The Savage Marquess (11 page)

“You should have asked our permission,” raged his mother. Her eyes were green, but unlike her son’s, of a paler color. Her carefully dressed black hair under a turban of purple velvet showed streaks of gray. Her face, weather-beaten from many hours on the hunting field, was harsh and masculine.

“I must remind you I am not a minor,” the marquess said. “Nor can you indulge in any of your favorite disciplines like having me stripped naked and beaten in front of the servants or locked in a closet without food for two days.”

“Tish! Do you still hold that against me? All children are disciplined thus. Wait until you have children of your own. The lash of the whip never did you any harm.”

A picture of the small, terrified, oversensitive child he had once been rose before the marquess’s eyes.

“Let me make one thing clear,” he said. “My marriage is my business and I will not stand criticism of my wife.”

“Even a wife who removes my portrait and says it is because she did not like it? Even a wife who had me shown out before my call was over?”

“She did that?” exclaimed the marquess.

“Yes. And she had obviously been doing the housework herself.”

A slow smile crossed the marquess’s face. For the first time, a genuine glow of admiration for Lucinda spread through his mind.

“I am glad she managed to find another place for that portrait of you, Mother,” he said. “Although I admit it does you justice, from the hard lines of your face to the nasty little smile on your mouth.”

His mother rose, and before he could guess what she meant to do, she had delivered a backhanded slap across his cheek. One of her many rings cut a jagged scratch.

He rang the bell. “Humphrey,” he said quietly, “show her grace out and make sure she never sets foot in this house again.”

“You will be sorry for this insolence,” said his mother. “Very sorry.”

The marquess stood still after she had left. Then he took out a handkerchief and dabbed at the cut on his cheek. He noticed his hand was trembling slightly, and swore.

Gone was the peace of the day. He was in London, and London was full of pleasures and amusements. He called for his carriage and summoned Chumley and told him to be ready to accompany him. And Chumley, seeing the hectic gleam in his master’s eyes, cursed the Duchess of Barnshire under his breath. The valet knew another long day and night of dissipation lay ahead.

“Why, Miss Benson!” exclaimed Kennedy as she turned into Berkeley Square, carrying a bottle of magic fluid which was supposed to remove all stains. She had discovered a small splash of wine on Lucinda’s blue silk gown, had read an advertisement for Johnson’s Patent Stain Remover in the
Morning Post
, and had gone to the Haymarket to buy some.

“I was out walking,” said Benson, “and hoped to see you, Miss Kennedy.”

“You do seem to have a great deal of free time,” said Kennedy.

“You forget, my mistress is abroad,” said Benson, “and the fact is, I am mortal worried because she did not take me with her. What if she returns with one of them Frenchies and I lose my lob?”

Kennedy was immediately sympathetic, as Benson knew she would be, and so Kennedy was easily persuaded to walk a little way to a pastry cook’s. A warning bell was sounding in Kennedy’s head, telling her not to be indiscreet. But poor Benson was so worried about her job, and was such a good and comforting friend, that Kennedy soon found herself telling the sympathetic Benson about Lucinda’s marriage.

Cleverly, Benson extracted every last mite of information.

After she left Kennedy, she hurried to Mr. Zeus Carter’s lodgings. That gentleman was lying in his bed, having suffered a bad fall down his own staircase by trying to make the descent earlier that day in all the glory of fixed spurs. One of the sharp spurs had dug itself into the woodwork of the stairs and Mr. Carter had fallen heavily and twisted his ankle.

Benson was ushered into the darkened bedchamber. “I hope you have brought good news,” said Mr. Carter faintly.

The lady’s maid approached the bed. “I bring very good news,” she said.

“Well, well, out with it.”

“Such good news deserves a reward.”

“What!” Mr. Carter struggled up against the pillows, groped for his quizzing glass on the bedside table, raised it to one eye, and stared at Benson.

“I said, sir, that such good news deserves a reward.”

“Nonsense. Take yourself off. Mrs. Deauville shall learn of your impertinence. You will lose your job.”

“My mistress does not have much of a reputation,” said Benson, “but she would have less were I ever to open my mouth. I am sure Lord Rockingham might be interested to learn that while he was paying her keep she was consorting with Mr. Dancer.”

