by Mary Nichols
Duncan had burst into tears and that had brought Vinny, who had obviously been listening outside the door, rushing in to comfort him. ‘We will find a way, dearest,’ she had said, kneeling in front of him and taking his hands in her own. ‘We will find a way.’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous! What the devil do you think you can do?’ he had shouted in angry frustration, making Vinny look at him with quiet hatred in her eyes. It was more than he could bear and, leaving the two of them weeping together, he had left the house, stopping only to clamp his hat on his head.
Now, looking at his son, so beset by gloom, he longed to comfort him, to take back his anger. He imagined he could hear Frances speaking so clearly that for a moment he really thought she was in the room. ‘If you impoverish your son, what do you think he will do? He will do what all gamblers have done before him, he will go back to the gaming table to try and recoup. Is that what you want, to make a lifelong gambler of him?’
He sat down beside him. ‘I am sorry I shouted at you, Duncan, but you must understand—’
‘Oh, do not start again,’ Duncan said, looking round wildly for a means of escape. ‘I have said I am sorry. I did not mean it to happen. If you are going to ring a peal over me about it every time we meet, I had as lief go to Risley this minute.’
‘No, you will go back to school until I am ready to take you. And you will stay at school, do you hear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Marcus did not know what else he could have done; the boy had to be checked. Gambling had been the ruination of many a good man and he did not want his son to go down that road. His fury should really be directed at those who led him astray, but that was not Frances Corringham and he should not have given her a jobation over it. If only she would behave more like a woman, be a little meek, show she cared what he thought, instead of returning every blow of his with one of her own.
And now, thanks to Duncan and her stepson, he had cut himself off from her company, had spoiled any chance he might have had of becoming close to her again. And they had been doing so well lately! He ordered out the carriage and escorted Duncan back to school in almost total silence. He was unprepared for another battle when he returned home and summoned Lavinia to the library.
She received the news that her art lessons were to come to an end and she would not visit Corringham House again with floods of tears. ‘It is not my fault if Duncan behaves like a ninny, is it? It is not fair! I liked going to Corringham House. I do not see why I should stop going, just because my brother falls into a bumblebath.’
He handed her his handkerchief. ‘It was time the lessons came to an end, Lavinia. I never said they would go on indefinitely, and the Countess told me herself that she thought she had taught you as much as she could and you needed someone more illustrious—’
‘More illustrious, Papa? Who can be more illustrious than Lady Corringham?’
‘Her words, not mine, Lavinia.’
‘No doubt she said it because you were up in the trees about something. Lady Corringham was kind to me. She wasn’t forever flying into the boughs.’
‘No, if anything she was too indulgent. As I have been.’
‘You, indulgent! Papa, how can you say so?’ she cried and went into peals of hysterical laughter.
He stood watching her, his hands clenched beside him. How had his daughter become so wilful? Who had taught her to answer back? ‘Lavinia,’ he said, through gritted teeth, ‘that is enough. I have made my decision.’
She stopped crying suddenly and wiped her eyes. ‘You know in your heart, if you have one, that none of this was Lady Corringham’s fault,’ she sniffed. ‘And it was not the Earl’s either. If anyone is to blame it is Benedict Willoughby.’
‘Young Willoughby? What makes you say so?’
‘Duncan told me. We always tell each other things, always have, ever since we were little. The whole thing was Benedict’s idea. He wanted a night out of school and he persuaded Duncan to tell the master you wanted him home for a few days and that he could bring a friend.’
‘That much the master told me. You had better go on.’
‘Benedict always has a pocketful of money—more than you allow Duncan—and he wanted to go to a gambling hell, but they were not allowed in. Then they came upon the Earl of Corringham and asked him to vouch for them. He was against it, but Benedict knew that the Earl had promised her ladyship he would not gamble again and so he said he would tell her if his lordship did not get them in. His lordship was very worried about displeasing his stepmother and so he agreed. But he truly did not mean to get Duncan into trouble.’
‘Oh, you are privy to his lordship’s intentions, are you?’
‘He called while you were taking Duncan back to school.’
‘And you received him?’ Marcus could hardly believe his ears. ‘Don’t you know better than that?’
‘It did no harm. Miss Hastings was present, I did not see him alone.’
‘What else did he say?’
‘He wanted to be sure Duncan would keep his word about not ratting on him. I assured him he had, but you had found out by other means…’
Marcus smiled grimly. Unfortunately for the young man, he had been seen with the boys by one of the proctors from the school whose task it was to keep an eye on miscreants and root them out from undesirable places. He had also spoken to others who were there and the full extent of Duncan’s debts had come to light. In view of that, he had been brought home for his father to punish him. He was lucky he had not been expelled. ‘And no doubt he will by now be facing his stepmother.’
‘Yes, but Papa,’ she went on, ‘will you not own you have misjudged her ladyship and allow to me visit her again?’
He had been unjust, he knew that. And he was punishing himself as much as everyone else. ‘I will certainly speak to her ladyship, but as for you resuming your lessons, I do not think so…’
‘But, Papa, why not?’
‘Lavinia, I have said my last word on the subject. Now go to your room and find something useful to do.’
