by Mary Nichols
‘I am proud of you,’ Frances whispered to her when she arrived on the arm of her father.
‘Thank you.’ Lavinia dropped a deep curtsy.
Frances turned towards Marcus, who was dressed in a plum-coloured tailcoat, grey pantaloons tucked into polished black Hessians and a white brocade waistcoat. There was a diamond pin in his pristine white cravat and a pleasant smile on his face. A handsome devil, she decided, the picture of elegance. And unaccountably she found herself wondering what he looked like dressed as a vagrant in ragged fustian breeches and scuffed leather jerkin. Would she love him any the less? In which guise had Mrs Poole known him? Had she even known who he really was?
Convinced her expression would give her away, she bowed her head so that he could not properly see her face. She really must rid herself of this obsession with him, with Mrs Poole, whoever she was, with the mysterious child and pay attention to her duties. ‘Welcome, your Grace.’
‘My lady, your obedient,’ he said, removing his hat and bowing to her, while appraising her openly. She was in a gown of deep blue silk. The full skirt, narrow sleeves and square neckline were edged in gold ribbon and more gold ribbon was twined through her hair, which was done in a Grecian style which showed off her long pale neck. A simple gold band adorned her neck. There was no doubt in his mind that she was the loveliest woman there and he was filled with a deep longing and even deeper regret for what had been lost.
A footman relieved him of his hat and cloak and Lavinia of her shoulder cape and they proceeded into the reception room. Because it was only a small informal gathering, Frances had decided not to use the ballroom, but to take the carpet out of the drawing room so that the young people could dance. There were hostesses who judged an evening by how much of a squeeze it was, but Frances preferred her guests to have room to move about freely and talk to each other in comfort so, though the room soon filled, it was not overcrowded.
Percy was there, in lemon silk trimmed with blue, Major Greenaway looking dashing in his regimentals, James in a black evening suit spoiled, in Frances’s opinion, by a bright cerise waistcoat and a huge cravat, Augusta in pale green and Richard in dove grey. There was Mr and Mrs Butterworth, Lord and Lady Willoughby with Felicity, Lord and Lady Graham with Constance, and half a dozen other young ladies and a few hand-picked eligibles. Lavinia was soon besieged by young gentlemen wishing to dance with her.
‘A lovely chit,’ Percy drawled when Frances finally had time to talk to him.
‘Yes, she is.’ Lavinia was at that moment dancing with James, laughing up at him unselfconsciously.
‘Over the tantrums, is she?’
‘There have been no tantrums, Percy. Lady Lavinia and I deal very well together.’
‘That I can believe. Everyone knows how good you are with young people. Loscoe must be relieved.’
‘Why relieved?’
‘I collect he was finding her a handful and she would have been an encumbrance to his plans for finding a second wife.’
‘Surely you are not still backing Mrs Harcourt?’
‘Oh, no, that is a lost cause. He gave her a sharp set-down the other day and now she is telling everyone that he asked her and she turned him down.’
She laughed. ‘No doubt, to save her pride.’
‘Oh, no doubt of it.’ He smiled. ‘But hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. She is determined to discredit him. Unfortunately she has dragged your name down along with his.’
‘Mine?’
‘Yes, my dear.’
‘Go on.’
‘I am not sure I should.’
‘If you do not, I will never speak to you again. I must know so that I may deal with it.’
He sighed. ‘The lady is saying that you are the Duke’s paramour and have been ever since he married, possibly even before that. It is why her dear friend, the Duchess, was so ill. It killed her in the end.’
‘Surely no one in their right mind would believe that?’
‘Perhaps they would not if that were all, but unfortunately the old gabble-grinder has been often in the company of Lady Barber and they have put two and two together and made a dozen of it.’
‘Now you have begun you had better tell me the whole,’ she urged when he paused to search her face for signs of distress.
‘You remember the talk of a child?’
