Lady Margery's Intrigues

by Marion Chesney

  She drew the trembling girl from the room and left my lord and my lady staring after her in surprise. They felt as if some pet hound had suddenly bitten them in the ankle.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The white-hot heat of rage that had carried Toby posthaste to London had also carried him straight to Watier's, where he found Freddie playing hazard. His hand seeming to move of its own volition, Toby struck his friend across the face and demanded satisfaction. He would kill Freddie first and deal with Perry afterwards.

  His rage had carried him through a restless night and through the dark ride to Chalk Farm in the early hours of the morning, where he was to meet Freddie.

  Now he would have given anything for one particle of that splendid rage to sustain him.

  It was as beautiful a morning as a man could wish to see. Golden sunlight sparkled on the dewladen grass and burned in diamonds on the spiders’ webs. Daisies starred the grass, opening their petals to the warmth of the sun. Quite near him, blissfully unaware of the violent world of men, a robin fought gallantly with a large worm. A hawthorn tree stood in the center of the field, a bridal miracle of white blossom. To Chaucer it was a sight that “fills full the wanton eye with May's delight” but to Toby Sanderson it seemed like a white ghost come to mock the folly of one hotheaded London guck.

  Toby wished Freddie would hurry up before the tide of memories threatened to engulf him. What sport and larks he and Freddie had kicked up together. Now, in a few minutes, they would be facing each other in all the glory of the summer's morning, each attempting to put a ball through the heart of the other. Insanity!

  Well, at least he, Toby, was a poor shot. Nonetheless, he would delope. Freddie should have the honor of killing his man.

  Toby heard the clatter of horses’ hooves. His seconds had arrived. Then all too soon came the carriage with the surgeon, then Freddie himself, followed by Viscount Swanley and the Marquess of Edgecombe.

  Both men measured their distance. The handkerchief fluttered to the ground. Both men deliberately raised their weapons to fire into the air. But Toby, who could not have hit a barn door were he pointing his weapon straight at it, by trying desperately to miss his friend by miles succeeded in hitting his target for the first time in his life.

  Freddie stood swaying on his feet, his mouth hanging foolishly open in surprise, before he fell headlong on the grass, the blood from his wound gushing over the grass and staining the daisies crimson.

  Toby fell to his knees. Great racking sobs tore themselves from his chest and shattered the summer silence like obscenities. Then he was dimly aware of the marquess shaking his shoulder and saying, “It's all right, d'ye hear? It's all right. I think Freddie has a flesh wound and that it looks worse than it is. The surgeon's binding him up, and it won't do him any good to hear you going on as if you're at a funeral.”

  Toby dried his eyes on his sleeve and let the marquess help him to his feet.

  “We must make sure that this duel is not made public,” said the marquess sternly. “Do you hear me, Toby?”

  Toby drew a shaky breath. “You mean because we must protect Lady Margery's reputation?”

  “Lady Margery's reputation be damned,” said the marquess wrathfully. “I mean yours and Freddie's. I would not have it known that you fought over such a ... a scheming drab.”

  * * * *

  Three weeks had passed since the unfortunate duel, and Lady Margery felt as if she were convalescing after a great illness. Guarded by the ever-vigilant Lady Amelia, she had seen no one although many had called.

  A notice had been placed in the Gazette explaining that the three engagements had been a mistake, London found other things to gossip over, the duel was kept secret even from George Brummell, and Lady Margery Quennell remained fashionable.

  With the resilience and optimism of youth, she began to recover quickly and to hope that her father had forgotten about selling Chelmswood. Mr. Jessieman had sent word to say that he had had no further instructions regarding the estate.

  Amelia began to agree with her young friend that perhaps they had driven themselves into a pother over nothing and that it could be as well to retire to Chelmswood and conserve the rest of their money instead of frittering it away on a frantic hunt for a husband for Margery.

  Amelia announced her intention of setting out for Chelmswood to see that all was in preparation for Margery's return. Margery should follow in a few days’ time at her leisure. Lady Amelia did not feel it necessary to caution her young friend to keep to the town house. Margery still seemed to be disinterested in going back into society.

