by Louise Allen
‘Yes, of course, Matthews. Thank you. Tell the coachman I wish to go to New Bond Street, if you please.’
Marissa strolled up the street, Matthews behind her already carrying an awkward collection of parcels which, in addition to Jane’s scarf, included a pink-lined parasol, some rose water, a pair of embroidered slippers and a length of linen for a chair-cover Marissa had decided to embroider.
When they finally reached a sunlit Piccadilly she said, ‘I will just stroll over to Fortnum’s and see if they have that blend of tea in that his lordship particularly likes and then I will go into Hatchard’s. Please have the barouche wait, Matthews.’
Chapter Twenty Two
Marcus had chosen a quiet corner in the library at Brooks’s to sit and think through the coil he found himself in. Despite what his sister might think, she did not feature in his musings at all. He knew her too well to believe that she would repeat her escapade, equally he knew something – or someone – else would happen to take her mind off Captain Cross. Sooner or later his little sister would grow up and the right man would come along.
No, it was Marissa who filled his thoughts. Thanks to his conversation with Diane he now realised that whatever Charles had done had scarred Marissa deeply. She had not been mourning for her husband, she had been having nightmares about him.
Marcus had gone from being jealous of the man he had believed she still loved to wishing the man was not already dead so he could strangle him himself. How could he ever overturn the legacy of that marriage and convince Marissa that with him she could forget two years of hell? How could he assure a woman who had been badly damaged that he would never hurt her?
Several acquaintances who saw him across the room started towards him but he kept his expression unwelcoming and they veered off again, clearly believing that he had either had a heavy night on the tiles and was suffering as a result or had had major losses at the races.
His looks did not, apparently, deter Sir Frederick Collier who strolled into the library and then came over to greet him. ‘Longminster. I am glad to have seen you. May I share with you, in confidence, my happy news?’
Marcus sat upright from his sprawl. ‘I would appreciate happy news.’ Might as well be civil, he could see that Sir Frederick was going to tell him anyway.
The older man pulled up another leather wing chair. ‘It will be announced next week, but I am delighted to tell you that Miss Venables has done me the honour of agreeing to become my wife.’
‘Good God!’ Marcus was startled out of good manners. ‘My dear Collier, I do apologise, but this is a shock to me – I have obviously been most unobservant. You have my heartiest congratulations. Miss Venables is an admirable woman, and will make you very happy. My sister Nicole will miss her very much.’
Sir Frederick tugged the bell-pull and when the footman appeared, ordered Madeira. ‘And my dear Jane will miss Lady Nicole greatly. It is something which concerns her and is, frankly, making her reluctant to set the date.’
‘I am surprised, after my little sister’s last escapade, that Miss Venables does not seize with delight on the prospect of being free of her.’ He looked at the other man wryly and sipped his wine. ‘And I must thank you again for your help and discretion in the matter.’
The men fell silent for a moment, then Sir Frederick ventured, ‘I do hope that Lady Longminster was not too distressed by that evening’s events. I thought at the races that she looked happier than I had ever seen her. I would be sorry to think that her new-found freedom should be marred by any anxiety.’
‘Freedom?’ Marcus queried sharply.
‘Ah.’ Sir Frederick winced. ‘Forgive me for speaking out of turn. Do ignore my tactlessness.’
‘No, please, you interest me. I know little of Lady Longminster’s history. This is not something I would normally speak of, but I have a specific reason to ask you to expand on that and I know I can trust your discretion.’
The baronet got to his feet and checked that the other window bays in the quiet room were empty before he sat down again. ‘Indeed you may. What is it that you wish to know? I had forgotten that you have been living abroad.’
‘Tell me about my cousin Charles,’ Marcus said. ‘What manner of man was he?’
‘I assume you do not need me to tell you that he was a patron of the arts, a man of highly refined artistic taste and the most rigorous standards?’
‘No, you assume correctly. I need to know what manner of man, what manner of… husband he was.’
