The Wicked Marquess

by Maggie MacKeever

  The lamplighters had long since been about their duties when Lord Baird’s carriage joined the crowded rank of vehicles lined up in front of the Catherine Street entrance of the Theater Royal at Drury Lane. A great statue of Apollo crowned the façade. Inside the theater, countless candles blazed. Benedict guided Lady Cecilia through the noisy crowd and to his box, where Percy Pettigrew was regaling his companions with a great deal of animated and malicious conversation about the foibles and indiscretions of the gay and polite, a great many of whom — according to Percy — had a weakness for worldly pursuits and adulterous affairs. Viscount Penworthy tutted, Lady Margaret tittered, Major and Mrs. Watson gave every appearance of being equally entertained.

  The final member of the party smiled politely. A newcomer to Town, Paul Hazelett was an unremarkable gentleman with brown hair and sleepy eyes. He was dressed very correctly in long-tailed coat, white waistcoat, and black pantaloons. Percy was more daring in his costume: this evening he had affected a black cravat.

  “There you are!” he said, as Lord Baird and Lady Cecilia entered the box. “We had given you up for lost. You are in looks, Ceci. Haven’t I seen that gown before?”

  Lady Cecilia cast a reproachful glance at her cousin. Not only must the wretch comment unkindly on her garments, he had invited a stranger to join their party, which was just the sort of impertinence that one might expect of him. Still, Mr. Hazelett seemed pleasant enough, and she was soon engaged with him in a conversation about the play. Gaily she chattered, and flirted, and smiled. If certain damsels had not learned that a lady’s success lay in her ability to please the gentlemen, Lady Cecilia knew it well.

  Benedict settled back in a chair, prepared to endure an interval of boredom. Pit and gallery were crowded, as were the boxes and balconies. Ladies and gentlemen of fashion displayed themselves and talked and laughed, ignoring the music of the orchestra, and the action on the stage. Benedict recognized this person and that, and there in the opposite box— He frowned.

  “The piece is surely not so bad as that.” Ever alert, Percy followed Benedict’s gaze. “Ah, the little Russell. Not in your usual style, is she, my friend? Ceci! Behold this season’s Nonpareil.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The key rotated in the lock. The door sank with a great crash. An interior apartment was revealed.

  In the center of the chamber, a skeleton sat on its tomb. Over its head, written in blood, were the words, ‘The Punishment of Curiosity’.

  Miranda leaned back in her seat. Despite a certain skepticism concerning why someone would marry a man with an ugly blue beard and mysteriously disappearing wives, she had enjoyed the play. So she said. Mr. Dowlin beamed.

  At this indication of his rival’s increase in favor, Mr. Atchison paused in his discourse concerning the history of the theater – built under a royal patent in 1663 by the playwright Thomas Killigrew for his company, the King’s Servants, and scene two years later of Nell Gwyn’s acting debut – and Mr. Burton scowled. Mr. Burton could have cared less that the boards at Drury Lane had been trod by such luminaries as David Garrick and Dorothea Jordan, John Philip Kemble and Sarah Siddons. Mr. Atchison’s infernal prosing made a fellow yawn until his jaw cracked.

  The ladies were not similarly affected. They hung on his words. Furthering Mr. Burton’s annoyance was the fact that he was not enjoying the play. For one thing, he disliked loud noises. For another, the fanciest theatrical backdrops could only fail to impress someone who had seen the shiny roofs of Tipoo Sultan’s palace, the sugar-white minarets of his mosque, the flat boulders of the River Cauvery which encircled the island of Seringapatam, and the shell-shattered trees and hedges that had concealed the British siege-works.

  Mr. Burton was mistaken upon at least one matter: no one was hanging upon Mr. Atchison’s words. Nonie, though she had enjoyed the entertainment, preferred Gothic melodrama enacted in gloomy, ruined abbeys and featuring outcasts and ghosts, long lost relatives and long concealed crimes, for example The Castle Spectre, written by Monk Lewis, which had had a prodigious theatrical run due largely to the wondrous effect of sinking the ghost in flame. Sir Kenrick was contemplating improvements in the Argand lamps, stage lighting devices that employed cylindrical wicks and glass chimneys to control the relative proportions of oxygen and oil. Miranda was mulling over the moral of the evening’s entertainment, and comparing herself to the heedless young wife who persuaded her husband’s servant to admit her to the forbidden Blue Chamber.

