Dukes of the Demi-Monde

by Felicia Greene

  ‘Your husband thought my idea a very fine one.’

  ‘It is a fine idea, for a man.’ Lydia shook her head. ‘Whether it rings with quite the same sunny tone for the woman in question… well. We shall have to see.’

  Now Marcus was on the verge of real alarm. Hurriedly bowing as Lydia rose to leave, watching the proud carriage of her head as she swept from the room, he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so nervous.

  He looked back at Catherine, who was smiling a little wider. ‘Is this opinion shared by the both of you?’

  ‘Well. I believe that she loves you, and I believe that you have certainly gone about the whole business in a slightly ramshackle fashion. I am a little less vinegary about things than Lydia—although her forthright nature is one of the many reasons she is so very valuable to me.’ Catherine shook her head, laughing. ‘I believe I’ll follow her. She is very probably going to find Miss Harcourt.’

  ‘Do… do you and Mrs. Weeks enjoy the company of Miss Harcourt?’

  ‘Oh yes. Immensely. She is an endless repository of information when it comes to novels. I have never met someone as well-read.’ Catherine turned, smiling at her husband as she moved to the door. ‘I find her very pleasant.’

  Marcus turned to James, obscurely satisfied as Catherine shut the door. ‘That—that is good. Yes?’

  ‘What my wife said, or what Arthur’s wife said?’ James raised an eyebrow. ‘One was slightly better than the other.’

  ‘They like her.’ Marcus sighed. ‘That cannot be anything but a promising sign.’

  ‘Take Mrs. Weeks’ advice to heart, Bennington.’ James rose, briefly lifting his eyes to heaven. ‘Miss Harcourt is the only lady that needs convincing here today. Your love, your constancy, your general worthiness… all up for debate, I fear.’

  ‘Catherine didn’t want to marry you at first. How did you convince her?’

  ‘I did something very unseemly in a close-walk.’ James’s smile was devilish. ‘I can attempt to arrange a group excursion to Vauxhall Gardens, if you wish to—’

  ‘No.’ Marcus couldn’t help but laugh. ‘You really are incorrigible.’

  ‘I know. And I am also fairly sure that you have chosen a winning course of action, of what Mr. Weeks told me is correct.’ James gently patted Marcus’s shoulder. ‘Do not worry. Everything will be alright.’

  He walked away as Marcus looked on, confused. Only when James slipped through the half-closed door, revealing Elsie on the other side, did he understand why his friend had left him alone.

  Lord, she was beautiful. Beautiful in any place—in the gaudy luxury of the Cappadene Club, in the rustic freedom of a country landscape, in the refined peace of a London drawing room. She looked more suited to wealth, more comfortable in it, than Marcus had ever felt in his life.

  He cleared his throat, his mouth suddenly dry as he rose. ‘Miss Harcourt.’

  ‘Sir—Sir Marcus.’ Elsie’s slight stutter had Marcus’s heart beating rapidly in his chest. ‘We meet again.’

  ‘Yes.’ How could he start a conversation of such meaning—such import, for his life and her own? How could they act as strangers to one another now? ‘We… we do.’

  Elsie slowly walked across the room, sitting in an armchair that faced Marcus’s chosen seat. Marcus watched her move, noting with awe the pronounced swell of her stomach as she sat.

  There was a short, uncomfortable silence. The tension mounted by degrees, heating the room as powerfully as a fire, until Marcus could bear it no longer.

  ‘I have missed you terribly.’ He paused, not wanting to frighten her. ‘More… more powerfully than you can ever know.’

  ‘... As have I.’ Elsie spoke so cautiously, choosing each word with such precision—the carefree girl on the vegetable cart had gone. ‘But sentiments cannot change realities.’

  ‘They damn well can.’

  Elsie’s eyes widened. ‘I—I have never heard you speak so.’

  ‘I have never loved like this. Why should I not speak like this? I was abandoned by the woman I love!’

  ‘I did not abandon you, you dolt.’ Elsie’s eyes blazed; Marcus sighed with relief as he saw the woman he had fallen in love with. ‘I made the correct decision for the both of us.’

