The Incomparable Countess

by Mary Nichols

  ‘Perhaps, but…’ He shrugged and decided not to explain that he and Margaret had been so badly mismatched they could agree on nothing, not even the raising of their daughter. His wife was happiest and so, evidently, were his children when he was from home and so he had spent more time than was strictly necessary at his other properties. In a way, it was a pity he had, for he might have prevented the trouble which had culminated in his present visit to London.

  They were silent for the rest of the dance, each trying to analyse how they felt and failing utterly. He was puzzled, she confused. But there was something about the way they moved together, the expressions on their faces, the sadness in their eyes which made those who watched them begin to wonder. And remember.

  ‘I was thinking of taking Lady Lavinia to an exhibition at the Royal Academy the next time she comes to me,’ she told him when the dance ended and they were walking side by side to the supper room, not touching, but close enough to feel each other’s warmth and know that the lifting of a hand would bring them into contact. Uncomfortably aware of it, she had to find something mundane to say, a safe subject to discuss. ‘With your permission, of course.’

  ‘You think she will benefit from such a visit?’

  ‘Yes, there are some fine paintings there, not only of the Old Masters, but from today’s artists too. Lady Lavinia would gain an insight into how the very best have been executed. Do you not agree?’

  ‘Oh, I agree, but my daughter might not and, when she is determined, she can be very difficult.’ He paused for a moment as they found seats in the dining room and a waiter brought a selection of dishes over to them. ‘I should not like you to have to deal with the sulks.’

  She chose chicken in a mushroom and caper sauce, some glazed ham and a small piece of partridge pie. ‘Oh, I think I can win her round, my lord.’

  ‘Really?’ He piled his plate. ‘This looks delicious. Your cook has excelled herself.’

  ‘Thank you, I shall tell her.’ She paused, watching the waiter fill their glasses with punch, a speciality of her butler’s which, though refreshing, had a hidden kick. ‘Then you give your permission for the outing?’

  ‘Yes, yes, but I will accompany you.’

  ‘That is not in the least necessary.’

  ‘Oh, but it is. The daughter of one of England’s foremost dukes cannot be too closely guarded…’

  Frances laughed. ‘My goodness, do you imagine someone will try to kidnap her between Duke Street and the Strand?’

  ‘Such things have been known,’ he said drily. ‘But I should like to come. It is many years since I was in Somerset House. It might be very interesting to see what new works of art they are exhibiting.’

  What could she do but accept with a good grace? But it meant one more occasion when she was going to be thrown into his company. It was strange that the business he spoke of was not so urgent it prevented him from being available whenever the fancy took him. She smiled to herself as they returned to the ballroom for the second half of the evening’s entertainment.

  He could not ask her to dance again without causing comment and even he would not be so indifferent to that as to flout convention. He excused himself and, taking one look at the expectant faces of the young ladies turned towards him and the scowls of the young men, decided to take himself off to play cards.

  The card room was occupied by several elderly gentlemen and an inveterate gamester or two who were playing for the highest stakes Frances would allow in her house, which were modest. Marcus, not a true gambler, declined to join them and instead sat with the other men who were doing no more than gossip. And they were every bit as dedicated to it as their wives. He soon learned the latest on dit, who was dangling after whom, who was having an affair, who was the latest favourite with the Prince Regent and news of more unrest among the cotton weavers and stocking makers.

  ‘The suspension of habeas corpus seems not to have dampened their ardour,’ a Mr Coleman said. ‘They are as determined as ever to congregate. You come from that part of the world, your Grace, have you heard anything of a new uprising?’

  ‘Not since they stopped the Blanketeers,’ he said, referring to a protest begun by the cotton weavers in Manchester with the intention of marching to London and putting their case to the Prince Regent. The march would inevitably have taken several days and so the men had equipped themselves with provisions and a blanket each, hence their name. The march had been broken up by militia before it reached the capital, but there were some who compared it with the Bread March of the women of Versailles at the beginning of the French Revolution and that was still very much alive in the memories of many. ‘But you can hardly blame them. They are hungry and hunger is the sharpest weapon of all.’

