The Incomparable Countess

by Mary Nichols

  ‘Donald Greenaway!’ He held out his hand, which was grasped and pumped vigorously. ‘How are you? Haven’t seen hide nor hair of you since you went off to the Peninsula.’

  ‘Well, I am back home now, complete in wind and limb. A major no less but, for all that half-pay is not going to keep me in shirts…’

  ‘Looking for something to do?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s no great rush to settle down. How are you? Heard about your wife, can’t recall now who told me, but sorry for it.’

  ‘Thank you. It happened over two years ago, but I am still trying to come to terms with being a widower.’

  ‘Not for long, I’ll wager. You’ll have no trouble finding a new wife.’

  ‘Not sure that I want one.’

  ‘Oh, playing the field, eh? Can’t say I blame you. What are you doing in Town if not to look over the fillies?’

  ‘I had to come on family business—’

  ‘Sir,’ Mr Jackson interrupted them. ‘Do you wish to postpone our bout?’

  ‘No, no, I am coming. Donald, meet me at White’s in an hour, have a bite of breakfast with me.’

  ‘Glad to.’ He feigned a playful punch towards Marcus’s nose, but the Duke easily avoided it. ‘I’ve had my time in the ring today or I would take you on. An hour it is.’

  Jackson did not spare Marcus and for a good half-hour he was forced to defend himself, though he was not slow in returning punches, which the maestro easily avoided.

  ‘You are out of condition, your Grace,’ he said, when the bout finished and a breathless Marcus stood heaving at the side of the ring.

  ‘I know. I have been too much occupied to spend time sparring. I will make amends while I am in Town.’

  ‘Good. You never know when being able to defend yourself will come in useful, not to mention handing out the punishment yourself.’

  Marcus left him to wash and dress and a few minutes later, once again the gentleman about town, he climbed into his phaeton and set off for St James’s and a good breakfast. As usual the place was crowded with men who had been gaming all night and were in want of sustenance, but Donald was waiting for him, having secured a table.

  ‘There’s pork chops on the bill of fare,’ he said. ‘Or boiled ham or woodcock pie. Which will you have?’

  ‘The pork chops, I think,’ he said, seating himself opposite his friend. ‘And a large pot of coffee.’

  ‘I believe I am to address you as your Grace nowadays?’ Donald said, after they had been served and the waiter had left them.

  ‘No, you clunch! I am Stanmore or Marcus to you as I always was.’

  ‘You do not care for your elevation?’

  ‘I am of the opinion that an aristocratic title and an inheritance often bring more pain than pleasure.’

  ‘Now, I would never have believed it. Why should that be?’

  ‘The responsibility, the putting aside of one’s own inclination for the good of the estate and the furtherance of the family name, weigh heavily. I have sometimes envied my brother his freedom…’

  ‘Oh, you mean noblesse oblige and all that.’

  ‘And all that,’ Marcus said with a wry chuckle. ‘I am become used to it now, but there was a time…’ He shook himself; memories of his youth had been tumbling over themselves to give him pain ever since he had come to London and met Frances again, and he wanted to change the subject. ‘Now, tell me, what do you propose to do with yourself now the war with Bonaparte is ended?’

  ‘I could find another war, but to be honest I am sick of it all and would find some more peaceful occupation. My family were farmers, I might try that. I fancy sheep. The people will always want their mutton and wool, don’t you agree?’

  Marcus laughed. ‘Indeed, though it is hard to imagine the daring Major Greenaway in a shepherd’s smock and carrying a crook instead of a rifle. I have heard of your exploits, you know.’

  ‘All puffed up,’ Donald said. ‘I did no more than my duty. Now, I fancy a little diversion before I settle down. How about joining me for a trip to Newmarket next week?’

  ‘Can’t be done, old friend. I am tied up in Town. I came on business and brought my daughter…’

  ‘Is she old enough to come out? How time flies!’

  ‘No, next year, but since Margaret died I have been trying to spend more time with her and decided that she should see a little of what to expect when she comes out.’ He paused, wondering whether to tell his friend something of his reason for coming to the capital. ‘I find she is taking up so much of my time…’

  ‘You have no time for enjoyment?’

