The Incomparable Countess

by Mary Nichols

  Frances knew by the fierce look on his face and the set of his jaw that Lavinia would be in for a severe scolding the minute they left the house. She could almost feel sorry for her, except one should not allow an impudent child to go unpunished.

  He turned from his sullen daughter to his hostess. ‘My lady, may I trouble you to ask your gardener to dispose of the animal—no doubt your cook can make something of it…’

  ‘No, no.’ Andrew began to cry. ‘Gran’ma, you must not eat it.’

  Frances gave the Duke a telling look and took the child in her arms to soothe him. ‘No, of course we will not eat it, love. The Duke did not mean that at all. He meant Cook should take care of it in the kitchen until it is better.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Marcus said, hurriedly. ‘That is exactly what I had in mind.’

  ‘Andrew, do stop crying.’ Frances reached out and took a sugar plum from a dish on the table. ‘Here, dry your eyes and you may have this.’

  Mollified, the boy stuffed it into his mouth, as Beth left her mother to come and beg one for herself.

  ‘I nearly forgot why I came,’ Augusta said, deciding it was time she took the children away. ‘Shall you be coming to the opera at Covent Garden next Friday, Mama? Richard has promised to obtain seats. I hear it is outstandingly good.’

  ‘I should love to.’

  ‘I am glad you feel able to recommend it,’ Marcus put in. ‘I had planned to take Lavinia and hoped it was a suitable performance for her to see.’

  ‘Oh, there is nothing in the least objectionable in it,’ Augusta said.

  ‘Then please join us in our box. There will easily be room for all of us.’

  Frances wanted to decline; she had no wish to spend any more time in his company than she had to, but before she could find a plausible excuse, he had added. ‘It is the least I can do after being such a jobbernot.’

  ‘Jobbernot,’ Andrew repeated. ‘Jobbernot. Jobbernot. Jobbernot…’

  ‘Hush,’ Augusta said, although everyone was laughing, including the Duke. ‘It is exceedingly impolite to repeat what people say. You are not a parrot, you know.’ She turned to Marcus. ‘I am very sorry, your Grace.’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ he said. ‘Only say you will join us at the theatre.’

  ‘I shall be delighted, my lord, on one condition. You have supper with us afterwards. Isn’t that right, Mama?’

  Thus appealed to, there was nothing for Frances to do but agree. ‘I shall look forward to it.’ It was the performance she was looking forward to, she told herself, the drama on stage, the costumes and the sets, which particularly interested her; it had nothing to do with the Duke of Loscoe.

  ‘Then allow me to call for you in my carriage.’

  ‘I have my own carriage…’

  ‘Oh, I know that, Countess, but there will be a dreadful crush at the door and it will save your groom having to harness up your horses and keep them out late.’

  She decided it would be churlish to refuse and besides, she did not want to have to explain to Augusta why she had. ‘Then, I accept your kind offer.’

  ‘Seven o’clock, then,’ he said, bowing his way out. ‘I shall look forward to it.’

  ‘He is nothing like as stiff-rumped as people would have him,’ Augusta said when the door had closed on him and his daughter.

  ‘Stiff-rumped,’ her son chanted.

  ‘Andrew, you must stop this at once,’ she said severely. ‘I shall not bring you to see Grandmama again if you cannot behave. Now, take Beth to the kitchen. I am sure Cook will find something for you to eat. That is if you do not mind, Mama?’

  Frances was not really paying attention, being busy wondering who it was had said the Duke of Loscoe was stiff-rumped. Was he? When she had met him a week ago, she would certainly have agreed, but he had shown no sign of it in the last few days. Perhaps it had been his business which had been worrying him and now he had brought it about and was able to relax a little more. But in spite of what she had told Lavinia, she was curious about it. But that did not mean she would allow him to disrupt her life, not now, not ever. Allowing him to take her to the opera meant nothing at all.

  ‘Mama?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, of course. Run along, children.’

  They scampered off and Augusta went on, ‘Mama, have you seen James lately?’

