The Wicked Marquess (26 page)

Benedict sat down beside her. “I hardly ‘let’ him, Ceci.”

Annoyed as she might be with her companion, Lady Cecilia did not like to see him made unhappy. “Percy is a snake,” she said, and patted his knee.

Though he might no longer be physically attracted to Lady Cecilia, Benedict still liked her very well. He placed his hand on top of hers. “Had you accompanied your relatives to the abbey, you would have heard Odette call him a twiddlepoop.”

Ceci’s eyes widened. “She didn’t!”

“She did. But that wasn’t half as entertaining as when Miranda told Wexton he was a pompous lobcock.”

Ceci removed her hand from Lord Baird’s knee and pressed it to her breast. “Truly?” she breathed.

“Truly,” Benedict said gravely. “He was making a cake of himself, so you must not hold it against Miranda, even though you and Wexton are reconciled.”

“Why should I hold it against her?” inquired Ceci. “He
is
a pompous lobcock. Do you mean to have the girl?”

“You should ask instead if she means to have me.” Benedict stretched out his legs and contemplated one dusty boot. “She informs me she does not.”

Ceci had expended so much time and energy on the marquess, only to lose him to a damsel who didn’t want him? “The little fool!” she said.

There was some consolation to be derived from the championship of an ex-mistress. Benedict wished that he still desired her, so that he might have more consolation yet.

He recalled Odette’s prediction that Miranda would be made miserable by his philandering. Benedict was being made miserable by Miranda, but apparently that didn’t count. “She doesn’t want to be betrothed to me. She
does
want me to ravish her.”

Ceci was fascinated. “Do you not want to ravish her?”

“Of course I want to ravish her!” retorted Benedict. “It must be obvious that I cannot. However, Miranda vows she won’t break off the betrothal until I have properly seduced her. She doesn’t care to die a virgin, you see.”

Ceci could hardly blame Miss Russell. No wonder Benedict was looking so grim. “Couldn’t you just—”

“Seduce her a little bit? I was attempting to do just that when Percy interrupted. But now Odette has explained the business to Miranda, and half-way measures will no longer serve.”

From Percy’s description of the encounter he had interrupted, measures had gone more than halfway. “Lady Darby explained the business?” Ceci echoed.

“With the assistance of various explanatory manuals brought back by God-knows-who from God-knows-where,” said Benedict. “Considerable nonsense about weasels and elephants was also involved. Miranda is a very determined young woman. Today she interrupted me in my bath.”

Ceci gave Miss Russell full marks for effort. “What did you do?”

Fond as Benedict might be of Lady Cecilia, he wasn’t tempted to confide that he had displayed himself naked to his tormentor. The memory of his shocking behavior made him cringe.

Deliberately, he changed the subject. “Odette is hosting a party in Miranda’s honor. In an attempt to put a good face on this business, I expect. It would be a kindness if you and your family would attend.”

It would be a kindness? With Percy itching to make more mischief, and Wexton vowing to fight a duel? “If that is what you wish.”

 “What I wish is that this blasted imbroglio would just go away.”

Imbroglios didn’t just go away, as Ceci knew, to her regret. “Miss Russell wouldn’t have done for my father. I don’t know why Symington decided she might. Wexton is so high in the instep that I am astonished he doesn’t trip over himself. Had I realized Percy was dragging him with us, I would never have come.”

Percy was responsible for Wexton’s presence? The cur’s meddling knew no bounds. Benedict took Ceci’s hand in his. “Give me an accounting of your debts. I owe you a parting present, I believe.”

Ceci regarded the marquess him mistily. What a generous offer. She would miss Sinbad.

It would not have been a terrible thing, to be his wife. “Ah, Benedict, we did deal well together,” she murmured, and squeezed the hand that clasped hers.

Benedict was grateful that Lady Cecilia was accepting his confidences in a sensible manner, and not cutting up stiff like he’d half-feared she would. “I trust we will continue to deal well together.” She looked astonished. He added, “Not in
that
manner, goose!”

 If Ceci had not been born a gambler, she had lived with one. She had learned when to cut her losses, and when to fold, and when to play the ace she kept tucked snugly up her sleeve. “You may keep your parting gift. My father has been persuaded to pay my bills. In return, I am to become a pattern-card of propriety.”

