The Savage Marquess (12 page)

The Bellamys’ home was in Chelsea, which was considered to have the advantages of being nearly in the country without being too vulgarly isolated from the center of the town.

Beside Lucinda in the carriage sat Kennedy, the maid, hoping that Benson might be there. Kennedy often accompanied her mistress to various
ton
affairs, but so far Benson, and her mistress, had been absent from them all. But if this Mrs. Deauville were indeed such an elderly lady and addicted to travel, then it surely followed that she would not be in the habit of attending the same functions as the Marchioness of Rockingham.

Lucinda had waited and waited, hoping that her husband would return and escort her. She had chided herself during the day on her lack of courage in fleeing when he had smashed her breakfast. And of what good would it be to flirt with this Mr. Dancer if Rockingham were not there to see it?

Lucinda’s dress had been hurriedly altered by Mrs. Meyer at the last minute to turn it into a bolder style than she usually wore. It was of green-and-white-striped silk, cut in the French manner—that is, in a simple demure style which nonetheless managed to show off a great deal of her figure. Mrs. Meyer had said cynically that French designers were a miracle of how to make a lady appear seductive without making her look like a demirep.

The Bellamys’ house was a pleasant Queen Anne mansion surrounded by a high wall. As was the custom when giving a rout, all the curtains were drawn back and there was a blaze of light from top to bottom.

Lucinda was no longer afraid of these social affairs. She had made a few friends, enough to guarantee she had someone to talk to. She felt she did not belong in London society and therefore treated all their peculiar shibboleths and taboos with all the wary respect of an intelligent explorer staying with a curious, slightly dangerous, and primitive tribe.

As Kennedy arranged Lucinda’s dress in the anteroom reserved for the ladies and pinned up some stray tendrils which had come loose from underneath her mistress’s headdress of twined vine leaves and seed pearls, Lucinda once more found herself surrounded by ladies anxious to find out the name of her dressmaker. Lucinda was feminine enough to want to keep the name of this treasure to herself, but, on the other hand, she was very much her father’s daughter, and so she gave out Mrs. Meyer’s direction. There were many flutterings and exclamations of “
Whitechapel!
” as if Lucinda had said Mrs. Meyer were in Labrador instead of the East End of London.

Lucinda and Kennedy then lined up on the staircase, inching up slowly a little bit at a time. A rout was a peculiar affair. The people were the only entertainment. Neither dancing, nor refreshments, nor cards was supplied. About half an hour was spent trying to get into the saloon where one’s host held court, half an hour of socializing, then another half hour fighting out, and then at least an hour waiting on the step while one’s coachman battled his way through the press.

At last Lucinda was able to make her curtsy to Lord and Lady Bellamy. Then she turned to search the overcrowded room for a sign of a familiar face. She saw Lord Freddy and his sister, Agatha, over in a far corner and started to make her way toward them, but glancing all the time from right to left, wondering which of these gentlemen was the famous rake, Mr. Dancer.

Mr. Zeus Carter appeared suddenly in front of her, blocking her way.

He made an elaborate bow and tried to perform his usual flourish with a scented handkerchief, but swiped an angry-looking old lady on the shoulder, who swore at him with all the coarseness of the last century. Mr. Carter shuddered and confined himself to a less dramatic welcome.

“Mr. Carter,” said Lucinda. “How do you do?”

“Tolerable, ma’am. Tolerable. Fell downstairs and wrenched my ankle most horribly. In sickbed. Got physician. Said rest. But decided I must attend to pay my respects to you, dear lady.”

“I think it would be much more comfortable for you to have stayed in bed and waited until you could call on me at our home instead of in the middle of this sad crush,” said Lucinda.

“True. True. But… aha, Mrs. Deauville! May I introduce you to the Marchioness of Rockingham.”

Both Lucinda and Maria stiffened—Lucinda because she knew she was facing Rockingham’s mistress; Kennedy because she could hardly believe this fairylike creature could be Benson’s employer, Benson who had led her to believe Mrs. Deauville was old.

“May I felicitate you?” said Maria. “One never thought the wild marquess would marry.”

“Did one not?” said Lucinda icily, and made to move forward.

But Mr. Carter and Maria stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking her way.

“And where
is
Rockingham?” cooed Maria.