  ‘Surely you do not condone lawlessness?’

  ‘No, certainly not, but I can still sympathise.’

  Sir Joshua Barber, a fat man with a florid countenance, whose wealth came from cotton manufacture, gave a snort of derision and Marcus, afraid that an argument was about to ensue which he had no wish for, was wondering whether to rejoin the dancers or make his excuses to leave, when Sir Percival came in and joined the group.

  ‘It’s deucedly warm downstairs,’ he said. ‘And I’m getting to old for prancing about all night.’

  ‘Know what you mean,’ Lord Willoughby said. ‘Wouldn’t have come m’self except Lady Willoughby insisted, couldn’t be seen to ignore the Countess’s pet cause, so she said. The whole ton would be here and it would look odd if we cried off.’

  ‘She was right,’ Percy said. ‘Anyone who is anyone is here.’

  ‘And a great many more besides,’ his lordship said. ‘I never met such a queer set.’ Whether he included Sir Joshua in their number, Marcus could not be certain.

  ‘Her ladyship has a great talent for organisation,’ Percy said. ‘She has only to smile and everyone falls over themselves to please her.’

  ‘Whether they will or not,’ Sir Joshua muttered, referring to his wife, who was on the organising committee.

  ‘Oh, come, sir,’ Marcus said. ‘You are surely not admitting to being under the cat’s paw? Wives, in my book, should obey their husbands.’

  Percy laughed suddenly, making Marcus look at him in surprise. ‘I doubt the Countess would agree with that last remark,’ he said.

  ‘That why you never married her?’ Sir Joshua asked. ‘No wish to live under the cat’s foot?’

  ‘Question never came up,’ he said loftily.

  Marcus knew, as clearly as if Sir Percival had said it aloud, that he was in love with Frances. Had Frances rejected him, or had he never found the courage to ask? He tried to imagine her married to this outdated fop, but all it did was make him smile. And that was followed by a strange sensation in his chest, a sudden tightening of the muscles which made breathing difficult. Concluding it was because he was out of condition, he decided to pay a visit to Jackson’s boxing emporium the following day and have a few rounds with whoever happened to be there. It would do him good.

  ‘Used to know her, didn’t you?’ Sir Joshua queried. ‘Years ago.’

  Marcus smiled. ‘In my green days, yes.’

  ‘Not so green now, though, eh?’ he said, tapping the side of his nose with a claw like forefinger.

  ‘Neither is she,’ he said coldly and stood up. ‘Gentlemen, I bid you goodnight.’

  ‘Going home?’ Percy asked.

  ‘Yes. Like you, I have danced enough for one night.’

  ‘You will disappoint the young ladies.’

  ‘Oh, I do not think so. There are any number of more attractive young bloods to divert them.’

  Marcus sketched a brief bow to the company and left the room. He was surprised, as he walked along the corridor towards the stairs, to find Sir Percival right behind him.

  ‘What is your game, Loscoe?’ he asked.

  ‘Game, Sir Percival? Do you mean cards? I play a little whist and chess…’

  ‘I did not mean that and you know it. W
hat I want to know is why, after all this time, you are come to the Village. Are you looking for a second duchess?’

  Marcus stopped and turned towards him, fixing him with a cold stare. ‘That, sir, is my business.’

  ‘Oh, I do not dispute it, so long as you leave Countess Corringham alone. Hurt her again and I will make it my business too.’

  ‘Are you threatening me, Sir Percival?’

  ‘Not at all, Duke,’ Percy said blandly. ‘But Fanny was badly used when she was too young to understand the ways of young men and since then she has been too afraid to allow anyone to become close. It has affected her whole life.’

  He could not believe what the man was saying, did not want to believe it. Frances Corringham did not give the impression of a woman wearing the willow. ‘You mean she holds herself aloof from you and you have been disappointed by it.’

  ‘Not at all. As I said before, the question has never arisen.’

