A Highly Respectable Marriage

by Sheila Walsh

  The programme in its entirety was prodigious, including no less than four separate spectacles; an Allegorical Festival was to be followed by the highly acclaimed Historical Romance (revived for the sixth time with new scenes, music, dresses and decorations) of Richard Coeur de Lion, during the third act of which there was to be included a grand Pas de Deux by Monsieur Soissons and Mrs Parker, and even a pas de trois. Who could want more? But more there was.

  Before ever the entertainment got under way, however, the audience were to be treated to a spectacle of a different kind, no less magnificent but infinitely more provocative. The curtain had been drawn up, ‘God Save the King’ had been sung with great enthusiasm by the Regent, the Czar and a large proportion of the audience, and the sovereigns had just seated themselves after a chorus of acclamations when fresh applause broke out.

  ‘What is happening?’ demanded Lady Margerson, who was so firmly wedged in her seat that any movement was rendered well-nigh impossible.

  ‘Can’t see a deuced thing, ma’am,’ said Mr Chessington at her side, with a lack of interest which she found astonishing. He had come, as had her ladyship, at Pandora’s behest, though in general he found the theatre a dead bore and theatre audiences frequently indiscriminate in their applause.

  The Duke felt much the same, but as host he thought it incumbent upon himself to satisfy her ladyship’s curiosity. He therefore rose and leaned forward. They heard him say, ‘Good God!’ and chuckle softly to himself as he turned back to his guests who were by now agog, including Pandora who had seen what was happening, but did not understand its significance.

  ‘Caroline, our beloved Princess of Wales, has just walked into her box,’ Heron announced whimsically. ‘She is wearing a black wig, a positive shower of diamonds, and is at this moment graciously accepting the plaudits of the audience, the deepest obeisances of the Czar and a less than loving acknowledgement from her husband.’

  Sir Henry guffawed. ‘The deuce! Well, you have to give her full marks for sheer affrontery!’

  Pandora craned her head over the side to get a better view of Princess Caroline, but the excitement was over, everyone was sitting down again and there was only a shimmer of diamonds. She didn’t mind. For her, it was all part of the magical quality of the evening. From the moment the entertainment began she was totally engrossed.

  Heron, who had arranged the visit solely for Pandora’s pleasure, paid little attention to what was happening on stage. He sat aside in the corner with one arm resting carelessly along the padded rail, watching the rapt face, the slim, still figure unaffected by all the restless posturing that went on around her, her simple dress uncluttered by the feathers and spangles, the frills and furbelows, or the glitter of jewels so necessary to her supposedly more fortunate sisters.

  He had never seriously questioned why he so continually put himself out for Pandora ‒ and her brother. To question would bring him perilously close to forcing an admission that he had no wish to make. Even now, as his blood quickened, he shied away from the trap of too coherent thought. He liked his life exactly the way it was ‒ without encumbrances.

  During the first interlude he was at his most urbane, employing his quizzing glass to survey the scene. In the next box, Lord and Lady Sefton’s party were enjoying themselves. A statuesque beauty with the face of an angel caught his eye.

  ‘Miss Isabella Fairlie,’ supplied a humorous voice at his side.

  ‘Thank you, Henry.’

  Sir Henry grinned. ‘Think nothing of it, dear old fellow. Happy to oblige. Miss Fairlie is a connection of Lady Sefton’s, only lately come to town. Ten thousand a year and on the catch for a husband, or so I am reliably informed.’

  At that moment, the young lady in question laughed ‒ an unexpectedly grating sound. Heron sighed.

  ‘I think not,’ he said, with just a hint of regret.

  ‘Poor Miss Fairlie ‒ to be so summarily dismissed,’ said Mr Chessington, strolling towards the door in search of friends.

  ‘Still, it does leave the field clear for the rest of us, eh, Miss Carlyon?’ Sir Henry sounded vaguely envious. ‘Y’know, you’re a dashed lucky fellow, Robert, you have but to crook your little finger and women flock to surrender themselves!’

  Pandora turned away from the laughter, spreading her arms along the velvet rail, hands joined, her chin resting pensively on her fingertips. She didn’t like it when they talked like that! Especially she didn’t like the Duke being so … what was the word she wanted? Flippant? Superficial, that was it. As though he didn’t really care for anything or anyone.