  Lady Amelia had no sooner departed than Margery began to miss her constant presence and reassuring friendship. She felt on edge and restless. The sun blazed down day after day. The faint sound of music from balls and parties at the neighboring mansions filtered through the open windows on the evening breeze. The Marquess of Edgecombe must still be there somewhere in that fashionable world. Would he still look at her with scorn, or would he talk to her in that gentle voice he had used when they had been sitting before the fire that night, after the romp?

  A gold-embossed invitation to a supper at Carlton House propped against the drawing-room mirror caught Margery's eye. She had accepted it but now did not feel she had the courage to go, without the comforting chaperonage of Lady Amelia, and she had done nothing about finding another suitable lady to escort her.

  On the day of the supper at Carlton House, Margery had just finished supervising her packing when Chuffley announced a caller. Mrs. Mary Worthey sailed into the room before his announcement had died away.

  Mrs. Worthey was a wealthy widow who had busied herself during the early part of the season by buying her way into the best households. By great contrivance, she had secured an invitation to Carlton House. She did not wish to go with her usual unfashionable companions and, having heard that Lady Margery was all the crack, had decided to call to see if she could ingratiate herself into the good graces of this latest social star.

  She was a tall, thin, angular woman, much rouged and powdered. Her dress was daringly damped, after the latest fashion, to reveal the scrawny charms of her middle-aged body. Youthful ringlets of an improbable shade of gold peeped out from underneath a frivolous bonnet in a screaming shade of pink. Her parasol had a handle as long as a Macaroni's walking cane, and her gown, which was cut daringly short, showed bony ankles lashed into Roman sandals.

  What was the purpose of this visit? Why, she had heard that dear Lady Amelia was out of town and wasn't Edgecombe just saying to her the other day that poor Lady Margery would be in need of a chaperone an’ she wished to attend Carlton House?

  Now, Mrs. Worthey had picked the marquess's name out of the hat of her imagination at random. She could just as well have mentioned Sally Jersey or Brummell or Lord Alvanley or, for that matter, the Prince Regent himself.

  Had she mentioned any other name, Margery would have perhaps seen the woman for what she was—vulgar, lying, and pushing.

  But the marquess's name suddenly endowed Mrs. Worthey with a glamor she did not deserve. On her entrance, Margery had been shocked at the vulgarity of Mrs. Worthey's dress. Now she assumed that she, Margery, was out of touch with the very latest mode.

  Yes, Lady Margery would be delighted to accept Mrs. Worthey's escort. Too kind. Mrs. Worthey was an old campaigner. Having secured Margery's promise, she hurriedly took her leave. She had too often made the mistake before of outstaying her welcome when her victim, no longer bedazzled by the stream of familiar and famous names, suddenly saw beyond them to the character of the woman herself.

  So it was with some misgiving that Lady Margery took a cool, appraising look at her new friend as they set out for Carlton House that evening. Mrs. Worthey had so much white paint on her face and black paint round her eyes that she looked like a mummer. Jewels of every description were scattered about her person. She reeked of a mixture of old sweat, old perfume and new perfume, and burning hair where her maid had been over
zealous in heating the curling tongs.

  After one fastidious shudder, Margery retreated into the comfort of her thoughts. The marquess had mentioned her name. How odd that someone so fastidious should consult Mrs. Worthey. She looked like a Covent Garden abbess!

  But he had thought of her. And Margery could not quite understand why a ray of sunshine seemed to have penetrated the gloom of her life.

  But as she turned a deaf ear to Mrs. Worthey's prattling, Margery suddenly realized that she was more than likely to have to confront her three former fiancés, and only the hope that she would be seated away from them kept her from turning back.

  Margery was wearing the regulation court dress of black muslin over an underslip of rose sarcenet. Mrs. Worthey was similarly attired, except that she had achieved the almost impossible effect of making the formal court dress look positively indecent.

  There were about two thousand guests milling around the rich splendor of Carlton House. The main supper table filled the two-hundred-foot length of the Gothic conservatory.

