The Savage Marquess

by M C Beaton

  By the time Lucinda was cantering along Rotten Row side by side with Lord Freddy, she began to feel very angry indeed. Men who lived lives of dissipation were called rakes. There was a nastier name for women who dared to follow the same course. How would Rockingham like it if he saw her in low company?

  She reined in her horse and Lord Freddy brought his mount to a halt as well. “Who is the biggest rake in London, Lord Freddy?” she asked.

  Lord Freddy thought that Rockingham was by far the biggest, but it would hardly do to voice that opinion aloud. So he thought of the next best—or next worst. Rockingham was dissipated, but one could hardly call him evil. But, thought Lord Freddy, Mr. Dancer, that arbiter of fashion, that fabulously wealthy man, was surely downright evil. He specialized in ruining respectable young ladies and actually seemed to gain more pleasure from their distress and humiliation than from the seductions themselves.

  “Mr. Hermes Dancer,” he said.

  “Ah, and where is this Mr. Dancer to be found?”

  “All the ton affairs. Good ton, but a disgusting lecher. Beg pardon. My wretched tongue,” said Lord Freddy turning pink with embarrassment.

  “I have been to a few parties,” said Lucinda thoughtfully, “but I do not remember anyone of that name.”

  Despite the duchess’s threat, Lucinda had received a great many social invitations since her marriage.

  “He has been in Paris like the rest of the world. Now he has returned. He will be at the Bellamys’ rout this evening.”

  Lucinda’s brow furrowed in thought and Lord Freddy wondered what she was thinking. Lord Freddy was not yet looking for a wife. He found it comfortable to squire Lucinda around. He liked her old-fashioned ways and how she gravitated, almost by instinct, to the pleasanter and more respectable members of society.

  He would have been amazed had he known that Lucinda was seriously considering attracting the attention of Mr. Dancer.

  She had become slowly more sophisticated and sure of herself during her husband’s absence. She had planned, on his return, to show her gratitude to him by being a meek and complacent wife. She had shyly hoped he would approve of the redecoration of his home. But his drunken embrace of the night before had not revolted her. Far from it. He had smelled of sweat and drink, but not offensively so. His touch had started a fire in her body. She had found herself in that moment yearning for his embrace, and that was what had made her desperate mind find exactly the right words to repulse him. When Rockingham kissed her, she wanted him to be sober. More than that—she wanted him to be in love with her. The thought of his mistress, Maria Deauville, burned in her mind. Lucinda did not yet know that what she felt for Maria Deauville was a burning hate caused by jealousy. All she knew was that she wanted revenge on the marquess. She wanted to see if he could be made jealous.

  Benson, who had been left behind in London to continue her spying while her mistress, Mrs. Deauville, went to Paris, was lingering outside in Berkeley Square when Kennedy emerged to go to the shops to buy her mistress some ribbons.

  Kennedy did not know she was betraying her mistress to an enemy by gossiping to Benson. She did not know of Maria Deauville’s reputation or her connection with the marquess. Benson had led Kennedy to believe that she worked for a correct and elderly lady. Convinced that Benson was as discreet and loyal as she was herself, Kennedy felt free to gossip.

  Benson quickly joined her and persuaded her to go to a pastry cook’s for lemonade before continuing on her shopping expedition.

  As soon as the two ladies’ maids were seated in the pastry cook’s, Kennedy told Benson of the marquess’s arrival home. “My lady has told me to put a lock on her bedroom door,” she said. “I am going on to the locksmith’s directly after I purchase the ribbons.”

  “But surely it isn’t natural for a wife to remain a virgin,” exclaimed Benson.

  “It’s not for us to query the ways of our betters,” said Kennedy primly. Then she relented. “But I tell you, Benson, with the master being so drunk and him coming back with a lot of doxies, it stands to reason the mistress wouldn’t want anything to do with him.”

  Benson carefully treasured up this gossip. She had been told to report to Mr. Carter in Mrs. Deauville’s absence.

  And so, in his turn, Mr. Carter learned of Rockingham’s noisy return home and of the request for a lock on the bedroom door.