Sulkily she went. He paced up and down for a few minutes and then changed into riding clothes and went to the mews to have his horse saddled. A good ride to clear his head and then another visit to Corringham House. Apologising did not come easy to him, as Frances had not been slow to point out, but he was truly sorry for bursting in on her and accusing her of…what had he said? He could not altogether recall, he had been so angry.
He was not usually governed by his temper. He was known as a level-headed fair-minded man who listened before making judgements. Why had he suddenly changed? It had happened since coming to London and seeing Frances again, of learning that she had not gone into a decline over him, that she had been managing very well without him all these years. And seeing what a good mother she had been and how lost and inadequate he felt with his own children had only served to make matters worse.
Could it be that he was jealous? He laughed at himself as he turned his horse in at the park gates and set off across the grass at a gallop. Demon was a powerful horse and had not had much real exercise lately. Being out in the rookeries with Donald for nights on end meant he was rarely up early enough to go riding and later in the day, he had been occupied with social engagements and escorting Lavinia back and forth to Corringham House. Which brought his thoughts back to Frances.
What did he want to say to her? Was sorry enough? Donald had advised him to lay all before her and he had almost decided to do that, but Duncan’s escapade had intervened.
Could they recover the ground they had made after that visit to the orphanage which had been so enjoyable? He slowed his horse to a walk and regained the bridle-way.
‘Stanmore! Here you are!’
He looked up from his reverie to find Donald wheeling his horse to ride beside him. ‘Hallo, my friend.’
‘Why so downpin? Lost a fortune, have you?’
‘Not money, no.’
‘Then she turned you down?’
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br /> ‘Who?’
‘The fair Countess, of course.’
‘Haven’t asked her.’
‘Marcus, I despair of you. If anyone had told me that the Duke of Loscoe would become tongue-tied over a lady, I would have wagered my best evening coat they were drawing a bow at a venture.’
‘I am not tongue-tied. The opposite is true. I have said too much.’
‘Oh, you told her about the bantling and she is not in the mood to forgive?’
‘I never got as far as that.’
‘Oh, I see.’ It was said knowingly. ‘You have perhaps heard the latest on dit?’
‘What latest? You mean about me being always on the Countess of Corringham’s doorstep?’
‘Worse.’
‘You had better tell me,’ he said grimly. ‘I shall hear it sooner or later.’
‘I was going into a tobacconist’s in Bond Street the other day, when who should draw up in a barouche but Lady Barbour and Mrs Harcourt. They had the top down and were talking quite loudly, no doubt for my benefit, for I know they had seen me. I was about to turn and doff my hat, but their words stayed me.’
‘Go on.’
‘They have heard about the child. And, according to Mrs Harcourt, it belongs to you and…’ he hesitated, knowing his lordship’s uncertain temper ‘…the Countess of Corringham. It appears you and she have been lovers for years, even before you married your late wife, and though the child was put out for adoption, now you are single again, you are trying to find it and are intent on setting up home with her.’
‘My God! Is there no limit to that woman’s malice?’ The words were said quietly but that didn’t mean he was sanguine about it. Far from it. He was on his way to visit Frances, to make his peace with her, but how could he go after this? What could he say? He could not tell her that malicious tattlers were tearing her reputation to shreds and all because of him. He wondered how long before she heard it and what she would do. There would be no more mocking laughter, but misery. The fact that it was all a tissue of lies made no difference, the damage had been done. His plans for telling her he loved her, had always loved her and wanted her to be his wife, had been blown away on the wind.
But somehow he must let her know how sorry he was, sorry for everything, the rumours, blaming her for Duncan’s scrape, stopping Lavinia going to her, all of it. He could not leave her again with the words unsaid. He would wait until the night of the ball, when everyone would be in costume. Somehow he would find a way of having a private conversation with her.
‘What are you going to do about it?’ Donald’s voice broke into his reverie.
‘I do not know. If Lord Barber had not been so old and infirm, I might be tempted to call him out but since we are dealing with women, they must be made to eat their words, and finding that child and his mother is the only solution. Have you made any headway at all?’
‘None. I think I must have shown that picture to every inhabitant of London outside the ton. The lady might, of course, be masquerading in high Society, a demi-rep or someone’s light o’ love…’
‘No. That child is in the rookeries, I know it. Poole might already have found them and if that is so, heaven help them.’
‘I don’t think so. That was why I was looking for you. If my informant is correct, Poole is going to Derbyshire and means to lead the framework knitters in an attack on Loscoe Court. You have one of the hated mills on your land…’
‘It is rented, man, I don’t work it.’
‘They won’t care about that, not if Poole tells them differently.’
‘When is this to happen?’
‘On the ninth of June, two days hence. We’d best be there.’
‘But I am engaged to go to the Willoughby ball on the eleventh.’
‘Seems to me, the trouble at Risley is more important than dancing with your belle amie. Besides, with luck we could have it all sewn up right and tight and be back in time, if we rode post haste. You might be late, but these affairs go on all night, don’t they?’
