Marriage Alliance: A charming Regency Romance

by Mira Stables

  “Just you do, my lad, and it’s yourself will be needing it,” he warned, in a voice that certainly held no trace of invalidism. “Enough is enough. Very well, I’ll go home. I’ll even accept your escort so far, since nothing less will satisfy you. But set a curb on your ambitions at that point, dear fellow. Any notions you may be cherishing about putting me to bed with a hot brick to my feet and Dearden standing over me with a bowl of pap, are out. Understood?”

  And Harry, delighted that the brandy and the cool evening air had so wonderfully restored his friend, meekly subsided.

  It was fortunate that neither he nor Dearden was permitted to witness the display of violence to which the invalid yielded once he had seen the door safe shut behind the reluctant Harry. They would certainly have felt it imperative to summon a physician, if not an attendant from Bedlam! Up and down the floor he prowled, looking like nothing so much as a jungle cat preparing to leap upon its prey. The furnishings of the apartment suffered sadly. A fine Hepplewhite chair which had the misfortune to obstruct his passage was hurled against the wall to the sad detriment of its delicately designed shield back. A luckless china shepherdess, whose silly simper made him think of pastoral ballets, was hurled into the hearth.

  The explosive crash of her fall seemed to exercise a soothing effect on her destroyer. The pace of his prowling slackened and the face of fury gave way to an expression of fierce concentration. Once he was sufficiently cool for constructive thought it did not take him long to reach two firm conclusions. He must have his wife out of that galère without delay, and the removal must be accomplished with the minimum of fuss and noise. If so much as a whisper as to her identity were to creep out, her social ruin would be complete. To his credit be it said that, although he was still furiously angry with her, the thought of abandoning her to her fate never entered his head. He could not imagine what had persuaded her to embark on such a crazy prank, but no doubts of her innocence clouded his firm intent to extricate her from the scrape into which — and he owned it honestly — his own neglect had allowed her to tumble.

  How could it best be achieved? There were forty-odd interminable hours to be got through before he could hope to have news of her whereabouts from Sickling. In that time the scandal might break and then it would be too late to save her from the consequences of her folly. He must have speech with her before then. He set himself to recall those scraps of Harry’s discourse to which he had lent but half an ear — a discourtesy that he now regretted. Harry had smiled over John Rockstone’s attempt to wrap his dancers in mystery by masking them. “As though any patron of the ballet could not name them all without difficulty after watching them for a while. The Flora is the only newcomer. No one seems to have any idea as to her identity.”

  But there were plenty who would devote their energies to discovering it, thought Marcus anxiously. It was just the kind of sport that would have intrigued him, and that not so very long ago. He was unashamedly grateful to Providence for Rockstone’s notion of having the dancers masked, but one could not rely upon so flimsy a protection. He took what comfort he could from the recollection that Harry, who had met his wife, had certainly not recognised her, despite the admiring gaze with which he had watched her performance.

  Eventually he reached the conclusion that his best plan would be to visit the club again. He would stay at the back where she could not see him — for he knew her well enough to guess that she was quite capable of greeting his appearance with such expression of frank delight as must betray them both — and send up his card with an invitation to supper, in the style of an infatuated admirer. He took the added precaution of slipping the card into an envelope and sealing it, so that no interested party should afterwards connect his name with the dancer’s disappearance.

  When the doctor had done with him next day, informing him in disgusted accents that he had been wasting his — the doctor’s — time, for a finer physical specimen he would like to meet, though maybe a little more flesh on his bones would better become him and a week or two of ruralising would not come amiss, he spent the rest of the day in a fever of impatience. He also spent it in skulking about Town in a fashion calculated to draw down upon him the derision of his friends if ever they should chance to hear of it. Since it was essential that he go alone to his self-appointed rendezvous, he must needs avoid all his customary haunts where the acquisition of a companion was almost unavoidable. Also it was raining. He could think of only one place where he was unlikely to meet anyone that he knew. He spent the afternoon in the British Museum.