  ‘Because you are afraid of being given a right about?’ Marcus laughed. ‘You should have more bottom, my friend. Faint heart never won fair lady.’

  He turned and proceeded down the stairs with every appearance of nonchalance, though Sir Percival continued to dog his heels.

  Frances had gone back to her hostess duties, though there seemed to be little to be done now; everyone was having a grand time and, under the influence of the punch which did seem to have a strange effect on people not used to it, even some of the stiff-rumped aristocrats who had condescended to grace the occasion had unbent enough to converse with those beneath them on the social scale. Not that anyone could be classed as coming from the lower orders, but there were a few doctors, lawyers, artists and literary people among the guests, even a few manufacturers and industrialists who had money enough to buy their way into society and who hoped to marry their daughters to a title. To Frances they were all interesting people and she conducted animated conversations with them all, finding some common interest to keep the talk flowing before moving on.

  She was well aware of the matrons sitting on the sidelines, tearing everyone to shreds, but took no notice. If their lives were so barren it amused them to deride others, then they were to be pitied. But she did wonder what they were saying about the Duke. Whatever it was, it was his own fault for allowing it to go on without refuting it. For a moment she considered dropping a hint herself that the gentleman in question was not planning to marry, but discarded the idea immediately. They would think she had an ulterior motive, a wish to have him for herself, and that would never do.

  ‘Mama,’ she heard Augusta’s voice behind her and turned to smile at her. ‘We are leaving. Andrew has not been well and I told Miss Speedan we would not be late home.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’ she asked in alarm. ‘What is wrong with him?’

  ‘It is only a head cold, but he does like to have his mama beside him when he is unwell. He will be better in a day or two.’

  ‘Then bring him to see me. And Beth. She is not ill too, is she?’

  ‘No, she had the cold last week, and now she is getting better she is a handful. Poor Miss Speedan is finding it difficult to manage.’

  ‘Then you must leave at once.’ She reached forward and kissed her stepdaughter, then turned to Richard. ‘Take care of her. Take care of all of them, they are very precious.’

  ‘I know.’ He smiled and took her hand. ‘As soon as Andrew is well again, Gussie will bring them to visit you.’

  She went with them to the hall where their outdoor garments were returned to them and watched as they made their way to their coach before turning back indoors. She loved her little family dearly and it made not the slightest difference that they were not her own flesh and blood.

  She paused in the hall, knowing she ought to return to the ballroom, but she was feeling exhausted. It had been a long day and she had been working for most of it, and the presence of the Duke of Loscoe had not helped. That he could still set her limbs quivering and her heart fluttering she was obliged to concede and the effort not to let it show had taken every ounce of her energy. She was tempted to go up to her room and rest for half an hour, and even had her hand on the newel post of the banister, when she saw Marcus descending the stairs.

  She paused while he came down to the last step and stopped. She raised her eyes to his and found herself trapped in his gaze. His eyes darkened from amber to brown, as his glance flickered over her and came to rest on her face. His mouth twitched slightly as if he wanted to smile but could not quite manage it. There was irritation there, and something she could not quite define. Was it pain?

  They were facing each other; he could not come down and she could not go up without one or the other moving to one side and it seemed for an interminable time that neither was going to do so, so locked in contemplation of each other were they.

  ‘Are you going stand there all night, Loscoe?’ She was startled to hear Percy’s voice; she had not seen him in the dimness of the staircase behind Marcus. ‘Can’t you see her ladyship wishes to pass you?’

  Frances tore her eyes away from the Duke to look up at Sir Percival, then stepped back, though she still clung to the newel post as if to a lifeline. ‘Oh, no, Percy, it is unlucky to pass on the stairs. The Duke knows that and is simply saving me from ill luck.’ She forced a smile. ‘Your Grace.’

  He nodded and stepped down to the hall floor. ‘My lady, I was about to find you to bid you goodnight. It has been…’ He paused, wondering what the evening had been and how best to express it without being untruthful. A pleasure? Not exactly. ‘An interesting evening.’

