by M C Beaton
“Prayers are not always answered,” Lucinda said.
“Yes, they are,” sighed Mr. Westerville. “Always. Although sometimes the answer is no. But I am sure there is a gentleman waiting for you in London, a gentleman of refinement and breeding and infinite kindness.…”
“Why does no one answer this damned bell,” roared the Marquess of Rockingham. “Oh, a pox on my curst head!”
“The staff all gave notice this morning, my lord,” said Chumley, his wooden-faced valet.
“What! Why? I pay them enough.”
“Your lordship was in your altitudes when you returned from Watier’s last night. You had unhitched one of your carriage horses and ridden it home, my lord.”
“So what’s the fuss?”
“Your lordship rode the animal in through the front door and up the staircase. The horse was unnerved and behaved accordingly. The resultant mess on the stairs gave the housekeeper the vapors. The housemaids went into hysterics. You dismounted and slapped two of them. You then collapsed on the landing and fell asleep. When two of the footmen lifted you up to carry you to bed, you awoke and attempted to throw one of them over the banisters. Before you left for Watier’s, you had a wild party here, attended by ladies of cracked reputation. I have this morning engaged two scrubbing women to clean up the worst of the mess, and after I have attended to your lordship, I shall call at an agency and employ more staff.”
“Oh, the deuce. Since when were servants so nice in their tastes?”
“It is the changing fashion,” said Chumley, stooping to pick up a soiled cravat. “I believe licentiousness and drunkenness are quite exploded.”
The marquess, who had picked up a hand mirror to study his ravaged face, threw it furiously at his valet, who fielded it with the dexterity of long practice.
But as the valet handed the mirror back to his master and turned away, the very stiffness of his back registered disapproval.
“Oh, the deuce,” said the marquess. “I didn’t try to hit you. But you are too free-spoken, Chumley.”
“I always have been,” said Chumley. “It is the only way I can cope with your lordship’s humors and stay in your employ.”
“You would have humors too, you nutcracker-faced martinet, if you drank as much as I. This little gathering I held here—very wild, was it?”
“The wildest, my lord.”
“It’s this damned ennui that plagues me. What a pesky, boring frivolity this London Season is.”
“Then may I suggest, my lord, we resume our travels and adventures? You are not out of sorts when you are not bored.”
“My adventures are over for the moment. I must find a wife.”
“My lord!”
“It is not unusual. I want sons.”
“Your lordship’s reputation is such that I fear your lordship will have to learn to court the ladies.”
“Fiddle! When did a rich and titled man have to court any of the creatures? Why, Lady Bessie Dunstable, the belle of two Seasons, has settled for that creaking old duke.”
“The duke is tranquil and manageable. I fear rumor has it that you frighten the fair sex.”
“Well, I shall behave prettily for just as long as it is necessary to find me a bride. Does that suit you?”
“Your liaison with Mrs. Deauville is well known, my lord. Mrs. Deauville is good ton. Society expects you to marry her sooner or later.”
“Then society is quite mad. Maria Deauville amuses me, but she would not be faithful to me for a twelvemonth were she married to me.”
Chumbley began to strop a razor. “Your lordship’s cousin, the Honorable Zeus Carter, is waiting below.”
“Why did you not tell me sooner? Not that I am interested in seeing the weakling.”
“I feared the intelligence would put your lordship in a passion had I divulged it first thing this morning,” said Chumley, advancing on his master with hot towels. “I can tell him you are not at home.”
“No, I may as well see him. I wonder what brings him to London. His regiment is in Portugal.”
The Honorable Zeus waited impatiently in the library downstairs. He had been a lusty baby, a fact that had prompted his doting parents to bless him with the name of Zeus. But he had grown up tall and weedy and effeminate. He was the marquess’s heir. He paced up and down the library, occasionally pausing to narrow his eyes and imagine what the room would look like redecorated to his own taste. The way Rockingham was going on, he could not live very long.