  ‘No, not that. I have so little time for the project which brought me here.’ He stopped, wondering whether to go on, but Donald Greenaway had been his friend since they were at Cambridge together and he felt he must confide in someone. ‘I am searching for someone…’

  ‘Oh, a defaulter?’

  ‘No, a woman.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Donald said knowingly. ‘A little bit of muslin slipped through your fingers, has she?’

  ‘Nothing like that,’ Marcus said sharply. ‘If that were the case, I could shrug my shoulders and find someone else with no trouble. Mrs Harriet Poole was the wife of my head groom at Loscoe Court. At least, he was a groom before he decided to join Wellington’s army. It behoved me, as a large landowner, to supply some troops from the estate and I made a promise to my men that if any of them volunteered, I would look after their women, though I never ordered anyone to go. It never occurred to me that my groom would be such a bufflehead. He had a good job and I paid him well…’

  ‘Mayhap he had other reasons for going? Men have been known to enlist to escape a nagging wife. This Harriet Poole, what manner of woman is she?’

  Marcus shrugged. ‘Comely enough. About twenty-five years old. Joseph Poole enlisted in 1811 and was reported killed in 1814, but a few months ago, we heard he had survived as a prisoner of war and was now released and on his way home. The trouble was, Mrs Poole had had a child nearly three years ago and, hearing the news, she disappeared rather than face him with it. You may imagine Joseph Poole’s reaction when he came home and heard the unwelcome news.

  ‘He left again swearing vengeance on her and on the man who had fathered the child. I must find her before he does. According to her mother, Mrs Poole went to live with her sister in London, but knowing it would be one of the first places her husband would look for her, she stayed only a few days and now no one knows where she is.’

  ‘Surely your responsibility ended when the man came back?’

  ‘No, it did not. There are other reasons which I cannot go into.’

  ‘Well, it seems to me that, whatever your reasons are, you should leave well alone. The woman brought her troubles on herself. I would not consider any light o’ love worth the effort you are putting into this.’

  ‘No, except for the child. I cannot abandon it.’ He had made promises before, to Margaret and to Frances, and there had been no possibility of being able to keep both and that had resulted in prolonged misery for at least two people; he could not be sure if Frances had been unhappy beyond those first few weeks. And now he had made another pledge and he would keep it if he had to move heaven and earth.

  ‘Oh.’ Donald, still labouring under a misapprehension, smiled. ‘In that case, my friend, I am at your service. I have always fancied myself at detection. Tell me what you have discovered already.’

  ‘I had not thought to involve anyone else.’

  ‘You cannot search the whole of London alone. And you may rely on my discretion.’

  Marcus hesitated only a moment before smiling and holding out his hand. ‘Done, my friend.’

  They had been talking quietly, but certainly not whispering, and most of what had been said had been overheard, making the eavesdropper smile with satisfaction. Leaving the club, side by side with Donald, Marcus did not even see him.

  ‘I have my phaeton here,’ he told Donald. ‘Can I take you anywhere?’

>   ‘Yes. First to speak to Mrs Poole’s sister and then to those people you have questioned so that I may hear what they have to say for myself, and then to my lodgings, I think.’

  ‘You mean to start straight away?’

  ‘No time like the present and the longer we delay, the colder will grow the trail.’

  They climbed into the phaeton and Marcus picked up the ribbons, feeling more cheerful than he had for days, simply because he now had some help and the task seemed infinitely less daunting. ‘If you find them, you will have my undying gratitude,’ he said, weaving his way in and out of the traffic towards Lincoln’s Inn Fields where he knew Mrs Poole’s sister resided. ‘Nor will you find me ungenerous.’

  ‘Let us find them first.’

  They made their calls, questioned Mrs Poole’s sister and all the acquaintances that good lady could recall Harriet having in Town, though these were very few. ‘She would have to have some way of earning a living,’ Donald said when they left. ‘She might have had to resort to—’

  ‘No, no, I do not think she would do that,’ Marcus put in hurriedly.

