“The result, my friends, is that one dueled with the other and nigh lost his life.”
Brummell’s light, amused voice cut the marquess short. “Really, Charles, your moralistic commendations would be better suited to the Haymarket than to Carlton House.”
There was a murmur of assent but the damage had been done. Everyone began to talk at once, carefully looking away from Lady Margery, with the exception of the Prince Regent, who stared at her curiously and then demanded in a loud petulant voice of his neighbors whether what Edgecombe said was true or not.
Hot tears of shame began to roll down Margery’s little nose onto her plate. The more she tried to check them the faster they fell. She had been living in a fool’s paradise. Freddie or Toby nearly dead and all because of her. Mr. Moore had turned his shoulder to her and was chattering away as hard as he could to the lady on his other side. There was no way in which Margery could flee the banquet before the Prince Regent decided to take his leave.
Margery cried steadily and painfully as the most magnificent dishes she had ever seen passed and repassed in front of her. She drank her wine feverishly until she finally reached a numbed, dizzied state in which the banquet and its guests seemed very, very small and far away, as if she were looking at everything through the wrong end of a telescope.
The hours of the night dragged on and on, and as the guests consumed more and more wine, several began to look boldly at Lady Margery and make loud comments on her dress, her appearance, and her possible, if doubtful, physical attractions. Mercifully for Margery, by that time her mind had fled to the country of the unhappy drunk, and not one of the jeers or cutting remarks penetrated her befogged brain.
The Marquess of Edgecombe had drunk much more than he normally did. He had planned to revenge his friends. He had disgraced Lady Margery in the cruelest and most public way he could think of. But he felt neither triumphant nor happy. He felt as if there was a great cloud of guilt lurking somewhere on the horizon of his mind and drank steadily and flirted recklessly to keep it at bay. Lady Margery was on the same side of the table as himself, so he had not seen how she had taken his speech. Probably doesn’t give a damn, he reassured himself. Probably getting the two gentlemen next to her to call me out.
At long last the ordeal was over. The prince rose unsteadily to retire. After that, the guests quickly gathered into chattering groups and then took their leave while the servants carried off those too drunk to move themselves. Lady Margery sat bolt upright in front of her plate, a social smile pasted on her face like a rictus.
Mrs. Worthey had fled to her own home without coming in search of Margery. The scandal had quickly spread to the guests in the garden, and Mrs. Worthey had fled from the contamination of such an unfashionable character as Lady Margery.
The resplendent figure of the marquess stood swaying slightly at the entrance to the conservatory. He clutched at one of the gold curtains for support and gazed down the long length to the diminutive figure sitting alone before an untouched plate of food.
The sight sobered him. He marched forward and touched her shoulder. “Come, Lady Margery, it is time to go home,” he said.
“Thank you, my lord. Very good, my lord,” said Margery, with that hideous smile still fixed on her face.
“I have driven her mad,” thought the marquess for a wild moment of panic. Then he realized she was extremely drunk. He put a strong arm round her shoulder and helped her to her feet. “Thank you, my lord. How very kind, my lord,” said Lady Margery, and, still supported by his arm, she bowed and curtsied her way down the length of the conservatory thanking innumerable Hanoverian ghosts for a delightful evening.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Charles, Marquess of Edgecombe, strode into the smoke-filled gloom of White’s in St. James’s and immediately saw his three friends sitting in a corner with their heads together.
They were so engrossed in their conversation that they did not hear him approach. Freddie had his arm in a sling made from a blue silk scarf embroidered with gold fleurs-de-lys.
“Hey! Freddie!” said the marquess, slapping him on the back. He then fingered the sling with one polished fingernail. “What is this? Honoring the Bourbons’ visit?”
Freddie started like the pale ghost at flash of day and winced. “Oh, it’s you, Charles,” he said lugubriously. The other two fell silent.
“What’s up?” queried the marquess sympathetically. “Liver bad?”
“Could be that, could well be,” said Freddie gloomily. “M’liver feels like that Greek fellow’s… you know, the one tied up on the mountain and two great demned birds are a-peckin’ at his liver.”
