Lady Margery's Intrigue

by Beaton, M. C.

Margery curtsied and wondered wildly if perhaps this brother had been in residence during her disastrous visit. Perhaps he spent his time walled up in some closet or attic. But it turned out that Lord Brenton had recently returned from Paris. He exuded an air of disapproval of Margery in particular and bad feelings towards the world in general. After several glasses of the Gardens’ famous arrack punch, Lord Brenton suddenly broke into speech.

  “What do you think of my breeches?” he demanded.

  Amelia surveyed them. “Very fine,” she said in a repressive tone of voice. “Margery, do but look at that—”

  “Brummell didn’t like ’em,” said Lord Brenton moodily. ‘How do you like my breeches?’ I said. ‘My dear fellow, take them off directly,’ says Brummell. Ladies present and all. One of the ladies says, ‘I beg I may hear of no such thing, else where would he go in his smallclothes?’ Told Brummell I’d just got ’em and thought they were rather fine. Know what he said? ‘Bad knees, my good fellow! Bad knees!’”

  “My lord, your smallclothes are not a subject for the ears of ladies,” said Amelia in freezing accents.

  But, undeterred, Lord Brenton lumbered to his feet and struck several attitudes. “There! What d’you think? Knees all right, ain’t they?”

  “Sit down, Archie,” snapped Toby. “You’re embarrassing the ladies.”

  “Ho! Embarrassing them, am I?” He glared at Margery. “But ain’t that the one that Pa said was—Ouch! What did you stamp on my foot for, Toby?” He sat down abruptly and plunged once more back into a brooding silence.

  The bell rang for the fireworks display, and Freddie jumped eagerly to his feet. “Come along, Margery. They’ve got an extra special display this evening. ’Course, my doctor still says I have to be careful. Says I have Nerves. Says I have Spleen. Says I—”

  “We’ll come too,” said Toby hurriedly, as they joined the press of people moving along the walk.

  Margery forgot her troubles in the delight of the fireworks, which burst and flamed and sparkled against the black velvet of the sky. Everyone else in the crowd was sharing her enjoyment, particularly one lady near their group who screamed like a rabbit in the jaws of the weasel at every burst of stars. There were murmurs of amusement and necks twisted and heads turned.

  Margery turned her head also and found herself staring straight at the aristocratic profile of her husband. There was another piercing scream, which she realized in a dazed kind of way was coming from the marquess’s companion, who was hanging onto his arm.

  Mrs. Harrison was in all the glory of a green-and-white striped dress embellished with coquelicot ribbons. She jumped and oohed and aahed and with every jump her magnificent breasts heaved themselves above her neckline.

  Freddie and Toby had seen the marquess at the same moment and were at a loss what to do. But it was Lord Brenton who hailed the marquess in stentorian tones when the display ended, insisting that he join them.

  The marquess’s eyes held a hectic glitter. “Wouldn’t think of it,” he murmured. “I am very much engaged.”

  “Can see that,” said Lord Brenton with a roar of drunken laughter. “Some chaps have all the luck, heh!”

  “Better go,” hissed Freddie, writhing in embarrassment. He tugged at Margery’s arm and led the unresisting girl away. There was a long silence.

  “Who is she?” asked Margery finally.

  “Dashed if I know,” said Freddie. “Probably some cousin or relative you don’t know,” he added, improvising wildly.

  “Do you take me for a green goose?” snapped Margery. “That is a lady of the town.”

  “Well,” mumbled Freddie, desperately wishing himself elsewhere, “don’t amount to much, you know. All the fellows… mean to say… wouldn’t have brought you here had I known. Oh, damn and blast Charles!”

  With dull eyes, Margery noticed the marquess returning to his box. She suddenly clutched Freddie’s arm. “Freddie, please go over there and engage Charles in private conversation.”

  “My dear Margery,” said Freddie, with all the enthusiasm of a dissipated sheep. “Not the thing, you know. Just ignore it and we’ll go home.”

  “Please.”

  “Oh, very well,” grumbled Freddie. “But the mood Charles is in, he’s going to make me feel no end of an ass!”