  ‘Based on what? Foolish ideas about the woman I am supposed to marry? About the life you are supposed to lead?’

  ‘Based on my independence!’

  ‘Have I ever denied you your independence?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then why on earth did you decide that I would rob you of your independence when we married?’

  ‘Because—because I cannot trust such happiness. Such joy.’ Elsie’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I cannot. There must be sadness on its coattails.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the last time I felt even the briefest shadow of the happiness I felt with you, I was left abandoned and with child.’ Elsie buried her head in her hands. ‘How… how could I ever bear such heartache, given how much more I feel now? I would be a slave to you. Forever beholden, whether you were good to me or cruel.’

  It was impossible to sit and look at her weep, without doing something about it. It went against every natural instinct Marcus had. Rising from his chair, running to her, he gathered her into his arms as she wept into his shirt.

  ‘I know I cannot convince you of my constancy. I—I have never tried to claim you, to treat you as my own, and that cannot have helped.’ He whispered the words into Elsie’s hair, gripping her shoulders as he spoke. ‘But have faith in me, Elsie. Have faith in me, as I have faith in you.’

  ‘How can you have faith in me, after where you found me?’

  ‘Faith that the woman I love will always find a way to survive? That is a good faith to have.’ Marcus paused, marshalling his thoughts. ‘And—and I have found a way for you to keep your independence.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Again, this doubt.’ Marcus took hold of Elsie’s arms, looking deep into her eyes. ‘At least listen to me. I have no doubt you will be angry when you hear it, but you will be hearing the truth.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I have written to your father many times in these intervening days. The past week has been a constant exchange of correspondence.’

  ‘I beg your pardon? He told me nothing of this.’

  ‘Because he did not wish to hurt you, and neither did I.’ Marcus paused, swallowing. ‘We… we have come to a business arrangement.’

  ‘A business arrangement?’ Elsie’s eyes widened. ‘I am not to be bought in the manner of a—’

  ‘And you are not. This is—this is the righting of a wrong. A financial opportunity for someone worthy of chances, rather than the sort of foolish luck which led to my wealth.’ Marcus took a deep breath. ‘I… I have purchased a bookshop. A bookshop, for your father.’

  ‘I… I…’

  ‘It is in Attlebury. A fine property, centrally located. In good condition as well—minimal work will be needed to make it fit for purpose.’ Marcus watched Elsie’s changing expression as he spoke. ‘In a week, it will be ready. A business begun without debt—it will flourish. I know it.’

  ‘I… oh, Marcus, I…’

  ‘It is completely separate from myself. Separate in every particular. Your father will make it succeed, I am sure of it—but it will be his own success, not mine. If he fails, it is his own failure. Not mine.’ Marcus stroked Elsie’s face. ‘But I know he will not fail.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because it is your happiness, and your mother’s happiness, that he works for. Not himself.’ Marcus smiled. ‘No man can fail, if he lives for others.’

  ‘I… oh, I cannot speak.’ Elsie shook her head, burying her face in Marcus’s shirt. ‘I cannot think.’

  ‘Then feel for a little while with me, and be done with it.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘And I love you.’

  ‘No, you—you cannot love me as much as
I love you.’

  ‘For someone incapable of speech or thought, you are doing a remarkable job of both.’

  ‘It must be the child.’ Elsie’s laughter came, muffled through the linen of his shirt. ‘She is already so talkative.’

  ‘She? I think you mean he.’

  ‘I am sure I mean she. She kicks too much to be a boy. Boys are indolent from a very early age.’

  ‘No child of ours could possibly be indolent.’

  ‘If… if you ever wish to know more of the child’s origins, you have only to—’

  ‘It will never matter to me, unless you decide that it does. That—that you wish me to know certain particulars.’ Marcus squeezed Elsie’s hand. ‘That has always been true. From the first.’

  ‘You are the rarest man alive.’

  ‘I am a man who loves you.’ Marcus interlaced his hand with Elsie’s, the touch of her fingertips thrilling through him. ‘If that makes me rare, I am more than happy to be so.’