  He thought quickly. He would like to see the Rockinghams together, but, frightened of his cousin’s tricky temper, did not want to call at Berkeley Square. “Where do the Rockingham’s go today?” he asked Benson.

  “Kennedy said her mistress was to go to a rout at the Bellamys’.”

  “Splendid,” said Mr. Carter, ignoring Benson’s hopefully outstretched hand. The maid was paid enough by Maria. He had no intention of wasting any of his money on a mere servant.

  7

  Chumley lay in bed while Lucinda was out riding, luxuriating in the feel of lavender-scented sheets and enjoying the ministrations of the pretty little housemaid who appeared to open his curtains and present him with a steaming cup of chocolate.

  The marquess would soon ruin it all. Chumley was sure of that. Then it would be back to living in a cold, dirty, servantless house. Chumley sipped his chocolate and thought about his new mistress. It was a pity she could not be spared the inevitable. Now, the marquess, Chumley reflected, always behaved badly in town. On his travels and adventures, on the other hand, he lived frugally and healthily. Except Paris, of course, thought Chumley with a shudder. Then, when he traveled to his estates in Wiltshire, he lived a quiet life there. He was a good landlord and no one who knew the Savage Marquess of London would recognize the hardworking lord of the country estates who attended meticulously to his tenants’ wants and drank water with his meals.

  A devil in town and an angel in the country, mused Chumley. Perhaps for the gentle marchioness’s sake, it might be well to see if he could prompt his master into taking a visit to Cramley, his country home, where the rooms were always clean and airy and the servants remained the same.

  My lady had done well with her choice of servants, thought Chumley, except perhaps for the lady’s maid, who looked like a large rawboned mare. Ladies’ maids, in Chumley’s opinion, should be neat, small-boned, and French. He heard his master beginning to stir in the next room and hoped the marquess would not call for another bath. He got out of bed and dressed and then went down to the kitchens to order the marquess’s breakfast.

  The Marquess of Rockingham arrived at the breakfast table an hour later. He had to ask Chumley where he could now expect to find his breakfast. Before, he had eaten it served on a battered desk in a gloomy study at the back of the hall. But the little morning room, next to the drawing room on the second floor, had been refurbished. The marquess eyed the primrose silk upholstery of the new furniture and the primrose silk curtains at the sunny windows and wondered for the first time how much all this redecoration was costing him.

  “Where is my lady?” he asked Humphrey as the butler slid a plate of steak and mushrooms in front of him and filled a tankard with small beer.

  “My lady is out riding.”

  “Alone?”

  “No, my lord. I believe my lady is escorted by Lord Frederick Pomfret.”

  “Well, she won’t come to any harm there,” said the marquess, opening a copy of The Times, which had been ironed so that he would not get his fingers stained with ink.

  “I think I hear my lady arriving back,” said Humphrey.

  “Good. Fetch her in.”

  After a few moments, his wife entered the room. He put down the paper and looked at her. She was wearing a dashing green velvet riding dress with gold frogs, and a mannish riding hat was rakishly balanced on her curls.

  “Sit down, Lucinda,” said the marquess. “Had breakfast?”

  “No, Rockingham.”

  “Good. You may join me. Now, tell me how much of my money you have managed to get through since my departure?”

  “
I have all the bills in my room, Rockingham, but I would say about eight hundred pounds.”

  “And your new wardrobe?”

  “That is included in the price.”

  “Come, my sweeting, stop funning. The furniture is of the first stare, the whole house has been rewallpapered and painted, and your clothes are expensively cut.”

  Lucinda removed her hat and shook out her curls. “It is like this, Rockingham,” she said. “The servants and I painted and wallpapered the rooms ourselves. The furniture is not Sheraton or Chippendale but is made by an excellent but unknown craftsman in Islington. My clothes come from a dressmaker in Whitechapel, Mrs. Meyer, a German lady. I met her by chance when I was in an East End warehouse choosing paint—it is so much cheaper there than in the West End, you know—and we fell to talking, and she told me she could make clothes as well as any famous London dressmaker but could not afford a good address and so I decided to patronize her. She is quite brilliant. I have only to show her an illustration in, say, La Belle Assemblée, then she can copy it and yet add an individual touch to it.”