It was all very well for Donald to roast him, but if the frameworkers were intent on causing trouble at Risley, he ought to go. He had intended to go home after the ball, after he had put things right with Frances, knowing it would be the last time he would see her for how long—another seventeen years? Now, even that was to be denied to him. He cursed loudly and fluently and returned to Stanmore House to make his preparations.
It took Frances and Sir Percival, who had volunteered to be her escort, twenty minutes to get through the crush at the entrance to the Willoughby mansion in Piccadilly. It seemed as though the whole haut monde was intent on squeezing through the door at once, though some were so heavily disguised beneath cloaks and masks and extraordinary headgear that they were unrecognisable. Frances, waiting her turn in the line for admittance, was sure that many had come without invitations.
‘This is the worst squeeze I have ever encountered,’ she whispered to her companion. ‘Hold on to your hat.’
His hat was a vast tricorne which went with the much-decorated uniform of Napoleon Bonaparte. She had laughed when he arrived at Corringham House with his carriage. ‘I do hope the Duke of Wellington does not put in an appearance or you will start another war.’
‘And if he sees you, he will take you for a serving wench and order you to fetch him a bumper of brandy before settling you on his knee. What mad whim persuaded you to dress like that? You will be sent hither and thither all evening, fetching and carrying.’
‘Do you think I can carry it off that well?’
‘You do everything well, my dear,’ he had said, escorting her out to his carriage.
He was a perfect gentleman and very attentive and she wished, in some perverse way, that she could love him enough to marry him. But she did not and never could and so they continued to be the best of friends. Knowing the ways of the ton, she wondered that the gossips had never breathed a whisper about their friendship, but then it would not be scandalous enough for them. Two mature people free to marry if they wished, but choosing not to, had little in it to interest them, not when there were juicier morsels to chew on.
On the other hand, the amours of the Duke of Loscoe were meat and drink to the tattlers. A man of mystery, a superior, arrogant man, a widower who was, according to them, in want of a wife. Whom would he choose? Why could she not stop thinking about him? Why did every mundane thought and gesture bring him to mind, as if he lived inside her head? Had she not decided that the Duke of Loscoe was a lost cause and that, if he was intent on being objectionable, she was better off without him? Why could she not make herself believe it?
‘At last,’ Percy murmured, as they reached the head of the stairs where Lady Willoughby stood beside her husband, waiting to greet them.
Her ladyship was dressed in a bottle green satin tunic, baggy trousers and a matching turban, meant to indicate something of Indian origin. Her husband had eschewed costume and was wearing his usual black evening suit. On his other side, Felicity stood demurely dressed in a diaphanous white gown over a white satin slip. It was decorated with swathes of greenery meant to represent a wood nymph. It would have been a good choice for a young lady’s come-out ball except that Felicity was far from nymphlike.
Beside Felicity stood a tall youth of perhaps seventeen, in what was obviously his first suit of evening clothes and very uncomfortable he looked too. Frances assumed that this was Benedict. If James was to be believed, he had been the ringleader in the escapade at the gaming hell and Duncan Stanmore, being two years younger, was no more than his willing accomplice. Why Marcus had not been able to see that, she did not know.
All she did know was that she had not seen him or Lavinia since that uncomfortable confrontation. Would he come tonight? Did it matter? She had completed the portrait and sent it round to Stanmore House, telling herself she was glad to see the last of it. But it had been good—even in modesty she realised that. She had succeeded in catching the mood of her subject, pensive and d
efiant at the same time. The mouth was determined, yet the eyes held a faraway, dreamy expression. Telling her to think of something pleasant had certainly worked.
‘Countess, how charming you look,’ Lady Willoughby exclaimed, as the couple in front passed into the ballroom and Frances found herself face to face with her hostess. ‘But I am glad you are not masked; you might have been taken for one of my servants.’ And she went into peals of nervous laughter.
‘Her ladyship’s demeanour will soon disabuse anyone of that idea,’ Percy said pompously. ‘Servility is not to be found among her attributes.’
‘Good evening, Sir Percival,’ her ladyship said, choosing to ignore his put-down.
He doffed his hat and swept her an elegant leg. ‘My lady, your obedient.’ And then, passing on. ‘Good evening, Willoughby. Miss Willoughby. And young Willoughby.’
The greetings returned, they went into the ballroom, to be met by a cacophony of sound. The dancing had not yet begun and the musicians were still tuning their instruments to the accompaniment of loud voices trying to be heard one above the other, calling each other, making jokes, commenting on each other’s costumes. This, if Lady Willoughby had anything to do with it, was going to be the event of the Season.
Frances and Percy joined in, talking to acquaintances and catching up on the latest news, though Frances was alert for whispers behind fans which might suggest she was the subject of gossip. She found herself glancing now and again towards the door to catch sight of new arrivals. Some were easily recognised, but others were well disguised. Could Marcus be one of those? Why was she looking for him? They had surely said all there was to be said to each other and any more discourse would only add to the hurt.
When the orchestra struck up the first country dance, she still had not seen him and allowed herself to be led on to the floor by Percy, who then relinquished her to Lord Graham for the next dance. And then she stood up with Mr Butterworth who, unlike his wife, was as thin as a pole, and after that more partners for a full hour and a half, until she called a halt through exhaustion.