The Savage Marquess (8 page)

“But he will be unable to leave just like that! And what about you, Kennedy? Lady Ismene will not allow you to walk out just like that.”

“I know how to make her throw me out,” said Kennedy grimly. “I am going back to tell her exactly what I think of her. Humphrey will no doubt do the same with Mrs. Pembery.”

“You seem like a tower of strength, Kennedy. I declare I shall stay and fight after all.”

It was a weary Lucinda who finally crawled into bed in the small hours after having sent a letter to her father telling him of her marriage. She told him she was madly in love with the marquess. She did not want him to think she had married Rockingham for any other reason.

Lucinda had selected a bedchamber for her use on the floor above her husband’s quarters. Kennedy had arrived back with the glad news that Humphrey and several of Mrs. Pembery’s other disaffected servants would be arriving in the morning to take up their duties.

Before she fell into an exhausted sleep, Lucinda’s one comforting thought was that London society would probably not learn about her marriage for some time, since her reprehensible husband had gone off without making any announcement.

In this, Lucinda was wrong.

Before leaving for Paris, the marquess had sent Chumley off with the announcement to be placed in the
Morning Post.
He kept a change of clothes in his club and he had set out for Paris with only those, having experienced a reluctance to return to Berkeley Square. The novelty of his wedding had quickly worn off and he wondered hazily whether he were mad.

So several society breakfasts were ruined by the announcement of his marriage.

The marquess’s mistress, Mrs. Maria Deauville, could not believe her eyes. Her plump little hands holding the newspaper began to shake. But she convinced herself it was all a hum. One of Rockingham’s little jokes. No one who was anyone had heard of a Miss Westerville. Still, she could not be easy until she had seen him.

The Honorable Zeus Carter felt all hope go out of his life when he saw the
Morning Post
with that terrible announcement. He thought miserably of his bills. He knew he was able to command vast credit due to his expectations. He was not the only person who expected the marquess to meet an early death. His only hope was that the marquess had been abysmally drunk when he had proposed and had fixed his interest on a female beyond the years of childbearing. Misery loves company and Mr. Carter craved the company of someone who was likely to feel as miserable as he did himself. He crawled from bed, determined to call on Maria Deauville at the first opportunity.

The marquess’s parents, the Duke and Duchess of Barnshire, had just taken up residence in their own town house in Grosvenor Square. They had not bothered themselves much about their eldest son since the day he was born, except to see that he was firmly disciplined on all occasions. But the fact that their son had upped and married a nobody made the duchess quite apoplectic with rage. She called for her maid and began a lengthy toilette, as if putting on armor before going into battle.

* * *

Lucinda was flushed and busy and beginning to enjoy herself. The new butler was quiet and competent and had arrived with two housemaids, and wonder upon wonders, a cook. Footmen and more maids and kitchen staff were hired from an agency, the agency confident that things must have taken a turn for the better now that the wicked and unruly marquess was married.

She had just ordered the footmen to take down the picture of the lady with the sinister smile which hung over the fireplace in the saloon and put it in the attic when she received her first caller. It was the Duchess of Barnshire. Humphrey, knowing his mistress was wearing an old gown and apron, tried to keep the duchess in the hall while he warned Lucinda of her arrival, but the angry duchess pushed past him and strode into the saloon.

“Where is my son?” she shouted. “What have you done with my son? And where, may I ask, is this new wife of his?”

Taking off her apron and handing it to Kennedy, Lucinda said quietly, “I was married to your son yesterday, your grace.”

“
You
,” said the duchess in accents of loathing. She looked Lucinda up and down, from her worn shoes to her hair, which was tied up with a ribbon.

“Furthermore,” said Lucinda, “Rockingham has gone to Paris.”

“
Paris!
”

“Yes, Paris,” Lucinda said patiently.

The duchess moved forward and sat down on the sofa, her back ramrod straight. She was a tall woman with a grim face and a mouth that seemed to be perpetually curved in a nasty smile. Seeing that smile, Lucinda involuntarily glanced at the empty area over the fireplace where the portrait had hung.

“And where is my portrait?” asked the duchess.

“In the attics, your grace.”

“Why, pray?”

“I did not like it,” said Lucinda, too rattled to do other than tell the stark truth.