  Early evening found him back in his apartment, with strict instructions to Dearden to inform all callers that he was gone out of Town, the while he performed a meticulous toilet. Of set purpose he came late to the club, strolling quietly into the supper room when the ballet was half over. Tonight he was able to appraise his wife’s performance in less hostile mood. Unwillingly he admitted its charm. The ballet itself was trivial. Setting and costumes were effective, the dancers were well trained, the music of pleasant quality, but only the joyous freshness of the première danseuse lent that touch of distinction which, as Harry had told him, was attracting a growing audience. Marcus was thankful when it was over. The danger of discovery seemed to him a very real one.

  In order to remain inconspicuous he behaved like any other guest, eating some of the excellent supper provided and drinking a glass of wine, waiting until most of the company had settled once more to their gaming. Then he summoned one of the attendants and handed him the sealed billet, bidding him present it to Madame Flora and ask if she would honour the sender by supping with him.

  The waiter pocketed the coin which accompanied the message, bowed his thanks, and bore the envelope away, to be delivered in due course to Mr Rockstone. That gentleman slit the wrapper, saw that it contained only a card, and did not even trouble himself to glance at it, tossing it into a basket on the floor beside his desk with an accuracy of aim that owed much to recent practice. “Flora?” he enquired. The waiter bowed. “Usual answer,” grunted Mr Rockstone, and returned to his reckoning.

  Following his habitual pattern in these circumstances, the waiter allowed a reasonable time to elapse before approaching the sender of the message. His face was carefully composed in an expression of respectful regret, his voice lowered to a confidential tone that could not be overheard by any casual bystander. Like his employer, he had had considerable practice of late.

  “Miss Flora wishes me to thank you, sir, for your kind invitation. She appreciates the honour that you do her. But as she has not the pleasure of your acquaintance, her sense of decorum will not permit her to accept.”

  Over the past weeks the waiter had delivered that message, with slight variations when some expensive trifle had been enclosed with the invitation, to quite a number of hopeful gentlemen. It had been received, according to age and temperament, with anything from a rueful shrug to a cynical sneer, but, in general, with a decent complaisance. Never before had the suppliant’s face whitened with fury before his very eyes, the mouth hardened to a line about as yielding as a sprung man-trap. The waiter actually backed an anxious pace or two. It looked as though so much pent-up venom might well erupt to his own detriment. But after one or two tense moments the gentleman’s heavy lids were lowered to veil the anger in the steel-bright eyes, and the voice which said, “Very well. That is all,” sounded coldly indifferent.

  Nevertheless the waiter, who was grateful to Miss Flora for the extra pickings that her popularity had brought to his pocket, kept a watchful eye, so far as his duties permitted, on one whom he had no hesitation in describing as an uncommon nasty looking customer. Just the sort of cove that might resort to physical violence to attain his ends, if he chanced to set eyes on the little dancer. But all seemed to be well. To be sure, the gentleman disposed of a bottle of the club’s excellent burgundy with rather more speed than was strictly seemly, but he was evidently one who could carry his wine, for then he took his departure without further fuss or com
plaint. The waiter watched him go and thankfully dismissed the incident from his mind.

  Marcus was wrestling with a storm of such violent emotion as he had never known. So the lady had not ‘the pleasure of his acquaintance’, the insolent little jade! Well, that could easily be mended, and he would see to it that this time there was no doubt about the matter! All the softer feelings that had grown with him during the long hours of waiting were swept away. To think that he had brought himself to forgive her scandalous behaviour on the score of ignorance and youthful folly! That he had planned as best he knew to protect her from the consequences of that folly; and now she vowed she did not know him!

  Very well. She should learn a sharp lesson. But as his resolve hardened and his temper cooled, he remembered that it was still necessary to avoid an open scandal. Anger must not be permitted to betray him into rashness. His plans must be careful and thorough to cover every eventuality. This time there should be no loophole for escape.