  Margery sat rigidly watching Freddie’s progress. Amelia tried to take her hand and was shrugged off for her pains. Freddie was bowing to Mrs. Harrison. He was saying something. The marquess made some reply and Freddie blushed and made half a move to leave. He caught Margery’s watching eye and turned back again. After a few minutes, the marquess gave an impatient shrug and got to his feet. Mrs. Harrison was left alone.

  Before Amelia’s startled eyes, Margery tripped quickly down from the box and made her way swiftly over to Mrs. Harrison. Toby and his brother watched with their green eyes bulging as never before.

  Mrs. Harrison eyed Margery warily. “It’s no use you a-making a squawk,” she said. “From the looks of you I suppose you’re his wife.”

  “Yes, I am the Marchioness of Edgecombe,” said Margery, realizing with a little shock that it was the first time she had used her title.

  “It ain’t my fault,” whined Mrs. Harrison. “I—”

  Margery put a hand on her arm. “My dear, I am too used to my husband’s—er—pleasures to try now to put a stop to them. I am simply concerned for your welfare.”

  “Are you threatening me?” demanded the widow, her beautiful eyes narrowing.

  “No, indeed,” protested Margery. “But you are still young and beautiful and I would not like to see you in the hands of the physicians. My husband, you see, has a certain—er—disorder…” Her voice trailed delicately away and she dropped her eyes.

  Mrs. Harrison stared at her in alarm. “Such a fine-looking lord! You mean he has the…?”

  “Exactly,” said Margery in a low voice. “He has been in the habit of obtaining his pleasures by promenading the streets of Seven Dials.”

  “Oh, my Gawd!” One beautiful hand fluttered to Mrs. Harrison’s throat.

  She knew only too well that certain degenerate members of the aristocracy were in the habit of finding their sexual pleasures in the back alleys of that filthy and notorious slum.

  “Oh, my Gawd!” she said again. “You poor thing!”

  “As far as I am concerned,” said Margery sadly, “the damage has already been done. But I feel for my unfortunate sisters who may not be aware of their peril.”

  “I’ll never forget this,” said Mrs. Harrison, wiping her brow. “Anything I can ever do for you, my lady…”

  “It is enough that you are warned,” said Margery, getting hurriedly to her feet. “Please do not tell my husband I have talked with you. He will beat me.”

  “’Ere! Letmeoutofthis!” gabbled the suddenly terrified widow. With a tremendous flurry of skirts, she jumped over the back of the box and disappeared. With a grim little smile on her face, Margery returned to her own box. Toby and his brother had their heads together whispering and broke off as soon as they saw her. Amelia seemed to be in a state of shock. Margery wondered how Freddie was coping with her husband.

  “Will you stop gabbling and get to the point,” the marquess was saying. “We have been walking up and down and up and down and all you can do is bleat.”

  “No need to talk to me like that,” said Freddie, finally breaking into coherent speech. “I ain’t a fool, you know.”

  “No, no,” said the marquess in a soothing voice. “You are the veriest wit and a pretty fellow to boot. So out with it!”

  Freddie summoned up his courage. “Don’t think it right,” he said. “Shouldn’t be promenading round with that female, and you just wed.”

  “And you shouldn’t be promenading around with my wife,” said the marquess, viciously decapitating a rose with his swordstick.

  “Not the same thing. No, no, no,” said Freddie. “Not the same thing at all. Different. Not at all alike. Opposite. Vice versa.”

/>   “Get on with it.”

  “Well, I’m a gentleman, so that’s why it’s different. I’m respectable,” said Freddie, much struck with this new idea of himself. “Yes. Respectable. Friend of Margery’s. Now don’t tell me you’re out with that bit of muslin for her conversation,” he added with an uncomfortably shrewd look in his weak eyes.

  “This is very, very interesting,” said the marquess in a deceptively mild voice. “I have known you for years, Freddie, but you surprise me, indeed you do. Pray tell me, what gives you the idea you can preach morality to me?”

  Freddie thought about that one very long and carefully. “’Cause I’m decent and I’m fond of you, and I’m fond of Margery,” he said simply.

  The marquess shook his head in exasperation. It was like arguing with a nice-natured child.

  “Don’t worry, old boy,” he said impatiently. “Simply attend to your own affairs and leave mine alone.”

  They had turned about during their conversation and were now back at the boxes, which were crammed to capacity with the exception of one.

