Thea's Marquis

by Carola Dunn

  Meg laughed as she led the way up the stairs. “What care I? To be sure, I like Mr. DeVine very well, but what is one when I expect to meet dozens of eligible gentlemen? I daresay he will visit, though. Why should he not?"

  "Because we shall be living somewhat out of the way of the quarters frequented by Society."

  "Jason said Russell Square is no more than a mile from Mayfair and St. James's. Mr. DeVine claims to be a sportsman. He can hardly regard a mile as an insuperable distance!"

  Not wanting to dampen Meg's spirits, which would fail soon enough once they were on the road, Thea did not contradict her. She suspected the distance was more in the mind than on the ground, the gulf between the haunts of the Upper Ten Thousand and the respectable residences of the wealthy bourgeoisie. Penny's father had been a lawyer. Though she was now a baroness, the ton would not welcome her with open arms nor flock to her house in the wrong part of Town.

  Meg must have a proper Season, yet Thea could not let Penny be hurt. She had come to love the generous, forthright young woman her brother had unexpectedly taken to wife, and besides, without her house and fortune there would be no Season. If only she knew Jason better! Had he considered the difficulties and found solutions?

  "Don't look so blue-devilled,” Meg said, squeezing her arm. “Your marquis will call on us and we shall all have a wonderful time in London."

  From the top of the stairs, a lean, red-nosed man watched their ascent with bleary, red-rimmed eyes. He was untidily dressed, with none-too-clean linen and a neckerchief in place of a cravat, yet he wore a heavy gold signet on one hand. As Meg stepped up to the landing, he reached out and chucked her under the chin.

  "Hey, my pretty, what a devilish shame we didn't meet last night!” He leered at Meg, who stared at him in speechless astonishment. “Still, it's early yet. We've time for a quick tumble before—"

  "Leave my sister alone!” said Thea in an icy voice she did not recognize as her own.

  "Come on, Ilminster.” The man who appeared behind him sounded impatient and disgusted. “I'll be damned if you're not still foxed. Leave the ladybirds be or we'll never get out of here."

  "What, don't you fancy the hoity-toity beanpole? I've a mind to take this pretty little bit o’ game with me to warm my bed tonight."

  "Unhand me, sirrah!” Meg regained her wits. “I am no doxy."

  Thea had no wish to bandy words with an inebriated boor; she gave her sister a push. Meg jerked away from the man's feeble grasp and took Thea's hand. As they fled, the second man said, “Those were no lightskirts, you sapskull. Can't you tell a lady when you hear one speak?"

  "Damned if I ever chose a bit of muslin for her conversation,” said the other sulkily.

  Meg giggled. Breathless, they reached their chambers. Rather than alarm their mother and Penny by bursting in upon them, Thea thrust her sister into the opposite room. She closed the door behind them and leaned against it.

  "'Unhand me, sirrah,’ indeed. I daresay that came from one of your lending-library romances?"

  "Yes, and it worked splendidly, did it not?"

  Thea laughed. “Only because you spoke in accents of unmistakable gentility. No doubt those were two of the sporting gentlemen the innkeeper mentioned, who came to the boxing match."

  "Sporting gentlemen—that's odd, is it not? What do you suppose the difference is between a gentlemanly sportsman, such as Mr. DeVine, and a sporting gentleman, such as that Ilminster? I should not describe him as a gentleman!"

  "Not in his behaviour, certainly, but he may be a gentleman by rank. He wore a signet ring, and though his language was execrable, his accent was as refined as yours.” And in tones of perfect refinement he had dubbed her a beanpole, she recalled with an internal grimace. She had always felt too tall beside her petite mother and sister, but it still hurt to hear it from a stranger's lips.

  "Ilminster might be a title rather than a surname,” Meg said in agreement. “But lord or no, his conduct makes Mr. DeVine's and Lord Hazlewood's appear positively saintly!"

  "Gallant, certainly."

  "Saintly. I asked Mr. DeVine where they spent the night. He said the landlord gave them two palliasses in a garret and the marquis's feet stuck out and rats nibbled his toes."

  "He was roasting you.” Thea shook her head, smiling. “Lord Hazlewood told me they had the chamber of an acquaintance they encountered in the coffee-room, who agreed to share with his friend. Meg, pray don't tell Mama about the ill-mannered Ilminster. It can only distress her."

