How the Marquess Was Won

by Julie Anne Long

  Jonathan noticed the dawning smile before she even knew she was smiling. “And will you be going to London, Miss Vale?”

  “I’ll be going to London,’’ she announced. “Will you please pass the coffee?”

  “A good many more opportunities for governesses and the like in London,” Fanchette pronounced dispassionately.

  Phoebe looked up at her, and she was aware that she and Lisbeth were wearing nearly identical expressions. Lisbeth’s contained a hint of vindication.

  “ ‘And the like,’ ” Jonathan repeated, amused, as his mother left the room.

  She thought he’d winked, but then again, the aggressively polished silver might be making him squint.

  Chapter 19

  The very next day, the Silverton sisters actually sent a carriage for Phoebe at Miss Marietta Endicott’s academy. That was how eager they were for her company.

  It was a landau. Not quite as grand as the marquess’s landau, at least judging from the outside, of course, but still so large and plush inside she nearly bounced to the ceiling with every rut in the road. And there were more than a few between Sussex and London. She’d packed Charybdis into a large comfortable cushioned basket with a lid. He registered his objection to this with a steady nerve-grating keening.

  Every now and then a striped paw shot out of the top of it and waved around. She’d give it a pat and he’d tuck it back in.

  “You’ll like London,” she promised him. “You used to live there.”

  She was trying to reassure herself.

  She’d packed a single trunk with all of her clothes, including two walking dresses, her only two dresses appropriate for balls and parties, the green one and the soft gray one, which looked very well with her eyes, and one spectacularly fine bonnet nestled in its own box with its original wads of paper, as if it were an egg or a loaded pistol.

  Lisbeth hadn’t invited her to ride along in the Redmond carriage, as, she explained, there was no room, given that Jonathan and Argosy were coming along, too, and they hadn’t planned on another party from Sussex.

  “But I shall be delighted to see you there! What fun we all shall have!”

  Jules strolled into White’s more out of habit than desire, because he needed something familiar to orient himself in the ton again after the fever dream of the previous few days.

  It was the day after the first time he hadn’t gotten precisely what he wanted, and that was Phoebe Vale in his bed.

  The world looked different and he couldn’t say exactly why. Everything was as it ever was. It was evening, a Tuesday, and the club was thick with smoke and conversation. Drinkers drank, gentlemen took refuge from wives behind newspapers; footmen moved among the crowd with trays. As usual, Colonel Kefauver, long retired from the East India Company and veteran of any number of battles, most of them foreign, slept in his usual high-backed chair, legs splayed, snores fluttering up his cobweb-fine gray hair at soothing intervals.

  Jules handed his hat and coat and walking stick to the footman. And even before he was seen, a restless rustle began, a disturbance in the atmosphere, like an approaching storm, a sense that something exciting might be about to happen, that caused postures to straighten and heads to turn and fingers to drum.

  The two young men sitting in the bay window immediately stood and went in search of other chairs.

  Jules stared after them. They were both sporting forelocks.

  He frowned briefly and gave his head a little shake. He sensed everyone harking in his direction. And this was usual, too. He began to feel a semblance of peace settle in, if not contentment. It amused and gratified him, and it was a solid place from which to launch his future.

  “Brandy,” he told the footman, not necessarily because he wanted something to drink but because he wanted something to hold.

  And he settled in at the bay window, because of course that was by far the best table and when he was present, it was his by default.

  Which was when he saw Waterburn’s great wall of a back standing alongside d’Andre, and three or four other men, all of whom were huddled over the betting books and negotiating something with great earnestness.

  “Two hundred pounds says we’ll do it within two days—”

  “Two hundred? Are you mad, Waterburn? No, no, no. It needs to be interesting, and more . . . specific. And we need a defined period of time.”

  This apparently caused a moment of silent mad pondering.

  “I have it! We shall do it in . . . tiers! I’ll wager you . . . two hundred pounds for the first appearance of a nickname for her, but it has to be within two weeks . . . if one appears, you win.”

