The Missing Marchioness
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‘You know, father, that I would prefer not to marry, and I believe that my wish not to do so has been reinforced by the knowledge that you now have not one, but two, other sons. Better than that, it is plain that both of them are shaping to be worthy possible inheritors of the title—’
His father interrupted him impatiently. ‘That may be so, but fate can be unkind, Marcus. Of recent years I have seen families which appeared to be as well supplied with male heirs as ours lose them all to accident, or sickness, whereupon some unknown appears who has been trained to nothing and who consequently respects neither his new possessions nor his title.
‘I would not wish to deprive either Edmund or Edward of the possibility of them—or one of their sons—inheriting, but I would like the bulwark of a son from you. I wish this all the more particularly since you have grown into such a responsible and sensible fellow. No, I would wish you to marry and soon. I know that I cannot compel you—but I would ask you to bring your undoubted common-sense to bear on this matter. I cannot ask fairer than that.’
Marcus bowed his head.
‘Very well, sir. I will do as you wish and think about marriage. So far, I have met no one with whom I would wish to spend the rest of my life. Whatever the truth of your marriage to my mother, that to dear Marissa has been a great success, and if I could meet anyone half as worthy…’ he stopped and shrugged, spreading his hands before continuing ‘…but so far, I have not. Were I to do so I should not hesitate to follow your wise example. I cannot say more.’
The Earl’s pleasure at this conciliatory speech was manifest. He could only hope that Marcus meant what he had said.
‘Excellent,’ he said, ‘and now I trust that you will find it possible to remain in London until we all visit Northampton to celebrate Sophia’s marriage. Sharnbrook has been most obliging about the matter. I can only hope that this wretched business of Sywell’s murder will not cast too great a shadow over it. I understand from a friend at the Home Office that nothing further has come to light which might give us some notion as to who was responsible. The trouble is, I understand, that there are so many who might have wished him dead, and no real evidence to suggest who, among the many, it might have been.’
Marcus frowned. He knew that some of the on dits which had flown around after Sywell’s brutal murder had suggested that his father might be the culprit, but he could not believe that to be true. He had hoped that the real criminal might have been found, so that the on dits would be silent at last. Sywell’s existence had been like a dark cloud hanging over the Cleeve family, and his strange, and savage, death had only served to enlarge that cloud, not disperse it.
‘Two things puzzle me,’ he said. ‘One is that the Marchioness, his young wife, should have disappeared so completely, and the other is that the authorities should spend so much time and energy trying to discover who killed him. Given the dreadful nature of the man, his own wretched life and the misery which he caused to so many others—including you, sir—one can only wonder why they don’t see his death as a merciful release for society, and all his many victims.’
‘Oh,’ replied the Earl, ‘in these sad times when revolution and violent dissent are all around us, those who rule us do not like to think that the death of an aristocrat, even one as hateful as Sywell was, should go unpunished. As for his missing wife, I believe that they now accept that he did away with her, and that further search for her as a possible murderess is time-wasting and pointless. Besides, his death seems to have been very much a man’s way of killing, not a woman’s.’
Marcus shrugged his shoulders. ‘I suppose that there is some truth in both your suppositions. As for his wife, until a body is found, anyone’s guess about her fate is as good as everyone else’s.’
‘True. But since the Abbey and its remaining grounds have reverted to me, after Burneck confessed that not only was my cousin deprived of them by a foul trick, but that Sywell murdered him into the bargain, I have felt very unhappy over the fact that, if she still lives, she has been left a pauper. I would have liked to do something for her. It seems that Sywell led her the devil of a life—which is not surprising, seeing what a brute he always was.’
Later Marcus was to remember this conversation about Sywell’s missing wife and to smile a little ruefully at it. At the time he had little more to say about the Marquis and his affairs, but took the opportunity to discuss with his father some further alterations to the running of his estates before leaving to go downstairs and try to find out whether his blonde Venus had left. If she hadn’t, he might contrive to find some way of speaking to her again.