  "I shan't."

  "Then let us go and persuade her to stop at Biggleswade. Oh dear, I promised not to keep the marquis waiting."

  Roderick Charles Edward DeVine, Marquis of Hazlewood, was quite content with a cup of excellent coffee and the Times, which he had set aside when the Misses Kilmore joined them. At the same time, he was deriving considerable amusement from his companion's disconsolate face. Crumbling a muffin in restless fingers, Will scowled at the window whence he had earlier called to the young ladies in the garden.

  "Cat got your tongue?"

  "What? Oh, go to the devil, Rod. It's just...” He was interrupted by the arrival of a maidservant with a folded sheet of paper addressed to Lord Hazlewood.

  Rod opened it and found another inside, directed to Jason, Baron Kilmore, which he tossed on the table.

  "The ladies wish to stay in Biggleswade tonight,” he said, scanning the note. “We'd best be off if I'm to inform Kilmore of his family's whereabouts before he begins to wonder what has become of them."

  Will picked up the second note. “I thought so,” he said gloomily, reading the superscription.

  "You can tell me what you thought, and why it should cast you into the dismals, once we are on the road."

  While his groom saw to the harnessing of a team, he and Will donned their greatcoats, top hats and gloves. The half-dozen capes on Will's driving coat considerably reduced the difference in width, if not height, between them, since Rod himself, in defiance of fashion, had but one.

  Paying the reckoning, they took their leave of Percival and went out to the courtyard.

  "We shall drive straight through to Town in the curricle,” Rod told his young groom. “With Mr. DeVine's man to share the driving, you should have no difficulty managing it with the carriage, but if you have any trouble, put up somewhere on the way and come on tomorrow."

  "No, dash it, Rod.” Will protested. “Would you deprive me of my valet overnight?"

  "I should not dare. You may join him in the carriage."

  Climbing into the lighter vehicle, Will laughed and shook his head. “Not I. I shall just have to keep to my room until Purvis arrives. Let's go, coz."

  The two-wheeled vehicle, with its resilient C-springs, rolled smoothly out of the Haycock's courtyard and turned south on the busy Great North Road. The sunny day, with an autumnal crispness in the air, was perfect for driving. Frost had touched willows and poplars with yellow. In some of the flat fields along the way, farmhands harvested turnips and onions. In others, sturdy, patient Suffolk Punches drew ploughs through the rich soil, the long, straight furrows lengthening behind them.

  The four horses harnessed to the curricle were less patient. The groom, with his master's title and wealth to back him, had selected the Haycock's most mettlesome cattle. For the first mile Rod had to concentrate on handling the ribbons, until the team settled down to working together and he could turn his attention to his cousin.

  Will had lost his disgruntled expression. Now cheerfully insouciant, he was softly whistling “Cherry Ripe.” He noticed Rod's ironic glance and said, “A pity about the Kilmores."

  "A pity?"

  "Miss Megan's a pretty chit, and lively, though it's no good pretending she's up to snuff, any more than her sister is. Still, with a little Town bronze and a new wardrobe, she'd be a pocket Venus, I suspect. I wouldn't have minded pursuing the acquaintance, but it won't do. I was afraid they must be connections of Jason Kilmore. His sisters, no less! The fellow's a
wastrel, a regular loose fish."

  "I'd hardly put it so strongly. A trifle ramshackle, but received everywhere. It was his father, not he, who ruined the family by deep play. Jason was never guilty, so far as I know, of any worse than living a fashionable life beyond his means."

  "And his indiscreet amours! Even though he was received by the ton, mamas warned off their daughters. The man's a gazetted fortune-hunter."

  "To seek to mend the family fortunes through marriage is not an uncommon nor a dishonourable goal,” said Rod tolerantly.

  "Not by abduction. It's said he tried to carry off the Larkin heiress, the one who married Trevelyan. And now he's persuaded some Cit's daughter to the altar, or more likely to the anvil at Gretna Green."

  "What makes you think Lady Kilmore is not of gentle birth?” Rod asked, though he had long since come to the same conclusion.

  "A house in Bloomsbury. Damme, it's plain as the nose on your face. Kilmore has wed a Cit's daughter for her money, and Society is going to change its tune."

