The Marquess and Miss Davies (4 page)

“Ah, yes ... well, as our previous speaker noted—” said Mr Torvald, stammering his way through another pleasantry, unable to decide whether to address himself to the young woman on his right or on his left.

I’m over here!
thought Carys. She was worried for more than her own self-regard. If the man did not make the correct identification soon Isa was liable to say something outrageous.

Too late.

“Our previous speaker?” said Isolde, sweetly. “Dr ... Johnson, I believe? With his
extraordinarily
tedious leeches?”

Mr Torvald swallowed visibly, and one could see his indecision. Should he admit to having heard the deprecatory adjective? Should he laugh?

He attempted a small chuckle.

Carys gave up. Her sister would have much to say when they returned home, and she could hardly blame her. Mr Torvald had certainly not displayed to his best this evening. She began in some desperation to make a remark or two to indicate that the conversation was drawing to its close, and Mr Torvald took the hint, with barely disguised relief. They bid the gentleman a pleasant adieu, turning again toward the lecture hall.

“Oh, no.” Isolde groaned. “Does this go on all night?”

“Only one more,” Carys told her. “I believe one of the royal astronomers is speaking on the parallax of stars.”

“The heavens be merciful.”

Carys grinned at her. “Exactly.”

“Ha.”

They entered the hall, but before they reached their seats Carys heard her name called again, in a familiar voice. She turned to see two men of obvious rank, one tall and dark, the other—oh, goodness, ‘twas Lord Harcourt. He smiled and waved at the twins, and Carys waved as well, hoping that she did not appear
too
surprised. She would have thought Benjamin Harcourt the last person with any interest in the Royal Society.

The gentlemen approached.

“I say,” said Lord Harcourt, with a smile, “what a pleasant discovery! Leeches are such
fascinating
creatures that I think I must have one as a pet.”

“Lud,” said Isolde. “You must remind me to pay you no visits.”

“But whom shall I introduce as the first?”

His lordship alluded to the perennial question of how one addressed each sister, as their mother—in a whim that neither girl understood—had always refused to divulge which was the older.

“Carys, of course,” said Isolde. “She’s much the more deserving.”

“Excellent. Lord Leighton, may I introduce Miss Carys Davies—”

She turned with a smile to the other gentleman.

“Oh!”

No, it couldn’t be. Could it?

The man’s eyes held hers, his lips quirked in a small, lopsided smile, and she was sure.

‘Twas he.

Lord Harcourt continued as if nothing extraordinary had just happened. She heard faintly, as through a roaring in her ears, Isolde cheerfully teasing Benjamin, something more about leeches, and making her how-do’s to the stranger.

Whose name ... whose name was—

“Lord Leighton, the Marquess of Clare.”

A marquess.

“Miss Carys Davies and I have met,” said Lord Leighton.

Isolde sent a quick glance to her sister.

“Ah, yes,” said Carys. “‘Twas only the other day, was it not?” Her tone was light, but she was thinking fast. This ... this
marquess
had acknowledged their previous encounter, and she could hardly gainsay him. But—

“I believe I was not at my best at the time,” said Lord Leighton. “Perhaps I could attempt to repair the damage now?”

Isa took Lord Harcourt’s arm. “Is it too late? Or could we manage a bit of punch?” she said, pulling him firmly away.

* * * *

And then they were alone. Lord Leighton, Marquess of Clare, looked at Carys, still smiling.

“My lord,” she said, feeling strangely out of breath.

“Oh, I think you are entitled to my first name, don’t you?” he replied. “Under the circumstances?”

“Having seen you completely foxed and flat on your back in the wet grass, do you mean?”

The marquess laughed. “Exactly,” he told her. “And ‘tis Anthony.”

“Anthony,” repeated Carys. “Do you often sleep out-of-doors in London?”

“Not usually, no,” he said. “Do you make a habit of walking by yourself at dawn?”

“‘Twas nearly eight of the clock.”

“As I said.”

“Ah,
ton
hours. I prefer those of the country.”

He was silent then, and she saw the first hint of gravity in his expression. But only briefly.

“You lived in Cornwall, as I understand? A beautiful place for a beautiful young woman.”

