A Banbury Tale

by Maggie MacKeever

  “It is Alastair!” Clem wailed. “He is truly a son of the devil, that one! He grows tired of my lack of resolution and insists that I make a decision. But listen to the choice he gives me: he will come for my answer this evening, and if at that time I do not go with him, to become his petite amie, he will see that I am placed in a brothel! And it will do no good to try and escape him, for he will find me wherever I go, and when he does, it will be the worse for me!”

  Maddy, who had only a vague notion of what a brothel might be, observed her friend with dismay; Kenelm, whose knowledge of such places was a great deal more precise, looked grim. “I am distraught!” Clem cried, wringing her hands. “I had hesitated in forming my decision in hope that some alternate action might come to mind, but it has not, and I can no longer hold him at arm’s length. Whatever am I to do?”

  “We’ll think of something,” Maddy said weakly. “We must!”

  But Clemence had become distracted by the sight of Kenelm’s wound. “You are injured!” she cried, with every appearance of distress. “This is a terrible thing. Surely you should not have ventured forth, but remained at home to take your rest.”

  Kenelm wore the dazed expression of one afforded a glimpse of heaven. “There is no question of such a thing,” he replied. “Not when I may be of service to you.”

  Clem, an inveterate flirt, cast him an approving look before turning again to Maddy. “It is good of you to wish to help me,” she said, “but you must see that it will not do. I am sure that you have no desire to see your own dirty linen washed in public, and I would not put it past Alastair Bechard to make a scandal were he to learn that you had helped me.” She sighed. “I am a poor judge of character, it seems, for I had not thought that he would stoop to threatening me, but apparently there is nothing that the man will not do. The matter has gone too far. Even while I was coming here to meet you, I was trembling lest he see me and take me back, or away with him. Matters have come to a sorry pass! I would never have envisioned myself in such a predicament in happier days.”

  Maddy thought sourly that Clem had only herself to blame for that predicament, but wasted no time in voicing the thought. “Now,” she said, “what’s to do? I don’t suppose you could persuade him to wait for his decision, even for a short time? It would give us valuable time to think.”

  “No!” Kenelm was wrathful. “She must have nothing more to do with him.” He frowned at Maddy. “I am surprised, Cousin, that you would even consider such a thing. By Jove, I’ve more than half a notion to call the scoundrel out!”

  “You must not.” Clem reluctantly squelched this noble idea. “Alastair is a notable shot. And,” she added hastily, lest Kenelm’s pride be wounded, “you have been injured, and cannot be feeling quite the thing.” Her blue eyes sparkled with rage. “Alastair made his sentiments quite clear, and I consider it very hard, for I have not given him the slightest reason to suppose that he is at all the favorite with me! Do not ask me to adopt a conciliatory attitude, Maddy, and to push for more time in which to form my decision, for not only would he never consider the request, I can no longer trust myself in the man’s presence. In fact, I would much rather bid him go and be damned!”

  Maddy, feeling like an unwanted witness to a lovers’ tryst, watched with interest as Kenelm’s pleasant features assumed a stem expression. “I cannot consider,” he observed, “that it was prudent of you to have encouraged Lord Bechard.”

  Clemence, at one time the recipient of many of Motley’s scolds, and not unfamiliar with the behavior of bewitched gentlemen, smiled engagingly upon her swain. “Yes,” she admitted, “but I am not used to being held down by circumstance, and he seemed to intend nothing more than flirtation.”

  Kenelm conceded, not unreluctantly, the futility or scolding Clemence on the subject of her attraction for gentlemen. “And,” added Clem, with the air of one graciously conceding a point, “I will admit that I have done some absurd things in that quarter.”

  Maddy, aware that this was as good as an apology, thought it time to intervene. “It seems to me that our best course is to somehow get you out of town. But where? We cannot send you to my mother, nor would I wish to see her involved in this, but I can think of no one else.”

  “Nor can I,” commented Kenelm, with a decisive air, “but this much is clear. You cannot return to your lodgings.” Maddy, remembering that inelegant establishment, agreed.