  Chapter Fourteen

  IT took him just over a week to complete his arrangements. He was helped considerably by the unsuspected romantic streak in the heart of Mr Sickling. Upon receiving his clerk’s urgent message, that gentleman had been much moved by the thought that there should be any unnecessary delay in the reunion of the married pair. He had arranged that one of his brother-in-law’s grooms should ride at once for the Albany with a note explaining that Mrs Blayden was presently residing with her Mama, Madame Paul de Trèvy, in Hans Town.

  This helpful missive was awaiting Marcus’s return from the Rockstone Club after that humiliating snub from his wife, and did much to crystallise his inchoate ideas into a clear-cut plan of campaign. He assumed from the outset that his wife’s family would unite to keep her from him if they could. ‘Mama’ was undoubtedly the Frenchwoman whose interference Robert Pennington had feared — the reason for the hurrying on of the marriage. But in any event he had had his fill of the meddling of relatives. The matter must now be settled between his wife and himself. He viewed the prospect with a certain grim relish.

  His preparations took him out of Town on two occasions, on the second of which he was obliged to use his father’s town coach for the journey, so many were the packages and bundles to be accommodated. He was also called up to exercise those talents which had lately been devoted to the service of his country in the gathering of information. It was not quite so easy to pass unnoticed in law-abiding England as it had been in faction-torn France, especially in so bright and open a neighbourhood as Hans Town, but over the years he had acquired a certain facility in disguise and a considerable talent for blending with his background which now stood him in good stead.

  In the guise of a Frenchman seeking relatives missing since the Terror of ’93 he acquired a good deal of information about the little household in Hans Town. It came as something of a shock to discover that Madame de Trèvy was, in fact, Madame La Comtesse de Trèvy, his informant explaining that since the de Trèvy estates had vanished into the maw of the new nobility the de Trèvys preferred to pursue their quiet lives in peaceful England, but it did not deter him from his purpose.

  The musical dilettante who invited M. Lavelle to lunch with him at the Clarendon to discuss a series of concerts devoted to the works of Mozart, and the sporting gentleman who began to patronise a small but decent livery stable just off Cadogan Square, bore no resemblance to each other save in the matter of height. The one was precise, slightly effeminate and languid of manner. He laid claim to French descent, a claim supported by his easy use of the French tongue. The other was brisk, bluff and hearty and spoke with a pronounced north country brogue. Each of these gentlemen contributed considerably to Marcus Blayden’s knowledge of his wife’s movements.

  Like most successful strategies his plan was very simple. He had discovered that his wife went to and from the Rockstone Club each evening escorted by her grandfather in a carriage hired for the purpose from the livery stable near Cadogan Square. This practice had gone on perfectly smoothly for weeks — had, in fact, become established routine. It seemed very probable that, if Grandpapa’s presence should be suddenly and urgently required elsewhere — say, perhaps, to meet some renowned instrumentalist, just the man for the projected concerts, who chanced to be passing through London — that Grandpapa would see no cause for alarm and would not hesitate, for once, to consign his charge to the care of the driver. The driver was easy. If he would not yield his place to bribery he would yield to physical force.

  Once or twice, during the course of that very busy week, Marcus found time to wonder what his wife was making of the silence that had followed her refusal to see him. Surely she could not imagine that he would tamely submit to such treatment? If she did, she would soon discover her mistake! He had half expected her to write to him, explaining that some unknown difficulty had prevented her from acceding to his request and arranging a rendezvous. But day succeeded day without a word. He hardened his heart.

  His plans worked even more smoothly than he had anticipated, for on the appointed night he was favoured by the weather. M. Lavelle had accepted his new acquaintance’s imperative summons to a very late supper, rather crossly because, as he said, he was getting too old for late nights, but with no suspicion that he was being neatly got out of the way. Since the invitation — if one could so describe it — had only reached him while the ballet was actually in progress, it was too late to make alternative arrangements for Fleur’s escort. He did not worry unduly. The distance was quite short, the driver had always been sober and reliable. He escorted his grand-daughter to the waiting carriage without a qualm. Since heavy rain was falling it was only natural that the driver should have his coat collar turned up and his hat pulled well down. M. Lavelle handed Fleur into the shabby familiar vehicle, repeated an injunction that no one was to wait up for him, and hurried back to the shelter of the vestibule as the carriage moved off.

