The Savage Marquess (3 page)

This was too much. Mr. Carter sank slowly back down into his chair, pulled a Chinese fan from his pocket, and began to fan himself vigorously.

“Children,” he moaned.

“Lots and lots,” said the marquess cheerfully, sanding the draft and holding it out. “Now, take this and run or I may change my mind.”

Mr. Carter clutched the chair back for support as he stood up again. He took the draft in his little pink hands, delicately stained with cochineal.

Then he tucked it away in the tails of his bottle-green coat. “I say, coz, that means I won’t be your heir.”

“You never really were,” said the marquess. “I always planned to marry before I reached my dotage.”

“But you are already too old. You are thirty-five.”

The marquess sighed. “Give me back that draft, Zeus.”

“No need for that. My wretched tongue. Apologize most humbly.”

“Then good-bye.”

“I give you good day, coz.” Mr. Carter made a magnificent leg, almost touching his kneecap with his nose and then straightening up with many flourishes of a heavily scented handkerchief.

A sudden pain stabbed behind the marquess’s eye. He picked up the inkwell and threw it. Mr. Carter darted out and shut the door just as the heavy brass inkwell struck it.

He walked a little way away from the marquess’s town house, his heart beating hard. He had been so sure the marquess would have killed himself on some of his adventures or have drunk himself to death. Marriage!

He could only hope that no woman would take the wicked marquess as husband.

As the Earl of Clifton’s traveling carriage turned into Grosvenor Square, Lucinda began to feel sick with apprehension. So much depended on this post. It had been wonderful to see her father accommodated in a sunny room at Beechings and surrounded with every attention and comfort. She must do nothing to jeopardize this marvelous opportunity.

She must not let Mrs. Glossop’s parting words sound in her ears—but sound they still did as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of an imposing mansion. “Ismene will soon send you packing,” Mrs. Glossop had said. “She always was a spoilt, willful thing. You are a new toy, Lucinda, and she will soon tire of you.”

Lucinda wearily climbed down from the carriage, feeling stiff and shaky after the journey. She was ushered into a large hall with a black-and-white-tiled floor by a stately butler. The butler in turn summoned the housekeeper, remarking that the family was not at home, and he did not know when they were due to return.

Following the housekeeper up the staircase, Lucinda could not help wishing that Ismene, who knew the hour of her arrival, had stayed to welcome her. The richness of the house was intimidating, as were the indifferent painted eyes of the rows of Clifton ancestors who stared down at this shabby interloper from their gold frames on either side of the staircase.

“I have given you the room next to Lady Ismene so you can be on call at all times,” said the housekeeper. “My name is Mrs. Friend. Would you care for tea?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Lucinda, untying the strings of her bonnet.

The housekeeper gave a slight bob. Lucinda did not merit a full curtsy. When she had left, Lucinda looked about her. It was a pleasant sunny room with a single bed covered with a chintz canopy. The furniture was somewhat shabby, as if it had been brought down from the attics for her use. But the towels by the toilet table were soft and white and the cakes of soap were delicately scented.

A scratching at the door was followed by the entrance of a housemaid in a print gown and muslin cap, followed by a footman carrying Lucinda’s trunk. “I shall do my own unpacking,” said Lucinda, pink staining her cheeks. She did not want these grand London servants to see how very few gowns she had.

She smiled gently but they returned her smile with blank stares. Lucinda was that most despicable of creatures in the servants’ eyes—neither fish nor fowl, neither member of the family nor rich guest.

Lucinda slowly unpacked her clothes and put them away. Then she washed herself as thoroughly as she could and changed into a simple white cotton gown ornamented with little sprigs which she had embroidered herself. The cotton was a trifle coarse, but Lucinda was a good dressmaker, and she hoped its fashionable lines would make it acceptable to her new employer.

She pulled a battered chair over to the window, took a book from her reticule, and began to read. A footman brought in a tray with tea and biscuits. Lucinda had learned her lesson quickly. She neither smiled nor thanked him. Mrs. Glossop never thanked servants. It was not the Done Thing. Lucinda had assumed that was because of Mrs. Glossop’s customary lack of good breeding, but her quick intelligence told her that she would fare better with these London servants if she maintained a chilly distance.