From the bustle coming up the stairs it seemed that Madame Félice had not yet left but was on the point of doing so. Bandboxes, hatboxes and bolts of cloth were being carried out of the entrance hall to her carriage. She was standing to one side, supervising the operation as briskly as though she were Wellington on the field of battle.
Splendid! He must think of something convincing enough to detain her for a few moments without that something looking too obviously contrived. Fortune, however, was with him. Two footmen had just lifted out Madame Félice’s remaining luggage, leaving her in the hall with her small bag, when the door was flung open and his two half-brothers shot noisily in, wrestling with one another, their protesting tutor following close behind them.
In their puppy-like play they failed to see Madame Félice, and one flailing arm caught her and knocked her against the wall. Marcus jumped down the two remaining steps, caught one boy by the ear and the other by the wrist before the tutor could either separate or reprimand them.
‘Enough of that,’ said Marcus grimly. ‘On your knees, lads, and apologise to Madame.’
‘Only if you let go of us, Mark Anthony,’ exclaimed the larger of the pair. ‘We were only funning and had no notion anyone was here.’
‘Well, you do now. Both together and quick about it.’
‘Sorry, and all that,’ said the second boy cheekily on his way down to his knees, earning himself a cuff from Marcus for his easy impudence.
Louise, meanwhile, had moved away from the wall: the blow had been a light one, and the arrival of Marcus like an avenging angel was a source of amusement to her rather than relief. She knew all about boys of this age—the forewoman of the French emigré dressmaker to whom she had once been apprenticed had had three of her own. Louise had even joined them in some of their romps before she had turned from a hoyden of a girl into a young lady who realised that such romps might become dangerous.
‘These,’ said Marcus when both lads were on their knees before her, begging her pardon in soulful voices, ‘are the Two Neds, Edward and Edmund… Like the Saxon kings after whom they are named, they have never learned to control their behaviour.’
‘Mama says we’re getting too old for you to call us that,’ said the somewhat larger boy, Edward, who was the older of the twins by two minutes.
‘True,’ said Marcus, mimicking his father’s favourite phrase. ‘And I’m too old for you to call me Mark Anthony.’
‘You are only our brother, but you discipline us as strongly as though you were our uncle,’ continued Edward, still defiant.
‘Oh, come on, Ned One,’ said Edmund—he was always the peacemaker. ‘He always stands up for us—you know he does.’
He appealed to the tutor, who had remained silent once Marcus took charge. ‘And we shouldn’t have been larking our way into the entrance hall, should we, Mr Wright?’
‘Indeed not, Ned Two. I mean Edmund.’
‘Well, seeing that there’s no harm done, and that I’ve accepted your apologies in the spirit in which they were given,’ said Louise briskly, amused by what she could plainly see was the friendly rapport which existed between Marcus and his half-brothers, ‘you will allow me to leave unimpeded.’
‘Only,’ said Marcus gallantly, offering her his arm, ‘if you will allow me to escort you to your carriage.’
What could she say to that, but ‘Thank you, m’lord.’ Anything else would have been churlish.
‘Excellent. This way, then,’ and he manoeuvred her out to where her carriage, piled high with her bandboxes and other paraphernalia, was waiting.
Once outside, though, when she lifted her small hand from his arm he took it gently into his large one, saying, ‘I hope that all went well with m’sister’s trousseau, madame.’
Why was she so breathless? Why was he so overwhelming? She had even faced Sywell down, so why should one admittedly large, but extremely civilised, nobleman have this peculiar effect on her?
She wanted to snatch her hand away, but reason said go slowly, lest she say, or do, more than she should. She could not believe how cool her voice sounded when she finally spoke.
‘Very well, m’lord. Both your sister and her mama were very easy to please, since our tastes coincided.’
‘Excellent,’ Marcus said again. Something seemed to be depriving him of sensible speech but what could he say to detain her which would not sound as though he were trying to coerce her into meeting him again? Which was, of course, what he wanted to do!
‘I believe that your premises are in Bond Street.’
His eyes on her were now admiring, no doubt of that. It was, perhaps, fortunate, Louise thought, that her horses suddenly grew impatient.
‘It is time that I left,’ she said slowly. ‘I have further engagements this afternoon.’
