To Marry a Marquis

by Melinda Hammond

  'Aye.' He scowled and turned away from her. 'Will you ever let me forget it?'

  Rosamund hunched a shoulder and gazed out of the window.

  'Aye, sir, when we are free of this sham. Then it will not matter to me how many billets your mistress sends you.'

  'And what am I to understand by that?'

  'Do you think I did not see the notes she sent to you at Ullenwood House?'

  He frowned.

  'Then I was not married, nor even betrothed. I would not countenance such a thing to continue now.'

  'Hah!'

  He sat up. 'By God, I had no idea I had married such a termagant! What do you mean with your hah! madam?'

  She turned to face him, her little foot tapping angrily upon the floor, her eyes dark with fury.

  'How am I to believe you, when I saw her with my own eyes, slipping a note into your pocket?'

  'Impossible.'

  'Is it, my lord? When Harry Granthorpe led me up to you at Madame du Taille's, I saw Mrs Lythmore putting a letter into your pocket. Now what will you say?'

  She waited, but he did not appear to be listening.

  'So that was it. By gad, the little vixen. That was why she was trying to distract me! Ros, it was not a love note she was giving me: I had Ashby's letter in my coat that night, addressed to Lord Whitworth. Barbara must have been pulling it out of my pocket when you came up, and knowing you had seen her, she pushed it back again.' He gave a harsh laugh. 'What is that line from Congreve, Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned. Thank heaven she did not steal it from me. I would not hazard a groat that she would not pass it to her new French friends. You are still scowling at me, Ros. Do you not believe me?'

  'Yes, I believe you,' she said slowly, 'but to speak against you in a way that could harm you, might even lead to –' she shuddered. 'It is quite, quite evil. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.'

  He reached out and caught her hands.

  'Then do not think of it at all! Let us concentrate on getting out of this damned country.' He squeezed her fingers. 'Come, madam, we could deal much better than this, we must do so if we are to escape from this fix. What do you say, shall we cry friends?'

  'Yes, my lord, if you wish it.'

  Rosamund sank back in her corner, watching the fields and trees rolling by. Within her she felt the first tiny flicker of hope.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  They took the Chartres road and as they travelled away from the influence of the capital, Rosamund noticed a change in the manner of the local people. There were no cheerful landlords ready to run out and offer their best horses for the English milor', and as they bowled along through the open countryside the few labourers they met merely watched them with unfriendly, sullen faces as the carriages drove by. They stopped at a large road-side inn for the night and Rosamund was very aware of the surly attitude of the stable boys. The landlord was civil enough, but when they went out to the coach the following morning, John Wilson was sporting a very colourful eye.

  'Had a little falling out with one o' the lads,' he explained when his master remarked upon it. 'He seemed to think England is full o' white-livered ne'er-do-wells, but not to worry, my lord,' he added cheerfully, gathering up the reins, 'I soon put 'im to rights, cheeky young jackanapes.'

  'I did not think John a very fiery character,' remarked Rosamund, as they pulled away.

  'He is not.' Lord Ullenwood frowned. ' The provocation must have been great. I fear the news is spreading that the peace will not last.'

  'The people certainly do not seem as friendly here. On our route from Calais to Paris everyone was only too happy to see us.'

  'They were happy to take our money,' he amended dryly. 'Do you still think me too cynical?'

  'No,' she sighed. 'I am very much afraid you are right.'

  Another long day's travelling took them past Le Mans and on the road to Rennes, Lord Ullenwood expressing his intention of driving into Brittany before heading to the coast and finding a boat to take them to England.

  'But,' Rosamund hesitated. 'Do we not need permits or, or papers to leave France?'

  He smiled at her. 'We must hope that the locals are amenable to bribes.'

  They stopped for the night at a small country inn, where the landlord was inclined to haggle over the cost of providing so many rooms for milor' and his entourage.

  'I mislike the look of our host,' murmured the marquis as they were shown into their private parlour. Meggie will share with you tonight. Make sure you keep her with you.'

  Rosamund took her chance.

  'If it is so dangerous, I would rather have your company, my lord.'