  To Margery's relief, Mrs. Worthey was ushered to a place at a table in the garden reserved for the less-distinguished guests. She herself was placed quite near the important center of the table, with an elderly peer who seemed half asleep on one side of her and Tom Moore, pet poet of the Whig aristocracy, on her other. There was no need to search for a conversational opening. Mr. Moore burst into a rapt monologue wherein he gasped and exclaimed over “the gorgeous scenery, the assemblage of beauty, splendor, and profuse and magnificent...” Lady Margery began to relax and to enjoy being back in society.

  In front of the regent's seat was a large circular basin that fed a stream which flowed through banks of flowers down to the end of the table, and Margery noticed with delight that live gold and silver fish were swimming up and down in this artificial river. The prince was wearing the uniform of a field marshal—which he was entitled to do since he had just appointed himself one—and the seams of his gorgeous uniform were heavily embroidered.

  There were hot soups and roasts, cold food, peaches, grapes, pineapples, and other out-of-season fruits piled up in great mounds. And, apart from the bewildering variety of wines, there was iced champagne for everybody. All the tureens, dishes, and plates were of silver.

  Margery had heard some muted grumbles over the horrendous expense all this magnificence must be costing the country. Shelley had estimated the cost at 150,000 pounds, but others pointed out that the figure was surely exaggerated, and after all, the poet might be suffering from pique since he had not been invited.

  Tom Moore ceased his eulogy and applied himself with equal energy to his food. Then a familiar drawling voice seemed to cut through the babble and Margery felt her heart leap into her throat.

  “I am amazed,” said the familiar voice of the Marquess of Edgecombe, coming from somewhere down the table near the royal presence, “that this social gathering is graced by the dubious honor of the presence of Lady Margery Quennell.”

  There was a shocked silence, broken by a few murmurs of “Steady on there,” and “Bad form, Charles.”

  “Bad form?” queried the marquess, his voice ringing along the table. “Lady Margery became engaged to three of my friends and then sent a lying notice to the Gazette that it was all a mistake. She did, in fact, through greed and avarice, promise to marry each of the three wealthy young men in the hope of taking the first poor fish who rose to the bait.

  “The result, my friends, is that one dueled with the other and nigh lost his life.”

  Brummell's light, amused voice cut the marquess short. “Really, Charles, your moralistic commendations would be better suited to the Haymarket than to Carlton House.”

  There was a murmur of assent but the damage had been done. Everyone began to talk at once, carefully looking away from Lady Margery, with the exception of the Prince Regent, who stared at her curiously and then demanded in a loud petulant voice of his neighbors whether what Edgecombe said was true or not.

  Hot tears of shame began to roll down Margery's little nose onto her plate. The more she tried to check them the faster they fell. She had been living in a fool's paradise. Freddie or Toby nearly dead and all because of her. Mr. Moore had turned his shoulder to her and was chattering away as hard as he could to the lady on his other side. There was no way in which Margery could flee the banquet before the Prince Regent decided to take his leave.

  Margery cried steadily and painfully as the most magnificent dishes she had ever seen passed and repassed in front of her. She drank her wine feverishly until she finally reached a numbed, dizzied state in which the banquet and its guests seemed very, very small and far away, as if she were looking at everything through the wrong end of a telescope.

  The hours of the night dragged on and on, and as the guests consumed more and more wine, several began to look boldly at Lady Margery and make loud comments on her dress, her appearance, and her possible, if doubtful, physical attractions. Mercifully for Margery, by that time her mind had fled to the country of the unhappy drunk, and not one of the jeers or cutting remarks penetrated her befogged brain.

  The Marquess of Edgecombe had drunk much more than he normally did. He had planned to revenge his friends. He had disgraced Lady Margery in the cruelest and most public way he could think of. But he felt neither triumphant nor happy. He felt as if there was a great cloud of guilt lurking somewhere on the horizon of his mind and drank steadily and flirted recklessly to keep it at bay. Lady Margery was on the same side of the table as himself, so he had not seen how she had taken his speech. Probably doesn't give a damn, he reassured himself. Probably getting the two gentlemen next to her to call me out.

