Lady Margery's Intrigues

by Marion Chesney

  As he rummaged through his jewel box, he thought of the brooch he had so carelessly bestowed on Mrs. Harrison. If only there were someone, just anyone, to confide in. But one did not share the secrets of the marriage bed with one's friends.

  Dinner was a long and solemn affair. Father and son sat at either end of a long polished table. The duke had his book propped against the saltcellar.

  Remove followed remove until at last the port and nuts were brought in and the army of servants withdrew.

  “Father!” said the marquess in an imperative tone.

  The duke looked along the length of the table until he realized that his son and heir was seated at the other. He carefully and reluctantly marked his place in the book. “Hallo, Charles,” he said genially. “When did you arrive?”

  “I arrived this morning,” said the marquess testily, “and before you forget my existence again, perhaps you would favor me with your attention.”

  “Of course, of course, my boy,” said the duke, his eyes staring longingly at his book.

  The marquess picked up the decanter and strolled languidly down the length of the table and drew up a chair next to his father. He gently lifted the book from the saltcellar and turned it face down on the table, ignoring his father's annoyance and distress.

  “You're going to ask me for money,” said the duke almost pettishly.

  “I have plenty of money of my own,” pointed out the marquess.

  “Then what else can you want?” asked the duke patiently.

  “Strange as it may seem,” said the marquess slowly, “I would like to hear what my mother was like.”

  The duke stared at him in surprise and then turned to stare at a portrait of his wife, which hung above the fireplace, as if expecting the painted mouth to open.

  “Well, there she is,” he said, waving a feeble hand to introduce the portrait. “Ain't as if she died when you was a child.”

  “But I never knew her, you see,” said the marquess gently. “I saw her very briefly during my childhood—and you too, sir, for that matter.”

  “That's natural,” protested the duke, retreating behind his favorite argument. “That's what servants are for. You had the best nurse, the best tutors.”

  The duke stared myopically into his glass.

  “Alicia,” he said at last. “Pretty name. I still miss her, my boy. Still miss her. People thought she was a cold, autocratic woman. But she wasn't, at least not with me.”

  He stared again at his glass, again forgetting his son's existence and talking almost as if to himself. “Fire and passion, that's what she was.”

  His son stiffened suddenly.

  “Fire and passion,” mused the duke, his face alight with memories. A log fell in the fireplace and sent a sudden sheet of flame up the chimney, and the wind began to rise again outside.

  “We were lucky, very lucky,” the old voice went on. “It was a suitable match, but a love match for all that. I had everything a man could desire, a handsome wife in the drawing room and a passionate seductress in the bedroom.”

  “But surely women—society women—are not supposed to—er—behave with any abandon in the bedroom,” said the marquess in a husky voice.

  “Eh, what?” said the duke. “Oh, hallo, Charles.”

  “Father,” said the marquess, slowly and patiently. “It is important for me to know ... for you to tell me. I had thought that women of our class did not indulge in strong passions.”

  “Why not?” asked the duke, looking properly at his son for the first time. “Women are the same all over, ain't they? You can't say we neglected your education along those lines. Didn't I fix you up with the best courtesan in London soon as you were old enough? Didn't she teach you anything?”

  “She taught me that an experienced woman can supply what she is paid for,” he said dryly. “After that I had one abortive affair with a certain society lady, and the fire and passion that she gave to me meant all the world. I gave her my love and my heart. In return she supplied that fire and passion to several lovers apart from me, with happy, carefree indiscrimination. When I taxed her with it, she laughed in my face and called me a green boy. Since that time I have paid for my pleasures.

  “A wife ... well, I expected nothing more than that she should comport herself properly and supply me with an heir. On our wedding night, she seemed to burn in my arms. And I was shocked. No gently nurtured female should show such abandon.”

  “Fiddle,” said his father. “It's all the fault of your damned Methodist-ridden generation, your milk-and-water misses. In my day, we expected our women to match our passions.”