  “Excellent! I’ll take that wager.” Waterburn scribbled something. “I’ll wager you five hundred for word of hothouse flowers being sent to her.”

  “Mmm. I don’t know, old man. Difficult to prove.”

  “Nonsense. We’ll just ask the girls to verify it. And they have to be from someone with a title. And obviously not one of us.”

  “I like it. And . . . let’s say . . . one thousand pounds for a duel challenge. Upon which we shall call it ended and tell the whole ton what we’ve done so no one need actually be shot.”

  Waterburn snorted.

  “Very well. I win if it happens by the end of the month, in two weeks time. You win if it doesn’t.”

  “Done and done. And when you lose, I shall buy you supper, old man.”

  They giggled like schoolboys and clinched whatever the bet was with a single firmly pumped handshake. A few other young men clustered about to see what the fuss was about.

  Jules watched them idly. He avoided the betting books as though they were spreaders of disease. He wasn’t a whimsical or theoretical wagerer. He liked games of skill or a good horse race or pugilistic match. He wagered occasionally, spectacularly, and invariably won.

  He refused to be his father’s son.

  Across the room, a newspaper lowered to assess the giggling, and Isaiah Redmond appeared. He saw Jules and nodded.

  He nodded, and with the toe of his boot, nudged a chair away from the table in invitation. Redmond smiled and folded his newspaper in neat thirds, and rose to join him.

  Waterburn and d’Andre turned around, saw him. He stared at them.

  They bowed.

  When they were upright again, he noted to his amazement that they were both sporting forelocks.

  “DAMNED Cossack! I’ll show you whassawhassa . . .”

  Everyone gave a little jump.

  Old Colonel Kefauver was given to bellowing in his sleep.

  A new member of the club had spilled his drink. “You won’t do that after the first few times,” someone reassured him, as a footman hurried over with rags.

  Colonel Kefauver snorted and muttered and was soon asleep again.

  Redmond took the seat across from Jules.

  “I must thank you again for your hospitality, Redmond.”

  “On the contrary, it was an honor to host you, Dryden. I want you to know that I’ve spoken to my solicitor. It was the first order of business when I returned to London.”

  “Excellent. I thank you.”

  “I think the transfer of the estate can be arranged. But I should like to discuss an additional investment.”

  Jules gave a half smile. “I would expect nothing less.”

  Redmond nodded, smiling. “The Mercury Club is involved in railroads, as you know. And they’re our future. Your involvement with us would be more than welcome.

  Jules nodded noncommittally. “I should of course like to hear more about it. If you would send over some information with your man of affairs I’ll happily review it straightaway.”

  Isaiah nodded. “Of course. Shall we meet here again in a few days time, then, to discuss it?”

  “I should like nothing better.” Jules smiled.

  Isaiah lifted a glass to him. “My brother’s fondest wish is to see his daughter make a splendid match.”

  “Lisbeth is a charming girl,” Jules o
ffered with gravity. “I’m quite honored to be taking her riding in The Row this afternoon.”

  “She’s a prize.” Redmond sounded like he was agreeing, but Jules suspected it was more of a correction.

  And really, as far as the two of them were concerned, quite literally the truth.

  London looked and smelled much the same as it had when Phoebe had last seen it, when she was just a girl. She sniffed out the carriage window, gulping in air like a curious hound: the coal smoke and sea, the stench of rotting food, the scent of something fresh borne in by a breeze off the ocean. She liked it.

  The Silvertons owned a town house on St. James Square. Phoebe was greeted like a long-lost relative, pulled into an extravagant cheek-kissing embrace by each of the fragrant and surprisingly strong little Silverton sisters. Two footmen bore her trunk upstairs, to where the family slept.

  Not the servants.

  Just to be certain, she watched them all the way up to see if they made any wayward turns.

  Lady Marie reached for the lid of her basket and lifted up a corner before Phoebe could stop her. “Oh, and look you brought your precious little puss—oh!”

  She reared back when Charybdis’s arm whipped out of the basket and took a swipe at her.