“
You… did… not… like… it?
” said the duchess awfully.

“Well, er, no, as a matter of fact.”

The duchess took a deep breath. “There is something havey-cavey about this marriage and I am going to get to the bottom of it. Are you with child?”

“Don’t be impertinent,” Lucinda said crossly.

“If you are not with child, then why did he marry you?”

“Because I asked him to,” said Lucinda. “Your grace, your son went off directly after our wedding, leaving me along in a house without either food or servants. I have much to do. I suggest you take your leave and I shall inform my husband on his return of your call. He will no doubt be pleased to explain his reasons for marrying me.”

The duchess stood up, quivering with rage. “You are a nobody, my pert miss. A nobody. And if you had any hopes of cutting a dash with the
ton
, you had best forget it. No one will receive you without my approval. No one.”

“Good,” said Lucinda. “For Rockingham’s idea of a pigsty for a home is not mine, and he has left me much work to do. Humphrey, the door. Her grace is just leaving.”

When the door closed behind the duchess, Lucinda said ruefully to Kennedy, “I dealt with that visit very badly. How did she learn so quickly? Oh, Rockingham must have called on her before he left for Paris.”

“Perhaps it was because an announcement of your marriage appeared in the newspapers this morning,” put in Humphrey.

Lucinda’s lips tightened. How thoughtless of Rockingham to do such a thing and then leave town. Surely he would know he was leaving her to face angry family and curious callers alone.

“I had better change,” she said. “I wonder who will be next?”

* * *

Mrs. Deauville was just descending the stairs of her elegant mansion in Montague Street when Mr. Zeus Carter arrived, flushed and breathless.

Maria’s heart sank when she saw him. A distressed Mr. Carter surely meant the announcement was not a joke.

“It is terrible! Terrible!” cried Mr. Carter.

“Rockingham’s marriage?” said Maria. “A jest, surely.”

Mr. Carter took out a handkerchief the size of a lace bedspread and mopped his brow. “I fear it is the truth,” he said. “Rockingham told me he intended to wed.”

An ugly flush spread over Maria’s white neck. “Come into the drawing room,” she said. “I would hear more of this.”

Mr. Carter tittuped in after her on the high heels of his boots. He waited until she was seated and then leaned romantically against the mantel, one finger pointing to his brow.

Despite his distress, he did hope Mrs. Deauville admired his latest Attitude, which was that of Noble Poet in the Grip of the Muse. But Maria was too distressed. He gave up his pose and looked at her. She was an enchanting creature, small and dainty, with a cascade of blond curls bound with a blue filet, large childlike blue eyes, and a perfect figure. She must be nearly thirty, marveled Mr. Carter, and yet she looked barely twenty-one. He had met her before on several occasions.

“He said nothing to me about wanting to get married,” said Maria. “Nothing.”

“Perhaps he was in his cups and sent off the advertisement to tease everyone,” said Mr. Carter. “That is what he would do, you know.”

Maria’s face cleared. “There is still hope,” she said. “I was on my way to call. He will be furious with me, for I have never called at his home before. But he will understand.”

“If he is married, it ruins all my hopes of being his heir,” said Mr. Carter. He thought of the money the marquess had given him. He should have used some of it to settle his more pressing debts, but instead, he had bought himself a new carriage lined with blue silk and a team of matching white horses to pull it. There was plenty left over, even after this extravagance, but it went against the grain to pay a lot of vulgar duns. Mr. Carter blanched as he realized they would now be even more pressing. And no one would give him any credit if it were believed he had no longer any hopes of inheriting any money.

“Perhaps it would be as well if I did not call,” said Maria thoughtfully. “It will not look at all odd if you go to pay your respects, and then you can return here and tell me whether it is true or not.”

“What shall we do if it
is
true?” asked Mr. Carter.

There was an edge to Maria’s silvery tones as she said, “Marriages can be broken, you know. Go, and return as soon as possible.”

Mr. Carter went on his way. He had quite convinced himself that it was one of Rockingham’s jokes by the time he reached Berkeley Square.

The first sign of impending disaster was when a polite and correct butler answered the door. “Where’s Chumley?” asked Mr. Carter, handing his card.

Humphrey bowed. “If by Chumley you mean his lordship’s valet, then he is no doubt with his lordship in Paris.”