  “And how did you manage to find this warehouse with cheap paint?”

  “Ah, that was easy. A poor section of the town does not charge the same high prices for goods as an expensive quarter, and so I went to the poor. As you can see, Rockingham, it is just the same quality as you will find in your friends’ houses. In fact, probably the most expensive item I bought was a closed stove for the kitchen.”

  “I did not know I had married an astute businesswoman,” he said with a laugh.

  Lucinda looked at the laughter in his green eyes, at the strength of his handsome face, and then at his long, slim hands. Her heart beat at a suffocating rate and she looked away.

  Humphrey served Lucinda with her usual breakfast of toast and tea and then left the room.

  The marquess picked up his knife and fork and continued to eat with all the signs of a hearty appetite.

  His wife surveyed him with growing irritation. He showed absolutely no recollection of the events of the night before.

  “Is it going to be your habit, Rockingham, to descend on me with parties of rowdy drunken friends and Cyprians?”

  “To what are you referring?”

  “To the events of last night.”

  “What happened last night?” the marquess asked with all the conscienceless air of one who usually forgets the episodes of the previous evening and thinks all the world behaves in the same way.

  “You came back here from Paris accompanied by the dregs of humanity. When you had sent them packing, or rather, Chumley had, you then mounted to my bedchamber and attempted to assault me.”

  “Was I successful?” the marquess asked curiously.

  “No.”

  “Then why are you looking so nasty? You agreed not to interfere with my way of life.”

  “I cannot stop you from turning your own home into a bear garden,” said Lucinda. “I can, however, attempt to keep you to your promise to leave me alone for six months.”

  The marquess put down his knife and fork and regarded his wife in haughty amazement.

  “Are you daring to tell me what I should or should not do?”

  “I am merely reminding you of your promise.”

  “Very well,” the marquess shouted. “You have my promise, you whey-faced Methodist. Get out of here and do not dare to spoil my breakfast by moralizing again.”

  “I am not finished my own breakfast,” Lucinda said, trying to stand her ground, although her voice shook.

  The marquess stood up, went around the table, picked up her plate of toast and cup of tea, and threw them both in the fireplace.

  “Now you have,” he grated. “Get out!”

  Lucinda fled.

  Kennedy returned from her shopping expedition to tell Lucinda the locksmith would be arriving within the hour and found her mistress, facedown on her bed, crying her eyes out. Kennedy clucked and exclaimed and went down to the kitchens to fetch Lucinda a restorative cup of tea, where she heard about the shouting from the morning room and how my lady’s breakfast had been found among smashed china on the hearth. Kennedy was very fond of her young mistress but found with a twinge of unease that she was gleefully saving up all this dramatic gossip to relay to Benson. Benson was so interested, so sympathetic, and surely so discreet, that it was a pleasure to unburden herself. The lady’s maid was about to leave the kitchen with the tea when Humphrey added with a shake of his head, “It’s a strange marriage. I was waiting outside the door of the morning room in case I was called, and I couldn’t help hearing what they were saying. Seems the mistress got my lord to agree not to touch her for a sixmonth.”

  Kennedy’s eyes widened in amazement. All thought of discretion was gone. This was too good a piece of gossip to keep to herself.

  Lucinda drove out that afternoon to make calls on a few of the new friends she had made.

  The Marquess of Rockingham heard her go but made no move to stop her. He fortunately did not know of the new lock on Lucinda’s bedroom door, for the servants, fearing his wrath, had smuggled the locksmith up the back stairs.

  For the moment, the odd restless feeling which usually plagued him had left him. He admitted reluctantly that it had a lot to do with the calm and pleasant atmosphere created by the new furnishings. He decided to have a relaxed afternoon at home, reading a book.

