Thea's Marquis (3 page)

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning. Miss Kilmore.” He seemed larger than she remembered him, a solid, reliable figure in his dark blue coat, buckskin breeches, and top-boots. “Is something amiss?”

“Penny—Lady Kilmore—my sister-in-law is horridly queasy this morning. I am afraid something may be seriously wrong.”

“I doubt it.” His calm soothed her. “Nausea is not uncommon in Lady Kilmore’s condition. Every one of my sisters has suffered the same distressing symptoms, without ever a serious problem. I daresay your mama will tell you there is no cause for alarm.”

“Do you think so? Mama will know, of course, for she takes care of our tenants and neighbours when they are ill. Megan often goes with her, but I can never think what to say to them,” she confided.

“Visiting invalids can be an ordeal.” He smiled down at her, and she suddenly recalled that she was dressed only in her nightgown and wrap, her feet bare on the polished boards.

“I must go,” she blurted out, and fled into the chamber.

Her mother turned from the bedside. “It is only morning sickness,” she said.

“Only!” Penny wailed, huddled in misery over the basin.

“You will feel better presently, my dear. Meg, open the window, if you please. Fresh air will help, as will peace and quiet. Thea, pray get dressed. Go down with Meg and order weak tea and dry toast to be sent up for Penny.”

As Thea dressed, the sound of voices floated up from the courtyard below the window. She thought she recognized Lord Hazlewood’s and could not decide whether she hoped he was departing or not. Every time she saw him, she made a cake of herself, yet he set her at ease in a way she had rarely experienced.

She was pinning up her hair when Meg answered a knock on the door and found a waiter there with a tray.

“Lord Hazlewood’s compliments, miss. Tea an’ toast for Lady Kilmore.”

Meg took the tray with an exclamation. “How did he know?”

“I told him Penny is unwell,” said Thea guiltily. “He has several sisters, so morning sickness is no mystery to him. Come, Meg, I am ready. Let us go out to the garden for a few minutes.”

She pulled her sister out the door before her mother had a chance to bemoan her latest misdeed.

“Yet again, your marquis gallops to the rescue,” Meg murmured. “A modern knight in shining armour, providing tea and toast instead of the heads of dragons and ogres.”

“More practical, and
much
more agreeable,” Thea pointed out.

Despite the season, the walled garden behind the inn was pleasant in the morning sun. Meg rhapsodized over autumn crocuses and spicy-scented chrysanthemums. A bed of Michaelmas daisies reminded Thea of Mr. DeVine’s waistcoat and, discovering that Meg had been in no state last night to notice it, she described his resplendent attire.

“He claimed to be a pink of the ton,” she said, “but Lord Hazlewood called him a Bond Street beau and a coxcomb.”

Meg giggled. “Is not a coxcomb a vain braggart? What precisely do the other epithets signify?”

“I don’t know, and I did not like to ask.”

“I daresay he is bang up to the nines,” said Meg, startling her sister with language she must have learned from Jason and upon which Mama would undoubtedly frown.

At that moment a window opened near where they were strolling and the Bond Street beau himself leaned out. “Miss Kilmore, shall you join us for breakfast?” he called.

While Thea hesitated, Meg responded gaily, “Certainly, sir, at once,” and tugged her towards the nearest door.

“I suspect we ought not,” Thea objected in a low voice. “Mama did not actually accept the invitation, and she is not here to chaperon us.”

“You are sufficient chaperon for me, and I have had quite enough of my chamber.”

The coffee-room was a still less desirable alternative, Thea had to admit, and she was old enough to chaperon her sister. They joined the gentlemen in their parlour.

Curtsying, Megan openly studied Mr. DeVine. Today he was more soberly clad, in buckskins, glossy gold-tasselled Hessians, and a bottle-green coat. Even his waistcoat was comparatively modest, grass green with a narrow gold stripe.

“I have been woefully taken in,” Meg announced with a blithe unconcern for decorum. “Thea told me you are a Pink of the Ton, sir, but I do not consider your attire at all out of the common way.”

Thea gasped in dismay, but both the gentlemen laughed.

“Now that is where you are wrong. Miss Megan,” Mr. DeVine assured her. He went on to explain the importance of the cut of a coat, the tasteful choice of colours, the tying of a cravat, champagne in the boot-blacking...

Lord Hazlewood interrupted. “Not to mention the importance of not frightening the horses. Hence, Will’s comparatively mundane dress by daylight.” He turned to Thea. “Miss Kilmore, what may I order for your breakfast?”

