The Marquis Takes a Bride (15 page)

“Pooh!” said Sally. “That one only loves himself!”

“Perry, if the girl is making you so unhappy, why marry her?” demanded the Marquis of Charrington.

He and Mr. Deighton had spent a long, dreary and silent evening playing cards. Both of them had been reluctant to return to their respective homes and, instead, had driven several miles out on the Brighton road, looking for a congenial hostelry where they could first clear their heads with the cool air of the drive and then revive their spirits with a good bottle of wine.

They had finally alighted at the Three Sisters Inn at Horley and had found themselves a quiet table in the small garden at the back.

The evening was very still and warm. A small moon rose high above and the smells of grass and flowers mingled with the homelier smells of ale, wine and coffee which drifted from the taproom.

Perry had burst into speech under the relaxing influence of a good bottle of port. He had entreated Chemmy to talk to the tutor and tell that presumptuous Highlander to keep his roving eyes on his books.

The Marquis had refused. He was in a difficult position, he said. The tutor had saved his wife’s life and appeared to be receiving every encouragement from Sally. Also, the tutor had come with impeccable references from the Duke of Westerland, who had also written from his Scottish fastness to say that Mr. Porteous came from a very old family and that his bloodline was impeccable. The man had, in fact, everything to recommend him except money.

“How did the trouble with Sally start?” asked the Marquis, prepared to sink himself in Perry’s troubles so that he might cease worrying about his own. He could not, after all, discuss his wife, even with his best friend. Discussing her with Porteous was a different matter. He needed Porteous as a watchdog.

“I did not like the way she dressed and told her that I would choose her trousseau for her,” said Perry.

The Marquis groaned. “Perry, my dear Perry, if Miss Byles was in the habit of arraying herself in vulgar or ostentatious clothes I could see the point, but she is always very attractively gowned.”

“That’s just it,” complained Perry. “She’s too attractive by half. Who would have thought she would have changed from that plump little country miss? I see the way other men look at her and I can’t stand it.”

That was when the Marquis had pointed out that Perry might be better off not marrying Sally if she made him so unhappy.

“But I shall be even more unhappy without her,” said Perry moodily. “I am also shocked at the intensity of my feelings. After all, one does not have passionate relationships with one’s future wife.”

The Marquis put down his glass and stared at his friend in amazement. “Why ever not?”

“Well, it’s not
decent
, is it?” pleaded Perry. “One reserves that sort of behavior for the ladies of the town. And when Sally responded to me rather ardently, I had to rebuke her.”

“You had to…” The Marquis groaned. “Look you, Perry. Women are the same creatures whether they come from the demimonde or from our world. They are human. They want passionate love as much as we do. If Sally ever wants to see you again, I shall be much surprised. How on earth did you come about these Gothic notions?”

“It was my father,” said Perry. “He told me that respectable women were completely different from the other kind and that any woman who responded to me ardently would respond to any man ardently.”

“Stuff!” said the Marquis. “I’ve never heard such rubbish. But why then did you lash out at Jennie and call her frigid?”

“That,” said Perry primly, “was simply because she was not performing her marital duties.”

“Oh, Perry, Perry. If it is not too late, I would make most violent love to Miss Sally the next time you see her.”

“But that is lust!” exclaimed Perry.

“It would only be lust if you didn’t love the girl. How can I have known you so long,” said the Marquis, “and not have realized what a load of Methodist garbage was swimming around in that kennel you call a brain? No. Don’t call me out. Someone has got to put you right. I shall do my best for you. If you like, I shall gently warn Mr. Porteous off but I cannot make him keep away from Miss Byles if Miss Byles is hell-bent on flirting with him.”

Unaware that he was the subject of so much heart-searching, the tutor, Mr. Porteous, arrived at the Marquis’ house early the next morning carrying a battered valise and anxious to start his duties as secretary.

He looked with satisfaction around the comfortable room assigned to him. He would make his fortune yet!
He had long known that the road to advancement lay in the South.