The tea was freshly made and the sweet biscuits an unaccustomed luxury. After she had finished, Lucinda resumed her reading. The window was open and the warm sunlight flooding the room began to make her feel sleepy.

Ismene walked into Lucinda’s room an hour later and stood in the doorway surveying this new companion, who was fast asleep in the chair. Lucinda, Ismene noticed, was not precisely pretty, and that was good. Ismene would brook no competition from any companion. But the wealth of her chestnut hair with its glinting gold highlights made Ismene’s eyes narrow. Ismene’s own hair had to be rolled in curl papers every night. As if Ismene’s hard stare had penetrated her dreams, Lucinda suddenly came awake. She blushed and stood up. “I am sorry, Lady Ismene,” she said, immediately guessing this fashion plate must be her new mistress. “I was tired after the journey.”

“No matter,” said Ismene. She crossed to the large William and Mary wardrobe, pulled open the doors, and raised her thin eyebrows at the scanty array of frocks. “You are coming with me to Almack’s tonight,” she said. “You cannot wear any of these. Couldn’t you have done better than this?”

“I have no money,” said Lucinda.

“Oh, well, my maid, Kennedy, will make over one of mine for you. There’s a yellow thing I’m tired of. You can have it. And your hair had better be cut.”

“My hair!” Lucinda looked at Ismene in bewilderment. Lucinda’s hair was her only vanity. “Why?”

“Why,
my lady
,” corrected Ismene severely. “I don’t like all that hair of yours and that’s reason enough for you.”

Lucinda thought wearily of her father. “Very well, my lady,” she said quietly. “It shall be as you wish.”

“Then we shall be friends!” cried Ismene with a sudden change of mood. “You may call me Ismene when we are not in company. See, I quite dote on you already. Now, come to my room and we shall talk to Kennedy.”

She put an arm around Lucinda’s waist and led her into her own bedroom, which was richly furnished. “Kennedy,” she said to a lady’s maid, “this is my new companion, Miss Westerville. You must be quick and make over one of my old ball gowns for her. The yellow, I think. A trifle unbecoming, but since Lucinda is only a companion and may not dance, it will not matter. Now, Lucinda, let me tell you all about my beau. He is Jamie Macdonald, a Scotch laird, not rich, of course—the Scotch hardly ever are—but so divinely handsome and
quelles jambes
, my sweet, enough to make one swoon. He is not indifferent to me, I assure you, for he pressed my hand quite warmly when we met in the figure of the dance t’other night. Oh, he apologized and said he had momentarily lost his footing, but I knew better, and threw him a speaking glance. Of course, Mama noticed and said I must at all times remember what was due to our name. But it is quite the thing to have an inamorata after one is married, and Jamie Macdonald would do very well. I have it in me to inspire great passion.”

“Indeed,” said Lucinda politely, grimacing as she tried to stifle a yawn.

“I must be engaged before the Season is over. If one is not engaged, then one is counted a great failure. Of course, there is always the Savage Marquess. ’Tis said he will marry anyone, but who would dare? So wild and rude and violent! And he has a mistress in keeping, a Mrs. Deauville, who is not an opera dancer or a Cyprian, but a lady of the
ton
, and accepted most everywhere—except Almack’s, of course.”

“Who is this savage marquess?” asked Lucinda.

“Rockingham. He looks like the devil, it is said, but too devastatingly handsome for words.” Ismene kissed the tips of her fingers.

“Is he rich?”

“Terribly so.”

“Then surely he has only to snap his fingers.” Lucinda looked surprised. Despite her poor circumstances, Lucinda was of good family, her father being the younger son of a baronet. She knew, from infrequent visits to her rich relations—relations who had failed to reply to any of her letters begging for help for her father—that the whole meaning of a fashionable marriage was business. Marriage was rightly regarded as a serious matter, with far more at stake than the gratification of momentary infatuations. Social compatibility, adequate provision for children and for the bride should she chance to become widowed, the formation of desirable connections, and the advancement of the family’s standing were the important purposes served by matchmaking.

Only when an aristocrat had fallen on hard times and needed to save his lands did he look outside his own caste. It was often whispered that marriage with the daughters of the mercantile class had infused much-needed new blood into some ancient lines which had begun to show alarming signs of producing totty-headed eccentrics.