“You would not—”

“
And
,” went on Benson, “I am also sure the Marchioness of Rockingham would be vastly interested to learn that part of my duties are to spy on her.”

Mr. Carter regarded her with hate.

“How much?”

“Ten guineas.”

“
Ten guineas!
” screeched Mr. Carter. “You wicked woman. That is a fortune.”

Benson stood before him, hands demurely folded.

“Oh, very well,” he said finally. He paid her the money and then listened eagerly to the news.

“You have done well,” he said when she had finished. “Oh, I wish Maria would return from Paris.”

When Benson had left, Mr. Carter decided that he must be brave and rouse himself that evening to go to the Bellamys’ rout. If there was any love between Rockingham and Lucinda, he would spot it. But if there were none there, then he, Zeus Carter, had nearly five months left of that six-month bargain to make mischief.

He was about to sink back into the sleep that had been disturbed by Benson’s visit when his valet announced that Mrs. Deauville was desirous of seeing him.

“Show her up,” cried Mr. Carter. He could hardly wait to tell Maria all his news.

Maria Deauville had left Paris in pursuit of the marquess, but the ridgepole of her carriage had broken on the route to Dieppe and she had been delayed three days waiting for it to be repaired, so that although the marquess had been held back two days at Dieppe, she found herself still a day behind him on the chase to London.

She felt bitterly that Rockingham had cheated her out of a wedding. Maria knew herself to be good
ton.
Her reputation was, perhaps, a trifle cracked, but of all the marquess’s mistresses, she was the one who had lasted longest. He had once confided in her his desire for children and she had considered that tantamount to a proposal. She had been proud that she was the only woman who appeared to be able to control his wild moods. She listened with growing excitement to Mr. Carter’s news. But then, at the end of it, he told her pettishly of Benson’s demand for money.

“You did not give her any—of course,” said Maria.

“I had to!” said Mr. Carter. “Why, she said an I did not, for a start she would tell Rockingham that you had been, um,
entertaining
Mr. Dancer during his absences, and that, for a second hit, she would tell his wife that she was being ordered to spy on her.”

“You numbskull,” hissed Maria. “Do you not see she has tasted blood, and will soon want more—and more—and then in the end she will go to Rockingham. Did we not agree that servants should not be bribed, for bribed servants are greedy and treacherous?”

“You left me alone with the problem.” Mr. Carter sulked. “I cannot think of everything. I am already doing enough. I have twisted my ankle, yet I am prepared to rouse myself from my sickbed to go to the Bellamys’ rout this evening so that I may observe the Rockinghams together. If there is no love there, then we have plenty of time.”

“We have no time at all unless I do something about Benson,” Maria snarled. “Oh, go back to sleep, you milksop. I came straight here before going home. Can I expect to find my maid there?”

“I suppose so,” Mr. Carter mumbled, pulling the blankets up to his chin. “Do not look so fierce, Mrs. Deauville. You see before you a grievously injured man who is yet prepared to pull his poor tortured body from this bed to venture out this evening on your behalf.”

“And on your own, my dear friend. If you are trying to make me believe you have forgot for one moment that you are Rockingham’s heir, then you are an even greater fool than I believe you to be.”

This was too much for Mr. Carter. He pulled the blankets right over his head and waited until he heard the light patter of her feet descending the stairs.

Benson was relieved that her mistress showed no signs of having visited Mr. Carter, and no signs of making preparations to do so. Maria told her maid she had just returned from Paris, and there was nothing in her manner to show she knew of the maid’s blackmail. Benson knew a horrendous scene would descend on her the minute Mrs. Deauville
did
find out, but it was pleasant not to have to face up to it right away.

She busied herself therefore in preparing her mistress’s bed and lighting a fire in the bedchamber, confident that Mrs. Deauville would wish to sleep after her long journey. But Maria surprised her by saying she was stepping out again for a few moments.

But she was gone for almost an hour and, on her return, she appeared very excited and told Benson that they were to go a little out of town to a certain inn where they would meet a man who had intelligence which would ruin Lucinda in the eyes of her husband.