  "You are probably right,” Rod admitted with regret.

  "There you are, then. One can't go paying calls in Russell Square."

  "My dear William, you may not. I trust my consequence is sufficient to survive a visit to even so plebeian an address."

  "You mean to call?"

  "I do. Miss Kilmore is a true original, and they are few and far between. Shy as bedamned, yet throwing discretion to the winds, with no regard for conventional propriety, when her family's comfort is threatened! I don't know when I have been as well entertained."

  "Miss Kilmore?” Will was astonished. “I thought her dull and gauche. But then, you seem to find everything amusing. For all you look as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouth, I sometimes wonder if you give a tinker's curse for convention and propriety. Which is deuced odd, when my aunt is so devilish high in the instep."

  Rod considered this for a moment. “Say rather that I have a different notion of propriety from Mother's, and will not let myself be bound by convention. To refuse an acquaintanceship that promises pleasure merely because Society may frown appears to me to be sheer perversity."

  "Gammon! Philosophize if you will, but admit that it is simply another of your chivalrous impulses. You don't wish the Misses Kilmore to suffer for their brother's misdeeds. I'd give a monkey to see you bring them into fashion."

  "I have no such ambitious plan, I assure you,” he said with a lazy smile. “Now hush while I pass these sheep or we shall come to grief."

  Directed by a drover, three tan-and-white sheepdogs kept the flock bound for Smithfield Market to one side of the road. Rod drove past at a slow trot, alert for stragglers. The horses were uneasy. When a fat, bleating ewe darted right in front of them, they shied and tried to bolt. With the quick reactions and strong yet sensitive hands of an expert driver, Rod held them, and a dog instantly turned the sheep back.

  "I don't know which is more admirable,” said Will with a grin as they passed the front of the flock and returned to their own side of the road, “your skill or the dogs'."

  "Oh, the dogs', every time. I control four harnessed horses, which are moderately intelligent animals. They control several dozen unrestrained sheep, quite the silliest animals I know."

  Laughing, Will agreed. They went on to talk of horses and dogs, abandoning, by tacit consent, the subject of the Misses Kilmore's future.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The trim, elegant figure of Jason, Baron Kilmore, was as out of place in the bare entrance hall as a butterfly in a midwinter garden. There was no carpet, nor pictures on the bare walls, the only furnishings being a pair of dingy deal chairs that appeared to have escaped from the kitchens.

  Jason's darkly handsome face wore an expression of shock. “Penny, you look as if you have one foot in the grave!"

  Thea frowned at her brother. That was hardly a tactful way to greet the bride he had not seen for a month—which was not to say it was untrue. Stretching the last part of the journey over two days had helped Meg but drained the last of Penny's energy. She sank onto a chair, hid her pallid face in her hands, and burst into tears.

  "I'm increasing,” she wailed.

  "Increasing?” he said blankly. “Oh, is that what makes you look so ill? You had best lie down at once. Come, let me take you up to your chamber, my dear.” He helped her to stand, then, his arm about her waist, turned to the others with a distracted air. “I haven't hired abigails, as I thought you would wish to choose your own."

  "Thea.” Penny reached out to her with a sob.

  "I shall come with you.” Thea moved to Penny's side and Jason released her.

  "Mama, Meg, are you more in need of rest or refreshment?” He ran his hand through his hair. “Dash it, I'm not used to playing hostess. Oh, there you are, Mrs. Creswell. Mama, the housekeeper. Give her what orders you will. I must go with Penny."

  Thea, supporting Penny towards the stairs, glanced back and saw a stout woman in black curtsying to her mother.

  "So you have hired some servants?” she said with unwonted asperity to Jason as he joined them.

  "Yes, of course, but they are less than satisfactory, I fear. I have no experience at selecting any but valets and grooms."

  "And you have bought some furniture?” The stairs, like the hall, were bare of carpet.

  "Beds, a table for the morning-room, the absolute necessities. I have not had time. You wouldn't believe what a mess Vaughn left the place in, after removing everything of value. Besides, I thought Penny would enjoy choosing furnishings. Penny, had I known you were ill, I never would have expected you to come to Town."

