Tilly (12 page)

“And so you shall,” teased the marquess, taking her by the shoulders. He bent and kissed her, holding her closer and closer with an exultant feeling of power as he felt her shudder against him.

Behind his back a door gently opened and Aileen, still wearing her mask, stared in horror at the entwined couple. Tilly must not find her mother waiting in the marquess’s rooms! They were so absorbed that she would surely have time to nip quickly along and warn Mumsie.

The duchess was sitting with her large slippered feet on the hearth of the marquess’s sitting room when her daughter erupted in, hissing, “They’re
both
coming, Mumsie. Tilly mustn’t find you here. What excuse could you make?”

Like most of the human race, her grace was a trifle vain of her own appearance. She was sure her presence in the marquess’s rooms would mean only one thing to Tilly—that she was having an affair with her husband. The commonsense fact that she was accompanied by a daughter still in curlpapers and an oatmeal mask and could therefore hardly have any designs on the marquess, did not occur to her.

She heard the sound of voices in the corridor and whispered savagely, “Hide! Quick!”

Both women twisted and turned. There were no screens in the room and the curtains were too skimpy to conceal them both. They saw that the inner sitting room door was open to show the bedroom beyond. As one woman, they dived under the great bed—and collided with a chamber pot, a decanter, a siphon of soda… and a body. “Shhhhh!” said Toby Bassett’s voice from the darkness under the bed. He had gone into hiding at the sound of the duchess’s arrival and had subsequently discovered that by dint of twisting his head sideways, he could get his glass to his mouth, and so he had gone to that happy country of the drunk, where even a herd of elephants under his lordship’s bed would have failed to disturb his happy euphoria.

But the two ladies had all their senses about them and could hear with painful clarity what was going on in the next room.

“Darling,” the marquess murmured, in such a voice that Tilly felt her bones melt and clutched at his shoulders for support, “put your arms round my neck. What are you afraid of?”

“I have this silly feeling that there are people listening,” said Tilly.

“Only the birds in the ivy outside,” he said, drawing her closer. He began to kiss her languorously and passionately and Tilly moaned against him, failing to hear her moan echoed by the sweating and embarrassed duchess, crammed under the bed with her daughter and a drunk.

His hard lips parted her mouth and his tongue slid between her teeth. Tilly immediately recoiled, backing away from him and scrubbing her mouth with the back of her hand.

“You should not do that!” she cried, while erotic visions of what the marquess might have done flitted through the fevered brains stacked under the bed. “That’s… that’s… not
natural
. Who taught you
that?
That French tart?”

The marquess cursed himself. He had forgotten her inexperience.

He had always prided himself on his equable temper, but now he found he was fast losing it. He controlled himself with an effort. “Come and sit here on the sofa by me, Tilly, and let me explain. There are a lot of things you have to learn about the art of making love….”

“There you are,” whispered Francine, removing her ear from the door panel. “Too much, too soon. He will frighten her, and she will bore him!”

Mrs. Judd moved away from the door and turned her large and embarrassed face to Masters. “We can’t do anything now. It’s too late. And it’s not
decent
, I tell you, to listen at his lordship’s door.”

“Never too late,” replied Francine. “I have the plan
merveilleux!
” And with that, she flitted silently off down the corridor in the direction of the back stairs.

“So you see,” said the marquess, after a lengthy lecture on the arts of love, of which Tilly understood not a word, “it is all very simple.” He drew Tilly into the circle of his arms and, sliding his arms under her legs, prepared to carry her off to bed.

Tilly looked at him helplessly with a drowned expression in her eyes. She had no longer any power to resist him. Although she had not understood his lecture, the sound of his voice had a hypnotic charm all of its own. The marquess carried her into the bedroom and stood looking down at her lovingly as he prepared to lower her onto the bed.

And then the fire alarm went. It clanged and crashed its brazen warning. And what a
tale of terror did its turbulency tell to the listeners under the bed. The duchess and Aileen bolted forth like rocketing pheasants. Fortunately for them, the marquess had dropped Tilly on the bed and had rushed to open the window, not seeing who was fleeing his room. Tilly only saw Aileen’s leprous masked face and, convinced it was some hideous ghost of Chennington, screwed her eyes shut and screamed.