  ‘You shall be rarer still, when we are married. The ton will shun you entirely.’

  ‘We are to be married, then? You are decided?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. The ton will not shun me—they will be far too fascinated by the beauty and spirit of my wife to worry about her station.’

  ‘They will pick me to pieces, and you know it.’

  ‘Then we will live above a bookshop, and damn them to hell.’

  ‘You are so handsome when you are fierce.’

  ‘I have my wife to protect. I am as fierce as a lion.’ Marcus closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her. ‘And if I am dreaming, I do not wish to wake.’

  ‘Neither do I. Let us stay dreaming—stay in the story.’

  ‘Forever, my love. Forever, and beyond it.’

  ‘Well?’ Lydia Weeks looked expectantly at James Hildebrande as he knelt with his ear pressed to the door of the morning room. ‘Tell us!’

  ‘I can’t hear a bloody thing.’ James slumped back into a kneeling position with an irritated sigh as Catherine shook her head, rolling her eyes. ‘I need a glass. Or a child with better ears than mine.’

  ‘A child stands a good chance of hearing something unseemly, and you are nowhere near the age where one can reasonably complain about poor hearing.’ Catherine tutted. ‘Let me listen.’

  ‘And let my wife hear something unfit for a lady’s ears?’

  ‘The first and last time you will ever employ such an excuse with me, given our manner of meeting.’ Catherine looked at Lydia, who nodded as she attempted not to laugh. ‘You are simply a terrible gossip, and wish to know pertinent news before anyone else.’

  ‘Can you blame me? He has become a great friend to me, and she is practically a rose plucked from a country hedgerow and placed in a pleasure-house! The story is charming from beginning to end!’

  ‘You are a slave to sensibility, Your Grace.’ Lydia held a hand to her mouth as her giggles threatened to escape. ‘Catherine failed to alert me to this—this poetry in your soul.’

  ‘I have a distinct suspicion that your husband has as much poetry in his soul as I do.’ James rose to his feet with a smile. ‘Now if one of you wishes to try your hand at listening through that accursed door, you’re welcome to it. I leave the sensibilities of my wife in her own, infinitely capable hands.’

  ‘I know I will simply burst out laughing, and ruin the whole business.’ Lydia looked imploringly at Catherine. ‘Come now. You are the only one of us cool-headed enough to do it, in Arthur’s absence.’

  With a scathing look at her best friend, Catherine smoothed down her skirts as she moved to the door. Kneeling, pressing her ear to the wood, she listened as James and Lydia waited expectantly.

  After a few minutes of silence, James threw up his hands. ‘Well? Are they playing whist in there? What is happening?’

  Catherine turned, rising to her feet. The smile on her face was radiant, all coolness lost in captivating happiness.

  ‘I do not believe anything is happening.’ She paused, smiling. ‘I believe we are listening to a proposal of marriage.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ James clapped his hands, startling Lydia. ‘Then we can interrupt and celebrate, surely!’

  ‘Give them a little more time to be happy, dear.’ Catherine laughed, looking at Lydia. ‘In this precise moment, all is perfectly balanced. Our happiness will tip everything into chaos.’

  ‘But I adore chaos.’

  ‘As do I.’ Lydia moved to the door, James and Catherine behind her. With a smile, she wrapped her fingers around the door-handle. ‘Let us indulge!’

  THE END

  A Bluestocking’s Vice

  ‘Sin!’ Rebecca Westbrook’s strident voice filled the London street with very little effort. She shook the sign she had painted, struggling to see her own brightly daubed words in the absence of her spectacles, sadly broken the day before. ‘These dens of iniquity offer no true shelter or succour, ladies and gentlemen! They are—oh, no, oh goodness…’

  A sudden gust of wind had almost blown her sign away. Rebecca glared at the sky with hearty annoyance, then turned to the tall, imposing facade of the Cappadene Club to glare with even more venom.

