Lady Margery's Intrigues (16 page)

Her companion plunged into a long dissertation and Margery smiled and nodded, her thoughts elsewhere. Why had she decided to attend this party? There was no need now that there was no husband to mark her absence. Someone over by the window exclaimed that it had started to snow, and she let out a little sigh of relief. That would be a good excuse to leave early. She looked round for Lady Amelia, but as usual her companion had disappeared, no doubt on the arm of Mr. Freddie Jamieson. She envied them their comfortable friendship.

Had she but known, Freddie was feeling anything but comfortable as he rose from his knees and stared at Amelia in dismay. “But I say,” he expostulated. “After all, why
not
get married?”

Amelia looked up at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. How could she explain that it was impossible for a woman of her years to marry such a young man? How he would regret it when she was an old woman and he still in his prime? “Say no more tonight, Freddie,” she whispered. “I would not have anything spoil our friendship.”

“But dash it all,” said Freddie. “I want more than friendship.”

Amelia looked at his fair and foolish face. She had learned to love this bashful and sometimes stupid young man as she had never loved anyone before. Why should they not have a discreet liaison? Would he be shocked? But that way they should have a little time together. She looked up at him appealingly and opened her mouth.

“Freddie!”

But it was not Amelia who had called his name. Viscount Swanley was standing in the doorway. His clothes were mud-stained and his hair was tousled.

He strode into the room. “It's Toby,” he gasped. “He's gone mad. I think he's just abducted Lady Margery.”

Amelia leapt to her feet, her own worries forgotten.

“You must be mistaken,” said Freddie soothingly. “Toby would never do a thing like that.”

“But he
has
, I tell you,” yelled Perry. “I wasn't coming here at all. I passed his traveling carriage on the road and I thought I heard someone screaming. Well, I had overheard Toby and his brother plotting something, but I didn't pay much notice ‘cause I thought they were in their cups. Then I remembered Margery was here and I thought I'd call in and make sure. Fellow she was talking to last, he says Toby comes up and says it's starting to snow and that you, Lady Amelia, are already waiting in his carriage.

“She goes into the carriage and then cries out, ‘Amelia isn't here!’ The door is slammed and the carriage races off.”

Amelia had gone very white.

“We'll chase ‘em,” said Freddie. “Do you know where they have gone?”

“Toby said something last night about a deserted gamekeeper's cottage at Tuttering.”

“My wagon is faster,” said Freddie. “Let's go.”

“I'm coming with you,” cried Amelia.

“Better let ‘er,” said Perry gloomily. “With any luck, we may be able to save Margery's reputation.”

“Just what was that about my wife's reputation?” said a cold voice from the door.

Impeccable in evening dress, the tall figure of the Marquess of Edgecombe stood in the doorway.

His two friends leapt on him and hustled him outside. “No time to tell you, Charles,” gasped Freddie. “Tell you on the road.”

He had been so solicitous, so convincing at the party. When she had put her head inside his carriage and found it empty and had turned round to protest, she had received a vicious shove which had sent her sprawling forward among the straw on the floor. Toby had jumped in after her and tried to gather her in his arms as the carriage lurched forward. She had fought and struggled and screamed for nearly a mile until Toby had taken out a large Belcher handkerchief and ruthlessly gagged her and bound her hands.

From the strong smell of brandy on her companion's breath, Margery realized with dismay that he had fortified himself for the ordeal.

She was disheveled and shivering and her cloak and dress were torn.

Toby sat sulkily nursing his scratched face. It had not turned out the way he had expected, and he felt a dull resentment against the world in general. He fortified himself from his flask and began to feel more cheerful. As soon as he reached Tuttering, he would have all night to exercise the considerable masculine charm his brother has assured him he had.

Then he noticed that the coach, which had previously been hurtling along at a great rate, had slowed considerably. He let down the window and leaned his head out and asked his coachman what the deuce he meant by dawdling at this cursed pace. A blizzard was blowing full strength and the coachman's protesting voice came faintly through the storm. If he went any faster they would end in the ditch, he said.

“Spring ‘em!” snapped Toby, slamming the window up again. The coach gave a great lurch and bounded forward.

Frantic thoughts chased each other round in Margery's brain. If only he would remove the gag, then perhaps she could plead with him. What would her husband say?

As if in answer to her unspoken query, Toby said, “It ain't no use you sitting there looking at me as if I was some sort of monster. No use pretending to be so hoity-toity either. Charles told me about you. Said you was any man's for the asking.”