“Oh, ladies have fallen in love with him, or so I hear, only to be shattered by his uncouth ways. It is rumored he is to attend the assembly rooms tonight. A situation
très piquant, n’est-ce pas?
”

“Quite.”

“You must make sure he does not form a
tendre
for me. I should shake like a jelly with fear. We dine early. I suppose it is
comme il faut
for you to sit with us. It is not as if you are precisely a servant. Come along.”

“I would appreciate an opportunity of trying this dress on Miss Westerville first, my lady,” said Kennedy, shaking out the folds of a yellow ball gown.

“We haven’t got the time, so you must guess your best,” said Ismene airily. “Come, Lucinda.”

Lucinda had never before hated anyone. She disliked Mrs. Glossop and her daughters, but tolerated them. One could not expect to like everyone. So Lucinda was quite surprised at the strength of her sudden savage dislike for her young employer. She thought Lady Ismene detestable: vain, silly, empty-headed, selfish, and cruel. She knew instinctively that Ismene would soon turn against her, the way a spoilt child will smash a doll. But somehow, she must try to last in her post as companion for as long as possible. Only when her father wrote to say he was returned to full health could she begin to relax.

The Countess of Clifton was much as Lucinda expected Ismene’s mother to be—every bit as chattering and empty-headed as her daughter. The earl was silent and taciturn, but Lucinda sensed in him some strength of character.

“And you should see poor Lucinda’s gowns!” cried Ismene as the dessert was brought in. “So countrified. Why, Mama, only see the texture of the cotton in that gown she has on. Quite peasant.”

“Kennedy will no doubt run her up something for Almack’s,” said the countess, raising a quizzing glass and surveying Lucinda with a cold eye.

“Yes, that old yellow thing,” said Ismene. She stared at the dessert, which was a miracle of the confectioner’s art, a sugar lion crouched in a bed of sugarplums. She raised a silver knife and decapitated the lion with one quick stroke. Little puffs of sugar dust floated up into the sunbeams in the dining room.

“Now that you have ruined it, Ismene,” said her father, speaking for the first time, “you may as well eat some of it.”

“No,” said Ismene with a shrug. “I don’t want any.” The earl’s lips tightened but he said nothing. “So,” went on Ismene, “it will not matter much what Lucinda looks like, for she will not be dancing.”

“Why?” demanded the earl suddenly.

“Stupid. Companions don’t dance.”

“Yes, they do,” said the earl firmly. “It will look most odd in you, Ismene, if you have a young companion who is not allowed to dance. In fact, it would be better to introduce Lucinda as your friend.”

“Why, pray?”

“So that you do not continue to be the only young lady in London who appears to be incapable of making friends.”

“Ismene would have scores of friends,” said her mother loyally, “were she not so very pretty. They are all jealous.”

“As you will,” said the earl, appearing to lose interest.

“Of course,” said Ismene slowly, “there may be something in what you say. But don’t go giving yourself airs, Lucinda, or I shall be obliged to send you packing.”

“You will send Lucinda packing when I say so and not before,” said the earl.

“Pooh,” retorted his wife. “If you are going to be unpleasant, Clifton, we may as well leave you to your port.”

She picked up a little water bowl, filled her mouth with some of the liquid, gargled noisily, and spat the water back into the bowl. “Come, Lucinda,” said the countess, dabbing her mouth with her napkin. “You will play for us before we retire to dress.”

* * *

Ismene ordered Kennedy to see to the cutting of Lucinda’s hair, and then became absorbed in her own preparations for the ball. Monsieur Roux himself, that famous hairdresser, was to arrange her own hair in one of the new fashionable styles. Kennedy was unimpressed by Monsieur Roux’s reputation. He was a foreigner, a servant like herself. She met him in the corridor as he was leaving Ismene’s bedroom after having done her hair. “Off so soon!” exclaimed Kennedy, seeing the hairdresser making for the stairs. “There is another lady to attend to. A Miss Westerville. You’re to cut her hair.” She held open the door of Lucinda’s room. “In here,” she said with an ungracious jerk of her head.

Monsieur Roux opened his mouth to say he would not do any more that evening, but then gave a resigned Gallic shrug. He was shrewd and clever and knew that the aristocracy might favor high-handed hairdressers for a short time, but that a man who was discreet, civil, and obliging would remain at the top of his profession for a long time.