Carys nodded without acknowledging the compliment. “Although we’ve been in town for the past year,” she replied. Miss Davies was unused to being flirted with in this forward manner, and unsure of the conversation’s direction. She felt obscurely pleased that he knew something about her family.

“And I take it that you are on good terms with Lord Harcourt?” added the marquess.

“We are old friends.”

“Already? You can hardly have been out of the schoolroom when you left London.”

And how did he know that? “Indeed,” she replied, unwilling to ask. “But the families are well-acquainted, and we played together as young children.”

One of Carys’s earliest memories was of a wooden whirli-gig which Benjamin had treated quite roughly, and then broken, to Isolde’s childish fury. Her lips quirked in a smile.

“You must tell me what has amused you,” said the marquess.

“Isolde hit him, once. Perhaps more than once, now that I think of it.”

He grinned. “I can certainly believe that she did. I’ve been tempted on several occasions.”

“You are good friends as well, then?”

“Benjamin Harcourt,” said Lord Leighton, “is acquainted with half of London. Perhaps more— Ah, and here is the man himself.”

Carys turned to see Lord Harcourt returning, Isolde on his arm. They were both laughing.

“Do tell us the joke,” said the marquess.

Isolde coloured slightly, and Carys knew immediately the source of their amusement.

“I believe,” she said—to spare her sister the telling—”that it concerns Mr Torvald’s inability to tell us apart.”

Lord Leighton frowned. “Truly?”

“Carys,” said Harcourt, “why do you insist on dragging poor Isa to such a dull affair? The room is abominably stuffy.”

“I did not drag her!” protested Carys.

“No,” said Isolde. “‘Twas my own idea. But never again, I assure you.”

“Is this some kind of penance?” asked Lord Harcourt of Carys. “Are you atoning for some horrible sin?”

“I enjoy the lectures,” she said, smiling back at him. “As I have told you before.”

But in that moment Carys knew that however many times she had said this, however many times she had advanced it as an excuse, she had always been lying. Some of the presentations had been interesting, of course. Sir Everard Home had spoken only last month about the discovery of fossilized rhinoceros bones—in England!—and Carys had been engaged enough to ask a question, to which Sir Home had answered most kindly.

But usually—

Carys smiled to herself. Usually Dr Johnson’s leeches could be counted the highlight of the evening. And she was only here—in this room, which was just as horribly stuffy as Lord Harcourt had said—because she could not be in Cornwall, and because the only alternative open to her was another ball or musicale.

Or remaining home every evening, alone.

No, London itself was the problem, London itself was her jail, and that was something no amount of scholarly discussion would change.

To Carys’s surprise, Isa said nothing about either Mr Torvald or the Marquess of Clare on the carriage ride back to Cardingham House. She was, instead, full of the latest gossip from Lord Harcourt.

“Lord Peter and Alice Montvale are quarreling again.”

“Good heavens. Has she cried off the engagement this time?”

“I don’t believe so. And can you imagine? Miss Palmers is to be married before Christmas!”

Carys was interested despite herself. The beautiful and wealthy Caroline Palmers was nearing twenty-five if she was a day, having turned down every suitor for the past decade. The
ton
had opined that she was that rarest of creatures, a woman with no interest in marriage.

“To whom?”

“To Lord Leighton, I hear.”

“The marquess?” interrupted Carys, more sharply than she intended. It could not be. It
could
not.

“Oh, no, no, I beg your pardon. I meant to say Sir Braddock.”

“Well, I’m sure it doesn’t matter,” managed Carys.

Isa was watching her with sidelong eyes. “I’m sure it does not.”

* * * *

The twins visited the kitchen as soon as they arrived home, in Isolde’s case for one of Cook’s shortcakes.

“I cannot believe you are hungry again,” said Carys, herself nibbling on a bit of toast with jam. Cook worried that they were ‘dreadful thin’, and regularly left something for them in the evening.

“I cannot applaud the Royal Society’s choice of refreshments.”

“That didn’t stop you from eating several of the fairy cakes.”

“True. Now tell me, dear sister, how you are acquainted with the Marquess of Clare.”