  She kept her tone light, but she held her breath while she waited for his reply.

  Lord Ullenwood regarded her with an amused eye.

  'Would you, my dear? I am flattered of course, but I must not allow you to tempt me: I must keep my wits about me tonight.'

  Rosamund turned away, her cheeks burning. He had snubbed her again. She busied herself with removing her cloak while she regained her composure, so that by the time they sat down to supper she had hidden her disappointment and could converse calmly with him.

  The morning brought another problem. Rosamund went down to the parlour to find Lord Ullenwood already discussing a hearty breakfast. He got up as she entered and came forward to pull out a chair for her.

  'Meggie tells me the postilions have fled,' she said without preamble.

  'Yes.' He resumed his seat. 'They have taken the hired carriage. We must be thankful that John decided to sleep in the chariot, or we may have lost that, too.'

  Rosamund watched him as he poured her a cup of coffee, no sign of anxiety in his face. She struggled to match his cool manner.

  'So what do you think we should do, my lord, can we hire another coach?'

  'I have asked the landlord, but with no success. He either cannot or will not help us with a carriage, and even if he could provide one, he tells me the postilions will not ride with an English party.'

  'Are we so unpopular, then?'

  'It would appear so, my dear. You must not worry, Ros. I shall bring you home safe.'

  She returned his smile.

  'I have every confidence in you, my lord. However, I too have been considering our situation. Can we not manage with a single carriage? It might be a little crowded, but not impossible. We would, of course, be obliged to leave behind some of our trunks, I think.'

  'Could you do that?'

  'Of course, my lord, if it is necessary.'

  'Then I think that is what we must do. Meggie shall travel inside with us, Davis can sit up on the box and act as guard.'

  She looked up, startled.

  'Dear me, are things as bad as that?'

  'We are a long way from Paris now. Napoleon's soldiers keep the peace in the capital and enforce his will, here in the country his iron grip is not quite so firm: we must be prepared.'

  After an hour re-packing the trunks they set off in their one remaining carriage.

  'What do you think will become of our baggage?' Rosamund asked as they drove away from the inn.

  The marquis shrugged. 'I told our host that my servants would be back to collect it, but I have no doubt that it will have disappeared by this evening.'

  Meggie clutched at the bandbox balanced on her knees and gave an indignant huff.

  'Shameful, it is.'

  Rosamund was more philosophical.

  'There is nothing we cannot replace, Megs, once we are back in England.'

  'If we get back,' muttered the maid, frowning direfully.

  For the first few hours they journeyed without mishap, but when the stopped for fresh horses at a small country town, several raggedly dressed individuals came to stare at them, muttering under their breath as they regarded the elegant travelling chariot with its coat of arms emblazoned proudly upon the door.

  Meggie glanced out of the window and sniffed.

  'Never seen su
ch a lot of ill-looking peasants. I hope we are moving soon.'

  'Hush, Megs, we are on our way now.'

  Rosamund tried to reassure her as they set off again, but as they pulled away one of the men reached down to pull off his shoe and hurl it against the side of the coach.

  'Mercy me!' screamed Meggie. 'They are trying to kill us.'

  'Nonsense,' returned Rosamund briskly. 'It was only a sabot with a wooden sole. Sit up straight, Meggie and show them we are not afraid.'

  Her brave words won her an approving look from the marquis, which raised her spirits.

  The carriage picked up speed and they soon left the town behind them. They made good time for the road was well made, running between acres of brown earth which showed no signs of new spring growth. Rosamund dozed in the corner, trying to catch up on sleep missed during her restless night but a sudden slowing of the pace roused her and she sat up, blinking. Peering through the window, past the driver she could see the road sloped gently down towards a crossroads, where a small crowd was gathered. They looked to be shabbily dressed, some in leather jerkins or dirty smocks and most were carrying pitchforks or shovels. Lord Ullenwood let down the window and leaned out.

  'Whip up the team, John. They will scatter when they see we do not intend to stop. Davis, keep your shotgun ready, but do not fire unless you must.' He closed the window and began to pull down the blind, requesting that Rosamund and Meggie do the same. The carriage picked up speed and thundered down the road, rocking and jolting alarmingly.