Toby Bassett was the only one unconcerned. He had fallen into a deep and peaceful sleep.

Soon, with the exception of Toby, all the guests and servants were huddled out on the lawn in the chill predawn air, staring up at the great mansion, waiting for a sign of smoke or flames.

Suddenly there was a united gasp as the windows on the front of the house burned red and the shout went up for buckets of water and everyone began to run hither and thither, screaming confusing orders.

It was some time before it was discovered that the sinister red light on the windows was merely that of the rising sun.

It took a little more time to discover there was no fire at all.

Francine tenderly shepherded her mistress
off to bed. “Saved by the bell!” she murmured. There would be time enough to lecture Tilly after she, Francine, had had some well-earned sleep.

Tilly sat up in bed late the next morning, sipping her tea and munching Osborne biscuits, while Francine straightened out the rows of jars and scent bottles on the dressing table.

Rain pattered against the windows and a cheerful fire crackling on the hearth combated the chill of this unusually cold summer’s day.

“Now,” said Francine, stepping back and surveying the dressing table, “it is time for the lecture.”

“Rats!” said Tilly grumpily, looking remarkably like a slimmer version of her old self.

Undettered, Francine drew up a chair beside the bed and sat down. “Lady Tilly,” she began, “you must tell me exactly what happened last night.”

“I don’t see that it’s any of your business,” said Tilly sulkily. “I’m not a child.”

“You are an innocent when it comes to the art of lovemaking,” replied Francine.

“Well, it was all right until you started ringing that bell,” said Tilly huffily.

“And nothing happened to startle you or embarrass you?”

“Yes, well, there was something,” said Tilly, blushing.

“Then tell me, my lady, and I will help. I do not believe in this custom of keeping young girls in ignorance. I remember my own experience…” She paused, bit her lip, and then laughed. “But that, as your Rudyard Kipling would say, is another story. Tell me yours.”

Tilly hung her head, but the desire to confide was too much for her and, eventually, in halting tones, she told Francine of that strange kiss that had so repelled her, so attracted her at the same time.

Francine tried not to smile. Her mistress was an innocent indeed!

“It is quite usual,” she said. “One does not always simply purse up one’s lips, so… for the kiss. Which brings me to the main point. The marquess is a very experienced man, my lady. If you fall into his arms like the ripe
fruit, it will all be too easy, and then perhaps he will return to Paris to seek his amours.”

“I know… these women exist,” sighed Tilly. “But they cannot surely compete with true love.”

“Ah, yes, they can. Some of the highest courtesans in France have been training since birth for their roles. They are witty and clever and never dull. Why do you think I made you read all those books and newspapers and go through so many rehearsals? You must keep him at arm’s length, just a little longer.”

“It seems so very hard,” said Tilly, climbing out of bed. “I mean, playing all these games when all I really want to do is send everyone away and be alone with him.”

“That will come,” reassured the lady’s maid. “For this evening, you must plead the fatigue. In fact, you do look a little pale.”

“Oh, that’s something else,” wailed Tilly. “How could I forget. Oh, Francine. We’ve a
ghost
at Chennington!”

The lady’s maid crossed herself. “Where did you see this apparition?”

Tilly explained about the horrible face that had looked back at her after the fire bell rang.

Francine’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And did it slide through the door?” she asked in an awed voice.

“No, it didn’t,” said Tilly, wrinkling her brow with the effort of memory. “Philip heard the bell and dropped me on the bed and ran to the window. And these two…
things
… came out from under the be—the room was half dark, you know—and then the awful one turned in the doorway and… and… then, it went out and slammed the door behind it!”

“There you are. It could not be a phantom. Did my lord see it?”

“No. He had his head out of the window. But no human could have such an awful face.”

“I have the plan,” said Francine briskly. “I will help you dress and then I will run along to your husband’s rooms, and if he has quitted them, I will come back for you and we will search for the evidence—just like Scotland Yard!”

Tilly reluctantly agreed. Soon she was dressed and soon Francine returned with the news that “my lord” had gone off to visit one of the tenants.