  “But my clothing!” Clem wailed. “Everything I own is there!”

  “I will fetch it for you,” Kenelm announced, leaving Maddy open to wild speculation about how he knew Clem’s address, and if he had visited there. “For the moment, I think it’s best you come with us.”

  “To your mother’s house?” Maddy cried. “Whatever will she say?”

  “To my house,” Kenelm corrected. “I cannot answer for my mother’s reaction, but it need concern neither of you. With luck, she may not even know of Clemence’s identity, for we will introduce her as a school friend of yours.” Maddy stared, startled by such assertiveness. “She will not immediately associate your friend with an actress. My mother’s understanding is not particularly acute.”

  “Well enough to hoodwink her for a day or two,” Clemence pointed out, “but we could not carry off such a deception for any period of time. Even a perfect nitwit would soon realize who I am.”

  “Yes, and she’s already seen you.” Maddy frowned at her cousin. “I don’t think it will do.”

  “It must,” Kenelm said with determination, “if only for a short time.” He gazed sternly at Clemence. “You must act like a young lady, and say or do nothing that may give you away. Tell the truth as far as you can. Beyond that, say nothing.”

  “D’accord!” Clem acquiesced. “I will try anything. But it is my opinion that we will all find ourselves in the devil of a fix.”

  * * * *

  Some might wonder that Wilmington, in light of his propensities, was not barred from Almack’s sacrosanct Assembly Rooms; others might wonder that the dissolute Earl chose to refresh himself with lemonade and tea, bread and butter and stale cake, instead of disporting himself more enjoyably within less hallowed halls and in much livelier company; but none were so bold as to question the Patronesses regarding this unprecedented exception to their rigid rules, for the power of those ladies was unassailable. The simple truth was that the noble ladies, including the haughty Princess Lieven, found themselves quite incapable of denying the Earl. Lady Jersey was fond of exchanging barbs with him; Lady Castlereagh had been heard to comment that Wilmington’s manners were unexceptionable.

  Maddy was unimpressed by the Assembly Rooms, despite Letty’s observation that entrance there was a greater distinction than presentation at Court, though her expression revealed none of these thoughts. Chesterfield was an accomplished partner, and Maddy was confident the Earl had noticed what a striking couple they made. In her elegant gown of filmy white, figured with pale blue flowers, Maddy was one of the most eye-catching young ladies present. She only wished that her youth did not render her ineligible for such magnificent gems as Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson wore, although there was consolation in an overheard remark that these would not have disgraced a sultaness. Maddy told herself that Tilda was a great deal too flamboyant and gave Lionel a bewitching smile.

  “It is obvious,” the Marquess murmured, “that something troubles you. I wish that you might allow me to be of assistance.”

  Maddy had a good idea of this very proper young man’s reaction were she to confess that she’d introduced an actress into her aunt’s household, and was not tempted to confidence. “You are mistaken,” she replied. “I was merely enjoying the dance.” She realized, belatedly, that this was not a timely remark, for they were engaged in a waltz and she had practically admitted to an appreciation of being held in his lordship’s arms, but Lionel did not appear to find the sentiment offensive.

  “Very well,” he conceded, “I will not press you. But I would consider it an honor if you would, at least
, consider me your friend.”

  “Oh, I do!” Maddy replied, with a faint blush and a feeling of considerable triumph. “I have come to quite depend on you.” She treated him to a shy look. “But perhaps I should not have said that. You will think me bold as brass.”

  “What a strange notion you have of me.” Were it not such a startling notion, Maddy would have suspected that her partner was amused. His next words dispelled that fancy. “I find no pleasure in the company of such creatures.”

  “And you do in mine?” Maddy inquired coyly. “I am flattered, sir.”

  “Is it too much to hope that you find an equal pleasure in mine?” Maddy was so startled that she almost missed a step, but she quickly recovered her aplomb. The Marquess’s correct demeanor would have led no one to believe that he was engaged in a conversation more suited to a clandestine meeting than to Almack’s. “Have I been too precipitate?” he asked. “I would have thought it obvious that I have a preference for your company.”