Margery realized with a dull surprise that hearts did break. How else could she explain the great wrenching pain in her bosom?

Never until now had she lost hope of somehow gaining her husband's affections. The carriage lurched and swayed and the wind howled and screamed.

“I hope we crash,” thought Margery wretchedly. “I wish I were dead.”

As if in answer to her prayer, there came a great cry from the roof of the coach, a sound of splintering wood, and she was thrown across the carriage on top of Toby as the whole carriage overturned on its side.

She wriggled away from him and tried to stand up. Her hands had been tied loosely behind her and she found that with the tremendous jolt they had worked free. She unloosened her gag and relieved her feelings with a spate of unmaidenly language culled from the hunting field. There was no reply. The free door of the carriage was now above her, and it suddenly swung open and a footman's white and anxious face peered in.

“Mr. Sanderson?” queried the servant. “We're in the ditch, sir. John coachman said you made him take the road too fast and it's snowing mortal hard. Mr. Sanderson?”

Silence.

“A pox on Mr. Sanderson,” snapped Lady Margery. “Get me out of this directly or you'll hang at Tyburn for this night's work.”

The servant went even whiter at the familiar note of authority in her voice. This was no doxy, as his master had led him to believe. Babbling apologies and pleas for forgiveness, he pulled her out of the carriage and lifted her down to the waiting arms of a groom who was standing in the ditch.

One carriage lamp was still miraculously burning, and in its flickering light Margery saw nothing but white desolation.

Villain or not, Toby must be saved. “Get your master out,” she snapped. The small body of servants huddled round her. All appeared to be unhurt.

Margery turned her attention to the postilions. “Ride ahead and find the nearest inn and fetch help,” she cried above the storm. “Tell them to prepare a bedchamber for your master and send someone to find a doctor.”

The postilions relit their torches and rode off into the storm.

A faint groan was heard from the carriage. Margery stood numbly, with her torn cloak wrapped tightly about her, as Toby was dragged into view. He was very white and there was blood pouring down his face.

The servants pulled bearskin rugs out from the carriage and Margery wrapped herself in one, grateful for its shaggy warmth, and stood in the lee of the carriage. Toby's words seemed to be burned into her brain: “Said you was any man's for the asking.”

Toby had collapsed once more into unconsciousness and Margery stared down at his prone form without pity. Perhaps she would feel sorry for him later, but now all she felt was a bitter hatred for this clumsy oaf who had mauled her and torn her clothes.

After what seemed an age, the storm abated a little and she could see the flickering light of the postilions’ torches through the snow.

“Please, mum,” said the first, pulling his forelock. “There's a posting inn, the George and Dragon, a ways down the road. The landlord's a surly cove and won't take out a carriage on a night like this for anybody. If you can ride, mum, you can take my ‘orse and Jim and me"—he waved towards the other postilion—"will follow with the carriage horses and try to get Maister across the back o’ one of ‘em.”

He dismounted from his horse as Margery nodded her head, and then threw her up into the saddle. The horse reared and curvetted, but she quickly brought it under control, glad there was no one else to see her but the servants as she galloped off astride the great beast, with her torn skirts hitched up above the knee.

It was only after a mile or so, when she saw the welcoming lights of the inn, that she realized it would have been better to have taken at least one servant with her, for appearance's sake. Tiny stinging pellets of snow whipped against her face and she realized with surprise that she was crying. She clumsily wiped the tears from her face with her sleeve and jumped down nimbly from the horse.

“Take this horse to the stables and rub it down,” she called to the ostler, throwing him the reins.

The ostler grinned at her insolently, and she flushed with embarrassment as she realized her skirts were still hitched up. With frozen hands she tugged them back to a respectable length.

She turned her back on him and strode into the inn. It was expensively appointed and a cheerful fire crackled in the hall. She moved over to warm herself at it and then became aware that someone was staring at her. She swung round to face the landlord.

He was a fat, white man of immense girth, and with small piggy eyes, which were at the moment raking Margery up and down from her disheveled hair to the muddy wreck of her slippers.

Margery raised her eyebrows. “Arrange my room, sirrah!” she said coldly, “and then take yourself about your business.”

The landlord fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and produced a goose quill and proceeded to clean his teeth in insolent silence.

“Speak, dog,” said Margery, bristling like a small terrier.