“My husband is about town somewhere,” said Lucinda. “He is but recently returned from Paris.”

“Ah, yes,” said Maria. “I saw him there. Ah, Paris! A city of love and romance.”

Lucinda felt sick. It seemed that whenever she tried to rationalize her husband’s wild and disgusting behavior, something arose to tell her she could never change him—that she had been a fool to wait this evening, hoping for the return of a man who threw away her breakfast and ordered her from the room.

Although she surveyed Maria with calm, clear eyes, her raging jealous mind was taking in every detail of Maria’s dress and appearance. This Mrs. Deauville’s gold hair owed nothing to art, and her figure, revealed by a gown of damped gold tissue, was perfect. But her skin owed its seeming purity to a heavy layer of blanc. I hope she dies of lead poisoning, Lucinda thought.

Aloud she said, “You are fortunate indeed, Mrs. Deauville, in finding Paris such a delight. Other members of the
ton
have informed me it is naught but a medieval sink of vice and filth.”

“Perhaps my company cast a rosy glow on my surroundings,” said Maria maliciously.

Lucinda took a deep breath and her fine eyes flashed fire. “If, madam,” she said in a clear, carrying voice, “you are attempting to tell me you were my husband’s mistress before his marriage to me, then I beg you to save your breath. Rockingham’s stable of doxies is legendary. I beg you to excuse me.”

She forced her way past the spluttering Maria. Mr. Carter let out a nervous titter of laughter and then clamped his hand over his mouth as he saw the rage in Maria’s eyes.

“Who is that magnificent creature?” asked a cool voice somewhere above Maria’s head.

She looked up and saw the handsome face of Mr. Dancer smiling down at her. She collected herself with an effort and gave a little shrug. “’Tis Rockingham’s new bride. A pert country miss of neither breeding nor background.”

“You must introduce me.”

“Not I,” said Maria. She was about to turn away when she changed her mind and turned back. Rockingham had not seen fit to accompany Lucinda. Would Mr. Dancer’s famous charm work with his wife?

“I shall not approach the creature again,” she said, “but perhaps Mr. Carter here will do the honors.” She flashed a look at Mr. Carter, who rallied and said, “Of course, of course. Follow me.”

Lucinda had nearly succeeded in edging her way to Lord Freddy’s side when, to her irritation, she once more heard Mr. Carter’s drawling, affected voice. “May I present Mr. Dancer?”

Lucinda turned to face the man who she hoped would be instrumental in rousing jealousy in her husband’s rakish bosom.

She was pleasurably surprised by what she saw. As with her husband, evil ways and dissipation did not seem to have left their outward mark on Mr. Dancer.

He was tall and broad-shouldered and had a square, pleasant handsome face. His hair was very fair, almost white, and worn somewhat longer than the current fashion, which was for Brutus crops. His eyes were a brilliant blue, dancing and sparkling, and almost hypnotic. He smelled of good soap and fresh linen.

He bowed and took her hand and deposited a light kiss on her glove. “Does your husband attend this evening?” he asked.

“No, alas, I am alone.”

“Then I am fortunate. I find your husband a most terrifying gentleman who would probably call me out were he here.”

“And why would he do that?” asked Lucinda, her eyes glinting over her raised fan.

“Your beauty would drive any man mad with jealousy, let alone such a fiery character as Rockingham.”

Lucinda sent up a little prayer for forgiveness. “I do not interfere with my husband’s life, nor he with mine.”

“A very modern marriage,” said Mr. Dancer. “Ah, you are already moving away from me. Are you leaving so soon?”

“Yes,” said Lucinda. “I do not like routs and do not know why I bothered to attend this one.”

“Please accept my escort. I should consider myself honored above all men.”

“I should be glad of your company, Mr. Dancer. I need help in pushing my way through this crush.”

He led the way and Lucinda followed.

“She is leaving with Dancer,” Maria hissed in Mr. Carter’s ear. “Dare we hope…?”

“Oh yes,” said Mr. Carter. “
Bags
of hope there, I should think.”

Mr. Dancer traveled with Lucinda in her carriage. He talked easily and wittily of the plays he had seen. He did not make any bold overtures. Lucinda was surprised to find him such good company. When they arrived in Berkeley Square, she invited him indoors for tea, but Mr. Dancer did not want to risk meeting her husband. Instead, he bowed and begged permission to take her driving on the morrow. Lucinda agreed.