“Prometheus,” said the marquess, smiling faintly. “Didn’t know you were bookish, Freddie!”
“Me!” exclaimed Freddie in genuine alarm. “Don’t go around saying things like that, Charles. It’s just that some of that rot we got at school sticks in m’mind.”
“Really,” commented the marquess, lowering himself into a chair. “I would have thought they would have successfully eradicated all that from your brain at Oxford.”
“They tried,” said Freddie seriously.
“Tell him what we was talking about,” said Toby suddenly.
“You tell him,” said Freddie sulkily. He stroked the silk of his sling. “I ain’t well. The doctor said so. Said I was to keep clear of annoyances and alarms. Told my mother so. Yes, he did. Said it plain as day. Said—”
“Oh, shut up!” snapped Viscount Swanley rudely. “It was only a flesh wound and you weren’t at death’s door for one minute, despite what the Honorable Marquess of Edgecombe cares to shout around the conservatory of Carlton House.” He suddenly blushed and stared at his glass.
“Do go on,” said the marquess in a silky voice. “You begin to interest me. Some minx makes a fool out of the three of you and yet you censure my behavior!”
“Know Yeats-Bartholomew?” asked Toby abruptly.
The marquess raised his thin eyebrows. “Of course I know him. What has that to do with it?”
“Well,” said Toby heavily, “Yeats-Bartholomew’s home down in Surrey was about to go under the hammer. Been in the family since they was running around in nothing but woad. So what does he do?” Here he paused dramatically.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” drawled the marquess, his heavy lids half closed in a sudden access of boredom.
Toby spoke slowly and distinctly. “He goes and marries that Friday-faced little heiress of a cit, Belinda Josephs. The old home is saved, the repairs done for the first time in a century, everybody happy.”
“Splendid!” said the marquess, stifling a yawn.
Three angry pairs of eyes bored into him. “Doesn’t it sound familiar?” demanded Toby.
The marquess opened his eyes and straightened up. “Will you all stop talking in riddles and tell me straight whatever it is you are trying, in—may I remark—an extremely convoluted way, to tell me.”
Freddie, who had been counting the gold fleurs-de-lys on his scarf, raised his head. “I’ll tell you,” he said.
“The Earl of Chelmswood’s back in town, see? He hears a lot of scandalous gossip about Lady Margery. ‘Demme,’ he roars out in the middle of Chitworth’s breakfast yesterday, ‘Thought m’daughter didn’t want another season. Berkeley Square, did y’say? Must be someone else. Margery hasn’t money enough for a season on her own, let alone a town house.’
“Well, the countess, she looks round the room with eyes like carriage lamps turning a corner, and first thing she wants to know is whether Lady Margery was wearing a great diamond-and-ruby necklace when last seen. Everyone says, ‘No.’ ‘Aha!’ she screams, ‘she sold my necklace!’ ‘’Tain’t your necklace,’ says the earl.
“The countess screams she wants it, on and on—dashed embarrassing it was—and the earl says he’ll find who Margery sold it to and buy it back. ‘What with?’ says the countess, and I tell you, Charles, the acid in her voice made me shiver. So the earl starts to mu
mble and the countess lowers her voice too—but not enough, y’know. We all heard her demanding that the earl sell Chelmswood immediately, and it seems as if Lady Margery’s to live with that horror Desdemona as an unpaid companion.
“We all got to thinkin’. Heard about Yeats-Bartholomew and thought again. Nobody called him a minx. Nobody insults him in front of the Prince Regent. Hard on Margery, don’t you see?” And Freddie collapsed, exhausted, after the longest speech of his life.
The marquess opened his mouth and snapped it shut again. He was haunted by a picture of Margery as he had last seen her. She had still had that awful smile on her face as he had delivered her into the arms of her butler. But she was a woman, dammit! It was all right for a man to go to any lengths to save his ancestral home. But a woman should confine her activities to her water-color box, some knowledge of the globes and the pianoforte, and the pleasant science of how to charm a man.