  A slow feeling of panic began to grip the marquess.

  “Had you told me this earlier—” he began wrathfully.

  The duke picked up his book. “How was I to know you would be so stupid?” he countered.

  He pulled a branch of candles nearer and proceeded to read, unaware that he had rocked his son's well-ordered world to its very foundations.

  Unnoticed by his father, the marquess rose and left the table. He must return to London as soon as possible. He had behaved like a fool. Some of the remarks he had made at Watier's seemed to burn into his mind as he groaned aloud.

  The duke mistook his anguish for indigestion.

  “Try rhubarb cordial,” he said kindly. “Best thing. Works every time.”

  But the duke spoke to empty air.

  The marquess had gone.

  * * * *

  Lady Margery smiled sweetly at the gentleman on the sofa next to her. “Pray go on, sir,” she said. “Ormolu interests me vastly.”

  Her companion plunged into a long dissertation and Margery smiled and nodded, her thoughts elsewhere. Why had she decided to attend this party? There was no need now that there was no husband to mark her absence. Someone over by the window exclaimed that it had started to snow, and she let out a little sigh of relief. That would be a good excuse to leave early. She looked round for Lady Amelia, but as usual her companion had disappeared, no doubt on the arm of Mr. Freddie Jamieson. She envied them their comfortable friendship.

  Had she but known, Freddie was feeling anything but comfortable as he rose from his knees and stared at Amelia in dismay. “But I say,” he expostulated. “After all, why not get married?”

  Amelia looked up at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. How could she explain that it was impossible for a woman of her years to marry such a young man? How he would regret it when she was an old woman and he still in his prime? “Say no more tonight, Freddie,” she whispered. “I would not have anything spoil our friendship.”

  “But dash it all,” said Freddie. “I want more than friendship.”

  Amelia looked at his fair and foolish face. She had learned to love this bashful and sometimes stupid young man as she had never loved anyone before. Why should they not have a discreet liaison? Would he be shocked? But that way they should have a little time together. She looked up at him appealingly and opened her mouth.

  “Freddie!”

  But it was not Amelia who had called his name. Viscount Swanley was standing in the doorway. His clothes were mud-stained and his hair was tousled.

  He strode into the room. “It's Toby,” he gasped. “He's gone mad. I think he's just abducted Lady Margery.”

  Amelia leapt to her feet, her own worries forgotten.

  “You must be mistaken,” said Freddie soothingly. “Toby would never do a thing like that.”

  “But he has, I tell you,” yelled Perry. “I wasn't coming here at all. I passed his traveling carriage on the road and I thought I heard someone screaming. Well, I had overheard Toby and his brother plotting something, but I didn't pay much notice ‘cause I thought they were in their cups. Then I remembered Margery was here and I thought I'd call in and make sure. Fellow she was talking to last, he says Toby comes up and says it's starting to snow and that you, Lady Amelia, are already waiting in his carriage.

  “She goes into the carriage and then cries out, �
��Amelia isn't here!’ The door is slammed and the carriage races off.”

  Amelia had gone very white.

  “We'll chase ‘em,” said Freddie. “Do you know where they have gone?”

  “Toby said something last night about a deserted gamekeeper's cottage at Tuttering.”

  “My wagon is faster,” said Freddie. “Let's go.”

  “I'm coming with you,” cried Amelia.

  “Better let ‘er,” said Perry gloomily. “With any luck, we may be able to save Margery's reputation.”

  “Just what was that about my wife's reputation?” said a cold voice from the door.

  Impeccable in evening dress, the tall figure of the Marquess of Edgecombe stood in the doorway.

  His two friends leapt on him and hustled him outside. “No time to tell you, Charles,” gasped Freddie. “Tell you on the road.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Margery struggled against the stifling gag, staring at Toby with horror. This could not be nineteenth-century England!