  ‘Thank you for coming.’

  ‘I shall call on you the day after tomorrow for our little outing. Will two o’clock be convenient?’

  ‘Quite convenient, my lord.’

  He bowed, received his hat from a footman and made his way out of the house. He could not have come in his carriage for Frances perceived him striding off towards Brook Street and concluded he was probably going on to White’s or perhaps Boodles to finish the evening’s entertainment, playing cards for higher stakes than she would allow in her salon. She turned back to Percy, who stood beside her watching the Duke disappearing into the night.

  ‘An assignation, eh?’ he said, looking at her quizzically.

  ‘Assignation?’

  ‘Two days hence at two o’clock in the afternoon.’

  ‘Good heavens, no! We are going to take Lady Lavinia to the Royal Academy. It is part of her instruction.’

  ‘It seems to me the tabbies have a point,’ he said slowly. ‘Loscoe is using his daughter as a means of being often in your company.’

  ‘Percy, how can you say that?’

  ‘It is not what I say that matters. It is other people who have remarked on it. I only repeat what I have heard.’

  ‘And I wish you would not. The Duke has no interest in me, but what I do for his daughter. It is a business arrangement.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ It was unlike him to be so serious and she looked up at him, puzzled.

  ‘Percy, are you just a little bit jealous?’

  ‘I am a whole lot jealous. Why, I had come to look on you as a companion when I fancy riding in the park and a happy partner on those occasions like balls and supper parties when to go alone would incommode my hostess. You know how women like everything neatly in pairs.’

  ‘I know at least a handful of ladies who would happily fulfil those functions.’

  ‘No, you do not. I am considered an object of amusement by almost everyone, even you, but you are good enough not to allow it to show.’

  ‘Goodness, sir, whatever has got into you? Naturally you amuse me, but that is what you set out to do in the first place.’ She reached out and put her hand on his sleeve. ‘Percy, let us not quarrel over the Duke of Loscoe. He is not worth it. I find you infinitely more comfortable to be with.’

  ‘Comfortable.’ He gave a huge sigh. ‘Damned with faint praise.’

  ‘Oh, Percy.’ She laughed. ‘How c
an you be such a ninnyhammer?’

  ‘It was the way I was made, my dear.’ He bowed over her hand. ‘Now, having been cut to the quick, I will take my leave. Shall you ride tomorrow?’

  ‘Percy, I truly think I shall be too fatigued to rise early enough. And there will be a great deal of clearing up to do here, and the committee must meet and go over the accounts. The next day perhaps. We can go in the morning before the Duke calls with Lavinia.’

  He smiled agreement, relinquished her hand and, taking his hat, disappeared after the Duke. The departure of the two men seemed to signal a general leave-taking and it was not until everyone had gone and she was alone in her bedchamber, sitting before the mirror brushing out her hair, that she was able to reflect on the events of the evening.

  As a fund-raising exercise it had been an outstanding success, but it was not its success or otherwise that occupied her thoughts, it was the Duke of Loscoe and the strange effect he had on her. He had only to be in the same room and she was aware of him. She did not need to see him or hear him; she could feel his presence, knew when his eyes were on her, seeking her out.

  And if that were not enough, he had only to speak to her and her insides turned to quivering jelly and she could hardly breathe. It was missish behaviour of the silliest kind. And what made it more foolish was his arrogant assumption that she wished for his attentions. Why should she be at all bothered whether he intended to marry this Season or next, or at any other time? And to have taken the trouble to tell her she was safe was the outside of enough!

  Did he think she had spent the last seventeen years wearing the willow for him and he had only to drop the handkerchief and she would pick it up? Arrogant, conceited, impossible man! She must disenchant him of that idea at the first opportunity.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Stanmore! By all that’s wonderful, haven’t seen you in goodness knows how many years.’

  Marcus looked up from stripping off, ready for a sparring match with Gentleman Jackson, to find himself face to face with a huge red-headed man, whose ruddy countenance was beaming at him in joyful recognition.