Collier’s lips thinned. ‘What I am about to tell you is well known in certain circles, but never spoken of. The late Earl had certain very discreet tastes. You will have observed the strict discipline of his household affairs: I believe he took a similar approach to his amatory affairs. Not every woman is prepared to tolerate such demands but a very young, very innocent wife may be cowed into it. And, of course, if you know where to purchase them, these pleasures may always be bought.’
‘The bastard.’ Marcus had expected to hear that Charles was unkind, uncaring, demanding the highest standards in his self-centred existence, but not this.
‘Indeed,’ Sir Frederick said.
Suddenly Marcus needed to know more, to understand the full depths of his cousin’s character. ‘And can you put a name to an establishment he patronised?’
Sir Frederick picked a sheet of notepaper from a rack by his side and dipped the quill pen in the standish. He scratched a few lines, dusted it with sand and folded the note. ‘Here.’ He passed it over. ‘If you really have the stomach for it.’
Marcus glanced at it, then tucked it into his pocketbook. ‘Thank you. If you, and others, knew of this, how could it be that her father did not?’
Sir Frederick got to his feet. ‘Oh, he knew all right. But Sir George would never let a detail like that worry him if he saw the chance to sell his daughter and finance his own pleasures.’
Marcus walked slowly into the hall and waited while the doorman found his hat and cane. He did not want to visit Madam Hall’s establishment, but he had to. He needed to understand exactly what the woman he loved had endured because only then could he seek to heal her. Only then could he teach her to trust again.
Ignoring the passing hackney carriages, he struck off on foot along King Street and across St James’s Square, into Charles Street towards the Haymarket, and then Panton Street.
Marissa climbed into the barouche outside Hatchard’s after a satisfactory half hour spent browsing. ‘Matthews, can you recall where that art gallery was that Lady Smithson recommended when she called the other day? I think you were in the room serving tea when we were discussing it. I must think of a wedding present for Miss Venables and Lady Smithson said they had some interesting Italian Renaissance prints that might appeal.’
‘Oxendon Street, I believe, my lady. It is just off the Haymarket. Shall I direct the coachman to take you now?’
‘Yes, please.’ Marissa settled back against the leather upholstery and let her thoughts stray as they made their way along the crowded thoroughfare. As usual, they strayed to Marcus, and a little smile curved her lips as she thought of him. The warmth of the sunshine soothed her, the bustle of the street surrounded her with life and vitality, and her spirits rose. Could there be some way for them to be happy together? She could not deny her love for him, her response when he kissed her. And he desired her, liked to be in her company, was a friend to her. If only she could pluck up the courage to talk to him about it.
Even without any plan, without any clear idea of what she could do to get out of this coil, Marissa felt suddenly optimistic, almost happy. He was a good man, a kind man. Surely there must be a way for them?
As she thought it the carriage turned into Panton Street and there Marcus was, right in front of her, on the left-hand pavement, just turning to ascend the short flight of steps to a glossily painted front door. ‘Matthews, there is his lordship. Coachman, pull up!’
‘Drive on!’ Matthews commanded with uncharac
teristic sharpness, and the startled coachman flicked his whip over the bays’ rumps. The horses broke into a canter and the barouche was past the house before Marcus’s hand dropped from the knocker.
‘Matthews.’ Marissa twisted round in her seat to glare at the under-butler, perched up behind on the footman’s seat. ‘How dare you? I had expressly asked the coachman to pull up.’
‘I am sorry, my lady,’ he stammered, red to his hairline. ‘I think you were mistaken and that was not his lordship. I wished to save any embarrassment caused by you greeting a perfect stranger.’
It had been Marcus and Matthews was so obviously lying that Marissa was momentarily speechless. When she recovered herself she realised she could hardly pursue the subject in an open carriage. The driver was doubtless agog over the exchange as it was.
‘Drive home, please,’ she ordered stiffly.