  “I do not,” replied Maddy, with commendable honesty, “know what to say. You must know that I do not hold you in low esteem.”

  Lord Chesterfield did not appear to find this reply lacking in ardor, for he smiled. “I shall do myself the honor of speaking with your aunt,” he remarked, as he led her from the floor. Maddy was hard pressed to hide her elation, for she knew what such an interview must portend. Miss de Villiers was not averse to being seriously courted by a young, wealthy, and extremely personable Marquess. But whether she chose to marry him remained to be seen.

  The Duchess, clad in a wine-colored gown of finely corded silk, detached herself from her companions as soon as she noted Lionel’s reappearance. She reminded herself to compliment him on that evening coat; it set off his lithe figure to advantage. However, the Marquess was playing havoc with her plans. “Keep your eye on her,” Agatha advised her godson. “She’s in a reckless humor and heaven only knows what she’ll take it in her head to do.”

  Tilda, the subject of these strictures, merely smiled. She was in an excellent mood, even bearing with equanimity this return to the Assembly Rooms where her own come-out had been such an ordeal. Tall and gangling at that age, Tilda had been made appallingly aware of her various shortcomings by the other young ladies who had shared her season. Tilda spared a thought for her late spouse, who had taught her that to be out of the ordinary was not necessarily to be freakish. But Dominic had possessed a taste for the bizarre.

  “Then you leave tomorrow for the Hall?” she asked. Micah inclined his head. “I trust you will find that your steward has exaggerated the matter.”

  “I’m sure I shall. It is the shortcoming of the breed.” The Earl wore a speculative air. “Don’t try and turn me up sweet, my girl. I’ve known you too long to be deceived, as has Agatha. If she suspects you of chicanery, I am not inclined to doubt her word.”

  Tilda grinned mischievously. “Suspect what you will, the two of you, I’ll not tell! As you reminded me not long ago, I’m of age to do as I please.”

  “You’re not so worldly wise as you fancy yourself,” Micah retorted. “There are pitfalls into which even Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson may yet stumble. I would not care to see your name busy on every tongue.”

  “This is beyond everything!” Tilda exclaimed indignantly. “I had not thought you would behave so shabbily. You’ve been in a devilish provoking humor of late, Micah, and it puts me all out of patience with you.”

  “Will you assure me that you are not bent upon kicking up a lark?” The Earl was persistent, and Tilda frowned at him.

  “I will assure you only that I am not totally lacking in principle,” she replied. “We shall go on much more prosperously, Micah, if you do not try to come the heavy with me.”

  “Arch-wife,” commented Micah. “Timothy has my sympathy.”

  “Timothy,” snapped Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson, “is as happy as a grig.” Both glanced at that gentleman, deep in conversation with Letty Jellicoe, for whom he had a great admiration, considering her a lady who felt precisely as she should about a great many things, particularly her own comforting role in a gentleman’s world.

  Tilda’s glance brushed that of Alastair Bechard, who spoke to Maddy. The girl did not appear flattered by this condescension. “Come, let us cry friends. I do not wish to quarrel with you.”

  “No?” inquired the Earl. “Then why is it that you always do?”

  Tilda laughed reluctantly. “It seems I am a shrew. We shall miss you sorely. Hurry back to us, my friend.”

  “Graciously said,” Micah uttered. “You are forgiven.”

  “Aggravating creature!” Tilda took his arm. “Let us go to rescue Agatha’s young friend.”

  Conversation with Alastair Bechard had laid to rest any doubts Maddy might have cherished about his recognition of her. “You should be more circumspect, my dear,” Lord Bechard advised. “Remember that you bear the de Villiers name. It would be a great pity were so old and honorable a line to be discovered to be corrupt.”

  “Corrupt?” Maddy repeated. “Surely you are too harsh, my lord.”

  “Indiscretion is the doorway to many more ruinous vices.” Lord Bechard’s guise might be that of a benevolent mentor, but Maddy was not deceived; the man meant her nothing but harm. “Only think how your family would suffer were you to be ruined.”