“Ho, dog, is it?” said the landlord in a slow, plummy voice, “I'd rather be a dog than a doxy.” He moved closer to her, grinning.

Margery's cloak fell open and a fine sapphire necklace, bought with her husband's generous allowance, blazed on her neck in the firelight.

The smile was wiped from the landlord's face. He paused, looking at the necklace as if hypnotized.

“And how dare you speak to me in those terms,” said Margery. “I, sir, am the Marchioness of Edgecombe.”

The smile was back on the landlord's face. “More like her ladyship's maid a-runnin’ away with ‘er jools,” he said with a fat laugh.

A cold blast of wind heralded the arrival of another traveler. The landlord turned round, and immediately his fat face creased itself into obsequious smiles. He knew the quality when he saw it. The handsome, high-nosed stranger who was standing on the threshold was wearing a many-caped drab coat, gleaming Hessians, and a curly-brimmed beaver perched at a rakish angle on his thick tawny hair.

“And what,” said Charles, Marquess of Edgecombe, “is my wife doing standing there unattended?”

The landlord goggled and a blush of dismay colored his face. “How was I to know?” he bleated. “How—”

“Cease your cackling, you fat whoreson,” rapped the marquess. “A bedchamber for my lady and a private parlor. I also need accommodation for my friends.”

Feeling faint and dizzy, Margery was aware that Amelia and Freddie had appeared behind the marquess. Amelia wrapped her motherly arms round her shivering niece.

“Come away, my dear,” she said gently, as if talking to a hurt child. “There, my dear. There. Aunt Amelia is here and everything is going to be all right.”

The marquess half reached out his hand to his wife as she left the room. But she shrank against Amelia and refused to look at him.

There was a further commotion in the doorway as Toby was carried in by the two ostlers. One of them recognized the marquess. “Maister will be all right, my lord,” he said. “'Tis only a blow to the head.”

“Good,” said the marquess grimly. “I am glad your master will live to give me the satisfaction I crave.” Then he turned his back as Toby was carried abovestairs.

“Wasn't his fault,” said Freddie as the marquess shrugged himself out of his coat. “It was yours.”

The marquess's eyes narrowed. “Are you anxious to depart this world as well?” he asked in a deceptively mild voice.

“Pretty anxious,” said Freddie gloomily. “Oh, stop looking daggers at me, Charles, and sit down. Hey, you! Landlord! Show us to that demned private parlor and bring the makings of a punch. I will need rum and arrack and ... oh ... cinnamon and lemons and hot water and cloves and—”

“I think that will do,” remarked the marquess. “Go to it, man. Bustle about.”

They followed the bowing and cringing landlord, who was still incoherently trying to apologize for his behavior to my lady, to the upper floor. The low-ceilinged parlor was cozy and warm, with thickly lined chintz curtains to keep out the winter drafts and a great fire roaring up the chimney. Both sat on either side of the fire in silence as the old inn rocked and heaved in the grasp of the storm and the landlord set the requisites for punch on a low deal table. Freddie rose and began to busy himself, sipping and tasting until he was satisfied. He then poured out two glasses and drained his own in one gulp. “May as well,” he said half to himself, “since she won't have me.”

“Won't have you,” repeated the marquess wrathfully. “Are you another who has been attempting to seduce my wife?”

“Good God! No,” said Freddie hurriedly. “I mean Amelia. Proposed, you know. But she won't have me.”

“Then we share the same fate,” said the marquess, kicking the logs with his boot.

“That's what I wanted to talk to you about,” said Freddie cautiously. “But first of all, you know, you
did
tell Toby that any man could have your wife for the asking!”

The marquess went very white and still. “Then I cannot call Toby out,” he said at last in an anguished whisper. “What an utter fool I've been, Freddie.”

The door opened and Viscount Swanley strode in. He had been seeing to the rubbing down of the horses and was now prepared to relax. He was feeling justifiably proud of himself. Margery's reputation was saved. Toby would live and everyone would live happily ever after.

He stopped in dismay at the two grim faces in front of him. “What can be the matter?” he asked anxiously. “Were we not in time?”

“Oh, we were indeed in time. Everything is a garden of roses,” said the marquess bitterly. “My wife has been told of my ill-judged remarks at Watier's and Amelia has refused Freddie. I have never known a woman to intrigue so much as Margery. She is probably sitting up in her room plotting some excellent way to get rid of me.”