Inside Madam Hall’s discreetly painted front door Marcus found himself in a dark, heavily panelled space. There were a few white marble statues which reminded him, with a shiver, of Southwood Hall. The butler, a saturnine individual, bowed and enquired his business.
Marcus experienced a momentary doubt about the information Sir Frederick had given him. In his youth in Jamaica he had visited as many houses of ill repute as the average young buck out with a party of high-drinking friends, but nothing like this.
He looked round at the heavy drapery and subdued lighting and the many doors that opened off the hallway. ‘I wish to speak to Madam Hall.’
‘Do you have an appointment, my lord?’ Marcus realised that the butler must have recognised him, although he had not offered his card. Given that he had spent so little time in London, the man could only know him from his resemblance to his late cousin. Perhaps Sir Frederick was correct after all.
‘I am not expected.’
‘Then I will enquire if Madam is at home.’ The man bowed and disappeared upstairs, leaving Marcus standing in the hall. Spurred by curiosity and unease, he tried one of the door handles, but it was locked, as were all the others he turned before he heard the sound of the butler’s return.
‘This way, my lord. Madam Hall will see you now.’
Marcus followed the man up the curving staircase, along a heavily draped corridor and up to a pair of imposing double doors. The silence in the house was eerie, oppressive, as though the building was smothered in cloth.
‘The Earl of Longminster, madam,’ the butler announced, before closing the doors to leave Marcus alone in the Salon with its one occupant.
The woman who rose as he entered was tall, brown-haired, modestly attired and almost motherly in appearance until he looked into her hard brown eyes. Whatever he had been expecting it was not this woman, dressed in a plain but beautifully tailored gown without a single item of jewellery.
‘Please be seated, my lord.’ She waved him to a seat and resumed her own beside a low table.
‘You appear to know my name, madam, although I did not send in my card. Can I assume it is because you were acquainted with my late cousin?’ He was in no mood for small-talk and pretend niceties. The hair on the back of his neck prickled and he wanted nothing more than to be out of this house. How people enjoyed themselves erotically was none of his business. If it was entered into willingly on both sides, that was fine, but the thought that anyone might be coerced into enduring pain and humiliation made him furious.
‘Indeed. The resemblance is very great.’ Her voice was accentless and flat, without any emotional colour.
‘In outward appearance only, I can assure you, madam.’
She smiled slightly and without warmth. She was fiddling with something on the table beside her but he found himself held, both fascinated and repelled, by that hard brown gaze.
‘To what do I owe the honour of your visit, my lord?’
‘Some answers. What is the nature of this house?’
‘You are very blunt. This house exists for gentlemen who have an interest in, shall we say, the arts of discipline?’
‘In giving it or receiving it?’
‘Both, my lord,’ she replied calmly. ‘In which direction does your own interest lie?’
‘In neither,’ he said shortly. ‘And my cousin?’
‘Oh, in giving it, undoubtedly.’ Her fingers continued to toy with the object on the table. ‘His lordship’s tastes were very clear.’
Marcus looked down and saw with a frisson of distaste that what she was touching was a riding crop, a beautifully made piece of plaited leather with an ivory handle. His appalled gaze came back to hers and she smiled tightly. ‘Exactly so, my lord,’ she said, as though in reply to an unasked question.
Suddenly Marcus could see nothing but the image of Marissa’s stricken face on the day he had lost his temper with Nicci over her dalliance with Mr Ashforde. He had been holding his riding crop, had brought it lashing down onto the polished table-top…
He felt ill at the memory, repulsed by the thought of what it had represented to Marissa and filled with the overwhelming desire to lock his hands around this woman’s neck, choke the poisonous life out of her and free any inhabitants of this place who were not there of their own free will.
He got abruptly to his feet: the atmosphere of the bordello seemed to be invading his pores, seeping into the fabric of his clothing. He had to get out. ‘Madam.’ Without waiting for her to ring he wrenched open the doors and ran down the steps into the clean fresh air and daylight of the street.