“Paris?” echoed Mr. Carter weakly.

Taking a deep breath, he summoned up all his courage. “Her ladyship at home?” he asked as casually as he could, although he noticed to his irritation that his voice trembled.

“I shall ascertain if her ladyship is at home.”

He walked away up the stairs, leaving Mr. Carter standing in the hall.

Mr. Carter looked about him gloomily. The hall, he noticed, was clean and shining. Worse than that, there was a beautiful arrangement of spring flowers on a side table.

He could hear a murmur of voices coming from abovestairs. After a few moments, Humphrey descended.

“I regret her ladyship is not available, sir.”

I must see her, thought Mr. Carter wildly. I must see who has stolen my inheritance.

“Perhaps,” he said with a little laugh, “her ladyship is not aware that I am Lord Rockingham’s cousin and, perhaps, his closest friend and adviser.”

“I shall convey that piece of intelligence to her ladyship,” said Humphrey.

Mr. Carter began to pace up and down, nervously chewing at the tip of one deerskin-gloved finger. This time Humphrey took longer.

At last he came back. “Follow me, sir,” he said. He led the way up the stairs to the second floor and opened the door of the drawing room. Mr. Carter remembered that the drawing room had barely been used by the marquess. The ground-floor saloon was the one in which the marquess received any callers.

The drawing room was full of vases of flowers. It smelled fresh and sweet and had lost its old aroma of cheroots, coal smoke, and stale brandy.

The door opened and Lucinda entered. Mr. Carter’s first emotion was one of surprise. How could Rockingham have married such an undistinguished-looking creature with such a lovely as Maria Deauville around?

In order to give herself dignity, Lucinda had tucked her hair up under a cap. She was wearing a severe gown of dark brown tabby. She was very thin, Mr. Carter noticed, and her mouth was too large. Fashion decreed that all ladies must have the tiniest of mouths, and Mr. Carter was fashion’s slave.

“Mr. Carter?” asked Lucinda, holding his calling card between her fingers.

Mr. Carter made his best bow, flourishing his handkerchief and dragging his right leg along the floor with a tremendous scrape. “I am Mr. Carter, ma’am, Rockingham’s cousin.”

“I am delighted to meet you,” lied Lucinda, who had taken a dislike to this effeminate fribble on sight.

“You see before you,” said Mr. Carter, striking his thin chest, “Rockingham’s cousin and boon companion.”

What a lot of counts I am learning against my husband, thought Lucinda. Selfish, drunken, and, if Mr. Carter is indeed his boon companion, weakling and fool.

Lucinda decided to bring the visit to a speedy end. “I regret I cannot offer you any refreshment, Mr. Carter,” she said. “I am much engaged in housecleaning.”

Mr. Carter ignored this. “I was surprised to hear of your marriage,” he said, “and hurt to the quick. I would have thought Rockingham would have seen fit to invite me.”

“Rest assured, Mr. Carter, he did not invite anyone. If you desire any explanation of our marriage, although I am sure a gentleman such as yourself would not even think to be so impertinent, then I suggest you wait until Rockingham’s return from Paris.”

Mr. Carter threw her a baffled look. She was undoubtedly a lady. But too haughty and high in the instep. He longed to take her down a peg. Perhaps, he thought suddenly, she might be blissfully ignorant of the rakish character of her husband. “One has only to look at you, ma’am,” he said with another elaborate bow, “to see that your looks, your figure, you face, are explanations in themselves. But I am here to introduce myself to you as your new friend. Call on me for assistance at any time, I beg you. A word of warning. Do not receive Mrs. Maria Deauville should she call. She is dying with rage, of course.”

“Who is Mrs. Deauville?” Lucinda had forgotten Ismene’s gossip.

“Why, Rockingham’s mis… La, my naughty tongue. Servant, ma’am, servant. I shall call on you again soon.”

He flourished his way out.

Spiteful, horrible man, thought Lucinda. Mr. Carter had been about to say this Mrs. Deauville was her husband’s mistress.

“Well, I don’t care,” Lucinda said aloud. “He can have scores of mistresses so long as he takes care of Papa. What a good thing I am not in love with him!”

The marquess, who, like many British people, had journeyed across the Channel for the first time in eleven years, nearly turned back at Dieppe.