  At long last the ordeal was over. The prince rose unsteadily to retire. After that, the guests quickly gathered into chattering groups and then took their leave while the servants carried off those too drunk to move themselves. Lady Margery sat bolt upright in front of her plate, a social smile pasted on her face like a rictus.

  Mrs. Worthey had fled to her own home without coming in search of Margery. The scandal had quickly spread to the guests in the garden, and Mrs. Worthey had fled from the contamination of such an unfashionable character as Lady Margery.

  The resplendent figure of the marquess stood swaying slightly at the entrance to the conservatory. He clutched at one of the gold curtains for support and gazed down the long length to the diminutive figure sitting alone before an untouched plate of food.

  The sight sobered him. He marched forward and touched her shoulder. “Come, Lady Margery, it is time to go home,” he said.

  “Thank you, my lord. Very good, my lord,” said Margery, with that hideous smile still fixed on her face.

  “I have driven her mad,” thought the marquess for a wild moment of panic. Then he realized she was extremely drunk. He put a strong arm round her shoulder and helped her to her feet. “Thank you, my lord. How very kind, my lord,” said Lady Margery, and, still supported by his arm, she bowed and curtsied her way down the length of the conservatory thanking innumerable Hanoverian ghosts for a delightful evening.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Charles, Marquess of Edgecombe, strode into the smoke-filled gloom of White's in St. James's and immediately saw his three friends sitting in a corner with their heads together.

  They were so engrossed in their conversation that they did not hear him approach. Freddie had his arm in a sling made from a blue silk scarf embroidered with gold fleurs-de-lys.

  “Hey! Freddie!” said the marquess, slapping him on the back. He then fingered the sling with one polished fingernail. “What is this? Honoring the Bourbons’ visit?”

  Freddie started like the pale ghost at flash of day and winced. “Oh, it's you, Charles,” he said lugubriously. The other two fell silent.

  “What's up?” queried the marquess sympathetically. “Liver bad?”

  “Could be that, could well be,” said Freddie gloomily. “M'liver feels like that Greek fellow's ... you know, the one tied up o
n the mountain and two great demned birds are a-peckin’ at his liver.”

  “Prometheus,” said the marquess, smiling faintly. “Didn't know you were bookish, Freddie!”

  “Me!” exclaimed Freddie in genuine alarm. “Don't go around saying things like that, Charles. It's just that some of that rot we got at school sticks in m'mind.”

  “Really,” commented the marquess, lowering himself into a chair. “I would have thought they would have successfully eradicated all that from your brain at Oxford.”

  “They tried,” said Freddie seriously.

  “Tell him what we was talking about,” said Toby suddenly.

  “You tell him,” said Freddie sulkily. He stroked the silk of his sling. “I ain't well. The doctor said so. Said I was to keep clear of annoyances and alarms. Told my mother so. Yes, he did. Said it plain as day. Said—”

  “Oh, shut up!” snapped Viscount Swanley rudely. “It was only a flesh wound and you weren't at death's door for one minute, despite what the Honorable Marquess of Edgecombe cares to shout around the conservatory of Carlton House.” He suddenly blushed and stared at his glass.

  “Do go on,” said the marquess in a silky voice. “You begin to interest me. Some minx makes a fool out of the three of you and yet you censure my behavior!”

  “Know Yeats-Bartholomew?” asked Toby abruptly.

  The marquess raised his thin eyebrows. “Of course I know him. What has that to do with it?”

  “Well,” said Toby heavily, “Yeats-Bartholomew's home down in Surrey was about to go under the hammer. Been in the family since they was running around in nothing but woad. So what does he do?” Here he paused dramatically.

  “I haven't the faintest idea,” drawled the marquess, his heavy lids half closed in a sudden access of boredom.

  Toby spoke slowly and distinctly. “He goes and marries that Friday-faced little heiress of a cit, Belinda Josephs. The old home is saved, the repairs done for the first time in a century, everybody happy.”