Roberts showed him into the study and said that his lordship had left instructions that Mr. Porteous was to deal with the morning post. The newspapers had been ironed and taken up to his lordship and after his lordship had finished with them, it would then be Mr. Porteous’ duty to clip out all articles pertaining to agriculture, in case his lordship might have missed anything. The estate books from the Marquis’ various properties were being sent to him, said Roberts, so that Mr. Porteous could audit the accounts and suggest improvements.

Roberts retired, leaving Mr. Porteous to look proudly around his new domain. He tugged open the French window, which led out to the small garden at the back of the house, letting in the warm, scented morning air of summer. A blackbird sang from the opposite rooftop and the scent of roses and lime drifted into the room.

Mr. Porteous drew a chair up to a fine rococo pedestal desk and began to go through the correspondence.

Almost the first thing to catch his eye was a large heavy red seal on a long letter—a seal that was all too familiar.

With a suddenly thudding heart, he cracked open the seal and carefully spread out the thick parchment.

“My dear Charrington,” he read, holding the letter in hands which had become damp and moist, “I trust you are still finding our good Porteous satisfactory. However, I must beg of you to send him back. My youngest boy, Ian, is about ready to start cramming for Eton and I know of no one else who would get the boy past the entrance exams like our man Porteous. He is a brilliant scholar and I am glad I was able to give him the opportunity of this working holiday in the metropolis, but I am worried about my son’s education and, of course, Mrs. Porteous would be delighted to see her husband again. In fact, I have had to forceably restrain the good lady from making the journey to London. I fear our Porteous is a devil with the ladies! Congratulations and felicitations on your marriage. We would be delighted to entertain you on your next visit north. Yr. humble and obedient servant, Westerland.”

Mr. Porteous stared at the letter while the bird outside sang on and a little errant breeze gently moved the heavy heads of the roses. There was the sound of movements upstairs and then the sound of someone descending the staircase.

With a shaking hand, Mr. Porteous lit the corner of the letter and threw it into the fireplace.

Just in time! A minute later, the door opened and the Marquis strolled in. Mr. Porteous rose and bowed, and then turned and sat down again, bending his head over his work. He did not see how curiously Chemmy was staring at the wisp of smoke in the fireplace or how intently he was staring at the small red pool of sealing wax which was dripping slowly from the andirons.

But the Marquis only said, “I am going out, Porteous. There is a prime Arab mare on sale at Tattersall’s and I am anxious to purchase it for my wife. Do not tell her. I wish it to be a surprise.”

Mr. Porteous rose and bowed without looking fully at the Marquis.

“Oh, just one other thing, Porteous,” said the Marquis. “I do not wish you to encourage the attentions of Miss Byles. You do understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” said the tutor in a grim voice, staring at the floor.

Chemmy left in a thoughtful mood. His secretary had just burned a letter and he, Chemmy, was very interested to find out what letter it had been.

But first, the horse. He was anxious to study his wife’s reaction to the present.

He returned some two hours later, pleased with his purchase and furious with his company.

Guy Chalmers had joined him at Tattersall’s and had stuck to him like a leech, prattling on about the days when he and Jennie had gone riding. He had insisted on accompanying the Marquis home. Chemmy had noted the way Jennie’s face lit up at the sight of Guy and had sent the horse to the stables, taking himself off to his private sitting room to indulge in something remarkably like a sulk.

His usual good nature reasserted itself, however, and he descended the stairs to look for his wife, only to find to his fury that his surprise present was a surprise no more. Mr. Chalmers, Roberts informed him with gloomy relish, had informed her ladyship of her new mount and her ladyship had gone to the Park.

“With Mr. Chalmers?” grated the Marquis.

“No, my lord,” said Roberts, pleased at being able to impart some good news to his grim-faced master, “with John, your groom. Mr. Chalmers had a pressing engagement.”

Not knowing that Guy had told Jennie he had left, Chemmy could only think that she was more interested in her present than in the giver and was as spoiled and avaricious as he had come to believe.

He sent Mr. Porteous on an errand and then went into the study to examine the hearth.

There was no ash in the hearth and the andirons had been scrubbed and polished until they gleamed like silver.