Marcus could not help himself. ‘With your husband, I suppose.’
Well, at last, here was something to which she could give a straight answer.
‘No, I am not married. I am a widow,’ she added. Perhaps that would deter him from pursuing her further, since that was obviously what he wished to do.
‘Not recently, I hope,’ he said.
Marcus thought that for sheer banality this conversation took some beating.
Louise thought so, too. What in the world is wrong with us?
‘Not quite,’ she replied—and what kind of an answer was that?
Marcus released her hand, but not before kissing it.
‘You will allow me to assist you into the carriage.’
Her hand out of his, Louise felt that some sustaining presence had vanished. It was an odd feeling for her, for she had grown used to being self-sufficient. The presence reappeared when he helped her up, and disappeared again when he let go of her.
She was aware, although she made no effort to look back at him, that he watched her until her carriage was out of sight. Something told her that it might not be long before she saw him again—and that something was right.
The question was, could she afford to know him?—however much she might want to. Anonymity had been her protector since the day when she had fled Steepwood Abbey, to find safety far from her tormentor, and from anyone who might remember poor little Louise Hanslope.
Marcus watched her carriage go, his mind in a whirl. Like Louise, he could not believe the strength of his reaction to someone whom he had only just met. He must see her again, he must.
But how?
Chapter Two
‘K now anything about a pretty little modiste, Madame Félice by name, do you, Gronow, old fellow?’
Marcus thought that Captain Gronow knew everything that there was to know about everybody, and he was not far wrong. It was fortunate that he, too, had been in Hyde Park that afternoon, and he had ridden over to him to pick his brains about Madame.
‘Society’s favourite dressmaker, has her place in Bond Street, eh? I can’t say that I actually know anything—only on dits and suppositions which might, or might not, be true. Would that do?’
‘Anything would do—better than knowing nothing at all.’
Gronow pondered a moment. He didn’t ask Marcus why he wished to be informed about Madame, he thought that he knew.
‘Well, she appeared out of nowhere some time ago and was immediately able to afford not only to buy the Bond Street shop but also have it done over completely. So, the argument runs, she must have a rich backer—either here, or in Paris, since she’s supposed to be French. I say supposed, because no one is sure of that, either. But who can the rich backer be, eh? No one has ever seen her with a man. She sometimes rides here in the late afternoon, but she acknowledges no one—and no one acknowledges her. A mystery, eh, what, wouldn’t you say? The ladies say that she’s very much a lady. Perfect manners, never presumes, unless it’s to correct, very gently, provincial nobodies like the Tenison woman, Adrian Kinloch’s mother-in-law—whose taste certainly needed correcting, I’m told.’
‘A paragon, then,’ remarked Marcus somewhat dryly. It was a little discouraging to learn that either his beauty was virtuous or that someone, rich, powerful and discreet, ran her. On the other hand, discretion of the sort which Madame was evidently practising was always to be commended.
‘Lives over the shop, does she?’
‘Well, even that’s unknown. That ass Sandiman apparently came the heavy with her one day at her salon, and the story goes that she gave him a bloody nose for his impudence—which could argue virtue—or the appearance of it.’
Marcus was fascinated. ‘She’s so tiny, how in the world did she tap his claret?’
‘With a poker, apparently. Poor fool wasn’t expecting it, it’s said. She led him on for a bit and then, when he was least expecting it, planted him a facer as good as the Game Chicken could have done—except that he don’t use a poker! I’d look out if I were you, Angmering, if you’ve any notion of furthering your own acquaintance with her. Don’t want your looks ruined for nothing!’
‘Well, thanks for the warning, Gronow. Always best to know what might by lying in wait for you, eh?’
‘All’s fair in love and war, they say.’
‘And no real notion of who might be running her? If anyone? Could the money she spent to set up her business have been some sort of a final pay-off for her, do you think?’
‘No idea, old fellow, none at all. If I hear anything I’ll be sure to let you know.’
A mystery woman indeed then, Madame Félice. And strong-minded, too. One might have guessed at her possessing a fiery temper with hair that colour—and such a determined little chin: he particularly admired the chin.