The idea of Lady Cecilia posing as a model of the virtues caused Benedict to briefly forget his own troubles. He regarded her quizzically.

“Just so,” she said. “I shall behave in an exemplary manner – or at least Wexton will assume I am behaving in an exemplary manner – until my debts are paid. My father said many unkind things when I married Harry. I have not forgot them yet.”

“Ah,” said Benedict. “And then?”

Ceci smiled. And then she would be freed of her debts and her responsibilities, all without having to consider a husband’s whims. 

Chapter Thirty-three

An ornamental plaster ceiling soared over the great hall. Bright tapestries, intermixed with suits of armor and antique weaponry, hung upon the walls. Beneath them marched stately buffets and cabinets of walnut, rosewood, and silver-mounted ebony displaying china and fine bronzes and rare magnolia ware. Because this was no longer the era in which the great hall had been built, when chairs were reserved for royalty and statesmen while lesser folk perched on stools and chests, the hall was supplied with many square oak chairs. The wood floor had been polished until it gleamed like mirror glass.

The hall’s heavy roof timbers, the panels under and around the windows, the chimney shelf molding, were intricately carved. An enormous fireplace, elevated upon a low platform, was furnished with huge iron firedogs. A musicians gallery perched halfway down one wall like a spider lurking in its web.

Lady Darby stood in the musicians gallery, gazing down on the glittering throng below — a throng that if not so glittering as London might provide was impressive all the same, for everyone in the neighborhood was hoping to catch a glimpse of the young madwomen to whom Lord Baird had got himself betrothed. They were unanimously eager to see some new scandal erupt before the festivities ended. Considering how many people were at odds with one another, thought Lady Darby, scandal well might.

She glittered tonight as well. Odette’s open robe of cream silk brocade featured groups of candy pink stripes and brocaded flora garlands in pinks, yellows and greens, trimmed overall with box-pleated rows of cream silk bobbin lace. This confection had a square neck, fitted elbow-length sleeves falling to points at the back, and panniers so wide that she had to turn sideways to pass through a doorway. Her powdered headdress was lavishly ornamented with blown glass butterflies, artificial flowers from Italy, and enormously tall feathers; her high-heeled shoes, fashioned from brocade. Over one arm, instead of a shawl, Lady Darby had draped her cat, who wore a collar of priceless diamonds around his neck. Lord Chalmondly was waiting by her side. Somewhat creakily, due to his stiff corsets, the duke offered his arm. Chimlin, who was not fond of social occasions, extended his claws. Phineas refrained from remarking that the feline made an odd fashion accessory. It was Odette’s oft-stated opinion that at her age she could do as she demned well pleased.

Lady Darby and her escort made their way into the great hall. Lord Chalmondly did the civil. Odette ignored her guests, one and all.

Abruptly, Phineas halted. “By Jove! Who’s the wench?”

Odette halted also, because her hand was tucked through his sleeve. “That is Benedict’s peculiar. Or she
was
. Return your tongue
to your mouth and I will introduce you.” Lady Cecilia was dressed
à la sauvage
in a near-transparent muslin gown with a plunging neckline. Phineas was not the only one gaping at her as if she was the world’s eighth wonder. What would be mildly startling in London was outrageous here.

Wexton did not accompany his daughter. One could hope that he had gone off in an apoplexy at sight of her in that dress. The plaguesome Pettigrew was stuck like a leech to her side.

Lady Darby and Lord Chalmondly moved through the crowd, which parted Red-Sea-like before them. This may have had something to do with the unfriendly feline draped over Lady Darby’s arm.

Lady Cecilia appeared even more naked at closer viewing, result of a dampened petticoat. “‘Faith, ‘tis a brazen piece,” observed Odette.

She performed introductions. Phineas immediately engaged Lady Cecilia in conversation. Odette hoped he would refrain from inquiring whether Ceci was or was not wearing flesh-colored tights.

Percy Pettigrew raised his quizzing glass. Odette raised her own quizzing glass and returned his regard.

Percy conceded the staring contest. He let his glass fall. “You have my sympathy, Lady Darby. I would not mention this appalling business, of course, were I not so intimately involved. Had I not been present at the inception of Baird’s
mésalliance
, as it were. If only I had been mere moments earlier, or later – but I was not, alas. “

Alas, her arse. Odette reached up and grasped his earlobe. “I am prodigious close to being out of charity with you, Pettigrew. You will not make further mischief this evening. I trust I make my meaning clear.”