‘Yes, a rumour started by Sir Joshua,’ she said, but in her heart she knew it was more than a rumour. Lavinia’s drawing, the Duke’s reaction and the painting at Stanmore House all pointed to it being the truth. ‘What has that to do with me?’
‘Why, my dear,’ he said, with a mocking smile, ‘It is yours. Yours and the Duke’s. Word is that, unwilling to face the scandal, you gave it away at birth, and now he is free to marry you, he is desperately searching for it.’
Her laughter rippled out. ‘Oh, Percy, what a Banbury Tale to be sure. When am I supposed to have been enceinte? And why did no one notice it?’
‘A good question, my dear, and one I found myself asking when the whispers reached me, but it seems you were out of Society for six or seven months about three years ago…’
‘Was I?’ she asked, mystified. Then, remembering, added, ‘Oh, that was when Augusta was expecting Beth. She did not carry her well and was often sick. And as Andrew was still no more than a baby and needed constant attention, I looked after them at Twelvetrees.’
‘According to Mrs Harcourt, two children were born at Twelvetrees that summer.’
‘Oh, Percy, this is far too outrageous for anyone to believe.’
‘They have been a little short on scandal, this Season,’ he said laconically. ‘And anything that comes along is hungrily lapped up. And you are a prime target.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you are who you are, wealthy, respectable, talented and because the lady is jealous of you. The Duke is often in your company.’
‘With his daughter.’
‘Oh, she says Lavinia is merely the means to the end.’
‘Does the Duke know about this?’ It might explain his strange ups and downs of behaviour towards her. ‘Does Lady Lavinia? Oh, I could not bear it if she were to be upset by it. What should I do? Should I speak to Mar—the Duke?’
‘No, my dear, unless you want him to bite your head off. I have offered you a solution before. Marry me. That would silence them.’
‘No, it would not, they would say I had duped you to save myself. You are too good a friend to be treated you so shabbily.’
‘I would deem it an honour.’
‘No, Percy, it would not serve and you know it. You are a confirmed bachelor, always have been, and to change your ways now would result in misery for both of us.’ She smiled and patted his hand. ‘But I am very sensible of the great compliment you have paid me.’
‘Oh, well,’ he said, with a rueful smile. ‘I tried.’
‘Now I think we have been talking long enough and the musicians are beginning a country dance. Go and find yourself a partner, Percy, or there will be more rattling tongues.’
He drifted away, leaving her to stand watching the dancers from behind her fan and wondering at the vivid imaginations some people had. But feeling sad too. Being credited with a child when she could not have one was not only unjust, it was cruel. She would have liked more than anything to have had a child and especially a child with Marcus. As usual when thinking of babies, she felt very low and ready to weep, but as everyone about her seemed to be enjoying themselves, she forced herself to smile.
‘May I share the joke, my lady?’ said a voice at her elbow.
She did not need to turn to know who it was, so she did not look at him. It would have been her undoing if she had. ‘Oh, I do not think you would be amused by it,’ she said, but the hand that held her fan stopped suddenly and her whole body stiffened. She must not give the tattlers any more food for their gossip. She must get rid of him. ‘Why are you not joining in the dance?’
‘Oh, that is for the young and I no
longer qualify.’
‘Fustian!’
‘Besides, I have not thanked you for arranging this evening for Lavinia. It is wonderful to see her so happy.’
‘I have been pleased to do it,’ she said. ‘Now, if you do not mind, I can see Mrs Butterworth beckoning to me. Please excuse me.’ And she was gone, leaving him staring after her, a puzzled frown on his face.
Just when he thought they had gone some way to mending the rift between them and he had decided she deserved an explanation for his abominable behaviour, she had turned her back on him. Was she really as uninterested as she appeared to be? He could have sworn, when he kissed her, that her passion had risen to meet his, that she not only liked being kissed by him but actively desired it.
But, apart from that kiss, what other evidence was there that she even liked him, let alone loved him? When she was not treating him with cool politeness, she was quarrelling with him. In the weeks since he had come to London, they had done nothing but fight. Most of it was his fault, he freely admitted, but if she would not let him near enough to explain, to show her the caring man he really was, how could he put matters right?