And she had said herself that Chelmswood was only bricks and mortar, after all. Perhaps his friends had exaggerated the new countess’s character. Perhaps Desdemona would make Margery happy and guide her to a suitable marriage.
“What were you thinking of doing about it?” he asked his friends.
“We-e-ll,” said Viscount Swanley slowly. “We were thinking of giving her some money, enough to keep the wolves at bay… and…”
“And the earl would probably dissipate it in a couple of weeks of drinking and gambling,” said the marquess. “You must not forget the heartless way that—”
“You behaved,” put in Toby suddenly. “No need to cut up at her in front of Prinny that way.”
The marquess looked thoughtfully at three pairs of accusing eyes. He could hardly explain to himself why he had been so unkind at the Prince Regent’s banquet. But when he had seen her entering the room looking so small and frail and childlike, it had somehow driven him into an unaccustomed fury.
The marquess was perhaps his own severest critic.
“I shall call on the earl,” he said, rising to his feet. “I shall probably find that your worries are groundless and that there is no cause to be concerned about Lady Margery Quennell!”
With that, he walked from the club with long athletic strides, leaving his friends to stare after him in amazement.
The marquess was ushered into the magnificent Egyptian saloon at the Earl’s town house in Grosvenor Square. Austere gold-and-black wallpaper complemented the backless sofas and the glass sphynxes’ heads winking from the pilasters of the fireplace. A black carpet with a gold Egyptian border spread luxuriously across the room, which had been designed with an eye to fashion rather than to taste, for the chairs, with their huge ball-and-claw feet, were upholstered in black and white stripes, garish and shocking to the eye.
Desdemona, Countess of Chelmswood, rose from one of these chairs and floated forward to meet him, emerging from the barred furniture like an aristocrat escaping from the Bastille.
She was a vision of loveliness in gold tissue, which was cunningly damped to show all the charms of a breathtaking figure. Her hair was like spun gold and her eyes as blue as the marquess’s own. Her smile was particularly sweet and welcoming, and the marquess felt a great cloud of guilt and worry lift from his brow. An angel such as this would surely take good care of Margery.
He introduced himself. In a soft little voice, the countess explained that the earl would join them presently.
She began to entertain him prettily with a fund of surprisingly antique gossip. The marquess felt encouraged to broach the problem of Margery.
Desdemona gave a trilling laugh. My lord must not be concerned over his behavior at Carlton House. Margery had behaved like the veriest romp and was in need of a set-down. It would do her the world of good.
The marquess blinked. But it was all said so prettily and with such genuine concern. However, he felt tempted to pursue the subject, and would have done so, had not the earl walked into the room.
He seemed to have grown much older than when the marquess had seen him last. Purple veins throbbed on his red face and his large hands trembled ever so slightly under a fall of exquisite Mechlin lace.
“Good to see you, Charles,” roared the earl. “I trust my bride has been keeping you well entertained.”
Was there a flicker of suspicion in the earl’s red-veined eye, or had it been a trick of the light? Before the marquess could answer, the countess cast down her eyes and her mouth formed itself into a little Mona Lisa smile. The earl stared at her, his hands twitching the more, and the marquess realized to his horror that with every look and gesture the countess was implying all sorts of intrigues and attractions between herself and the marquess.
“Well, what can I do for you?” asked the earl in a flat voice.
“I am interested in the welfare of Lady Margery…” began the marquess, and fell back slightly before the pure glare of venom on the countess’s face.
“I saw the necklace—Margery’s necklace—in Rundell and Bridge,” said Desdemona. “See how she insults you, Jimmy. Your family heirloom there for all the world to see! You must buy it back!”
“Look, Des,” pleaded the earl, writhing in embarrassment. “Not at all the thing, got company, you know. Dear me, what you must think of my mischievous little puss, Charles.”
As if to illustrate his words, the mischievous little puss curled her long pointed nails into claws.