The Marquis stared at the fireplace, his brows drawn together. He suddenly thought it would be a very good idea if he wrote to the Duke of Westerland and asked His Grace to send the reply to his club.

Jennie was enchanted with her horse. It was the daintiest thing imaginable, with delicate mincing steps and a long silky mane. “What shall I call her?” she asked John.

The groom put his head on one side and studied the prancing little horse. “The way she moves,” he said, his face creasing in a rare smile, “puts me in mind of Mr. Garforth’s Rosalind that won the Subscription Cup at Oxford.”

“Then Rosalind it shall be,” laughed Jennie, patting the mare’s golden mane. Jennie felt as if she had just emerged from a nightmare. Chemmy must have some regard for her. No man who hated and disliked his wife would ever have bought her such a beautiful present. What a pity he had not been at home so that he could see her setting off. They could even have gone riding together.

The sun sparkled on the grass and, as it was not yet the fashionable hour, there were few people in the Park.

“Please, may I gallop, John?
Please
,” begged Jennie. “I know it is not the thing but there is hardly anyone around.”

She looked so young and so pretty in her blue velvet riding habit that John grinned and nodded his head. “I’ll have a bit of a gallop as well, my lady. Off you go!”

Instead of gallopping along the cinder path, Jennie swung her mount over a long stretch of grass. The little mare sped like an arrow and Jennie laughed aloud with the sheer exhilaration of the sport. Suddenly the mare bucked and then reared violently.

Had Jennie been more aware, had she guessed for a minute that she was about to be thrown and tensed her body, she might have broken her bones. But it seemed to her that one minute she was on her horse and then next, she was hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

John came racing up, dismounted and helped her to her feet. The little mare pranced away from them, rolling its eyes, flecks of foam on its mouth.

“I’m all right,” gasped Jennie. “See to Rosalind.”

John managed at last to catch the horse by the reins and patted its nose and talked to it in a soothing monotone until it stood still. But it still trembled and rolled its eyes. John studied it for a minute and then bent down and unbuckled the girth and lifted off the saddle. A thin trickle of blood rolled down the mare’s flanks.

John turned over the saddle and stared at it while Jennie came up and looked over his shoulder. A half inch of wicked-looking spike was sticking out of the saddle.

“An evil trick,” muttered John. “This spike was so inserted into the saddle that it would eventually work through it and stab the animal in the back.”

Jennie began to shake with fear. She had a sudden vision of Chemmy stabbing the desk, Chemmy who had bought her the horse and had immediately gone out instead of giving her the present himself.

“I could have been killed,” she whispered.

“Maybe,” said John. “His lordship had better hear about this.”

He already knows
, thought Jennie.

Chemmy heard the tale of the spike and, after John had been dismissed, he turned to his wife. “There is only one person who could have done this… Guy Chalmers.”

Jennie stared at him in shocked disbelief.

“My lord,” came Mr. Porteous’ voice, “I have here an urgent letter from a Mrs. Waring begging for an appointment. She says she has important news for you.”

“Burn it,” said the Marquis, without looking around.

“Very good, my lord,” said Mr. Porteous, and Alice, who had meant to tell Chemmy all about Guy’s iniquities, was never to have the opportunity until much, much later.

Jennie was a mass of seething emotions, jealousy being the predominant one. She said, “You were saying, my lord, that there was only one person who could have done this… you forget. There is yourself.”

“Is that what you think of me?” said the Marquis in much his old lazy manner, although his eyes were like chips of ice.

“Oh, I don’t think anything. I have no mind,” snapped Jennie. “Yes, I do think one thing. I think I would like to get as far away from you as possible. I shall go to Runbury and occupy my time, supervising things there.”

“As you will,” said her husband distantly.

He watched her flounce out of the room, his face withdrawn, then got to his feet and strolled into the study where Mr. Porteous was bent over his books.

“Porteous,” he said abruptly, “My wife is traveling to Runbury Manor. I want you to go with her and guard her at all times. Send to me a daily report of her doings. I also want you to instruct the servants and my steward not to allow Mr. Guy Chalmers admittance to any part of the estate. Do I make myself clear?”