  If pleasure-houses such as these would simply close their doors, and give the poor wretches working within them decent wages for decent work elsewhere, she would have no need to stand shouting outside their gates on a windy day in June. If they had simply replied to the polite letter she and the other ladies from the Society of the Prevention of Vice had sent some weeks ago, she could have sat in a drawing room with one of the mysterious owners—Sir Marcus Bennington, or that awful rake James Hildebrande—and calmly stated her terms.

  No answer to the letter meant no mercy. It meant signs, and shouting, and embarrassment for the Cappadene Club and anyone fool enough to walk inside it. No, her usual companions were not with her, yes, there was a large conflagration three streets away which had attracted everyone within a mile, no, no-one seemed to be either arriving at the Club, or leaving it…

  Lord, why did the day have to be so fearfully hot? Her hat was so heavy on her head, her hair so full of pins it practically bristled, like a separate creature. Rebecca, swallowing painfully as a bead of sweat travelled down her brow, prepared to give the spirited cry again.

  ‘Sin!’ Her voice refused to co-operate, emerging as weakly as a kitten. ‘These dens of iniquity offer no true shelter or succour, ladies and gentlemen! They are… they are…’

  Oh, for goodness’ sake. There was no-one in the street, the air was boiling like a lobster-pot, and if she wasn’t careful she would faint in the middle of the road. Rebecca eyed the stridently-painted sign with unusual venom as she leaned it against the railings of the Cappadene Club, putting a hand to her corset.

  Too tight. Always laced too tightly. Every part of her felt like her constrained waist— tight, hot, and more than capable of bursting under the correct amount of pressure.

  She would need to seek refreshment. That much was evident. Alas, none of the coffee-houses within the immediate vicinity looked upon the Vice Prevention ladies with a kindly eye. Rebecca viewed the tempting, highly-polished shopfronts with bitter jealousy, wishing she hadn’t spent quite so much time protesting about the consumption of coffee outside of them. A useless protest, ultimately—coffeehouses had turned out to be far more palatable than public houses—and now her ill-chosen morals would leave her thirsty.

  She stared at the deserted street, narrowing her eyes. Closed door, closed door, closed door, closed door… oh, no.

  The only door ajar in the entire road was the side-door to the Cappadene Club.

  There was no way on earth that she could enter the very establishment she was publically criticising. That would represent a moral failure of the most… the most profound kind…

  … but if she fainted outside of the Cappdene Club, lying in the middle of the street like a drunken wretch? If someone found her? Or worse—if no-one found her for half an hour, an hou
r, under the burning sun?

  She had chosen the worst time possible to protest. Not that she could have predicted a fire three streets away, but still. This, from start to finish, had been a foolish idea.

  ‘Idiocy.’ Rebecca looked at the sign, abandoning it with a shudder. Such violently daubed statements had seemed the very height of bravery two or three years ago, but felt sillier every day. She stared at the side-door, so invitingly ajar. ‘Pure, pure idiocy…’

  There was nothing else for it. She would have to duck inside the very building she was protesting against, for fear of being overcome by the heat. Her mother and father would be horrified if she were found in such a state—they were horrified by most things, but their oldest and most unimpeachably moral daughter found unconscious in the road would represent a fresh hell for them.

  With a final look at her sign, rolling her eyes, Rebecca darted around the side of the Club. Not wishing to touch the brickwork, lip curled in distaste at the damp and moss at the borders of the alleyway, she stepped through the side-door as quickly as she could.

  The shade of the corridor was a balm to the soul after the excesses of sun in the street. Rebecca took a moment to lean gratefully against the wall, breathing in the cool air with eagerness, before coming to her senses with a wave of nervousness.

  No-one would see her, would they? She couldn’t bear to be found here by a worker—or worse, the management. The idea of seeing James Hildebrande or Marcus Bennington with her clothes and hair in such a disordered state was anathema. But as Rebecca listened intently, cool plaster against her skin, she realised that the Club was silent.

  People wouldn’t be visiting at this hour. Even London gentlemen, with all their debauchery, didn’t go to pleasure-houses in the early afternoon. But there would be people, here surely? The courtesans, the maids, the cooks…

  … but it was silent. Silent as a grave. Or a church, which Rebecca found rather funny before upbraiding herself for blasphemy.