When they were all seated and served, Meg, with a saucy smile, asked Mr. DeVine to explain the difference between a Bond Street beau and a pink of the ton.

“A Bond Street beau, ma’am, is a fribble with nothing on his mind but drawing all eyes to his appearance. To this end he will employ padded shoulders, false calves, pinched-in waist, a quantity of fobs, shirt points so high he cannot turn his head, and other vulgar excesses. A pink, on the other hand, while a leader of fashion and always precise to a pin, is also a sportsman and a man of easy manners, good address, and superior understanding.”

“Bravo, coz! You could not praise yourself more highly.”

Mr. DeVine shook his head in mock reproach. “My cousin Roderick favours the Corinthian set,” he told the ladies mournfully.

“What is that?” Meg enquired.

“A sportsman, Miss Megan,” said the marquis. “A man of easy manners, good address, and superior understanding, but with no more interest in his attire than to be neatly and properly clad. However, I don’t aspire to belong to any set.”

“Rod is a nonpareil. There is none other like him, especially in size! Miss Megan, allow me to recommend a slice of this delicious ham.”

Lord Hazlewood asked Thea if her mother had agreed with his diagnosis of Penny’s indisposition and went on to talk of his nieces and nephews. He had a dozen or more, aged from two to twenty. She tried to guess how old he was—four or five and thirty, she thought. Though by no means ill-favoured, he was not handsome in a conventional way; rather, his good-natured, tranquil cast of countenance made him attractive.

Nor was Mr. DeVine particularly handsome. His attraction was a lively, animated charm to which Megan’s own vivacious spirit responded, to judge by the laughter Thea heard. Gradually the laughter grew less, and, glancing at her sister, she saw her biting her lip.

“Meg, dear, what is troubling you?”

She tried to smile. “I am stupidly anticipating today’s journey. We...we have a long distance to travel, do we not?”

“Surely you do not intend to try to reach London today?” protested Mr. DeVine. “I doubt
we
shall make it in Rod’s curricle, and he is a famous whip.”

“Our brother is expecting us,” said Thea doubtfully.

“If I might make a suggestion,” Lord Hazlewood said, “I should be happy to reserve rooms for you at an inn in Biggleswade, halfway to Town, and to notify your brother of the delay.”

“Oh, sir, what a splendid notion,” cried Meg, her glow restored. “Thea, Mama will not object, will she?”

“I doubt it, but we had best go and ask her. We shall not delay you, Lord Hazlewood. I shall let you know directly.”

As Mr. DeVine bowed over Meg’s hand, he begged permission to call on her in Town.

“We shall be delighted to receive you, sir,” she assured him. “We are to reside in Russell Square.” She turned to take leave of the marquis.

Catching the look of utter consternation that crossed Will DeVine’s face, Thea flinched. Though she knew Penny’s house in Russell Square was far from the fashionable part of London, she had not realized the full significance of that fact.

Lord Hazlewood took her hand and smiled down at her. “May I presume to be included in Will’s welcome?” he asked courteously.

“Of course, sir,” she said, but she doubted either one would ever come to call.

CHAPTER THREE

“I cannot see why Lord Hazlewood called Mr. DeVine a coxcomb,” Meg said with some indignation as Thea closed the parlour door behind them. “I found him charming and elegant.”

“I am sure the marquis was teasing his cousin.”

“I’m glad they mean to call on us.”

“Meg, pray do not count on it,” Thea said anxiously. “You must not be disappointed if, as I fear, they were only being polite.”

Meg laughed as she led the way up the stairs. “What care I? To be sure, I like Mr. DeVine very well, but what is one when I expect to meet dozens of eligible gentlemen? I daresay he will visit, though. Why should he not?”

“Because we shall be living somewhat out of the way of the quarters frequented by Society.”

“Jason said Russell Square is no more than a mile from Mayfair and St. James’s. Mr. DeVine claims to be a sportsman. He can hardly regard a mile as an insuperable distance!”

Not wanting to dampen Meg’s spirits, which would fail soon enough once they were on the road, Thea did not contradict her. She suspected the distance was more in the mind than on the ground, the gulf between the haunts of the Upper Ten Thousand and the respectable residences of the wealthy bourgeoisie. Penny’s father had been a lawyer. Though she was now a baroness, the ton would not welcome her with open arms nor flock to her house in the wrong part of Town.