He studied his rouged face in the glass over the fireplace. It was, he thought, twisting his head from side to side, an aristocratic and noble face, marked with faint lines of sensitivity. Such a face should not be exposed to the burning sun of the Peninsula, and such delicate shell-like ears should not be abused by the roar of cannon. He had sold out of his regiment. Now he was in need of funds. He had had to exit from his lodgings by the back door, as the duns were camped out at the front.
Goodness, this room was like a pigsty! One of Rockingham’s notorious parties, no doubt. A red silk garter hung from the chandelier and a scanty lace shift was draped around a bust of Plato above the door. He wondered idly how it had got up there.
He rang the bell impatiently, but no one answered. He peered around the door into the shadowy hall and called, “Wine, I say! Where’s the decanter?” But only silence answered his call. Rockingham’s servants must have given notice, apart from that stiff martinet of a valet, who stuck by his master through thick and thin.
Mr. Carter slumped petulantly into a chair and closed his eyes. In no time at all, he was fast asleep.
After half an hour, he came slowly awake, sensing someone was looming over him. He opened his eyes wide, under short stubby lashes darkened with lampblack, and stared up.
The saturnine face of the Marquess of Rockingham looked down at him.
“Greetings, coz,” said Mr. Carter, struggling upright. “How goes the world?”
“Tolerably well,” said the marquess curtly. “What brings you here?”
“To make sure you are in good health.”
The marquess looked at his cousin cynically. He had odd green eyes, like the eyes of a cat. Apart from purplish bruises under those eyes, Mr. Carter noticed with a now-familiar twinge of disappointment that his cousin looked remarkably fit. His linen was impeccable, his tailoring excellent enough to make even Brummell envious, and his cravat was a miracle of starch and sculptured folds. His hair shone with all the healthy blue-black sheen of a male blackbird’s plumage. His long, strong legs, encased in skintight pantaloons, owed nothing to padding or false calves. Mr. Carter looked sadly down at his own legs and then muttered under his breath. One of his false wooden calves had slipped. He petulantly jerked the harness that held it up under his stocking back into place.
“Well, as you can see, I am still alive, so take yourself off,” said the marquess, breaking the silence. “Why aren’t you with your regiment?”
“I sold out.”
“Indeed!”
“I am not cut out for a soldier’s life. The men were disgracefully undisciplined. When I shouted, ‘Charge!’ they paid no attention.”
“You should have tried shouting your orders from the front of your troops and not the back,” said the marquess nastily. “I suppose you are come to dun me.”
Mr. Carter flushed. “You always credit me with the worst motives. I am come—”
“Stow it,” said the marquess rudely. “How much?”
“Five thousand pounds,” bleated Mr. Carter. He shrank back in his chair, prepared to endure the blast of his formidable cousin’s wrath. The sum was actually two thousand and he hoped to placate the marquess by eventually seeming to settle for a lesser sum.
But to his surprise, the marquess strode over to his desk, sat down, and began to write.
“Do you mean you are going to lend me the money?” squeaked Mr. Carter.
“I am giving it to you, as you have no intention of paying it back. I may as well start
off respectably married rather than having a cousin in the Fleet.”
Sheer shock forced Mr. Carter to leap to his feet. “Married! You! Who is the lady?”
“I don’t know,” grumbled the marquess, busily writing. “Does it matter?”
Mr. Carter let out a slow breath. Perhaps all hope was not lost. He tittered nervously. “You cannot just get married like that.”
“Oh, yes I can. I’ll marry the first suitable female who’ll have me. As long as she can breed, of course.”
This was too much. Mr. Carter sank slowly back down into his chair, pulled a Chinese fan from his pocket, and began to fan himself vigorously.
“Children,” he moaned.
“Lots and lots,” said the marquess cheerfully, sanding the draft and holding it out. “Now, take this and run or I may change my mind.”
Mr. Carter clutched the chair back for support as he stood up again. He took the draft in his little pink hands, delicately stained with cochineal.
Then he tucked it away in the tails of his bottle-green coat. “I say, coz, that means I won’t be your heir.”
“You never really were,” said the marquess. “I always planned to marry before I reached my dotage.”