Marcus rode back to where his sister sat, talking to Sharnbrook—and there was a fellow worth knowing. He had to commend Sophia for her common-sense and good judgement in bringing him to heel.
Now, if he could only persuade Madame—if she were free that was—that he, Marcus, would be as good a bet as any to set up house with, then he could be as happy as Sophia without the shackles of marriage to trouble him. All that remained necessary for him was to find some means of promoting his friendship with her, and that was going to be difficult.
In the normal course of events there were a thousand ways in which he could contrive to meet a woman. If she were in society there was the park, or the ballrooms of mutual friends, or he could make a polite afternoon call. Likewise if she were in the demi-monde there were any number of recognised haunts where she might be found.
But Madame Félice was different. She belonged to neither one or the other of these two groups. She had her own legitimate business, and possibly also a circle of friends—but these would certainly not be the friends of Marcus, Lord Angmering, a member of high society, of the ton. Not that he associated much with the ton himself.
Come to think of it, he had become, except for his brief visits to London, a bit of a solitary. So he would have to devise some ploy, some trick, to further his acquaintance with Madame—which would itself serve to add a little spice to a life which he freely acknowledged had lately been rather dull.
So the afternoon found him sauntering along Bond Street trying to look innocent, although the good Lord alone could explain why he should, seeing that he was bent on seducing a woman who, for all he knew, was truly innocent. Except that in the world which Marcus inhabited, women in occupations like Madame’s were rarely so. Gronow had hesitated to pass any judgement on her which was, in itself, remarkable, but that proved nothing.
In his musings he had finally reached Madame’s salon with its little bow-window, a large hat on a cream-coloured shawl chastely displayed inside it—an indication of Madame’s character? He sincerely hoped not.
Now to go in—but what to say? He could scarcely ask her to make him a pretty little toilette. On the other hand, what about a shirt? Would it be beyond Madame’s talents to design a shirt for him? He could always claim that his present tailor was not sufficiently up to scratch for a man who hoped to make a good show at his sister’s wedding.
Yes, that was it.
It wasn’t a very convincing notion but it would have to do.
Marcus pushed the shop door open and walked in.
Louise had had a trying day. Her forewoman had contracted a light fever, and had consequently been unable to come in to work: her best cutter had thrown a fit of the tantrums on being asked to create something which she did not care for, so that Louise had been compelled to do it herself to prove that the design was not only feasible, but beautiful. This had finally brought obedience from the cutter, but having been proved wrong she had sulked for the rest of the day.
Now, to cap everything, the assistant who manned the shop counter had come in all of a fluster.
‘Madame, there’s a man outside who says he wants you to make him a shirt. I told him that you only design for ladies, but he won’t take no for an answer, won’t go away, and demands to speak to you.’
‘Does he, indeed? Does this man possess a name?’
‘Oh, I’m sure he does, but he hasn’t given it.’
Louise heaved a great sigh. Whatever next would turn up to ruin her day?
‘Very well, Charlotte. Remain here while I go and dispose of him.’
A man wanting her to make him a shirt! Whoever had heard of such a thing—and whoever could he be?
She walked determinedly into the shop—to stare at Marcus.
As seemed always to be the case, the mere sight of him was sufficient to deprive her of all common-sense.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said foolishly. And then, to recover herself a little, ‘I might have guessed.’
He smiled at her and, yes, he really did look rather splendid today—even more so than when she had first met him. Not that he was in the least bit conventionally handsome, his face was too strong for that—and his answer to her was almost what she would have expected from him.
‘Might you, indeed? Am I so eccentric?’ he asked her, his expression comically quizzical.
‘To want me to make you a shirt, yes. Surely you must have an excellent tailor.’
‘Quite so, but I wished to further my acquaintance with you, and this was the only way I could think of doing so, seeing that we are unlikely to meet socially, and I haven’t the slightest idea where you live—other than it might be over your salon. As a matter of interest could you possibly make me—or create, I believe is the ladies’ word—a shirt which would past muster in the best houses?’