  But Miranda hadn’t been admitted, had she, and thus had no opportunity to discover whether skeletons lurked in Sinbad’s lair. Even though he had agreed to assist her in – what had he called it? – her ‘fall from grace’.

  The curtain descended, a hazy green drapery depicting the classical muse of Comedy and a waterfall in a glade. One of the actors stepped forward and announced that following a brief intermission there would be renderings by a popular vocalist and some conjuring tricks. The audience applauded, shouted, hissed. The actor bowed himself out through one of the doors, with brass knockers on them, which always stood open upon the stage.

  Mr. Atchison immediately suggested that the ladies might benefit from gentle exercise and a breath of fresher air. Mr. Dowlin, less fast on his feet but nonetheless no flat, allowed that he would benefit from the same, a statement that caused Mr. Burton to gnash his teeth, because he hadn’t been attending and had therefore allowed his rivals to pull such a sly trick.

  Mr. Burton refused to trail after Miss Russell like some love-struck clunch. He withdrew to the Green Room behind the stage, a general dressing area scattered with tables and wig stands, where gentlemen visited with the cast between acts. Sir Kenrick, who agreed with Antoinette’s opinion that none of these youngsters would do for Miranda, took himself off to quiz various of his acquaintances about their marital aspirations under the pretext of discussing Argand lamps.

  Lamps were also on the mind of Mr. Atchison, and candles as well, for fire was a constant danger in the theaters. It took only one careless sceneshifter to set flimsy stage dresses and scenery alight. The original theater at Drury Lane had been badly damaged by fire some nine years after it opened, and had subsequently been rebuilt. But the ladies were not to worry! The current theater was rendered fireproof by water tanks placed in the roof, the contents of which had been used to good effect in The Virgin Unmasked, when they were emptied splashing and dashing and tumbling over artificial rocks. Though he could not know it, there was considerable irony in Mr. Atchison’s claims: the theater would burst into flame some few years hence and blaze with such fury that it illuminated Lincoln’s Inn Fields with the brightness of day.

  Mr. Atchison was trying very hard to win favor with Miranda. He had even applied juice of whatever-it-was to the freckles on his face. He hoped Miranda would not next require him to drop something in his ears. But if she did, so be it. He would have trod hot coals for her, if only she had asked.

  Mr. Atchison spoke, and the others listened, as they made their way through the noisy crowd. Rather, Mr. Atchison spoke, and Nonie and Mr. Dowlin listened; Miranda had again withdrawn. She was trying hard for patience, a lack of which was one of her many character flaws.

  She had not heard from Benedict since they met in the gardens. Should she send another note? No, Miranda had made her proposal, and he had accepted, and she didn’t want to be the pushing sort.

  She must see all she could of London before she was sent back to the country and left at last to tend her garden in peace. Oddly, the prospect of peaceful garden tending did not appeal as much as once it had.

  Suddenly her senses prickled. Miranda looked around. Strolling in their direction was Lord Baird, in company with several other people. Lady Cecilia was by his side.

  How fine they looked together. How possessively the blasted woman clung to his arm. No doubt Lord Baird had kissed Lady Cecilia any number of times, and engaged in more intimate pursuits as well.

  Miranda had known that Lady Cecilia was Benedict�
�s particular friend. Yet she had foolishly assumed the marquess would not continue to pay court to another woman while he contrived at her own disgrace.

  Not that the marquess was doing much contriving. One might almost think that he didn’t truly wish to do the deed. Miranda raised her chin and watched Lord Baird and his party approach, and not by the quiver of an eyelid did she reveal that she felt like Blue Beard’s wife discovering the contents of the forbidden room.

  “Miss Russell.” Percy Pettigrew executed an elegant bow. “May I present my companions?”

  Graciously, Miranda acknowledged the introductions. Carefully, she kept her expression blank. Resentfully, she discovered that Lady Cecilia was even more beautiful when viewed at close range.