  He had been so solicitous, so convincing at the party. When she had put her head inside his carriage and found it empty and had turned round to protest, she had received a vicious shove which had sent her sprawling forward among the straw on the floor. Toby had jumped in after her and tried to gather her in his arms as the carriage lurched forward. She had fought and struggled and screamed for nearly a mile until Toby had taken out a large Belcher handkerchief and ruthlessly gagged her and bound her hands.

  From the strong smell of brandy on her companion's breath, Margery realized with dismay that he had fortified himself for the ordeal.

  She was disheveled and shivering and her cloak and dress were torn.

  Toby sat sulkily nursing his scratched face. It had not turned out the way he had expected, and he felt a dull resentment against the world in general. He fortified himself from his flask and began to feel more cheerful. As soon as he reached Tuttering, he would have all night to exercise the considerable masculine charm his brother has assured him he had.

  Then he noticed that the coach, which had previously been hurtling along at a great rate, had slowed considerably. He let down the window and leaned his head out and asked his coachman what the deuce he meant by dawdling at this cursed pace. A blizzard was blowing full strength and the coachman's protesting voice came faintly through the storm. If he went any faster they would end in the ditch, he said.

  “Spring ‘em!” snapped Toby, slamming the window up again. The coach gave a great lurch and bounded forward.

  Frantic thoughts chased each other round in Margery's brain. If only he would remove the gag, then perhaps she could plead with him. What would her husband say?

  As if in answer to her unspoken query, Toby said, “It ain't no use you sitting there looking at me as if I was some sort of monster. No use pretending to be so hoity-toity either. Charles told me about you. Said you was any man's for the asking.”

  Margery realized with a dull surprise that hearts did break. How else could she explain the great wrenching pain in her bosom?

  Never until now had she lost hope of somehow gaining her husband's affections. The carriage lurched and swayed and the wind howled and screamed.

  “I hope we crash,” thought Margery wretchedly. “I wish I were dead.”

  As if in answer to her prayer, there came a great cry from the roof of the coach, a sound of splintering wood, and she was thrown across the carriage on top of Toby as the whole carriage overturned on its side.

  She wriggled away from him and tried to stand up. Her hands had been tied loosely behind her and she found that with the tremendous jolt they had worked free. She unloosened her gag and relieved her feelings with a spate of unmaidenly language culled from the hunting field. There was no reply. The free door of the carriage was now above her, and it suddenly swung open and a footman's white and anxious face peered in.

  “Mr. Sanderson?” queried the servant. “We're in the ditch, sir. John coachman said you made him take the road too fast and it's snowing mortal hard. Mr. Sanderson?”

  Silence.

  “A pox on Mr. Sanderson,” snapped Lady Margery. “Get me out of this directly or you'll hang at Tyburn for this night's work.”

  The servant went even whiter at the familiar note of authority in her voice. This was no doxy, as his master had led him to believe. Babbling apologies and pleas for forgiveness, he pulled her out of the carriage and lifted her down to the waiting arms of a groom who was standing in the ditch.

  One carriage lamp was still miraculously burning, and in its flickering light Margery saw nothing but white desolation.

  Villain or not, Toby must be saved. “Get your master out,” she snapped. The small body of servants huddled round her. All appeared to be unhurt.

  Margery turned her attention to the postilions. “Ride ahead and find the nearest inn and fetch help,” she cried above the storm. “Tell them to prepare a bedchamber for your master and send someone to find a doctor.”

  The postilions relit their torches and rode off into the storm.

  A faint groan was heard from the carriage. Margery stood numbly, with her torn cloak wrapped tightly about her, as Toby was dragged into view. He was very white and there was blood pouring down his face.

  The servants pulled bearskin rugs out from the carriage and Margery wrapped herself in one, grateful for its shaggy warmth, and stood in the lee of the carriage. Toby's words seemed to be burned into her brain: “Said you was any man's for the asking.”

  Toby had collapsed once more into unconsciousness and Margery stared down at his prone form without pity. Perhaps she would feel sorry for him later, but now all she felt was a bitter hatred for this clumsy oaf who had mauled her and torn her clothes.