Louise began to laugh. His expression was so charmingly impudent when he came out with this piece of flim-flam that it quite undid her determination to be severe with him. She would let him down as lightly as possible.
‘Now I know that you are funning. I suppose that I might be able to do what you have just suggested—but are you really informing me that this whole light-minded conversation with me and my assistant was solely for the purpose of getting to know me better? And, if so, to what end, m’lord? I cannot believe it to be an honest one, given the difference in our rank.’
Now this was plain speaking, was it not? And he should surely not have expected anything else from her, not with hair that colour, and with her determined little chin. He would match it with plain speaking of his own.
‘You cannot know, madame, what an extraordinary effect you have had on me. Or perhaps you can, because I find it difficult to believe that you have never attracted a man’s instant admiration before.’
Nor could he know, thought Louise a trifle sadly, that her experience of the ways of men, other than those of her late, brutal husband, was non-existent. She had barely spoken to anyone of the opposite sex since she had fled Steepwood Abbey. Which was, of course, why she had no notion whether it was usual for her to feel as she did every time she met him, which was a kind of wild exhilaration which seemed to take over her whole being.
She had told herself after escaping from her prison that she would never have anything more to do with a sex which could spawn such monsters as Sywell, and here she was bandying words with one of them, and experiencing these strong frissons of excitement while she did so. What frightened her was the thought that if she were to encourage him she might find that he was no better than Sywell—or that he might even be worse.
Could she trust him?
Perhaps when he looked at her as though—
As though, what? She didn’t like to think.
‘Come, m’lord,’ she said, and her voice was sad, all her recent light banter missing from it, ‘you must know as well as I that your intentions to me cannot be honourable. A great gulf lies between us.’
Marcus bowed his head. He was not going to deny that. What he could do was reassure her that he would always treat her kindly, would never exploit her in the way in which many men exploited their mistresses, whether they were members of the ton, or of the demi-monde, that curious half-world in the shadows which lay between high society, respectable middle classes and the honest poor.
‘In terms of the society in which we live—’ and goodness, how pompous that sounded! ‘—you may be right, but as between the fact that I am a man and you are a woman who attracts me strongly that gulf cannot exist. In other words we are Adam and Eve, not Lord Adam and Miss Eve.’
Marcus could hardly credit what he had just said—it was so totally unlike his normal mode of speech—although to be fair he was being his usual downright, honest self with her, and no one could ever accuse him of being devious. Except, he thought ruefully, when he was pretending that he had entered her salon in order to have a shirt made—and if that wasn’t being devious, what was?
Louise must have been thinking so too, for she primmed her mouth a little comically, and said, ‘You will, however, agree, m’lord, that we have come a long way from the days when Adam and Eve walked the earth—and one thing is certain about Adam, he didn’t require a shirt to be made for him when he was in Paradise!’
‘True,’ said Marcus, bowing, and taking the opportunity to grasp her hand and plant a kiss on the palm of it for good measure. ‘But I am sure that you grasp the point which I was trying to make. I would like to see more of you, Madame Félice, much more, and the only problem about that is how I can manage to do so when we do not move in the same circles.’ The smile he gave her on coming out with this was a meaningful one.
‘My problem, m’lord,’ said Louise repressively, ‘is that I do not move in any circles at all. My life is a quiet one, and I would prefer it to remain that way.’
‘But think of the fun we could have,’ urged Marcus, still retaining her hand in his, ‘if you agreed to relax your principles a little, only a little. One thing you may be sure of, and that is that my word is known to be my bond and I would take good care never to betray or hurt you in any way.’
‘Except,’ said Louise hardily, ‘in the most fundamental way of all. For one thing is quite certain—any arrangement which you might wish to come to with me would not include marriage. I am not of the class of women whom m’lord Angmering, the Earl of Yardley’s heir, is likely to marry.’
‘Ah, but,’ said Marcus, kissing her hand again—it was encouraging to note that she was not attempting to remove it from his grasp—‘m’lord Angmering, the Earl of Yardley’s heir, does not wish to marry anyone of any order of women at all—either high or low—and he does not choose his belles amies lightly.’