chewing the inside of his lip, and then—to Lady Bainborough’s amusement—blushed scarlet.

“See?”

“Good lord.” Lord Harcourt looked up at her. “Does your brother know?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Miss Davies can have had no real—”

“Of course not. But they are known to be acquaintances.”

Benjamin thought for a moment. “It does not matter,” he said. “Anthony would never throw the girl over for such. He is completely besotted.”

“Nor do I think he would. But Miss Davies’s life might be made unpleasant, and this will make the marquess angry.”

“Angry!” Benjamin showed true alarm for the first time. “Gods, you are right. That cannot happen.”

“In some ways, Anthony has very strict ideas about honour. Just imagine if he called out poor Lord Brabury.”

“Your brother would surely delope.”

“I imagine so, but what if the poet manages a lucky shot? Anthony might be injured. Not to mention there
would
be a scandal. At this point all we have is the hint of one.”

Just then there was a knock at the door to the library—Lord Harcourt shared his father’s interest in maps and made frequent use of the room—and the butler announced another visitor, one whose voice was unmistakable.

Of course, thought Jo. How could it not be?

The Marquess of Clare entered the room.

As on the previous occasion when he found the countess in the company of Lord Harcourt, her brother did not look overjoyed to see her.

“Isa!”

“Mmm?”

“Isa! Wake up!”

Isolde, feigning effort, turned over in the bed to face her sister. Carys was dressed already, of course, wearing her newest riding skirt-and-jacket, sewn in velvet, the colour a scarlet so deep as to appear almost black. Isa had the matching outfit in a luscious hunter green.

Isolde closed her eyes. “I have the most terrible headache,” she said. “I cannot possibly go.”

“Nonsense,” said Carys. “You know you will be happier once you are out-of-doors. Besides, Jesse is waiting.”

At the horse’s name, Isa felt a pang. She and her twin had ridden out nearly every morning for the past fortnight, and she knew that her beloved stallion would be restless if she did not appear.

She would need to explain matters to him. Later.

“Actually,” she told Carys. “I’m quite serious.” Which was true in its way.

Her sister was immediately concerned. “Oh, Isa, I’m sorry,” said Carys, sitting on the side of the bed and resting her fingers against her twin’s forehead. “You do not seem to have a fever. But let me send for one of Cook’s tisanes—”

“I do not believe I could drink it, at the moment,” said Isolde. “I’m sure I will be fine shortly, and ‘twould bother me ever so much if you were kept from riding out. I could hardly rest.”

“Well—”

“Would you be a dear and explain to Jesse what has happened?”

“I cannot leave you like this.”

Gods. “‘I believe ‘twas Lady Pickerel’s madeira last night,” said Isa, desperate.

“The madeira—! You know better than—”

“I know. I know. I’m such a ninny.”

“Well—”

“I think just a bit more sleep is exactly what I need,” said Isa, and she rolled back over in the bed. After a minute she heard Carys sigh, and leave the room, and some time after that—by now Isa was up and dressing—she heard the familiar sound of Alcaeus trotting away down St James Street, toward Green Park.

* * * *

The marquess, who—unlike his sister and Lord Harcourt—knew the meaning of the word
geminate
without recourse to Dr Johnson, was on that morning blissfully unaware of any and all volumes of poetry to be found in the London bookshops. His own tastes ran more to history in any event.

He was at the breakfast, waiting for Jo, who—he suspected—would herself wait until the dowager marchioness had also arrived at table. ‘Twould make no difference, Lord Leighton told himself. If they could not have the discussion now, they would have it later, in his study.

He was loathe to have this conversation with his sister, but he could not see any way to avoid it. The marquess had considered talking to Lord Harcourt instead, but—

Benjamin had forgiven him for his original refusal of Josephine’s hand. Forgiven him utterly, and for those who might have said it was on account of Lord Leighton’s money, Lord Leighton himself knew better.

Lord Harcourt had
accepted
the marquess’s judgment in the matter. Against his feelings, against everything that he had wished at the time—and he had remained Anthony’s friend. The marquess was not inclined to chide him on any subject related to his sister.

Besides, the marquess thought it unlikely that Lord Harcourt was the party responsible in this latest tête-à-tête with Jo.

* * * *

Jesse nickered in welcome—or perhaps complaint—as Isolde entered the stables. The warm fragrance of horse surrounded her; Isa had learned to love it nearly as much as her sister, and she inhaled appreciatively.

“I can explain,” she told Jesse, looking around for the stableboy. “It’s about Carys, and it’s terribly important.”

The boy appeared, rubbing his eyes. He could not read much as yet, even though both Carys and Isa had attempted to teach him. This suited her purposes for the present errand.

“Go to Hatchard’s, on Piccadilly Street,” she told the boy.

“Hatchard’s, miss?”

“They sell books. You will see them in the window. And the name looks like this.” Isa gave him a small piece of paper on which the name was carefully printed.