  Frances had been so taken up with her own affairs that she had to stop and think when it was she had last seen her stepson. ‘Not since the charity ball and then I hardly spoke to him. He is not in a scrape, is he?’

  ‘Not exactly a scrape, but I think he has got himself into dun territory.’

  ‘So? Young men, especially young men who think themselves of consequence, often get into debt. James is no exception.’

  ‘Mama, I am worried about him. He confided in Richard that he did not know how he was to come about.’

  ‘Why did he not come to me?’ Frances knew it irked James to have to apply to her when he was pinched in the pocket but, until he was twenty-five in a few months’ time, his fortune was managed by trustees. He lived on an allowance which should have been ample to keep him in clothes and pay for his leisure pursuits, his horses and a little moderate gambling. But that was the trouble, James seemed not to know the difference between moderation and excess.

  ‘Richard told him to apply to you,’ Augusta said. ‘But it is only two months ago since you stood buff for him and he is ashamed of himself.’

  ‘Did he tell you how much he owed?’

  ‘He did not say anything about it to me at all, but he told Richard he thought it was in excess of three thousand, but he was not at all sure of the exact amount.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ Frances was reminded of the young lady James had brought to the ball and wondered if her extravagant tastes had contributed to his problems. It was either that or he had gone in too deep at cards. But three thousand! The trustees would throw up their hands in horror and imply that, if she had not indulged him, he would have grown up with a better understanding of the value of money.

  ‘Will you speak to him?’

  ‘Of course I will, if you think it will do any good.’

  ‘I believe he is to be at the opera on Friday and he will surely come to see you during the intermission.’

  Frances did not think that would serve. How could she discuss such matters with her stepson in the Duke’s box? She could hardly ask everyone to leave so that she might speak to him alone and the last person she wanted to hear of her private affairs was the Duke of Loscoe. How could she condemn him for his handling of his daughter when she could not influence her own stepson?

  At exactly seven o’clock on Friday evening, Marcus rapped at the door of Corringham House and was admitted by Creeley. ‘Her ladyship will be with you directly,’ the butler said. ‘Will you wait in the drawing room?’

  He was about to agree when a slight sound from above made him lift his head and he saw her standing at the top of the stairs, about to descend. She was a picture of loveliness. Her gown of green silk showed off her figure to perfection; it fitted closely to her curves, no longer gauche as they had been at seventeen, but softly rounded with maturity. Released below her bosom the material flowed like water, rippling about her body, hinting, oh so subtly, of what was beneath. He found himself visualising her smooth white body, her long legs and firm round breasts, and desire sprang in him so forcefully that he could hardly breathe.

  Slowly she came down the stairs and it seemed as if she was prolonging the descent, one foot, in its white stocking and green satin shoe, peeping out from beneath the hem of her skirt as she took each step, revealing a neatly turned ankle. Was she aware of the effect she was having on him? Was that smile one of pleasure at seeing him or of mockery that she could reduce him to a palpitating moonling? Was she triumphant, amused or simply being charming?

  He let out his breath in a sigh as she finished her descent and held out her hand to him. He took it and bowed over it. ‘My lady, your obedient.’
>
  His voice was husky, she noticed, and there was a tremor in her own as she answered. ‘Your Grace, you are punctual as ever.’

  He was clad all in black, except for a white frilled shirt and a white cravat tied in a knot James had described as trône d’amour. He had shown her how to tie it too, but she had been all thumbs and the starched muslin had been like a limp dishcloth when she finished. She was almost tempted to ask the Duke if he had tied it himself or if his valet had done it for him, but decided that would be too familiar and familiarity was not what she wished to cultivate with him.

  But, oh, how handsome he was, with his dark locks cut so that they curled about his ears, his fine Stanmore brows and straight nose. Lady Willoughby was right, she decided as he escorted her to his carriage; he would be the catch of the Season. He had said he had no plans to marry, but when did a man ever have plans to do that? Not before they were forced into it by circumstance, so James had told her when she had mentioned it was time he thought of matrimony and setting up his nursery, not when they could enjoy the favours of their mistresses and pursue their interests unencumbered.