Meg must have a proper Season, yet Thea could not let Penny be hurt. She had come to love the generous, forthright young woman her brother had unexpectedly taken to wife, and besides, without her house and fortune there would be no Season. If only she knew Jason better! Had he considered the difficulties and found solutions?

“Don’t look so blue-devilled,” Meg said, squeezing her arm. “Your marquis will call on us and we shall all have a wonderful time in London.”

From the top of the stairs, a lean, red-nosed man watched their ascent with bleary, red-rimmed eyes. He was untidily dressed, with none-too-clean linen and a neckerchief in place of a cravat, yet he wore a heavy gold signet on one hand. As Meg stepped up to the landing, he reached out and chucked her under the chin.

“Hey, my pretty, what a devilish shame we didn’t meet last night!” He leered at Meg, who stared at him in speechless astonishment. “Still, it’s early yet. We’ve time for a quick tumble before—”

“Leave my sister alone!” said Thea in an icy voice she did not recognize as her own.

“Come on, Ilminster.” The man who appeared behind him sounded impatient and disgusted. “I’ll be damned if you’re not still foxed. Leave the ladybirds be or we’ll never get out of here.”

“What, don’t you fancy the hoity-toity beanpole? I’ve a mind to take this pretty little bit o’ game with me to warm my bed tonight.”

“Unhand me, sirrah!” Meg regained her wits. “I am no doxy.”

Thea had no wish to bandy words with an inebriated boor; she gave her sister a push. Meg jerked away from the man’s feeble grasp and took Thea’s hand. As they fled, the second man said, “Those were no lightskirts, you sapskull. Can’t you tell a lady when you hear one speak?”

“Damned if I ever chose a bit of muslin for her conversation,” said the other sulkily.

Meg giggled. Breathless, they reached their chambers. Rather than alarm their mother and Penny by bursting in upon them, Thea thrust her sister into the opposite room. She closed the door behind them and leaned against it.

“‘Unhand me, sirrah,’ indeed. I daresay that came from one of your lending-library romances?”

“Yes, and it worked splendidly, did it not?”

Thea laughed. “Only because you spoke in accents of unmistakable gentility. No doubt those were two of the sporting gentlemen the innkeeper mentioned, who came to the boxing match.”

“Sporting gentlemen—that’s odd, is it not? What do you suppose the difference is between a gentlemanly sportsman, such as Mr. DeVine, and a sporting gentleman, such as that Ilminster? I should not describe him as a gentleman!”

“Not in his behaviour, certainly, but he may be a gentleman by rank. He wore a signet ring, and though his language was execrable, his accent was as refined as yours.” And in tones of perfect refinement he had dubbed her a beanpole, she recalled with an internal grimace. She had always felt too tall beside her petite mother and sister, but it still hurt to hear it from a stranger’s lips.

“Ilminster might be a title rather than a surname,” Meg said in agreement. “But lord or no, his conduct makes Mr. DeVine’s and Lord Hazlewood’s appear positively saintly!”

“Gallant, certainly.”

“Saintly. I asked Mr. DeVine where they spent the night. He said the landlord gave them two palliasses in a garret and the marquis’s feet stuck out and rats nibbled his toes.”

“He was roasting you.” Thea shook her head, smiling. “Lord Hazlewood told me they had the chamber of an acquaintance they encountered in the coffee-room, who agreed to share with his friend. Meg, pray don’t tell Mama about the ill-mannered Ilminster. It can only distress her.”

“I shan’t.”

“Then let us go and persuade her to stop at Biggleswade. Oh dear, I promised not to keep the marquis waiting.”

Roderick Charles Edward DeVine, Marquis of Hazlewood, was quite content with a cup of excellent coffee and the
Times,
which he had set aside when the Misses Kilmore joined them. At the same time, he was deriving considerable amusement from his companion’s disconsolate face. Crumbling a muffin in restless fingers, Will scowled at the window whence he had earlier called to the young ladies in the garden.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“What? Oh, go to the devil, Rod. It’s just...” He was interrupted by the arrival of a maidservant with a folded sheet of paper addressed to Lord Hazlewood.

Rod opened it and found another inside, directed to Jason, Baron Kilmore, which he tossed on the table.

“The ladies wish to stay in Biggleswade tonight,” he said, scanning the note. “We’d best be off if I’m to inform Kilmore of his family’s whereabouts before he begins to wonder what has become of them.”