Whatever his flaws of character, Percy Pettigrew did not lack for common sense. Lady Darby was an immensely influential shrew. Daunting as the prospect was, he said, he would try and behave himself.

Odette released his ear. Politely, Percy bowed. This act brought him into close proximity with what he had taken to be a strange sort of fur piece.

The fur piece bared sharp teeth. Percy leapt back. “Bad cat!” Odette scolded. “You must not bite the twiddlepoop. ‘Twould make you ill.”

* * * *

At one end of the long chamber rose a winding wooden stair, its treads and handrails and balusters fashioned from finely carved woods. Slowly, Miss Russell set one foot in front of the other and descended the stair.

Miranda was discouraged. No sooner had she found herself in a perfect position to be ravished than she had indulged in a temper tantrum and stormed away. Had she stood her ground, her desires might have prevailed. But she had not, and they had not, and it probably made no difference whether she had or hadn’t stayed because Benedict had looked like he wished her to Hades, but she would never know for certain now.

Along with everyone else in his household, Miranda was aware that the marquess had gone into the village. Instead of trying to provoke his lust she should be trying to decrease it, if that lust was going to be directed toward someone else.

The guests nudged one another, whispered behind gloved hands and fans. Miranda pasted a pleasant expression on her face. She was surprised to see Mr. Atchison, Mr. Burton, and Mr. Dowlin among the crowd. Had they followed her to Cornwall, as Lady Cecilia had followed Benedict?

She moved a little closer. Mr. Atchison had a bandage on his nose. He was listening to her uncle discuss Mr. Macadam’s experimental roadwork with her uncle, and trying to steer the conversation toward Mr. Murdock’s inquiries into the illuminating properties of gasses produced by distilling coal and wood and peat. Mr. Dowlin was deep in conversation with Nonie about some obscure point of law. Mr. Burton was discussing nothing, but merely looking cross.

“Hello,” said Miranda. All three gentlemen hurried toward her, each attempting to speak at the same time. Mr. Atchison beat out the others, but only because Mr. Burton still felt remorseful about bloodying his nose.

“Miss Russell! Miranda!” Mr. Atchison clasped her hand. “I realize the circumstances are a trifle irregular, but I would be honored to give you the protection of my name.” Throats cleared behind him. “We all would!” he amended. “You have only to choose.”

Miranda wished that she might choose among them, that she was the sort of ordinary young woman who might marry an ordinary young man and live an ordinary life. But she was not, and if she must drag someone to perdition with her, she would rather it was Sinbad, who already knew the path.

Mr. Atchison was still talking. Miranda couldn’t imagine pressing her lips to his. Nor could she imagine embracing Mr. Burton, or Mr. Dowlin, if it came to that.

“How kind you are.
All
of you! But I am not in need of rescue.” After suggesting one more time that Mr. Atchison might apply a meal of oats boiled with vinegar to his freckles, Miranda excused herself, and turned away, and almost bumped her nose on Paul Hazelett’s chest.

“I had hoped to see you here tonight, Miss Russell,” he said. “I wish to apologize to you for the events of our last meeting. You aren’t avoiding me, I hope.”

She could hardly avoid the man when he was standing smack in front of her. Miranda studied his pleasant face. She could not imagine embracing him, either, even though she already had. Maybe the fact she had not enjoyed his kiss would count in her favor when she was required to answer for her sins.

He did not appear to have a burning desire to kiss her again, and Miranda was grateful for it. At the same time, she wondered – since Benedict hadn’t wished to kiss her either — if she lacked the knack of the thing. “Oh. Hello,” she said.

Mr. Hazelett seemed amused by her discomfort. “I could not fail to take advantage of this opportunity to see the inside of the abbey. I understand the place is haunted,” he remarked. Miranda seized eagerly upon this topic of conversation, and spoke for several moments about adventurous ancestors, and ghosts, and secret passageways. “I must not monopolize you,” he said when she paused for breath, and bowed himself away.

Miranda was relieved to see the last of Mr. Hazelett, and then she was not, because Lady Cecilia stood before her, with Lord Chalmondly at her side. There was a jaunty air about the latter, and a lecherous twinkle in his faded eye. Miranda deduced that the duke’s manly vigor no longer flagged. He was, however, no less bald.