  After what seemed an age, the storm abated a little and she could see the flickering light of the postilions’ torches through the snow.

  “Please, mum,” said the first, pulling his forelock. “There's a posting inn, the George and Dragon, a ways down the road. The landlord's a surly cove and won't take out a carriage on a night like this for anybody. If you can ride, mum, you can take my ‘orse and Jim and me"—he waved towards the other postilion—"will follow with the carriage horses and try to get Maister across the back o’ one of ‘em.”

  He dismounted from his horse as Margery nodded her head, and then threw her up into the saddle. The horse reared and curvetted, but she quickly brought it under control, glad there was no one else to see her but the servants as she galloped off astride the great beast, with her torn skirts hitched up above the knee.

  It was only after a mile or so, when she saw the welcoming lights of the inn, that she realized it would have been better to have taken at least one servant with her, for appearance's sake. Tiny stinging pellets of snow whipped against her face and she realized with surprise that she was crying. She clumsily wiped the tears from her face with her sleeve and jumped down nimbly from the horse.

  “Take this horse to the stables and rub it down,” she called to the ostler, throwing him the reins.

  The ostler grinned at her insolently, and she flushed with embarrassment as she realized her skirts were still hitched up. With frozen hands she tugged them back to a respectable length.

  She turned her back on him and strode into the inn. It was expensively appointed and a cheerful fire crackled in the hall. She moved over to warm herself at it and then became aware that someone was staring at her. She swung round to face the landlord.

  He was a fat, white man of immense girth, and with small piggy eyes, which were at the moment raking Margery up and down from her disheveled hair to the muddy wreck of her slippers.

  Margery raised her eyebrows. “Arrange my room, sirrah!” she said coldly, “and then take yourself about your business.”

  The landlord fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and produced a goose quill and proceeded to clean his teeth in insolent silence.

  “Speak, dog,” said Margery, bristling like a small terrier.


  “Ho, dog, is it?” said the landlord in a slow, plummy voice, “I'd rather be a dog than a doxy.” He moved closer to her, grinning.

  Margery's cloak fell open and a fine sapphire necklace, bought with her husband's generous allowance, blazed on her neck in the firelight.

  The smile was wiped from the landlord's face. He paused, looking at the necklace as if hypnotized.

  “And how dare you speak to me in those terms,” said Margery. “I, sir, am the Marchioness of Edgecombe.”

  The smile was back on the landlord's face. “More like her ladyship's maid a-runnin’ away with ‘er jools,” he said with a fat laugh.

  A cold blast of wind heralded the arrival of another traveler. The landlord turned round, and immediately his fat face creased itself into obsequious smiles. He knew the quality when he saw it. The handsome, high-nosed stranger who was standing on the threshold was wearing a many-caped drab coat, gleaming Hessians, and a curly-brimmed beaver perched at a rakish angle on his thick tawny hair.

  “And what,” said Charles, Marquess of Edgecombe, “is my wife doing standing there unattended?”

  The landlord goggled and a blush of dismay colored his face. “How was I to know?” he bleated. “How—”

  “Cease your cackling, you fat whoreson,” rapped the marquess. “A bedchamber for my lady and a private parlor. I also need accommodation for my friends.”

  Feeling faint and dizzy, Margery was aware that Amelia and Freddie had appeared behind the marquess. Amelia wrapped her motherly arms round her shivering niece.

  “Come away, my dear,” she said gently, as if talking to a hurt child. “There, my dear. There. Aunt Amelia is here and everything is going to be all right.”

  The marquess half reached out his hand to his wife as she left the room. But she shrank against Amelia and refused to look at him.

  There was a further commotion in the doorway as Toby was carried in by the two ostlers. One of them recognized the marquess. “Maister will be all right, my lord,” he said. “'Tis only a blow to the head.”

  “Good,” said the marquess grimly. “I am glad your master will live to give me the satisfaction I crave.” Then he turned his back as Toby was carried abovestairs.