“Yes, miss.”

“You must not give the book to anyone else. I will come down to the stables again to retrieve it. Do you understand?”

The stableboy nodded, and his face showed his delight at being given such an important commission. “I’ll be back in a squib, miss!”

“Excellent.”

He left at a run. Isolde sighed, and turned to Jesse. “I must trust in your patience,” she said. “But I promise that we will have a long ride tomorrow. And I shall tell you everything.”

 She left the stables and ran back up to the bedroom.

* * * *

“I thought,” said the Countess of Chalcroft, “I would save you the trouble of hunting me down.”

His sister had arrived unexpectedly early to the breakfast room. She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat across from the marquess, elbows on the table and chin cupped in her hand. This was so like Jo, so like his image of his sister for most of their lives, that Anthony felt a stab of pain. He would do anything do avoid hurting her. But what if she herself was the one to bring it about?

Lord Leighton sighed. “I’m sure you can understand,” he began, “why I am uneasy.”

“I can,” said Jo, taking her first sip of coffee. “And I’m sure you can understand why ‘tis none of your concern.”

“Your reputation is in my charge.”

“It is not. My reputation is my own responsibility. And I can assure you ‘tis in good hands.”

“It should not matter, I know. But as you were once nearly engaged—”

“Allow me to have a life, brother. Allow me to live it.”

He had no more to say, and both took recourse to the newspapers. When Lady Bainborough abandoned even
The Times
, sometime later—after a smallish breakfast and several cups of coffee—she turned in the doorway and said to her brother—

“You know that Benjamin did not seek me out, do you not?”

Anthony looked up at her. “Yes,” he said. “I do know that.”

Jo nodded, apparently satisfied, and left.

* * * *

Isolde kept reminding herself that there was no need to rush. Hatchard’s was at some distance for the boy, and Carys would ride for hours if the weather was good, which it was that day. But something compelled her to hurry. She found the letter from Lord Brabury—lud, ‘twas a book in itself—and began reading furiously.

The beginning was commonplace for such missives.

My dearest Miss Davies,

Allow me—if I may be so bold—to address you as a friend,

and forward to you, personally

that happy news that my second volume of poor verse—

Lord Brabury then went on to an exhaustive account of his daily routine, describing all his efforts at ‘his poor craft’, as he called it. Was there anything more boring than how someone wrote? Isa was torn between the impulse to hurry and the need to make sure that she did not miss any pertinent detail.

Finally, almost at the last page—and no wonder Carys had never noticed—there it was.

I should account myself the luckiest of all men

if you would accede to allowing

the dedication of my poor efforts

to be laid at your doorstep. Of course

such cannot be said openly—cruel society,

who understand nothing of finer feelings!—

but I have—

Oh, for the love of all that is holy, thought Isolde. Get on with it.

—
thought much on the matter, and I believe

that the following will suit extremely well.

Here Lord Brabury wrote the proposed inscription, and ‘twas exactly as Lady Bainborough had described in her alarmed communication to Isolde: ‘To C., my geminate muse’.

Is it not admirable and perfect in

every way? Of course, if you

have any objection, I will desist

immediately, and—

Isa carefully folded the sheets of paper and returned them to their envelope. Carys had answered Lord Brabury’s note, but in all ignorance of the dedication, and so she said nothing about it. The poet probably took this for approval, was overjoyed by his good fortune, and thought no more of the matter, other than to perhaps hope that an association with one of the lovely Davies twins—Isa grinned to herself—might help sell more copies.

She still wanted to see the volume of poetry herself, but Isolde had no doubt, now, that the fox was truly among the chickens. What to do? To approach Talfryn was out of the question—oh, yes, he’d find out eventually, but one could at least hope for better odds in the event.

Perhaps Lady Regina should be informed.

Lord Leighton watched the rider and her stallion as they galloped along the north edge of Hyde Park. There was little terrain in the park, but enough of a rise where he stood—or sat, rather, on Tantevy—that he could observe with some likelihood of remaining unseen. Alcaeus was rushing toward the Serpentine at great speed, much faster than Anthony liked, but he must learn to trust Miss Davies’s abilities on a horse.

At least she was not riding sidesaddle. The marquess decided that, if they were blessed with daughters, the girls would ride exactly as their mother did.

Miss Carys Davies. His wife-to-be.

The marquess was determined to wed her. If she would have him, of course, but Anthony felt that her partiality had been clear enough in their last meetings. He believed she would say yes. His heart sang at the thought.

The temptation to join Miss Davies in the meadow was great, but Lord Leighton persuaded himself against the idea. If he greeted her he would wish to kiss her, and if they walked for a few minutes in the nearby Kensington woods they might have that opportunity, and the marquess did not think his self-control was up to the task of stopping at a kiss. Best to talk with her at her home, and ask for her hand properly. And then he must speak with the viscount, much as he rather dreaded the thought.