Marissa, uncharacteristically furious, bottled up her temper until she was home once again. Matthews, still flushed at his temerity, stood before her in the Salon, not meeting her eyes.
‘Well, Matthews. I hope you have a good explanation for gainsaying my instructions in such a manner.’
The under-butler met her angry eyes and sought for the words. ‘I did not think it was his lordship.’
‘Rubbish! I am not blind. Tell me the truth.’
‘Well,’ he said, clearly improvising wildly, ‘It is not a very salubrious area. I did not think we should stop.’
‘Nonsense. It was nothing to do with the street. It was the house, was it not? Tell me, what is that house?’
‘I have no idea, my lady.’ Matthews was not used to lying, and was not good at it.
‘Matthews,’ Marissa began, dangerously quiet, ‘If you do not tell me the truth, I shall go out, find a hackney carriage and go there myself.’ Normally it would never have crossed her mind to wonder what Marcus was about. But Matthews’s reaction had been so extreme she could not leave it now.
‘No, my lady, you cannot do that!’ He was obviously appalled.
‘Well, then?’
Matthews went even redder, shuffled his feet and blurted out, ‘It is a house of ill repute, my lady.’
‘Oh.’ Marissa was taken aback. She did not like the idea of Marcus visiting such a place, but she was realist enough to know that men did these things – and he owed her no loyalty now she had broken the engagement. She looked at the under-butler again and saw that he was looking almost shiftily relieved. There was more to it than a simple bawdy house. If that was all it was even Matthews could have come up with a convincing response. A gentleman’s club, a gaming house, my lady, was all he would have needed to say and she would have dropped the subject instantly.
‘I warn you, Matthews, I know there is more to it. Tell me, or I shall go there.’
‘It’s a bordello for men who like – oh, gawd, my lady! – different things… er, whips… Oh, please, my lady, don’t ask me any more.’
Her knees gave way and she sat down on the sofa abruptly, but she kept her voice hard. ‘How do you know, Matthews?’
‘His late lordship…’ The man’s voice trailed off miserably.
‘Thank you, Matthews. You may go.’
The ice seemed to be spreading up her body from her toes to the top of her head. It was like doing a puzzle, and suddenly the last few clues fell into place. That was why when they had come up to London Charles had nev
er troubled her: he had had this place to go to, to satisfy his taste for inflicting pain. And now Marcus. Was it in the blood? She could not bear to think about it. She loved him but now she could not bear the thought of seeing him again.
Marissa shuddered at the thought of how close she had been to once more placing herself in the power of a man. Wives had no choice other than to obey, but she was free and at least she could run.
Marissa got to her feet, hardly able to feel her limbs, but somehow they responded. She tugged the bell-pull and when the footman came ordered, ‘Send Mary to my room and fetch down two of my travelling cases and my dressing case.’ As the man turned she added, ‘And send to the mews for the light travelling coach to be ready as soon as possible.’
Within the hour all was prepared, the few cases loaded and, accompanied by Gyp and a bemused Mary, Marissa was on the road heading for Norfolk and sanctuary.
Marcus returned home to find Jackson shouting at the under-butler but ignored them and took the stairs two at a time up to his bed chamber.
Jackson came in as he was pulling off his shirt and calling for hot water. ‘Damn it, I feel as though I’m never going to be clean again. I’ve been – ’
‘I know where you’ve been, Marcus – and so does she.’ Jackson had no need to say who she was, his expression told it all.
‘How the blazes?’
‘She saw you. She made Matthews tell her what that place is.’
‘How the devil does Matthews know?’ Marcus’s head was whirling, but he snatched up a clean shirt and began to fasten it.
‘All the servants knew what your late cousin was,’ Jackson said darkly.
‘Oh, my God. What she must be thinking! I must go to her. What hell is she going through if she believes I’m like him?’
‘You can’t talk to her, Marcus, she’s gone. Two hours since.’
‘Where?’ he demanded, raking his hand through his already disordered hair.