Kennedy followed her mistress into the house. She was very worried. She remembered all the indiscreet gossip she had told Benson. Benson, it had transpired, was not maid to an elderly lady, but to a member of the Fashionable Impure. Kennedy did not know much fashionable gossip, or she would have learned of Mrs. Deauville’s reputation, but she prided herself on being able to tell a lady from a demimondaine. And, in Mrs. Deauville she had immediately recognized a demirep. She was desperate to see Benson as soon as possible so that she might demand an explanation.

She prepared her mistress for bed, asking, as she did so, leave to take the following afternoon off. “Of course,” Lucinda agreed. “I have been in the habit of dressing myself. Nothing the matter with your family, I trust?”

“My family is well, my lady. They reside in Exeter in Devon, not London. I merely wanted to view the shops.”

Lucinda was about to point out that Kennedy had already had more than enough free time to visit as many London shops as she wished, but then she reminded herself of how supportive the maid had been. Possibly Kennedy had a beau, although it was hard to imagine the grim-faced maid being able to attract anybody.

When Kennedy retired, Lucinda found she could not sleep. She lay awake listening for sounds of her husband’s return.

She at last fell into a light sleep from which she was roused at three in the morning by the sound of the street knocker. She heard Humphrey going to answer it, her husband’s voice, and then the opening and shutting of a downstairs door, possibly the saloon.

This was subsequently followed by a door opening again and her husband roaring some command. Then there was a lot of toing and froing, and then silence. Lucinda shifted uneasily in her bed. Then she got up and locked her bedroom door, realizing she had forgotten to do so. She lay awake for about an hour but there came no sounds of her husband ascending the stairs.

Lucinda remembered the evening she had danced with him at Almack’s, remembered the odd feeling of safety she had felt in his arms. She decided to go downstairs to see if she could talk to him, to see if there was anything of worth hiding under that rakish and dissipated exterior.

She rose and pulled on a wrapper over her nightgown, slipped on a pair of flat-heeled shoes, and made her way quietly downstairs. The house was still and silent. Then an old clock in the hall sent out a wheezing volley of chimes, making her start. Holding her bed candle in its flat stick, she pushed open the door of the saloon.

The first thing she saw was a large bath placed before the fire. The marquess had called for a bath, Chumley had grumbled about the work involved carrying it plus cans of water upstairs, and the drunken marquess had cheerfully volunteered to take his bath in the saloon.

The candles were lit so Lucinda blew out her own and made her way forward. How like Rockingham to take his bath, leave towels and soap scattered over the carpet, and then go off to bed without ordering the servants to clean up the mess.

She looked into the bath and found herself staring down at the naked body of her husband.

She let out a stifled little scream and was about to retreat when she realized how still and motionless he was. Only his nose was left above the water. His eyes were closed. He’s dead, thought Lucinda. He has finally drunk himself to death.

“Oh, Rockingham!” she cried. She knelt down beside the bath and slid her hands under his shoulders and tried to raise him.

Suddenly his heavy eyelids lifted and his green eyes stared straight into her own, the initial dazed look being quickly replaced by one of sheer devilment.

“Hey, this is better,” the marquess cried. He seized Lucinda around the waist and tipped her into the bath on top of him and then rolled her down underneath him, pinning her down in the tepid water with his naked body.

“Let me up, you monster!” Lucinda screamed.

Her hair was floating out on the water and she kicked and thrashed impotently under his weight.

“Keep still, damn you!” the marquess shouted, forcing his lips down on hers so that her head went under and the kiss took place underwater. Lucinda surfaced from his embrace, gasping and spluttering.

“My lord?” came a voice from the doorway.

“Chumley! Thank heaven!” said Lucinda.

“What the deuce do you mean by crashing in here?” demanded the marquess.

“I heard your lordship roar,” said the unperturbable Chumley. “But as my services are obviously not required—”

“No, they are not, curse your eyes.”

“Wait!” screamed Lucinda. She succeeded in struggling out from under her husband’s body by fighting and kicking. The marquess tried to pin her down again. The bath tipped over and naked marquess and dripping marchioness rolled over the carpet. Sobbing with shame and outrage, water pouring from her, Lucinda fled from the room.