  ‘Maundering, then. The constables would know of any beggars on their patch.’

  ‘Which patch?’

  ‘Any or all. You may drop me off on the corner of Covent Garden. I will begin there.’

  Marcus did not think the lady would resort to that either, but as he had no other suggestion to offer, he complied and they were soon in the square beside St Paul’s. He pulled up to allow Donald to climb down. ‘Shall I wait?’

  ‘No, my friend, leave it to me. You go back to your daughter.’ He waved a hand and disappeared down a side street.

  Marcus sat where he was for a minute, looking with unseeing eyes at the busy market scene before him. Finding one woman in a city the size of London was like looking for a needle in a haystack and he did not hold out much hope of success. But then surely Joseph Poole might be having equal difficulty? And the child? What would become of that child, if anything happened to his mother? It did not bear thinking of.

  And he must not forget there was another child to consider. His first-born, who was becoming ever more difficult to manage; he cursed himself for leaving her to be brought up almost exclusively by his wife. She had been thoroughly spoiled, her every wish gratified. He preferred to think it was indolence on Margaret’s part rather than vindictiveness, though sometimes he wondered. He was thankful that Duncan, who had been sent off to school at an early age, seemed not to have been affected to quite the same degree.

  Now, he had to pick up the pieces and try to mould them all into a family again, and that was further complicated by his unexpected re-acquaintance with Frances, whom he had once loved so fervently he had been prepared to give up his inheritance for her, though she had never known it. How did he feel about her now? He was not at all sure. Seventeen years was a long time to hold to love, however deeply felt, if there is nothing to feed it on.

  They had both changed and, as she had pointed out to him in no uncertain terms, she was independent; she did not need him. Sir Percy Ponsonby had more claim on her than he had and he must suppose that sooner or later that fop would pluck up the courage to propose. Would she accept? He realised, with a sudden constriction of his chest, that he would not like that at all.

  His reverie was interrupted by the noise of a disturbance and he shook the images of Frances from his mind and looked towards it. He blinked and blinked again and then he was jumping down and running forward, pushing aside everyone who impeded him.

  Frances had slept fitfully and at half past ten the next morning, unable to lie abed any longer, had rung for Rose to bring her hot water and a cup of chocolate. Once dressed, she went down to try and eat a light breakfast for which she had no appetite and then set about supervising the work of the servants. Not that supervision was needed, they were already hard at work restoring the house to its usual calm orderliness. She paced about the rooms, directing an operation here and there, but her presence was superfluous and she decided to go up to her studio and work on Lavinia’s portrait. Perhaps, in the ordered chaos of a room where she had always felt comfortable, she would be more at peace with herself.

  She pulled out her sketches of the girl, set up a canvas and began mixing paint, doing the work methodically as she always did, but there was no fooling herself; she was not comfortable at all. Her insides were churning and her hands shook. If she had not known differently she would have blamed the fact that she had drunk too much wine the night before and was slightly foxed. She had had very little to drink and her present malaise was due entirely to the Duke of Loscoe.

  Even now, she could not think of his effrontery without shaking with rage. To suppose that she was waiting for him to take up where he left off seventeen years before and that she cared as little for her good name as he did for his, was the outside of enough. He might dismiss the gabble-grinders as of little importance, but she could not. It had taken ten years of marriage to a worthy, but dull, aristocrat, followed by years of uneventful widowhood to establish her unsullied reputation.

  There might not have been any scandal about it if her mother, in anticipation of an offer, had not gone round her bosom bows dropping boastful hints. A young girl’s disappointment had become common knowledge when his engagement to Margaret Connaught was announced in the newspapers. There were even those who said it served her right for puffing herself up beyond her station.

  Only her innate sense of dignity and stubborn pride enabled her to put her bitter disillusionment behind her, to make the most of her life and become generally known as someone to whom not a breath of scandal could be attached, who could be trusted to teach the daughters of her friends to draw and paint, who always respected a confidence and knew exactly the right amount of deference to give to her subjects. In short, someone who never put a foot wrong. If the coming to London of the Duke of Loscoe changed any of that, she would never forgive him.