  And thinking of mistresses made her remember what Lavinia had told her. Did the Duke of Loscoe keep a mistress? And from that question another was engendered; did she mind? No, she told herself as she settled herself beside Lavinia and he took his seat opposite, so close her skirt was brushing his knees. Whatever had been between them had died long ago. But who was not to say a new fire could not be kindled from the ashes of the old?

  The thought, coming to her so suddenly, made her gasp and it was all she could do to stifle it under the pretence of a little cough. She was glad it was dark in the coach and he could not see the colour flare in her face, for she was sure it was there; she could feel the heat in her cheeks. How could she? How could she have such improper thoughts about a man who could hide himself so completely behind a veneer of politeness—he was an enigma, a stranger. But he was no stranger. She knew he could be passionate, if not caring, and that his mistress would want for nothing. Until he tired of her. That was the trouble with being a mistress; there was no security. Mistresses had to rely on the generosity of their protectors.

  What, in the name of heaven, had set her thoughts along that track? Was it the fact that once, seventeen years ago, when he told her he was to marry Margaret Connaught, he had as good as suggested she become his chère amie. Even now, after all these years, she burned with the memory of her humiliation. She had no wish to become the Duke of Loscoe’s paramour and he was not looking for a wife; he had told her so. It was marriage or nothing. She was so taken aback by that thought, she almost cried out. She must be mad!

  As the carriage passed beneath one of the street lamps in Piccadilly on its progress towards Covent Garden, Marcus looked across at her and wondered what thoughts had brought that flush to her cheeks. It made her look like a young girl again and his heart contracted painfully.

  Chapter Six

  Marcus had been right about the press of carriages. The street outside the theatre was packed with vehicles, but they were eventually set down at the door and made their way into the foyer, where Richard and Augusta were already waiting. By the time they had taken their seats in the Duke’s box, Frances had composed herself sufficiently to take an interest in the audience, bow and smile to acquaintances, and, when the curtain went up, to pay attention to the production. Not for nothing had she taken seventeen years cultivating a quiet poise to stand her in good stead when things went wrong.

  As Augusta had predicted, James came to the box during the intermission. With his fair curly hair and clear blue eyes, he was a handsome young man, though Frances wished he would not act the exquisite so blatantly. He wore a deep blue evening coat, pantaloons of a slightly lighter shade, and a brilliant waistcoat of blue and yellow stripes with pearl buttons. His cravat, tied in a complicated knot, filled the space between the top button of his waistcoat and the high points of his collar which were starched within an inch of their lives. Flounced lace peeped from beneath the end of his cuffs and fell over his hands, one of which held a quizzing glass.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said, dropping the glass on its ribbon and attempting to execute a flourishing leg which in the confines of the box, nearly had Augusta’s plumed turban off her head. ‘Your obedient.’ Then he bowed to Marcus, grinned at his sister who was adjusting her hat, said, ‘How do you do, Dick?’ to Richard and turned to Lavinia, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘James, I collect you have not yet met Lady Lavinia Stanmore,’ Frances said.

  ‘No,’ he answered, openly appraising Lavinia. ‘I should most certainly have remembered if I had.’

  ‘Lady Lavinia, my stepson, the Earl of Corringham.’ Lavinia was actually smiling, Frances noted, though the change in the girl’s expression did not fill her with unalloyed joy if the cause of it was James’s undoubted charm. ‘Lady Lavinia is the Duke’s daughter,’ she added with heavy emphasis, as if to tell him that he had better beware. ‘She is to have her come-out next year.’

  ‘My word, I shall look forward to that,’ he said, seizing Lavinia’s hand and bowing over it. ‘Lady Lavinia, your most obedient servant.’

  ‘Good evening, my lord,’ she said, returning his appraisal with her own. ‘Are you enjoying the performance?’

  ‘Oh, indeed, I am.’

  ‘Now that you have succeeded in disrupting the whole box,’ Augusta said to her brother with some asperity, ‘will you sit down?’

  ‘No, thanks, Sis, I just heard the bell.’