“But you are already too old. You are thirty-five.”
The marquess sighed. “Give me back that draft, Zeus.”
“No need for that. My wretched tongue. Apologize most humbly.”
“Then good-bye.”
“I give you good day, coz.” Mr. Carter made a magnificent leg, almost touching his kneecap with his nose and then straightening up with many flourishes of a heavily scented handkerchief.
A sudden pain stabbed behind the marquess’s eye. He picked up the inkwell and threw it. Mr. Carter darted out and shut the door just as the heavy brass inkwell struck it.
He walked a little way away from the marquess’s town house, his heart beating hard. He had been so sure the marquess would have killed himself on some of his adventures or have drunk himself to death. Marriage!
He could only hope that no woman would take the wicked marquess as husband.
2
As the Earl of Clifton’s traveling carriage turned into Grosvenor Square, Lucinda began to feel sick with apprehension. So much depended on this post. It had been wonderful to see her father accommodated in a sunny room at Beechings and surrounded with every attention and comfort. She must do nothing to jeopardize this marvelous opportunity.
She must not let Mrs. Glossop’s parting words sound in her ears—but sound they still did as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of an imposing mansion. “Ismene will soon send you packing,” Mrs. Glossop had said. “She always was a spoilt, willful thing. You are a new toy, Lucinda, and she will soon tire of you.”
Lucinda wearily climbed down from the carriage, feeling stiff and shaky after the journey. She was ushered into a large hall with a black-and-white-tiled floor by a stately butler. The butler in turn summoned the housekeeper, remarking that the family was not at home, and he did not know when they were due to return.
Following the housekeeper up the staircase, Lucinda could not help wishing that Ismene, who knew the hour of her arrival, had stayed to welcome her. The richness of the house was intimidating, as were the indifferent painted eyes of the rows of Clifton ancestors who stared down at this shabby interloper from their gold frames on either side of the staircase.
“I have given you the room next to Lady Ismene so you can be on call at all times,” said the housekeeper. “My name is Mrs. Friend. Would you care for tea?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Lucinda, untying the strings of her bonnet.
The housekeeper gave a slight bob. Lucinda did not merit a full curtsy. When she had left, Lucinda looked about her. It was a pleasant sunny room with a single bed covered with a chintz canopy. The furniture was somewhat shabby, as if it had been brought down from the attics for her use. But the towels by the toilet table were soft and white and the cakes of soap were delicately scented.
A scratching at the door was followed by the entrance of a housemaid in a print gown and muslin cap, followed by a footman carrying Lucinda’s trunk. “I shall do my own unpacking,” said Lucinda, pink staining her cheeks. She did not want these grand London servants to see how very few gowns she had.
She smiled gently but they returned her smile with blank stares. Lucinda was that most despicable of creatures in the servants’ eyes—neither fish nor fowl, neither member of the family nor rich guest.
Lucinda slowly unpacked her clothes and put them away. Then she washed herself as thoroughly as she could and changed into a simple white cotton gown ornamented with little sprigs which she had embroidered herself. The cotton was a trifle coarse, but Lucinda was a good dressmaker, and she hoped its fashionable lines would make it acceptable to her new employer.
She pulled a battered chair over to the window, took a book from her reticule, and began to read. A footman brought in a tray with tea and biscuits. Lucinda had learned her lesson quickly. She neither smiled nor thanked him. Mrs. Glossop never thanked servants. It was not the Done Thing. Lucinda had assumed that was because of Mrs. Glossop’s customary lack of good breeding, but her quick intelligence told her that she would fare better with these London servants if she maintained a chilly distance.
The tea was freshly made and the sweet biscuits an unaccustomed luxury. After she had finished, Lucinda resumed her reading. The window was open and the warm sunlight flooding the room began to make her feel sleepy.