  But did that also mean she had not forgiven him for what happened seventeen years before? Did it mean she still cared? Had all those years of trying to forget been a waste of time? What was his game? What was he trying to achieve? Her discomfort? He had certainly managed that. But why would he be so vindictive? She had done him no wrong, had been prepared to put the past behind them and deal civilly with him, had agreed to teach his daughter and paint her portrait. That had been a mistake, but if she had refused he would certainly have been confirmed in his belief that she still harboured some feelings for him. And it was not true. It simply was not true!

  She looked down at the sketch of Lavinia laughing. The daughter was so like the father, she could not look at it without bringing him to mind. Those laughing eyes were the exact copy of the eyes which had looked so lovingly and happily at her seventeen years ago. She put the sketch down and went over to the stack of pictures against the wall and fetched out the one she had painted after their picnic at Richmond. She took it to the window and rubbed the dust off it with the back of her hand. Here he was as he had been, young and handsome, carefree and open-hearted, his eyes shining with adoration. Looking down at the portrait, her heart was swamped with memories.

  They had gone in his curricle, which in itself was a greatly daring and very risky thing to do. But she had been too much in love to hold out against his entreaties and promises that no one would ever know. She had told her mother she was going to visit a friend and her mother had simply smiled knowingly and asked no questions. Frances, who had never lied to her before, had congratulated herself on how well she had done it. It was only afterwards she realised that her mother was fully cognisant of what she was up to and was hoping her daughter would be so compromised that Marcus would have to offer for her. She had even confided in one or two of her friends that she knew where they had gone.

  It would have been a triumph to match a young girl with no more background than a distant relationship to a baronet to the heir to one of England’s premier dukedoms. Her mother’s hopes before that
summer had been that, given a Season, she would take well enough for an offer from a baronet or perhaps the younger son of a minor aristocratic family and it was to that end she had borrowed money from her cousin, the baronet, to bring her out.

  Instead of that Frances had caught the eye of Marcus Stanmore, Marquis of Risley, who had made a point of being included in any outings she attended and dancing with her at the numerous balls to which her mother managed to obtain invitations. It had been a wonderful Season, with no foreboding, no unease to mar it. She had thrived on his attention, unaware of the gossip, though it was doubtful if she would have taken any notice if she had known about it. He had paid her pretty compliments, sent her flowers and contrived somehow or other to spend a few minutes alone with her whenever they were at the same function. Like everyone else, she had lived in anticipation of an offer. So where was the harm in going on a picnic with him?

  It had been a wonderful, wonderful day. The weather had been warm, the sky blue as the blue of her muslin gown, the grass green and luxuriant. The hamper he had ordered to be put in the box had been full of good things to eat and the champagne had tickled her nose and made her laugh. And she had found time to make a sketch of him, telling him to sit still while she did it.

  He had stretched out on the grass, his hands behind his head and said, ‘That is no hardship if I can sit and look at you. I could do that for hours on end, except…’ He had paused and smiled. ‘I might feel the need to reach out and touch you, to know you are not a dream, not an angel or some fairy figure that will disappear into the clouds if I blink.’

  ‘Oh, but I am not about to disappear.’ She had laughed. ‘Solid flesh and blood, that’s me.’

  ‘Beautiful flesh and blood. Each drop, each feature, nose, eyes, lips, put together in such perfection my heart is bursting.’

  ‘Gammon!’ She had been at bursting point herself, bursting with happiness that this handsome, desirable man loved her.

  He had remained still only long enough for her to sketch in the outline of his face and form before reaching forward and grabbing the sketchbook from her, to fling it beside them on the grass. Then he had taken her into his arms to kiss her. He had attempted to kiss her once or twice before, but they had always been interrupted or in too public a place and it had been no more than a brushing of his lips on her cheek or against her hair and that had been enough to set her limbs in a quiver and turn her insides to liquid fire. She had been too young and innocent to understand what it was all about, but she knew she ought to protest. Her protests had been feeble and easily silenced. ‘I love you,’ he had said. ‘How else am I to show you?’