  Below her heaved a sea of splintered light. She blinked and the scene resolved itself into people once more. Her eye was suddenly caught by an elaborately coiffured head, its gilded perfection vaguely familiar.

  ‘Oh, Gemini!’ she exclaimed.

  At once the Duke came to stand beside her, his hand on the back of her chair ‒ and it was at that precise moment that Octavia looked up and saw the two heads close together. Her eyes widened in disbelief, grew first thunderous, then speculative ‒ and finally, the visible struggle with her emotions completed, she managed an ingratiating smile, fingers tightening on Frederick’s arm, a whispered word …

  Pandora succumbed to a most unworthy urge ‒ and inclined her head graciously. She saw Octavia’s lips tighten and immediately felt much better.

  ‘Most impressive,’ murmured the Duke in her ear. ‘I had no idea you harboured such vengeful notions.’

  ‘I don’t!’ she cried, knowing that she lied. But she had lost his attention for when she turned to look up at him, his gaze had already wandered to the box opposite where Lady Sarah Bingly was laughingly surrounded by a bevy of young men. Pandora had never seen her look more lovely, though her shimmering gold dress was so revealing as to make one blush for her.

  As though aware of Heron’s interest, Lady Sarah lifted her jewel-bright eyes in provocative challenge. It was hard to tell whether it had the desired effect. There had been a coolness between them of late ‒ since the musical evening, in fact ‒ and the Duke’s face never gave anything away. His bow now was no more than polite, but it would surely be difficult to resist such an open invitation! A little of the magic went out of Pandora’s evening.

  Her spirits were somewhat restored, however, by the Historical Romance which was everything it had promised, and the pas de deux and pas de trois most tastefully performed. It was such a pity Mr Chessington had missed it, she declared, rousing Lady Margerson from the comfortable doze into which she had fallen. Her ladyship hastily agreed and wafted her fan with renewed vigour.

  During the second interlude an exceedingly jovial elderly gentleman came to their box and was greeted by Lady Margerson with cries of delighted surprise, and introduced all round. He wore an unfashionable velvet coat and beneath it a handsome brocade waistcoat spattered with snuff stains.

  ‘Such a fortunate coincidence, my love!’ she explained to Pandora whose attention had been momentarily diverted by the vanishing figure of the Duke, who had just been handed a note. ‘Lord Russet was your Grandfather Wyndham’s most particular friend! Lud, Alastair, what times we had!’ She sighed. ‘And what a long time ago it all was!’ This reflection seemed to send her off into wistful contemplation.

  With a smile Lord Russet handed Pandora to her chair and indicated the Duke’s vacant one. ‘May I?’

  ‘Oh, yes ‒ please do, my lord.’ Involuntarily Pandora glanced up and was just in time to see Heron entering Lady Sarah’s box, bowing over the hand she extended to him with such an air of certainty.

  ‘Well, well, this is very pleasant, by George,’ his lordship was saying affably. ‘Small world, what? Not that I’d ever have guessed you were out of Vernon’s stable ‒ a regular out and out goer he was! We ran some pretty rum rigs in our salad days, I can tell you!’ He seemed to recollect to whom he was speaking, harrumphed a little and begged her pardon.

  But Pandora dragged her attention from the box opposite and begged to know m
ore about this somewhat disreputable ancestor of hers, and the old gentleman was soon carried away again.

  ‘Abandoned most of his rackety ways, of course when he met your grandmama, God rest her ‒ now you do have a look of her, bless me if you don’t! A positive angel, little Lucy was. Never a word of censure passed her lips, though she must have known about his little weakness …’

  ‘His … weakness?’

  ‘Faro, m’dear,’ murmured his lordship. ‘Couldn’t keep away from the tables … played all night, many a time. I mind once …’ At this point he took out a little enamelled snuffbox and went through the ritual of inhaling, spilling some in the process and flapping ineffectually at it with his handkerchief while Pandora waited impatiently. ‘Vernon had a disastrous run of luck at White’s … dropped £15,000 in one night. A sensible man would have cried quits ‒ contemplated suicide, even! But Vernon ‒’ a deep throaty chuckle shook the brocade waistcoat ‘‒ took a diamond trinket he’d had made for Lucy on their wedding back to Rundell and Bridge’s, got them to make him a replica, then pledged the original … won back most of what he’d lost …’

  Pandora felt the faintest of cold shivers run down her back. ‘What … kind of a trinket was it, do you know, sir?’