  The shouts of the crowd grew louder, but with the blinds drawn they could only imagine what was happening outside. From the darkened carriage they heard their driver shout out a warning to stand aside. Rosamund bit her lip to stop herself from screaming as thuds and bangs were heard on the carriage frame. Then the door was yanked open and a rough-looking man was perched on the step, clinging precariously to the door frame.

  Meggie screamed and threw herself against Rosamund. Elliot leapt forward and smashed his fist into the grinning face. The man fell on to the road and the marquis leaned out to reach for the door that was swinging wildly. A shot rang out and with an oath he reeled back. Rosamund thrust Meggie aside. She grabbed Elliot's coat and hauled him on to the seat. Then she reached past him to grab at the door and pull it closed. All the time the carriage thundered on, the pace never slackening.

  'Heaven and Earth, he is dead,' cried Meggie. 'They've killed the master!'

  'No, he lives.' Rosamund tried to stop herself from shaking. She needed to think clearly. 'He lives,' she said again, adding under her breath, 'but I do not know what to do.'

  She looked at the marquis, slumped on the seat. She tried to pull him into a more comfortable position and only partially succeeded, but she was relieved when he groaned and opened his eyes.

  'Thank God,' she murmured

  He put out his good hand.

  'Help me to sit up. What happened?'

  'You were shot. I think, when you tried to shut the door.

  With difficulty, she struggled to remove his coat, gasping as she pulled it from his injured arm and saw the bright red stain seeping through his jacket.

  The marquis regarded his injury with detached interest.

  'Peppered with shot, by God.

  'There is nothing to be done until we can stop,' said Rosamund, suddenly decisive. 'I will bind it up for you as best I can until then.' She tugged off the linen fichu from around her neck and began to wrap it around his arm, trying not to look at the ragged little holes in the sleeve.

  Meggie was shivering in the corner, whimpering to herself. Rosamund ignored her and tried to think what she should do next. The frantic jolting of the carriage had settled into a more rolling motion. She risked putting up one of the blinds. There was no sign of anyone on the road, and she put up the rest of the blinds before opening the window to call out.

  'John, John. Th-th master is wounded. How soon can we stop?'

  She heard the coachman smother an oath, then he held a quick conversation with Davis. She clung on, the cold air stinging her cheeks, until John leaned down and shouted at her.

  'We'll put a bit more distance between us and that town, m'lady, then we'll stop and Davis'll have a look at the master.'

  Rosamund sank back into her seat. She was shaking,

  'Oh dear, oh lord, m'lady. Whatever shall we do?' cried Meggie, rocking herself backwards and forwards.

  'Stop it, Megs. You are of no use to me if you are hysterical.' Rosamund knew her tone was sharp, but she was relieved to see the maid sit up a little straighter and wipe her eyes on her sleeve. She turned back to Elliot.

  'Be still, my lord. We shall soon be able to stop and make you more comfortable.'

  'When we do, tell Davis to get the brandy from my trunk.' He struggled to sit up. With relief she found that the carriage was slowing and pulling off the road. Almost as soon as it came to a stand Davis was at the door, his usual impassive countenance pale and anxious.

  'How is the master? If you will permit me to come to him, ma'am.'

  Rosamund left the carriage, pushing her maidservant out before her. They found that John had secured the horses and clambered down from the box. Now he stood anxiously beside Meggie, trying to see what Davis was about within the shadowed body of the coach. At last Davis came back to the door.

  'There is lead shot in his arm and shoulder,' he told her. 'It must come out, but … I cannot do it. Not here.'

  Rosamund looked past him. Lord Ullenwood was still slumped into one corner, but Davis had removed his coat and torn away the sleeve of his linen shirt to expose the bloodied flesh. She swallowed.