Ismene walked into Lucinda’s room an hour later and stood in the doorway surveying this new companion, who was fast asleep in the chair. Lucinda, Ismene noticed, was not precisely pretty, and that was good. Ismene would brook no competition from any companion. But the wealth of her chestnut hair with its glinting gold highlights made Ismene’s eyes narrow. Ismene’s own hair had to be rolled in curl papers every night. As if Ismene’s hard stare had penetrated her dreams, Lucinda suddenly came awake. She blushed and stood up. “I am sorry, Lady Ismene,” she said, immediately guessing this fashion plate must be her new mistress. “I was tired after the journey.”
“No matter,” said Ismene. She crossed to the large William and Mary wardrobe, pulled open the doors, and raised her thin eyebrows at the scanty array of frocks. “You are coming with me to Almack’s tonight,” she said. “You cannot wear any of these. Couldn’t you have done better than this?”
“I have no money,” said Lucinda.
“Oh, well, my maid, Kennedy, will make over one of mine for you. There’s a yellow thing I’m tired of. You can have it. And your hair had better be cut.”
“My hair!” Lucinda looked at Ismene in bewilderment. Lucinda’s hair was her only vanity. “Why?”
“Why, my lady,” corrected Ismene severely. “I don’t like all that hair of yours and that’s reason enough for you.”
Lucinda thought wearily of her father. “Very well, my lady,” she said quietly. “It shall be as you wish.”
“Then we shall be friends!” cried Ismene with a sudden change of mood. “You may call me Ismene when we are not in company. See, I quite dote on you already. Now, come to my room and we shall talk to Kennedy.”
She put an arm around Lucinda’s waist and led her into her own bedroom, which was richly furnished. “Kennedy,” she said to a lady’s maid, “this is my new companion, Miss Westerville. You must be quick and make over one of my old ball gowns for her. The yellow, I think. A trifle unbecoming, but since Lucinda is only a companion and may not dance, it will not matter. Now, Lucinda, let me tell you all about my beau. He is Jamie Macdonald, a Scotch laird, not rich, of course—the Scotch hardly ever are—but so divinely handsome and quelles jambes, my sweet, enough to make one swoon. He is not indifferent to me, I assure you, for he pressed my hand quite warmly when we met in the figure of the dance t’other night. Oh, he apologized and said he had momentarily lost his footing, but I knew better, and threw him a speaking glance. Of course, Mama noticed and said I m
ust at all times remember what was due to our name. But it is quite the thing to have an inamorata after one is married, and Jamie Macdonald would do very well. I have it in me to inspire great passion.”
“Indeed,” said Lucinda politely, grimacing as she tried to stifle a yawn.
“I must be engaged before the Season is over. If one is not engaged, then one is counted a great failure. Of course, there is always the Savage Marquess. ’Tis said he will marry anyone, but who would dare? So wild and rude and violent! And he has a mistress in keeping, a Mrs. Deauville, who is not an opera dancer or a Cyprian, but a lady of the ton, and accepted most everywhere—except Almack’s, of course.”
“Who is this savage marquess?” asked Lucinda.
“Rockingham. He looks like the devil, it is said, but too devastatingly handsome for words.” Ismene kissed the tips of her fingers.
“Is he rich?”
“Terribly so.”
“Then surely he has only to snap his fingers.” Lucinda looked surprised. Despite her poor circumstances, Lucinda was of good family, her father being the younger son of a baronet. She knew, from infrequent visits to her rich relations—relations who had failed to reply to any of her letters begging for help for her father—that the whole meaning of a fashionable marriage was business. Marriage was rightly regarded as a serious matter, with far more at stake than the gratification of momentary infatuations. Social compatibility, adequate provision for children and for the bride should she chance to become widowed, the formation of desirable connections, and the advancement of the family’s standing were the important purposes served by matchmaking.
Only when an aristocrat had fallen on hard times and needed to save his lands did he look outside his own caste. It was often whispered that marriage with the daughters of the mercantile class had infused much-needed new blood into some ancient lines which had begun to show alarming signs of producing totty-headed eccentrics.
“Oh, ladies have fallen in love with him, or so I hear, only to be shattered by his uncouth ways. It is rumored he is to attend the assembly rooms tonight. A situation très piquant, n’est-ce pas?”