  “You may rest easy,” drawled the marquess. “My ladybird has flown.” He made a distant bow in the direction of Margery’s box and took his leave, wondering all the while why Mrs. Harrison had left and why he should feel so relieved.

  The following morning, a light waft of delicate fragrance assailed the marquess’s nostrils. He put down the morning paper and regarded his wife with some surprise. Had last night’s humiliations meant nothing to her? She should have at least had the decency to breakfast in her room.

  “Good morning, Charles,” said the marchioness brightly, shaking out her napkin.

  “Good morning, madam wife,” replied the marquess genially. “Which one of my friends are you going to commandeer as escort today?”

  “I haven’t had time to think,” replied Margery placidly. “Probably Toby. He mentioned something about driving in the park. Don’t grind your teeth, dear. It does wear down the enamel so. Then there is the Choldomeley ball tonight, but then, with your many diversions, I do not suppose you will be present.”

  “We shall both be present… together. If you have no care for appearances, then I most certainly have.”

  “You have a very odd way of showing it, sir,” said Margery with the same infuriating calm. “I must have been dreaming during my seasons or else the world has changed. I was under the impression that any gentleman who flaunted his inamorata in front of his wife was in danger of being castigated as a shabby dog.”

  “I did not know you would be at Vauxhall.”

  “Oh, indeed!” said Margery sweetly. “That does make a difference.”

  “Don’t fence with me,” said the marquess in a thin voice. He threw down the paper and strode to the door, fully aware that his wife was about to attack a hearty breakfast with all the appearance of not having a care in the world.

  He turned in the doorway. “I shall expect your company at eight of the clock, madam.”

  “Very good, my lord,” said his wife demurely.

  There was a stifled exclamation from behind her and the door closed with a crash.

  Margery shut her eyes and gritted her teeth to fight down the sudden wave of pain which threatened to engulf her.

  Resplendent in evening dress, the marquess sat in the drawing room that evening with the decanter for company and waited for his wife.

  He raised his eyebrows as Freddie was ushered into the room. “What the hell are you doing here?” snapped the marquess. “Am I not to be allowed to escort my own wife?”

  “Steady on,” said Freddie nervously. “I’ve called to escort Lady Amelia.”

  “Aha!” said the marquess sourly. “If you can’t drool over my wife you will settle for her nearest and dearest.”

  “You’re like a dog with a bone,” said Freddie amiably. “But the fact is, I like Lady Amelia. Know where I am with her. Know what to expect. Widow, ain’t she? Well, then…”

  The marquess raised his quizzing glass. “Lady Amelia is at least twenty years your senior.”

  “Getting very nice in your tastes, ain’t you?” said Freddie, with a sneer sitting oddly on his normally amiable features.

  Both friends glared at each other like two tomcats squaring up to fight.

  The marquess gave a sudden shrug and pushed the decanter across the table. “Help yourself, Freddie,” he said in a more friendly tone of voice. “I don’t know what has come over me. Women are the very devil.”

  To his surprise, Freddie refused to drink, and he realized that it had been some time since he had seen his friend in his usual half-intoxicated condition.

  At that moment his wife walked into the room followed by Lady Amelia. Margery was wearing a violet satin slip of a gown with an overdress of gold gauze. Small white rosebuds had been twined into her hair, and she wore one magnificent white rose on her bosom. There was an almost ethereal air about her, and the marquess caught his breath. She had never looked more beautiful. He remembered the feel of her arms round his neck and the silk of her skin. A flood of emotions assailed him all at once—anger, jealousy, passion, and possessiveness—and out of them all, love rose like a pale ghost and hovered in the stuffy overfurnished drawing room, where the Edgecombe ancestors seemed to stare down in perpetual surprise at the weakness of their descendant.

  Then she touched the rose at her bosom and smiled. “Isn’t it pretty? And so kind of Perry. He sent me such a pretty poem, as well. How did it go, Amelia?

  “Aske me no more where Jove bestowes,

  When June is past, the fading rose;

  For in your beautie’s orient deepe

  These flowers, as in their causes, sleepe.”

  “How lovely,” sighed Lady Amelia. “Quite in the Elizabethan manner.”