  ‘Deuced pretty thing, a necklace with some sort of flower petals strung out … very delicate workmanship.’

  ‘And what happened ‒ to the original, do you know?’

  ‘Ah, now there you have me, m’dear. All I do know is that, to my knowledge, Vernon never redeemed it. Made no bones about it. Well, as he said, it was a splendid copy ‒ fool anyone but an expert, and Lucy was none the wiser, so why waste good gambling money!’ Lord Russet seemed to feel that this comment might do less than justice to his old friend in this child’s eyes. ‘Make no mistake,’ he assured her, leaning forward to pat her hand. ‘He was a fine man, your grandpapa ‒ best in the world. Nerves of steel in a tight corner ‒ passed some of that on to you, I’m told. Thought the world of your grandmama! And now ‒’ he glanced with some relief towards the door ‒ ‘his grace will be wanting his chair back …’

  He came to his feet with the aid of a gold crutch cane, and bowed over her hand. ‘Been a great pleasure, m’dear. Perhaps we’ll meet again, eh, what?’ He glanced towards Lady Margerson’s recumbent figure. ‘Tell you what, won’t disturb Tilly … give her my regards.’

  He harrumphed in his throat again and tottered away, stopping at the door to exchange a word with the Duke and never noticing the peculiarly blank look in the eyes of the girl he had just left behind.

  It took Pandora several moments to collect her thoughts, but soon she was firmly reproaching herself for leaping to wild conclusions over what could most kindly be described as the wandering and probably inaccurate reminiscences of a very elderly gentleman. After all, she reasoned, if Grandmama Wyndham’s necklace had been a fake, Mr Bridge would have recognized it as such immediately, even if the Duke, upon what had been no more than a cursory glance, had not.

  She determined to put the matter from her mind and, with the help of the entertainment and the excellent supper party at Grillons which followed, she succeeded admirably. She was also very much moved by the many quite genuine expressions of regret that she was leaving town.

  ‘Only to be expected, m’dear, when you think about it,’ Fitz Chessington reasoned in his gentle fashion when she confessed her surprise to him. ‘Only got to take a look at us ‒ under all the posturing, our lives are sadly jaded. Along comes a delightfully unspoiled creature with her clear-eyed view of life ‒ laughs at our follies ‒ don’t simper or dissemble ‒ deuced refreshing, don’t you see?’

  ‘You are very kind, sir.’

  ‘Not at all, m’dear … simple truth. Never could turn a pretty compliment.’ Clearly embarrassed, Mr Chessington changed the subject. ‘Robert taking you to Chedwell, is he?’

  ‘Yes,’ Pandora said with a troubled smile. ‘I did suggest to his grace that I could perfectly well take the stage, but he looked down his nose at me ‒ the way he does, you know, when he is on his high ropes ‒’

  ‘Devilish top-lofty?’ he ventured at his most droll.

  ‘Devilish!’ she agreed with a grin.

  It was not until the evening was over and she sat alone in her bedchamber surrounded by half-filled bandboxes ‒ chairs piled with items carefully selected for the cottage – that Pandora was forced to pay heed to her troublesome conscience.

  Suppose that Lord Russet’s story had been the simple truth? He had described the necklace with disturbing accuracy … why should he be any less clear about its ultimate fate?

  ‘A splendid copy.’ She could hear his voice now. ‘Fool anyone but an expert.’

  Well, Mr Bridge was an expert ‒ but an expert perhaps who, when he discovered the truth, was loath to risk losing the patronage of a valued client by suggesting that the client’s friends were something less than honest.

  Forget it, she told herself recklessly, with one eye still on the bandboxes. You sold the necklace in good faith …

  And were paid far more for it than you expected, said the unrelenting voice of her conscience. Infinitely more than you now know it was worth.

  She undressed like a child, by rote; washed herself, brushed out her hair and, hunched against the counterpane on her knees, hurried through her prayers with an irrepressible sensation of guilt. Finally she blew out the candle and climbed into bed.