  ‘Then join us at home for supper,’ Augusta went on, blithely unaware of the misgivings in her stepmother’s breast. All she was trying to do was make it easy for Frances to tackle James about his debts and she was determined that he would not slip through her fingers. ‘Cook won’t mind an extra cover.’

  ‘Delighted.’ He bowed to everyone, gave Lavinia a knowing smile and took his leave.

  Frances risked a glance at Marcus and became uncomfortably aware that he had also noticed the looks which passed between the two young people and knew he would hold her accountable if James did not behave himself.

  The meal turned out to be far more convivial than she had expected it to be. Richard and Augusta were very good hosts and their cook, knowing the Duke was going to be one of the guests, surpassed herself with turbot in a shrimp sauce, sole bonne femme, saddle of lamb, roast goose and fruit pies and syllabub, all washed down with a selection of fine wines. Marcus did justice to the meal and found himself envying Frances her family. Though they were not blood relations, they were obviously very fond of her and not above teasing.

  ‘When we were children we called her Little Mama,’ James told him. ‘She was such a little scrap of a thing when she came to us and so anxious to please. I am afraid we did not make it easy for her, we were always into scrapes—’

  ‘You mean you were,’ Augusta put in. ‘I am sure I did nothing to upset Mama.’

  ‘Oh, no? Who was it put sugar in her paints? And all because she would not let you have that hideous pink dress you saw in the Pantheon Bazaar.’

  Frances laughed. ‘Hideous though it was, I bought it for you, but no sooner did you have it than you hated it.’

  ‘Oh, she was only seeing how far she could tease you,’ James said. ‘Wicked stepmothers had to be put in their place.’ He sighed dramatically. ‘But the trouble was, Loscoe, Little Mama was hardly more than a child herself and anyone less wicked it would be hard to imagine. So we became her friend and she ours. It has remained so every since.’

  ‘James, you are putting me to the blush,’ Frances said, acutely conscious that Marcus was drinking in every word, smiling at her in that slightly mocking way of his which made her want to hit him.

  ‘I am only telling the truth.’

  ‘Then it is a great shame you do not think of Mama more often,’ Augusta put in. ‘You have been nowhere near Corringham House for a month. If it had not been for the charity ball, you would have no idea how she was.’<
br />
  ‘I know very well how she is. She is in prime kilter as always, busy with her little orphans, painting antidotes with more blunt than looks, teaching untalented schoolgirls how to draw. I hear her praises wherever I go, such a fine woman, so generous, so gifted…’

  ‘James, do be quiet,’ Frances said.

  ‘He is toadying up to you, Mama,’ Augusta put in. ‘So watch out.’

  ‘Oh, I know it very well, and I am curious as to the reason, but you do not need to tell me now, James. Call on me at home tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock.’

  ‘Ten!’ he exclaimed, aghast at the thought. ‘You cannot mean it, ma’am.’

  ‘I do. If you are going riding in the Park, it is not so far out of the way to pay me a morning call.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ he said. ‘But you know you will be depriving me of much-needed beauty sleep.’

  ‘Then go to bed earlier,’ she retorted.

  Marcus smiled at the banter. It was banter and not meant to be taken seriously; he could tell by the soft way James spoke to his stepmother even when he was pretending to be affronted, and the sparkle in her eyes as she answered him. There was a great deal of love there, as there was between Frances and Augusta and the two small children he had met earlier in the week. They were a happy and united family. It was a pity Frances had never had children of her own. Had the old Earl been capable? Was she barren? He felt infinitely sad on her behalf; she would have made an excellent mother.

  But she did not appear sad. In truth she seemed very cheerful, as if she had had all she wanted from life: good husband, loving family, a talent that was appreciated and staunch friends all round. He envied her. He, who had vast estates, influence in high places, money enough to buy anything he wanted, envied her. Money could not buy the only thing he lacked, a woman who loved him. For, assuredly, Margaret had not loved him, had even told him once that she held him in aversion. It had not been her fault; they had been pawns in a game played by both sets of parents. Given a free choice, Margaret might have met and married a man who might have loved her and he would not have lost Frances.