  He settled down in the saloon after having taken a look in his study. That had not been touched by the decorators. It looked as gloomy as a prison cell. The marquess sipped tea and idly followed the text of the book, giving it only half his attention. It would be quite jolly, he thought, perhaps to have a simple meal at home, talk to Lucinda, and go to bed early. Then he wondered whether she had any engagements. He looked at the card rack on the mantel and then rose to have a closer look. That was when he heard Humphrey opening the door to a visitor. The marquess frowned. He should have told the butler that he was not at home to anyone and so have a peaceful few hours.

  “The Duchess of Barnshire,” announced Humphrey gloomily.

  The marquess swung about, his expression guarded and withdrawn. “Good day, Mother,” he said. “I have no doubt you have called to berate me about my marriage.”

  “Of course,” said the duchess. “Of all the follies you have committed, Rockingham, this is the worst.”

  The marquess wondered illogically whether his mother had ever called him by his first name. “Sit down, Mother,” he said. “Do not exercise yourself too much over a matter which does not concern you.”

  “You should have asked our permission,” raged his mother. Her eyes were green, but unlike her son’s, of a paler color. Her carefully dressed black hair under a turban of purple velvet showed streaks of gray. Her face, weather-beaten from many hours on the hunting field, was harsh and masculine.

  “I must remind you I am not a minor,” the marquess said. “Nor can you indulge in any of your favorite disciplines like having me stripped naked and beaten in front of the servants or locked in a closet without food for two days.”

  “Tish! Do you still hold that against me? All children are disciplined thus. Wait until you have children of your own. The lash of the whip never did you any harm.”

  A picture of the small, terrified, oversensitive child he had once been rose before the marquess’s eyes.

  “Let me make one thing clear,” he said. “My marriage is my business and I will not stand criticism of my wife.”

  “Even a wife who removes my portrait and says it is because she did not like it? Even a wife who had me shown out before my call was over?”

  “She did that?” exclaimed the marquess.

  “Yes. And she had obviously been doing the housework herself.”

  A slow smile crossed the marquess’s face. For the first time, a genuine glow of admiration for Lucinda spread through his mind.

  “I am glad she managed to find another place for that portrait of you, Mother,” he said. “Although I admit it does y
ou justice, from the hard lines of your face to the nasty little smile on your mouth.”

  His mother rose, and before he could guess what she meant to do, she had delivered a backhanded slap across his cheek. One of her many rings cut a jagged scratch.

  He rang the bell. “Humphrey,” he said quietly, “show her grace out and make sure she never sets foot in this house again.”

  “You will be sorry for this insolence,” said his mother. “Very sorry.”

  The marquess stood still after she had left. Then he took out a handkerchief and dabbed at the cut on his cheek. He noticed his hand was trembling slightly, and swore.

  Gone was the peace of the day. He was in London, and London was full of pleasures and amusements. He called for his carriage and summoned Chumley and told him to be ready to accompany him. And Chumley, seeing the hectic gleam in his master’s eyes, cursed the Duchess of Barnshire under his breath. The valet knew another long day and night of dissipation lay ahead.

  “Why, Miss Benson!” exclaimed Kennedy as she turned into Berkeley Square, carrying a bottle of magic fluid which was supposed to remove all stains. She had discovered a small splash of wine on Lucinda’s blue silk gown, had read an advertisement for Johnson’s Patent Stain Remover in the Morning Post, and had gone to the Haymarket to buy some.

  “I was out walking,” said Benson, “and hoped to see you, Miss Kennedy.”

  “You do seem to have a great deal of free time,” said Kennedy.

  “You forget, my mistress is abroad,” said Benson, “and the fact is, I am mortal worried because she did not take me with her. What if she returns with one of them Frenchies and I lose my lob?”

  Kennedy was immediately sympathetic, as Benson knew she would be, and so Kennedy was easily persuaded to walk a little way to a pastry cook’s. A warning bell was sounding in Kennedy’s head, telling her not to be indiscreet. But poor Benson was so worried about her job, and was such a good and comforting friend, that Kennedy soon found herself telling the sympathetic Benson about Lucinda’s marriage.