  Maddy observed Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson’s approach with scant relief, for Wilmington had spent a large portion of the evening in that lady’s company, as had Sir Timothy Rockingham. Tilda looked especially fine in a clinging gown of ecru crepe de chine, which gave a startling effect of near-nudity. The only color that she wore blazed from the huge blood-rubies that circled her slender throat and dangled from her ears. Maddy reflected that Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson would make an excellent demimondaine, but her mood lightened considerably when Lord Wilmington announced that she was promised to him for the next dance.

  “You must not permit Alastair to distress you,” the Earl advised kindly as he led her away. Maddy glanced at her escort, surprised at so avuncular a tone. “He has suffered a severe setback in an affair of the heart. Just as he thought matters well on their way to being settled, the lady disappeared.” Maddy spared a quick thought for Clem, safely closeted in her aunt’s house. Luck had been with them thus far, for neither her aunt nor Alathea had yet seen the girl. “I don’t suppose,” Micah inquired, “that you could shed any light on the mystery?”

  Maddy glanced at Alathea, who watched the dancers jealously. Captain Huard was denied entree here, despite Letty’s conviction of his worth. “I, my lord?” she asked innocently. “What could I know of such things?”

  * * * *

  Tilda settled herself into the carriage and sighed with pleasure. “It’s been a long time since I arranged an assignation,” she remarked. “I hope I may not be compromised!”

  Alastair smiled, an unusual facial exercise that did not sit easily upon his ascetic features. “Your headache,” he commented, “seems to have miraculously disappeared.”

  Tilda laughed. “You of all people must know that I am an incurable humbugger, Alastair. I had to have some excuse to escape my watchdogs! Even so, I’m sure they thought it odd of you to be so obliging as to escort me home.”

  “Timothy was not pleased.”

  “Pooh!” Tilda disposed of the worthy Timothy with an airy wave of her hand. The Duchess, had she suspected Tilda’s plans for the evening, would have had recourse to Letty’s smelling salts. “Can it be that you turn reluctant, Alastair? I would not have thought you so cowardly!”

  “Not I.” Alastair sounded amused. “It merely occurs to me that Dominic would not approve of this expedition.”

  Tilda experienced a brief pang. “Dominic is no longer here to tell me what I may and may not do. Do you regret your invitation, Alastair? Do not tell me that you refuse to take me to this hotel!”

  “It would be very bad of me, would it not? I escort you with the greatest pleasure on earth, ma’am, and only thought that your frie
nds would consider this adventure decidedly irregular.”

  “Of course they would,” Tilda agreed cordially. “It is precisely why you accompany me.”

  “Wilmington would be incensed.”

  “Wilmington can go to the devil!” Tilda snapped. “I must tell you, Alastair, that I am mighty tired of being told how to go on.”

  “I must point out that I am not constraining you.” Lord Bechard sounded bored.

  “No,” Tilda agreed. “You have no great fondness for me. You do not deceive me, Alastair. You aid my rebellion for a whim, nothing more. I wonder what prompts you to be so obliging.”

  “The delightful thought of Dominic’s wrath could he but know of this,” Lord Bechard replied. “It is a source of great regret to me that he cannot.”

  “What a contemptible creature you are.” Tilda wished she could clearly see his face. “It is abominable to speak so of one who was your friend.”

  “You would not understand,” Alastair remarked in weary tones. “I warned Dominic ‘twas folly to marry you. Now, unless I am mistaken, we have arrived at our destination.” He opened the carriage door.

  “This is not the hotel, surely?” Tilda gazed at the sordid street before her and wondered if she’d made a grave mistake.

  Lord Bechard’s pale features were sinister in that light. “No,” he said, “this is The Cat and the Fiddle. There has been a change of plans.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Duchess was distracted. Tilda had failed to return to the house the previous evening, a matter that Agatha intended to keep from her numerous servants, and Agatha didn’t know what to make of this inexplicable behavior. She’d been startled to learn that her houseguest had departed Almack’s in the company of Lord Bechard, but had thought Tilda safe enough, for even Alastair was surely not so paper-skulled as to try and do her harm. Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson had some very influential friends.