“Anyway,” went on the earl, in a mock jovial tone and throwing a nervous look at his fulminating wife, “Margery’s back at Chelmswood and very well by all accounts. ’Course, you may have heard, I will need to sell the old place. But my Des will look after Margery. Find her a husband, heh!”
“If that is possible,” replied Desdemona sweetly. “But she must curb that arrogant manner first. As my companion, I expect to be obeyed. How will she learn to obey a husband if she not learn to obey me?”
“But surely,” protested the marquess with some vigor, “your own daughter, sir, would be an honored guest in your household. It is unheard of, surely, to have your own daughter working as a companion to your wife!”
“Who are you to come and preach to us,” hissed Desdemona suddenly. “Why this great interest in Margery? If you are so concerned with her welfare, my fine lord, I suggest you marry her and take her off our hands.”
It was then that the Marquess of Edgecombe surprised the earl and countess and surprised himself.
He leaned his broad shoulders against the mantelpiece, folded his arms, and surveyed the earl and Desdemona with contempt.
“Marry Lady Margery!” he repeated. “Marry Margery? As a matter of fact, my lady, that is precisely what I will do, and I will also take Chelmswood off your hands and give it to Lady Margery as a wedding present!”
“It’s no use,” said Lady Margery Quennell miserably. “No one will marry me now.”
Lady Amelia looked at her young friend and shook her head sadly. After such a monumental humiliation as the episode at Carlton House, no young lady could hope any longer for marriage. A few people had been surprisingly kind, and even Mr. George Brummell had sent Margery a charming letter full of nonsense and gossip. Amelia blamed herself more than Margery. She, Amelia, was the older and therefore should surely have been the wiser. She knew Chuffley was miserable about the state of affairs as well.
The full glory of a perfect summer’s day blazed round Chelmswood, sparkling like diamonds in the mullioned windows and bringing a lazy, sleepy hush to the great park, but all Margery could notice was how each sunbeam picked out the bare patches in the carpet and mercilessly highlighted the stained and worn upholstery.
Both women were engaged in darning linen sheets.
“But he escorted you home,” said Amelia suddenly.
There was no need for Margery to ask who she meant by “he.”
“He was very drunk, I believe.” said Margery coldly, stabbing her needle into the linen as if it were the marquess’s heart.
“So were you,” said Amelia fretfull
y, and then laid down her own needle and burst into tears. “I c-can’t bear it,” she sobbed. “I can’t bear to s-see you looking so old and worn.”
Margery stared at her shocked. She had never seen her placid friend cry before. She felt a great rush of shame. She had been brooding on her own troubles and forgetting all the while of the bleak future that also faced her old friend.
Margery threw aside the linen and rushed across the room to embrace her friend, whose shoulders were still heaving with the violence of her sobs.
“There, there, Amelia! What a selfish beast I am! Quietly, now. Quietly. We are fretting ourselves to flinders over what may never happen. Why! Papa may decide yet not to sell Chelmswood from under us.”
“Mr. Jessieman,” announced Chuffley in accents of doom.
The small figure of the earl’s man of business edged itself apologetically into the room. Distractedly Amelia dried her eyes on one of the sheets and then bustled off to supervise the making of tea.
Margery pressed her small spine firmly against the back of the chair and said in a flat voice, “What news do you bring?”
Mr. Jessieman sat down nervously on a chair opposite and addressed the empty fireplace.
“The earl has informed me that he has sold Chelmswood. He would not name the buyer but would only say that the gentleman who is buying Chelmswood will call today.”
He turned his eyes at last to Margery’s white face and said with unwonted violence:
“This does not please me… does not please me at all! The earl’s manner was cocky to say the least. I have been forced to the conclusion that he cares for nought but cards, drink, and his countess. Forgive me for being so bold, my lady. I am overwrought.”
“The countess must be looking forward to my company,” said Margery through stiff lips.
Mr. Jessieman scratched his head under his wig. “Well, there’s the puzzle,” he said. “The countess was not pleased, but it seemed almost as if she envied you. ‘Margery does not deserve such good fortune,’ she said.”
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