  'Give him some brandy, then, if it will dull the pain for him. Then we must find a house to take us in. No matter the cost.' She broke off in alarm as there came the sound of a horse approaching. John dragged the shotgun from the footwell. Comforted by this show of support, Rosamund walked to the edge of the road. A gig was approaching at a very smart pace, the driver and sole occupant a gentleman in a black frockcoat, a fur hat on his head and a woollen muffler wrapped around his neck. As the gig drew closer the driver brought his horse to a stop.

  'Good day to you, madame.' Rosamund was encouraged to see he was an elderly gentleman, his voice soft and cultured. 'Is anything amiss, can I be of help?'

  'Thank you, sir,' responded Rosamund in her impeccable French. 'We have suffered a mishap, but we would not wish to importune you.'

  The old gentleman put up his hand.

  'You are English, are you not? You need not fear me, madame. I am Doctor Sireuil, physician for the village down there in the valley.'

  'A doctor!' Rosamund's cool defences vanished. 'Sir, if you would be kind enough to step down and tend my husband. We were waylaid a few miles back…'

  With surprising agility the old man jumped down.

  'Show me.'

  Rosamund led him to the carriage, where he carried out a swift examination of Lord Ullenwood.

  'He needs immediate attention,' he said, stepping down from the carriage. 'My house is less than a mile from here. Tell your coachman to follow me.'

  'Sir,' Rosamund stopped him. 'The village we passed through was very hostile to us. Are you sure –'

  'Madame, I am a doctor. Your husband's wounds must be cleaned and dressed as soon as possible. Every minute we delay increases the risk of infection. Now, will you come?'

  'It seems we have no choice, m'sieur.'

  He fixed her with a pair of grey eyes that were surprisingly understanding.

  'Not if you would save your husband, madame.'

  They followed the doctor over the hill and into to a small town. The sun had set and inside the carriage it was too dark for Rosamund to see the marquis. Only his stentorian breathing told her he was still alive.

  The doctor's house was a square, stone-built building on the edge of the town. They stopped at the wide oak door and the doctor's servant came out to help Davis and John Coachman carry the marquis into the house. Rosamu
nd followed silently as he was laid on a cold, leather-covered table in the doctor's surgery. She stayed with him while the doctor gave instructions to the servants. Moments later he returned and began to remove his coat.

  'I have sent your maid to prepare a room for you, madame, and instructed your coachman to put the coach into the barn next to the house. The people here are very good,' he murmured with an apologetic smile, 'but they would not look kindly upon an English party in their town.' He began to roll up his sleeves. 'My widowed sister lives with me and acts as my housekeeper and assistant, but, alas, she is gone to attend her daughter's lying-in: I regret there is no one to receive you, madame…?'

  'Ullenwood,' murmured Rosamund. 'I am Lady Ullenwood.'

  The words were unfamiliar on her tongue. Rosamund realised it was the first time she had actually spoken her married name. 'It is I who should be apologising for inconveniencing you, monsieur, but in the circumstances I can only be thankful that you came upon us,' Her voice cracked and the doctor patted her arm.

  'You must not worry, milady. I have dealt with many such injuries here. It is, after all, farming country, and my neighbours like their sport. But I shall need help and I have asked milor's valet to assist me.' He nodded to Davis as he came into the room.

  'Must I go?' Rosamund turned her solemn gaze upon the doctor. 'I have had some little experiencing of nursing, and I would like to help you, if I may?'

  Those kind grey eyes smiled at her.

  'But of course, milady. Alors, let us begin. Go to your husband, madame. I look to you to comfort him, while we work. Courage, ma petite, it is not so bad as it first appears. Much of the shot has not penetrated the skin, merely bruised it, but there are several pieces that we must get out.'

  The doctor made his preparations with calm efficiency, issuing quiet instructions to Davis who began to cut away the remains of Lord Ullenwood's bloodied shirt. Rosamund stood silently beside the table, where the marquis lay on his back, his ragged breathing the only sign of life in him. She felt so helpless: she had been ordered to look to her husband, who was unconscious, and for the moment did not require her services. Itching to be useful, she could only gaze about the room. It bore witness to its owner's profession, for it was lined with cupboards and shelves upon which books, bottles and jars were neatly stored.