  Fleur, a little tired after the evening’s performance, curled down in her corner, watched for a while the dazzle of occasional lights through the driving rain, and presently fell asleep. She roused when the carriage stopped, assuming that they had reached home, opened the door and scrambled down, still only half awake, before she realised her mistake.

  The carriage had pulled up inside a vast coach house, dimly lit by two stable lanterns. Her driver had already swung down from his seat and was unharnessing the jaded old horse with swift competence. Close at hand stood a neat chariot with two good-looking chestnuts already harnessed up. The groom at their heads glanced across incuriously at the new arrivals, then turned away as though they were no concern of his.

  Still dazed from sleep and the surprise of her awakening, Fleur swung back towards the driver who had completed his task and now came towards her with leisurely strides, tossing aside his soaked beaver and stripping off the shabby driving coat as he came. With a stab of pure terror she saw that he was masked, and realisation of her dire peril came with stunning force. She was not granted time for so much as one cry for help. Even as she drew breath for it the man swooped and caught her in his arms, one hand across her mouth.

  “No use to cry out, my pretty one,” he said, in a nasal whine. “Besides, this is a respectable place. A nobleman’s house, no less. They wouldn’t like it. As for Job, there,” he jerked his head towards the stolid groom, “he’s stone deaf. Not that he would listen to you, even if he could hear you. We have but stopped for a change of horses — and carriage! You’ve a little further to travel tonight than just to Hans Town. So in with you, and we’ll be off.”

  He released his hold of her, opening the door of the chariot and sweeping her a travesty of a bow as he stood back for her to enter. She strove to master the fear that seemed to paralyse even her voice and said breathlessly, “You are making a mistake. I have no money. See — here is my purse.” She pulled it out and proffered it. “There are but a few guineas left, but it is all I have. Pray take them and let me go. I will not tell anyone, I promise.”

  The
man laughed. A soft, low laugh that sounded a note of pure cruelty in Fleur’s frightened ears. “No money?” he asked amusedly. “The wealthy Miss Pennington? Come, my dear, I am not quite the fool you take me for. Put up your purse. It does not interest me. But time presses. So —” and once again he indicated that she should get into the chariot.

  At that she panicked and tried to run, an attempt fore-doomed to failure. The highwayman — for so she judged him — caught her easily enough and carried her to the chariot. She fought him with all her strength, and for a girl she was both strong and supple, thanks to her love of riding and the years of patient exercise. But twist and turn as she might, there was no evading those prisoning arms that held her so easily, so impersonally, while she wore herself out against their inflexibility and was forced into exhausted submission. A glance at the mouth below the mask showed it smiling still. The frantic, butterfly struggle had amused him.

  He tossed her up into the chariot with casual ease, made some sign to the groom, and climbed in beside her. “I don’t usually entrust my horses to other hands,” he told her, “but it seems that you are not yet convinced that you are wholly in my power. It would be a pity if you were to injure yourself in some foolish attempt at escape. Where, then, would my profit be?”

  There was a crumb of comfort in that. If his object was ransom she could banish the far more hideous fear that had been growing within her since she had struggled in vain against the strength of his arms. But the moment of relief was all too short. “I could have tied you up, of course,” mused that smooth, hateful voice in the darkness. “But what a pity that would have been! Those pretty wrists should never be bruised by bonds. Only kisses should ever stop those soft lips.”

  He heard her catch her breath in a frightened little sob, and felt the first stirrings of penitence. He was behaving very badly, he knew. To be sure she had deserved punishment, but that last veiled threat was really carrying things too far. Truth to tell, he had half expected her to recognise him despite the mask and his assumed manner, not making allowances for shock and fear and the complete unexpectedness of his presence. A little ashamed that he had frightened her more than he had intended, he fell silent.