And Carys explained.

* * * *

Some time later the two girls went back upstairs, padding softly through the darkened and silent house. The sisters never asked Janie—their lady’s maid—to wait for them in the late hours, being well able to do for themselves.

“I miss Tal,” said Isa, as they passed the door to their brother’s room.

“We shall have a niece or nephew soon. Surely he and Lady Reggie will return then.”

“Perhaps it will be twins.”

“Oh!” said Carys, brightening at the thought. “Do you suppose?”

“Mother always claimed they ran in her family.”

“Speaking of
maman
—”

“I will say nothing.”

Nothing, of course, of the conversation Carys had shared with a drunken stranger. Isolde had been most amused at Carys’s description of the encounter.

“And you had no idea—?” she asked her sister.

“That he was a marquess? How could I? A sot would have turned up his nose at the smell.”

“How odd.”

“But even so,” said Carys. “I don’t believe he was that
terribly
drunk.”

Her sister laughed. “Our mother might not appreciate the distinction.”

 * * * *

She was more tired than she ought to be, thought Carys, resting on her bed, propped against a mound of pillows. ‘Tis not as if she gave one of the presentations herself.

She was ready to fall asleep while Isolde, predictably, remained restless. Isa flitted around the bedroom, first trying on her newest hats—you should have worn
this
one tonight, she told her sister, holding up a silly confection of net and feathers—and now investigating the contents of Carys’s writing desk. Carys sighed. The twins shared a bedroom, and several wardrobes, they shared clothes and ball slippers and hats; nevertheless, she had insisted on her own desk. Isolde’s idea of a letter involved so many small sketches and exclamations and words underlined five or six times, so many cross-outs and smudges, that
her
desk was a clutter of crumpled paper and broken quills, with spilled ink an ever-present possibility.

“Your Mr Torvald—” began Isolde, opening a drawer.

Carys groaned. She had thought to escape this conversation. “He is not my Mr Torvald.”

“That is no excuse.”

Carys looked up. “Excuse for what?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“We haven’t spoken ... that frequently. He was naturally occupied with—”

“—his speech? He had given it. ‘Tis hard to believe I thought the
first
one dull.”

“Oh, you are unfair! He is very passionate about his work.”

“Posh. No-one who is passionate could possibly be that boring.”

“Only because you do not appreciate—”

“I assure you that I appreciate them as well as—”

“He has discovered an entirely new—

“Surely—”

“Not at all!”

It was this kind of conversation between the twins that their brother claimed gave him the headache. “Will one of you,” Talfryn would say, “please complete a sentence?”

Isolde opened another drawer. Separate desks were no guarantee of privacy, as Carys well knew; Isa regularly hunted through the small escritoire for fresh nibs or whatnot, and had no qualms about reading whatever she found.

“You are abominably tidy,” said Isa. “I should like a planchet of sealing wax.”

“On the right,” said Carys, absently. She was thinking again, for some reason, about the Marquess of Clare.
He
had shown no doubt of her identity.

He
had known her at once.

“What is this?” asked Isolde, holding up a sheet of paper.

Carys looked up. “‘Tis my list. I told you I was writing it.”

“I must not have been paying attention.”

“One may imagine my surprise.”

Isa read the first line. “Oh, you cannot be serious. A rational plan for marriage?”

“Yes. And I am.”

“‘Tis a ridiculous scheme.”

“I hope not.”

Isolde sat on her own bed and began to peruse the document. “ ... of sober habits and steady disposition. Does not gamble deep. Inclined to careful examination of the facts of any question.” Isa snorted. “And what happens when you fall in love with someone who is
not
inclined to a ‘careful examination of the facts of any question’?”

“I consider the kind of love you refer to as neither necessary nor preferable for marriage.”

Isolde continued reading. “Perceptive and well-read. Loves animals—well, with that I entirely agree. Mmm. Willing to spend the majority of time outside of London.” She looked up at her sister, a question in her eyes.

“Yes,” said Carys.

“And if
I
am in London?”

“You will visit us.”

“And your nephews? Lady Reggie will have twin boys, I’m quite convinced of it.”