Benson was ordered to make ready to go with her mistress.

“The fellow is demanding a great deal of money in small coin,” said Maria. “Put this money belt around your waist and keep it safe.”

The maid gasped at the weight of the belt. “It’s so heavy, madam, I don’t know that I can stand.”

“You will be traveling in a carriage, not walking,” Maria snapped.

Benson was thin and slight and middle-aged. But she was tough and wiry and soon became accustomed to the heavy weight about her middle.

She became increasingly elated as the carriage bore them out of London. If Mrs. Deauville was prepared to pay such a large sum—for, small coinage or not, the terrible weight still meant quite a bit of money—then surely she would pay up handsomely to her, Benson, as well.

The carriage finally halted on Maria’s instructions in the courtyard of a quiet country inn a little way from the main Richmond road. The day was fine and Maria asked the landlord to bring them glasses of ratafia out-of-doors.

There was a pretty garden at the back of the inn beside a lily pond. Maria ordered the table and chairs to be moved into the sun, then into the shade, and then finally placed at the edge of the water.

Glad this exquisite customer had finally made up her mind, and reminding himself to keep checking on her in case she wanted anything further, for the table was now placed out of sight of the windows of the inn, the landlord beat a thankful retreat.

“Oh dear,” Maria exclaimed, “I have left my stole in the carriage and it is become a little chilly.”

“Would you not care to remove to inside the inn?” Benson asked.

“No, no, silly woman. I went to all this trouble because I desire secrecy when this fellow arrives. In fact, as you pass through the inn, tell the landlord not to appear again until I send for him.”

“Very good, madam.” Benson went off to carry out her instructions and, as she did so, the maid could not help wondering about the character of the man who was coming to sell news of Lady Rockingham. Would he be clever and wise like herself, or merely a low cunning person? Perhaps he might be the sort of man with whom she could join forces. Benson was well and truly wrapped up in this rosy fantasy by the time she returned with her mistress’s stole.

She stood to attention behind Maria’s chair.

“No, you may be seated,” said Maria. “You will observe I ordered ratafia for you as well.”

“Very good of you, madam,” said Benson, sitting down on a chair with her back to the pond.

“In Paris,” said Maria with a little laugh, “the maids can drain off a little glass like this in one gulp. Can you do the same, Benson?”

“Oh, easily, madam,” said Benson, tossing the contents down her throat.

Odd’s fish, will she never die? thought Maria impatiently as the effects of the arsenic she had put in her maid’s drink took violent effect. How she does gargle and choke and drum her heels on the grass! I hope she does not alert the landlord.

But Benson at last lay still, conveniently at the edge of the pond. Maria stooped and rolled the body in. The pond, as she knew from a previous visit, was deep and weedy. The lifeless body, weighted down with the heavy money belt which Maria had filled with lead, sank down into the murky, opaque green depths of the pond. A few ripples spread out. A duck put its head on one side and surveyed Maria with such a comic expression of surprise that she nearly laughed aloud.

Then she sat down and finished her own drink after rinsing out Benson’s glass in the pond.

Then she went into the inn and paid for the drinks, asking the landlord if he had seen anything of her maid. When he said he had not, she replied that the silly woman must already be in the carriage. She then went out to the carriage and told the coachman that Benson had looked most peculiar and appeared to have run away. What was the reason for it? Had Benson been up to anything? The coachman shook his head and said she had gone out and about a lot while the mistress was in Paris.

On her return, Maria conveniently found a diamond necklace missing and raised the alarm. Her butler suggested calling the Runners but Maria wept pathetically and said the scandal would be too much for her to bear.

As ladies’ maids were the most unpopular creatures next to governesses in any household, since they had to be waited on by the servants just as if they were the aristocracy, the other members of Maria’s staff were gleefully prepared to believe the worst of Benson.

The maid had never talked of any family, had never seemed to have either friends or relations. Maria was confident that she would soon be forgotten.

And as Benson’s still body moved sluggishly to and fro in the depths of the inn pond, Maria Deauville, resplendent in agates and a gown of gold tissue, set out for the Bellamys’ rout.