‘You do not seem to be advancing your cause, my friend,’ Donald said, coming to stand beside him. ‘I think you may have met your match.’
‘Oh, I am certain I have. The trouble is, she thinks it is a sparring match.’
Donald laughed. ‘What are you going to do about it? You can hardly tap her claret.’
‘Don’t think I’m not tempted.’
‘How much longer do you plan to stay in Town?’
‘I do not know. I felt sure we would find the child after Vinny drew that picture, but no one seems to have seen him since then.’
‘Unless they are lying. The matron at the orphanage was decidedly cagey. What do you say to having another shot at it?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t even be sure it was the boy or that any of them are in London.’
‘Poole is. I know he is. But whether he knows where his wife and the child are, I can’t be sure. If he does…’ He shrugged. ‘You cannot abandon the search now.’
‘No.’ Marcus smiled thinly. ‘Lavinia seems to be enjoying herself, it would be a pity to drag her away. And Duncan will finish school for the summer in two weeks. We will go home to Loscoe Court then.’
‘With or without the delightful Countess?’
‘With or without the Countess,’ he confirmed.
‘Then we both have two weeks’ grace, me to find the elusive Mrs Poole, you to have your wicked way with the incomparable Countess of Corringham.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘Twenty pounds says I succeed first.’
Marcus smiled ruefully. ‘If it only meant having my wicked way and being done with it, I would take your wager, my friend, but unfortunately there is more to it than that.’
‘Oh, my God, I do believe you are serious.’
‘Deadly serious.’
‘Then I suggest you lay all before her and hope for the best.’
‘I intend to, when she condescends to listen to me, but I cannot go blundering in without being sure—’
‘Oh, give me patience!’ his friend exclaimed. ‘I took you for a gambler—how wrong I was.’ And with that, he sauntered off to find himself a glass of something stronger than the innocuous cordial Frances had provided.
Marcus continued to watch the company, apparently with no other intent than to enjoy his daughter’s happiness, but his eyes were as often on the Countess as on Lavinia. She was flitting from guest to guest, rejuvenating a flagging conversation here, bringing two people together there, dragging unwilling elders into joining the dancing and making sure everyone had refreshments. But whenever she looked in his direction she turned away quickly and would not meet his eye. He would have left, but for Lavinia.
It was gone midnight when the party broke up and everyone took their leave and there was no opportunity, in the flurry of departures at the door, to do more than thank her and take his daughter home. Frances Corringham was the most exasperating woman he had ever encountered. One minute she was laughing with him, as easy with him as he could have wished, the next she was treating him with cool disdain. What had happened in those few minutes this evening to make so swift a change?
Frances saw everyone off the premises, instructed Creeley to lock up and went up to her room, where Rose waited to help her undress. A few minutes later she was in bed and the maid had gone. She blew out the lamp and settled down to sleep, but her mind was still too active for that.
She may have laughed when Percy told her the gossip, but it was no laughing matter. She was torn between telling Marcus what she had heard and letting him find out for himself. He would be furious, she knew. Would he simply dismiss it as nonsense, tell her that under the circumstances he must sever all connection with her and take his daughter elsewhere for her instruction? He had almost done so last week and that was over something paltry compared to this.
Would he even think she had encouraged the rumours? But he did not know she knew about that child, did he? Had Mrs Thomas seen the little boy again? Would finding him solve anything? At least, if she could find the mother, Mrs Poole, it might disprove the theory that the child was hers. Tomorrow, she would do something about it.
When Frances arrived at Monmouth Street the next morning, she was told by the janitor that everyone had gone to the house in Maiden Lane to help make it ready for occupation and so she instructed Harker to take her there, before sending him back to Corringham House, telling him she would find a cab to take her home when she was ready.