  "But I wanted to come,” Penny wept, plodding up the stairs. Having begun to cry, she was too tired to stop.

  Jason made a move as if to take her in his arms, but at that moment a white-aproned maid appeared at the top of the stairs.

  "Will I bring ‘ot water, m'lord?"

  "Hot water, hot bricks, warming pan. My lady is unwell."

  "And tea, if you please,” Thea added as Jason thrust his handkerchief into his wife's hand, provoking a new outburst of tears. “Hush, Penny dear. You will feel better as soon as you lie down."

  Murmuring words of comfort, Thea led Penny after Jason, to a dressing-room as large as her own chamber at home. The walls were painted palest green, and the curtains at the window were a darker green sprigged with buttercup yellow, matching the Wilton carpet and the upholstery of a comfortable chaise longue. A well-polished wardrobe, dressing-table, and chest of drawers gleamed in the late-afternoon sunshine slanting through the window. A full-length cheval glass reflected the cheerful flames of the fire that kept the October chill at bay.

  Thea thought it charming. Penny clung to her, her face buried in the handkerchief, sniffling.

  With a helpless, anxious glance, Jason said, “If you don't care for it you can change it, and anything in our bedchamber, of course.” He gestured towards a door. Penny sobbed the harder.

  Seating her on the chaise longue and untying her bonnet, Thea said apologetically, “She is exhausted."

  "Penny, you need not fear that I'll disturb you. I shall sleep in my dressing-room."

  Though Thea suspected that was quite the wrong thing to say, she did not feel capable of mediating between husband and wife. She was a spinster, and likely to remain one, and besides, she scarcely knew her brother. “I shall help her to bed now,” she told him.

  "My dear, I'll come and see you later.” He patted Penny's shoulder awkwardly and left.

  Penny sank back on the chaise longue and gazed at Thea with despair in her eyes. “He is not at all glad that I am with child."

  "I doubt that be has properly grasped the fact that he is to be a father,” Thea soothed her. “He was too distressed by your fatigue."

  "I must look a fright. No wonder he was vexed that I came to London."

  "Not vexed! Concerned for your health, my dear."

  "He too called me ‘my dear,’ not ‘my love’ as he was used to.” Bi
ting her lip, Penny failed to suppress a sob. “I know he is tired of me. He only married me for my fortune, because Henrietta changed her mind. Did you know he tried and failed to abduct another well-dowered young lady once? He told me her name—Alison."

  "No, I did not know,” said Thea, shocked. Then she pointed out in her brother's defence, “But he did not abduct Henrietta. That elopement was her notion and arranged by Jason and her father to please her. What a silly goose she was!"

  "I daresay that's why he liked me better, only now I am being just as goosish.” She dissolved in tears again. “Indeed, I cannot help it."

  Thea was about to promise Penny she would feel better after a good night's sleep when she remembered the morning sickness. Nor was she able wholeheartedly to affirm that Jason had neither married Penny for her money nor tired of her since. His record was against him.

  Ten years ago, when Jason finished his schooling, he had joined their father in a life of dissipation in London. Following the late baron's example, he had rarely visited his home in Northumberland. He became a stranger to his mother and sisters. The discovery that he had inherited little but a pile of debts only led him to seek a wealthy bride so as to continue as before.

  Then, late last spring, he had arrived unexpectedly at Newkirk when the hillsides were yellow with fragrant gorse and long-tailed lambs skipped in the fields. Thea wondered now whether he had come to avoid recriminations after his failed abduction of the unknown Alison.

  Whatever the reason for his visit, for the first time since long-ago school holidays he took an interest in his estate—what was left of it after their father had sold off most of the farms. He looked at his dilapidated home, his shabby mother and sisters, and he did not like what he saw. When next he came north he was accompanied by his betrothed, Henrietta White, a rich young lady whose Cit father was willing to purchase a title for her by providing the wherewithal to restore Newkirk to its former prosperity. With them were Penelope Bryant and Dr. Angus Knox, another ill-matched couple on their way to Gretna.

  But Henrietta had despised the ancient, weathered manor, and insulted his threadbare family. Instead, Jason had married Penny, whom he had met on the road north to Gretna. Whether he had taken her to wife because he loved her, to save her from her uncle's persecution, or simply for her fortune, Thea could not guess.