  He pulled the paw back into the basket, having made his point.

  “Behave yourself, Charybdis,” Phoebe admonished insincerely, as the odds of this were unlikely. “He likes precious few people,” she said by way of apology. “He’s very discriminating,” she added, strategically. Suspecting this would appeal to the twins.

  Her suspicions were confirmed instantly. “We shall win him over, I just know it,” Antoinette avowed. “We’ll just have to keep him apart from Franz.”

  “Our mama’s Pekingese,” Marie clarified.

  Oh . . . dear.

  “I imagine we ought to keep him away from Captain Nelson, too,” Antoinette mused to her sister.

  “Our mama’s parrot,” Marie clarified.

  Neither one of them seemed to be envisioning the sort of carnage Phoebe immediately did.

  “I shall keep him closed up in my room.”

  She issued a silent apology to the cat. One of them was going to have more fun on this particular holiday than the other. And it wasn’t Charybdis.

  “And you can take him out into the little yard once or twice a day for . . . you know.” Marie wrinkled her nose. “It should be just fine for a few days. We won’t tell Mama.” She leaned toward the basket again and lifted the corner, crooning. “And we will feed him kippers, won’t we, little Charyb—”

  The paw whipped out again and took another swing. Marie and Antoinette leaped back shrieking and giggling.

  “He’ll take off a limb,” Phoebe warned them.

  “He won’t!”

  “Of course not. He’s actually very sweet.” Sometimes. Well, to me, anyway.

  “Well, you and your little pussycat will want to get the dust off and settle into your room, for we’ve the Kilmartin ball to attend tonight!”

  They bounced on their toes and looked so delighted that Phoebe laughed. These were girls who attended balls, from the sound of things, nearly every night, and still the prospect thrilled them.

  “I’ve only the two dresses,” she reminded them.

  They seemed just as charmed and mystified by this as before. They exchanged looks and repeated, “Only the two!” with a sort of secret delight.

  “Well, wear the one we haven’t yet seen, and we’ll kit you out in our own dresses if you need more for the other things we’ve planned.” She winked. Visions of phaeton races and gambling flashed before Phoebe’s eyes. “We’ve lots of dresses.”

  They nodded vigorously, simultaneously. Curls swayed hypnotically.

  Well, and why shouldn’t friendships be forged just like this? Phoebe wondered, caught up in the giddiness of it all. Why shouldn’t she just be thrown into the deep end of the social swim, swept up in the current of it, dashing off to one entertainment after another, never slowing to mull or exchange meaningful life secrets and the like? It was only a few days out of her life. And it would be just the thing to help her forget the mar . . .

  Oh.

  Down the stairs, tripping lightly, came the startlingly lovely vision of Lisbeth Redmond, wearing a blue wool riding habit and the jauntiest, most graceful hat in creation, over which a peacock plume arched. She looked very sophisticated and expensive, and Phoebe immediately felt every inch the provincial. She stopped herself, deliberately, from swiping a restless hand over her face. She was certain it was shiny from her long journey, and that her hair was disheveled.

  Lisbeth paused three steps from the bottom of the staircase. As though the foyer was suddenly a moat awash with alligators.

  “Phoebe! You’ve arrived! How splendid!”

  There was a peculiar delay between her words and her smile, as though the two were unrelated. And she didn’t fly from the stairs and sweep her into an exuberant, theatrical embrace this time, either. She ventured down the final stairs and it could be said that she almost approached Phoebe . . . gingerly. Phoebe was again reminded of Charybdis, who suffered turmoil when any of his familiar things were moved even a foot away from where he expected to find them. Days went by before he forgave her for moving her bed away from one wall and against another in her room at Miss Endicott’s academy.

  She half expected Lisbeth to sniff her warily.

  “Good day, Lisbeth! It’s wonderful to see you. I’m very happy to be here.”

  Ladies Marie and Antoinette beamed their approval.