  In turn, Lady Cecilia scrutinized Miranda. Every other female became a rival when one reached a certain age. Miss Russell was not only depressingly young she was also abominably attractive. Ceci discovered in herself a positive loathing for caramel hair and violet eyes, both of which, she assured herself, were altogether unfashionable.

  “Do you enjoy the theater, Lady Cecilia?” Mr. Atchison inquired politely. Ceci admitted that she enjoyed the theater very well. She had even enjoyed seeing Mrs. Jordan as Miss Racket in Fashionable Friends, and Mr. Kemble as Sir Dudley Dorimant, though the play had been withdrawn after two performances and condemned as consisting of material as flimsy and sentiments as indecent as had in many years debased the British stage. Mr. Atchison could not comment with any certitude on the subject of Fashionable Friends, not having seen the play, but he was able to converse with considerable assurance about an accident that had befallen Mrs. Jordan while she was playing the part of Peggy in The Country Girl at the Margate Theater. The actress had nearly burnt to death when her gown burst into flame quite up to the waist, and had concluded her last scene in her petticoat. So very well did Mr. Atchison and Lady Cecilia get along that Miranda grew even more annoyed. She had intended Mr. Atchison for Nonie, but Lady Cecilia was monopolizing every gentleman in the vicinity.

  Not every gentleman. Mr. Hazelett awarded Nonie a polite smile. “A penny for your thoughts, Miss Blanchet,” he said.

  “They are hardly worth so much,” Nonie replied.

  “My dear Miss Blanchet, you underestimate yourself,” interjected Percy. There was smoky something in the wind and it wasn’t the smell of the Argand lamps. Miss Russell appeared to be on the fidgets, he observed.

  Miranda was indeed on the fidgets. With each passing moment she grew more convinced that a certain rakehelly marquess had offered her false coin. She had been enjoying her adventure very well and now her pleasure was destroyed.

  He drew her aside. She awarded him a scowl. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Russell,” Benedict said, then lowered his voice. “I’ve not forgotten my promise. More opportunities will present themselves now that we’ve been properly introduced.”

  “I have not the least distant guess what you are talking about, my lord.” Miranda turned her shoulder on him and suggested to her companions that since the intermission was nearly over, they should resume their seats, because she was eager to observe the conjuring tricks.

  Definitely Miss Russell was an Original, mused Percy. Few young women would rather watch a conjurer than converse with Baird.

  Miranda reseated herself in her uncle’s box. No one, especially Benedict, must realize that she was upset. Miss Russell laughed, and chatted, and set out to charm, with the result that even her uncle, who should have known better, was disarmed.

  Nonie sat quietly apart from her companions. Miranda could hardly get into mischief in the midst of so many people – or if she could, probably she would not, since her guardian was present – and so Nonie might enjoy a brief respite from her responsibilities.

  That respite did not last long. Though the sight of a certain person and his companion quite revolted Miranda, she couldn’t prevent her gaze straying to the source of her distress.

  What had caught the girl’s attention? Nonie leaned forward so that she too might observe what was of such interest in the opposite box. Oh heaven, could the gentleman Miranda wanted to kiss her be Sinbad?

  Chapter Thirteen

  The various members of Sir Kenrick’s household held strong opinions about Miranda’s tinctures and tisanes. Most popular among the footmen was the taking of two tablespoons of syrup of bugle to counteract the effects of strong drink, while the maidservants swore by viper’s herb as a precaution against spider bites. Cook frequently bound a potato poultice to her forehead to ease the headache. The butler, Higgins, was partial to a toothache remedy of wood barley, made with mead and a little pennyroyal, gargled with a considerable amount of wine.

  It was perhaps an after-effect of this decoction that caused Higgins to beam upon the gentleman who came calling this afternoon, and direct him to the garden, promising he would find both Miss Russell and Miss Blanchet. As it turned out, only Miss Russell was in the garden. Miss Blanchet had retired to her bedchamber, there to employ lettuce-water mixed with oil of roses in an attempt to soothe her over-stimulated nerves.

  Lord Baird strolled along a pebbled pathway. The garden was nicely laid out, trees and flowers and shrubs arranged in naturalistic groups. The heavy scent of cabbage roses filled the air.