The two girls entered the marquess’s rooms and looked around nervously. The curtains had been drawn back, but the day was dark and the ivy outside tapped against the pane in a truly gothic manner.

They tiptoed into the bedroom and with a quick look at one another, knelt down on the floor. Francine slowly lifted the bedcovers up and both peered underneath. A deep snore came from a huddled black shape against the far wall. Tilly opened her mouth to scream, but Francine put her hand over Tilly’s mouth and whispered, “Ghosts do not snore. Fetch the lamp.”

With trembling fingers they lit the lamp and peered under the bed. Toby Bassett was revealed, deep in blissful sleep. The smell of stale whisky was appalling. An empty whisky decanter lay on its side on the floor.

“Monsieur!” called Francine in a sharp voice. Toby sat up and banged his head on the underside of the bed. He rolled over on his side and stared at the two women, then he rolled back and stared up at the bed. “Where am I?” he said at last in a faint voice.

“You are under Monsieur le Marquis’s bed,” said Francine patiently.

Toby groaned and rolled over and over until he lay at their feet, blinking his eyes in the light. He groaned and put his hand to his forehead. “I remember now,” he said. “I wanted to pinch some of Philip’s whisky and I saw him going off to Tilly’s rooms. So I crept into the sitting room and was just enjoying
myself no end when I heard someone coming to the door. I took the whisky and doings and dived under the bed. Well, who should I see when I looked out but that great fat thing of a duchess, sitting in front of the fire.

“Then, next thing, her daughter comes rushing in and they both dive under the bed and nearly smother me. I think it was her daughter, except her face was all scaly. So I went to sleep. Couldn’t stand the sight of them,” he added casually, forgetting that his beloved fiancée was one of the two women to whom he was referring. “Don’t tell Philip. He’d murder me.”

Tilly had recovered from her fright, relieved to learn that the mansion was not haunted after all. She helped Francine raise the shaky Toby to his feet, reflecting that he was one of the few men who became improved by a hangover. His tousled locks fell romantically over his pale forehead and his dark eyes burned with a seemingly romantic fire. Toby groaned again and buried his head in his hands. “I will go and fetch the sal volatile,” said Francine, departing swiftly and leaving the door open.

“I won’t wait,” said Toby, struggling to his
feet. “Must get a bath and a change of clothes. Can’t be found like this.”

He staggered and clutched hold of Tilly, who supported him to the door. “Please don’t tell Philip,” pleaded Toby. “He’d think it was a bit much. I mean, passing out under his bed.”

“I won’t,” promised Tilly.

“Philip’s a lucky man,” said Toby, suddenly focussing on the heart-shaped face turned up to his own. He bent and kissed her on the cheek.

“What
the hell
is going on here?” demanded the Marquess of Heppleford from the doorway.

Tilly blushed guiltily. “Toby just dropped by to see if there was any sal volatile,” she lied.

“Must go,” said Toby and bolted from the room. The marquess eyed his wife. He was amazed at his own feeling of fury at seeing Tilly in Toby’s arms. He remembered that quite a lot of women found Toby attractive. He, the marquess, had felt invulnerable up till that minute, encased in the armor of his own good looks. Now he began to doubt their power to charm.

“What are you doing in my rooms?” he demanded harshly.

“Looking for you,” said Tilly calmly, although her heart was hammering against her ribs.

He closed the door behind him and locked it. “That is what I like to hear,” he said, moving slowly toward her. “It was time you came looking for me.”

Tilly opened her mouth to say she hadn’t come looking for him and then remembered her promise to Toby. Francine, listening in the corridor outside, fled. Action must be taken quickly. It was too soon!

“Why was Toby kissing you?” demanded the marquess, catching her hand and drawing her against him.

“It was a brotherly kiss,” said Tilly, breathlessly. “He had been drinking last night and felt awful, and I was just being sympathetic.”

“Well, in the future, you will be sympathetic to no one but me,” said the marquess, tracing the line of her cheekbone with his finger.

Tilly could feel her treacherous body beginning to tremble against his and made a last stand. “What about our contract?” she cried. “We weren’t going to meddle in each other’s affairs. What about that woman in Paris?”