There was certainly a great deal of work to be done on the house, most of it scrubbing. There were also doors and windows to mend, a few slates to replace on the roof and chimneys to sweep, but it was a sound building. There were two large rooms downstairs beside a kitchen and upstairs several small bedrooms. These had been knocked into two large dormitories. The rooms on the second storey were being furnished for Mrs Thomas and her small staff of paid helpers.
Everyone, even the children, worked with a will and Frances, coming upon all this industry, happily rolled up her sleeves and took a bucket of water to help scrub the floors in the bedrooms. There would be time to ask questions about the child later, when they returned to Monmouth Street at the end of the day.
She had just finished and was taking the bucket of dirty water and the mop downstairs when she came face to face with Marcus, in immaculate snuff-coloured frockcoat and matching inexpressibles, who had just been admitted through the front door. She stopped halfway down the stairs, her mouth open in surprise, followed by annoyance that now her true name and position would become known and would spoil the wonderful rapport she had with both children and staff. ‘What are you doing here?’
He looked up and smiled at the sight of her. She was dressed in a brown cotton dress which she must have borrowed from one of her maids by the look of it, and over that a huge apron which had once been white but was now as grubby as the rest of her. Her arms, below the rolled-up sleeves, were streaked with dirty water and she had obviously brushed her hair out of her eyes with wet hands for her face too was streaked and the wayward hair was tucked behind her ears.
If he had not loved her before, he would have fallen in love with that apparition and wished he had her talent for drawing, for he would love to have had that image to keep for all time. He could not bow to her, it did not seem appropriate; instead he smiled. ‘Hard at work, Fanny?’
She pulled herself together and finished descending the stairs, where she stood and faced him coolly, aware that Mrs Thomas, who had admitted him, was staring from one to the other. ‘As you see. There is much to be done and most of it with voluntary labour.’
He laughed, took off his coat and hung it casually on the newel post of the staircase, then began rolling up the pristine sleeves of his shirt. ‘Then lead me to it.’
He was going to spoil it for her, she knew it. If she had dared to, she would have physically bundled him out of the
door and told him not to make fun of her. ‘You can’t—’
‘Why not?’ He turned and smiled at Mrs Thomas. ‘You could do with an extra pair of hands, could you not?’
‘Indeed, yes, sir, but you have already been more help than we can ever thank you for.’ If it had been Marcus who had shown her the sketch and questioned her, the lady obviously did not recognise him now.
‘Nonsense!’ he said briskly. ‘We are wasting time.’
‘Oh, thank you, sir, you will have your reward in heaven, for it is not in our power to reward you here, except with gratitude. Mrs Randall will show you what needs doing.’
‘Mrs Randall?’ he queried, one eyebrow raised.
‘Oh,’ the good lady appeared flustered. ‘I assumed you were known to each other when you spoke. This is Mrs Randall.’ Then to Fanny, ‘Mr Marcus Stanmore, ma’am. He is the gentleman who has bought the house for us.’
Frances had already deduced that much, so she was able to answer calmly, ‘Then we are in Mr Stanmore’s debt. How do you do, sir?’
He gave her a broad, half-mocking smile and offered her his hand. ‘Very well, ma’am. And you?’
For a second, she stared at the hand as if afraid to grasp it but, pulling herself together, took it and felt the warmth flow from him to her and knew she would never be able to get the better of him, although that did not prevent her from trying. ‘I am well, sir,’ she said. ‘Now, what would you like to do? There is scrubbing or cleaning windows. Or perhaps mending doors is more in your line of work. Some of them fit very ill.’
‘Mending doors, I think,’ he said, solemnly.
‘I will leave you to it,’ Mrs Thomas said. ‘I am needed in the kitchen.’ And with that she disappeared down the hall into the back regions of the house.
‘Are you trying to make fun of me?’ Frances hissed as soon as she had gone.
‘Not at all. I am full of admiration.’
‘You have been very generous, your Grace…’
‘Mr Stanmore,’ he corrected her, smiling easily.
Her own lips twitched. ‘Mr Stanmore, then. You have been more than generous in buying this house, that does not mean you need to work in it…’