  He found Miss Russell kneeling before a lovely old Damask rose. Her hair was untidy, her gown mussed, her left cheek smudged with dirt. On the ground beside her rested a copper watering pot. In one hand she grasped a pruning knife. She was removing dead blossoms from the rosebush with considerable savagery.

  Benedict did not immediately announce his presence, but simply stood and watched her. So intent was Miranda on her task that she had not heard his footsteps on the path.

  He had hurt the child, and was sorry for it. She was infatuated with her first kiss, or kisses, and the provider thereof. The infatuation would wear off, as infatuations always did. She would find soon enough that other kisses suited her as well as his.

  Appalling, the idea of other gentlemen kissing Miranda. Shocking, the intensity of these feelings for an untried miss. Or almost untried, and Benedict must try her no further, which would be much easier accomplished if he could maintain a prudent distance. Yet he dared not avoid her, lest she find someone less scrupulous to help her achieve her ends.

  Scrupulous? Sinbad? Benedict wavered between horror and amusement at himself. “Hello, brat,” he said. “You have a smudge.”

  Miranda had not been paying attention to the Damask rose, or the Rosa Mundi, or the nearby Old Pink Moss. Her mind had been on a certain marquess, whom she had been consigning to perdition in various colorful ways. Now that he stood before her in the flesh, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  Best get the business over with. “How are you, Miranda?” Benedict inquired.

  How was she? How was she? “None the better for you asking!” Miranda rose from her kneeling position, pruning knife still in hand. “Forget I said that, please. And forget as well that I said all those other foolish things.”

  The conversation was not going as Benedict had anticipated. “What foolish things?” he asked, as he sat down on a stone bench beneath the tulip tree.

  After considerable reflection, Miranda had decided that Sinbad had been amusing himself with her, and that she had been soundly hoaxed; and had consequently sunk into so very melancholic a state of mind that she feared she might die of the dumps. Now that he stood before her, however, she felt more inclined to kick him in the shins. “I asked you to ruin me, if you will recall.”

  Of course Benedict recalled it. He had spent an inordinate amount of time trying to persuade himself he must not do that very thing. “It hadn’t slipped my memory.”

  “Oh?” Miranda would never have guessed it from his actions. “Well, I have changed my mind. I no longer want you to ruin me, my lord.”

  No? Benedict felt oddly disappointed. Then he realized that this was one of those instances when a lady’s word meant its opposi
te. “Ah. You have decided that I will not suit. I am too old, perhaps. Or too wicked, after all.”

  Miranda might be feeling cross, but she couldn’t allow so grave a misapprehension to pass. “You know very well that you are nothing of the sort. I meant that I have been a dreadful bother. I am resolved to plague you no more.”

  She was very much on her dignity. Benedict was not deceived. “You mustn’t mind Lady Cecilia. She is just a friend.”

  Oh, perdition. He felt sorry for her. “I’d be surprised if Lady Cecilia considers you merely a ‘friend’. People are wagering she’ll bring you up to scratch.”

  “People wager on a great many foolish things,” Benedict said gently. “Tell me, where were you headed on the night we met?”

  Miranda shrugged. “I wanted to go home. I hoped my uncle might relent if I ran away. Kenrick is my guardian, you see, and he means to do what he deems right. Whether or not it is right for me! He says I am being a great deal too fastidious in this matter of a husband, and has decided that he must take a hand. I can’t imagine why he thinks I would agree to marry a gentleman so advanced in years as Lord Wexton is.”

  Benedict kept a careful eye on the pruning knife. “I am considerably advanced in years,” he pointed out.

  “Not that advanced!” retorted Miranda. “And you don’t prose on about lamps. Moreover, nobody is saying I should marry you, so it is not the same. But you need not concern yourself. I shall contrive without your help.”

  Unquestionably she would contrive. Undoubtedly her next scheme would prove even more potentially disastrous than the last.

  Benedict’s aunt wanted him to get an heir. His mistress wanted him to get married. Miranda wanted him to be the instrument of her downfall. Such complexities would not plague a man who led a monkish life.