  “It should be,” drawled the marquess. “It was written by an Elizabethan—one Thomas Carew. I would not have credited Swanley with plagiarism.”

  “He didn’t say it was his own,” said his wife crossly.

  “’Tis very affecting, nonetheless. Shall we go?”

  His newfound love for Margery had made the marquess more than ever determined to hurt her in some way. How dare she sit so calm and smiling while he sighed and suffered? Perhaps the Choldomeley ball would supply an opportunity.

  And opportunity presented itself almost as soon as they had entered the ballroom, in the voluptuous shape of Lady Camberwell.

  Lady Cecilia Camberwell had enjoyed many affairs and liaisons. She had an unassailable social position and a knack for discretion. She had outlasted a score of lovers and two husbands. Although nearly in her fortieth year, she was a magnificent figure of a woman with a creamy skin and masses of midnight-black hair. Her lazy smile was a seduction in itself. The marquess knew she was searching for a new amour. He abandoned his wife and marched purposefully off in Lady Camberwell’s direction.

  Margery danced determinedly with Toby (who breathed heavily in her face and trod on her feet) with his brother, Lord Brenton (overly familiar) and only once with Freddie, who seemed to prefer to join Lady Amelia in the row of chaperones. Viscount Swanley had not put in an appearance.

  Viscount Swanley arrived only when the supper bell was rung. An Indian summer had been warming London’s autumn, and tables had been set up in a marquee in the garden. The marquee was very grand, being made of purple silk with its sides raised up on gold poles rather in the manner of an exotic Oriental tent. Margery was therefore afforded an excellent view of her husband vanishing into a rose-strewn arbor with Lady Camberwell.

  Margery gathered the attention of her audience, which consisted of Freddie and Lady Amelia, Toby and his brother, and Viscount Swanley. She pointed her fork in the direction of the arbor into which her husband had just disappeared.

  “That arbor is vastly pretty. But it is too late for roses to be growing, outside of a succession house. They must be made of silk.”

  “Clever, that,” said Freddie indifferently.

  “I would lik
e them,” said Margery, examining a lobster pattie.

  “Eh!” said all of the gentlemen in chorus.

  “I would like them… all those roses,” said Margery dreamily. “I have often wondered what it would be like to have masses and masses of roses.”

  “I say,” expostulated Toby. “Can’t go around picking roses in the middle of the ball.”

  Margery pouted prettily. “If it were a bet you would do it without thinking.”

  That magic word “bet” roused the gentlemen as if they were warhorses scenting the smell of battle.

  “Wager you an hundred guineas,” said Toby, much flushed, “that I can pick the most.”

  “Done,” cried Perry and Lord Brenton. Freddie for once was silent.

  To the amazement of the other guests, the three contestants plunged into the arbor with loud whoops and yells and started grabbing enormous handfuls of artificial roses. There was a feminine squeal and a masculine oath and the marquess and Lady Camberwell emerged from the arbor. Like Margery, she had been wearing white roses in her hair, and one of the enthusiastic contestants had grabbed at them in the darkness of the arbor, mistaking them for part of the decoration. Lady Camberwell caught the hard stare of Margery’s eye and flushed angrily. She had no desire to have her latest flirt broadcast to the world in general and to this formidable little wife in particular.

  The marquess had disappeared, but Lady Camberwell moved towards Margery’s table. The contestants were still whooping and yelling and seizing handfuls of roses.

  Lady Camberwell had talked her way out of many scandals, and there was no doubt in her mind that she could sooth this wife’s ruffled feelings. She accordingly sat down beside Margery with great aplomb and gave a pretty laugh. “The Marchioness of Edgecombe, is it not? You must excuse me for borrowing your husband. I am a great bird fancier and I was sure there was a white owl nesting in that arbor. But alas! It must have been the roses all the time.”

  “My husband is a bird fancier too,” said Margery sweetly. “I am not surprised at his enthusiasm. He has a great interest in birds of all shapes and plumage. I unfortunately do not share his interest although I take a slight interest in each bird he happens to fancy—their plumage, their habits, their different little cries. We have a very modern marriage and he talks freely about his—er—feathered friends. Then when conversation flags, I tell all my friends about his birds, and they are kind enough to show a most flattering interest.”