  “So lovely to have you with us this time, Phoebe!” Lisbeth lied. “I wish I could linger for a time, but I’ve been invited to go riding.” She swept an illustrative hand over her elegant riding costume. “In The Row.”

  Phoebe knew what The Row was. Because of course little dramas and encounters, love affairs and snubs and all manner of excitement took place on horseback and in carriages all of the time there. The broadsheets gleefully reported them.

  The twins leaned forward conspiratorially. “She’s going riding with the Marquess Dryden. He’ll be riding a black horse. With white stockings! Naturally.”

  Five minutes. Honestly. She’d scarcely been their guest officially for five minutes. The mere sound of his name opened the ground up under her feet.

  The drop was sickening and sudden. The giddy atmosphere went gray and flat. How had she thought she’d be able to endure the notion of him and Lisbeth together? How had she thought she could forget all of it in a giddy social swim?

  She arranged a pleasant smile upon her face, but it felt so wrong she was worried she’d bared her teeth like a mare, instead. She almost put a hand up to her face to adjust it.

  “Do you ride, Miss Vale?”

  She didn’t know who’d asked. Her ears were still ringing.

  “No,” she said.

  “We shall stay here with you, then!” Antoinette declared. “And we will not follow our Lisbeth and her beau, though the temptation is great, great indeed, to spy.” She winked. “She is quite the thing, you know, thanks to the marquess. It makes everything ever so much more delightful, for everyone wants to be with us!”

  Interestingly, Lisbeth seemed less delighted with this pronouncement. Her triumphant smile faltered into something uncertain, almost irritated. Phoebe suspected Lisbeth had become so enamored of her own glory that she was struggling with the notion that it might be the reflected variety.

  But then she tossed her head and gave a cascading little laugh and a winsome shoulder shrug. This set of mannerisms, and the brittle, arrogant confidence she likely associated with sophistication, was new to her repertoire. “Everyone says he wants only the best!”

  The Silverton sisters laughed, too, delighted and certain of their collective supremacy and beauty and wealth, tipsy with the pleasure of it.

  Phoebe didn’t think Lisbeth was entirely joking.

  It was so unutterably strange to hear these people discuss Jules as
though everything written about him in the broadsheets comprised the whole of his character.

  Did nobody know him? Did nobody want to? Did he intend to marry himself to this creature? And spend the rest of his days with her?

  Panic and sadness and loneliness—on his behalf—threatened to pull her under. She nudged it rudely away. He’d chosen this route. He had boxes for everyone and everything, and boxes made him happy and comfortable.

  Lisbeth was clearly more comfortable in the presence of Phoebe’s silence. “What’s in the basket, Phoebe?” she said magnanimously. “Did you bring a picnic along with you, or perhaps little cakes?”

  Lisbeth loved little cakes.

  Lisbeth smiled beneficently, but flicked Phoebe with a look that she was sure counted the particles of dust clinging to her walking dress and the worn toes of her boots and the shine on her face.

  Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it.

  “Why don’t you have a look?” Phoebe inveigled. Saying it.

  She saw Marie and Antoinette’s eyes flare wide.

  Lisbeth reached out and lifted up the lid.

  Charybdis threw a great furry arm out of the basket and took a wild swing, hissing like a cobra.

  Lisbeth shrieked and leaped back and Phoebe shut the lid again.

  Marie and Antoinette needed to hold each other up, so buckled with mirth were they. Peals and peals of laughter echoed through the marble foyer.

  “Ferme la bouche! Ferme la bouche!” From its perch, Captain Nelson the Parrot shrieked its objection to all the noise.

  Lisbeth was white in the face. Two tight little lines bracketed her mouth. She held one hand in the other, as though comforting it, though Charybdis had entirely missed her. She stared at Phoebe with a look reminiscent of her Uncle Isiaah, and one her ancestors likely wore before ordering executions or assassinations. Apart, that was, from the little smile.

  “It’s a cat,” Phoebe said mildly.

  Thusly a swiping paw was equivalent to a drawn sword. The subtlest of duels had just been called.