  For a long time she lay on her back staring at the vague shadows formed on the ceiling by the gracefully dipping larch fronds outside her window, fighting the truth. Torturing herself by reliving her plans, she walked in her thoughts through each room in the cottage, seeing the boys there, while the tears rolled unheeded from the corners of her eyes and soaked into her hair.

  Long before the ceiling lightened and the shadows faded, she knew what she must do.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Duke of Heron was in the Yellow Saloon, toying with his third glass of Madeira and contemplating a stroll to White’s with something less than enthusiasm, when Ambrose Varley came to inform him that he had a visitor.

  ‘Not now,’ he said abruptly. ‘I am in no humour for making polite conversation.’

  ‘As your grace pleases.’ Mr Varley hesitated, then added casually, ‘The young lady did say that it was a matter of extreme urgency, and that she would very much appreciate it if you could see your way clear ‒’

  ‘Miss Carlyon,’ said Heron, recognizing the turn of phrase. ‘Why did you not say so in the first place? Where is she?’

  To the casual onlooker the Duke’s reaction must have appeared unremarkable, but Mr Varley was observing him closely and noted with interest how his fingers holding the glass tensed, a sharpening in his voice. Having just met the young lady for the first time, he was even more intrigued. Not his grace’s usual style at all.

  ‘I believe Pinkerton has shown Miss Carlyon into the library, sir.’

  Heron was out of the room almost before his secretary had finished speaking, his step impatient.

  The footman opened the library doors and closed them again silently behind him. Pandora was standing looking out of the window, though from the rigidity of her stance he doubted whether she saw anything. She had removed her bonnet and was twisting the ribbons between her fingers. She stared nervously as he came in, swinging round to face him with something between relief and desperation.

  ‘Pandora? Is something wrong?’

  She stood, deprived of speech, not knowing quite how to begin.

  Heron crossed the room swiftly, removed the mangled bonnet from her unresisting fingers and took both her hands in his, noting how they trembled very slightly.

  ‘What is it?’ he demanded. ‘William? Has something happened to William ‒ or Courtney?’

  ‘Oh no!’ she said quickly. ‘Forgive me. I am behaving very stupidly.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  He led her to a chair and sat her down. The door opened again to admit P
inkerton, a young footman at his heels bearing a tray.

  ‘I took the liberty, your grace,’ he said quietly. ‘There is some ratafia for the young lady, or some cordial if she would prefer it.’

  ‘Thank you, Pinkerton.’

  Heron’s hand hovered over the decanters and then, with the faintest of shrugs, he poured a glass of cordial.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ Pandora said and drank gratefully.

  Having provided himself with a drink, he drew a chair forward and sat, not too close, apparently at ease whilst observing her thoughtfully over the rim of his glass. Her eyes were shadowed and faintly red-rimmed as though she had not slept. And the freckles were very prominent against her pallor.

  At last she looked up.

  ‘I am very much afraid,’ she said, ‘that I cannot after all t-take the cottage.’ The words were out and she gave a little sigh as though relieved of a too heavy burden. If she had expected him to show surprise, she was disappointed. He said merely:

  ‘Would you care to tell me why?’

  ‘It’s … a little complicated, but I will try.’

  She set her glass down on a nearby table and proceeded to treat her gloves very much as she had her bonnet ribbons. Her voice, halting at first, grew in confidence as she related the gist of her conversation with Lord Russet on the previous evening.

  ‘I fear that the story is true, sir. His lordship described the necklace rather too well to allow of much room for doubt. And so, you see ‒’ she spoke in a low voice without quite meeting his eyes ‘‒ I have come by a great deal of money to which I am not entitled …’

  ‘Are you not rather underrating Mr Bridge?’ drawled the Duke. ‘I can assure you that his knowledge of stones is quite prodigious.’

  Pandora could remain still no longer. It was like being pinned down to a board ‒ a specimen for close examination. And she had long since learned that the Duke’s drawl was at its most pronounced when he was becoming annoyed. But as she stood up, he rose also ‒ and that was even worse, for now he stared down his nose at her in a very unnerving inquisitorial way. She linked her fingers, stiff armed, and blinked down at their backs.