The marquess's lips tightened into a thin line. “Pray be good enough to convey my respects to my lady,” he told the servant, “and tell her that I wish to see her
immediately
. I shall be in the library.”
The marquess strode into that room and looked around him with distaste. Works of various authors, bought by the yard by his father, lined the walls. His own books lay scattered on occasional tables and in piles on the floor. A long low table covered with magazines and newspapers crouched before the empty fireplace surrounded by massive carved chairs. Like elsewhere in the house, there was no evidence of a feminine touch, and the Marquess felt irrationally that Margery should have done something about it, not pausing to consider that she could hardly be expected to move the furniture around on the day of her arrival.
The door opened and Margery came in, hesitating on the threshold and giving him an inquiring glance. She was wearing a morning dress of heavy green crepe, slim and high waisted, falling to three deep flounces. Her sandy hair was elaborately dressed and gleamed with highlights in the pale autumn sunshine. The marquess felt angrily that she had no right to look so well.
For her part, Margery thought her husband looked distractingly handsome and she gave a little sigh of resignation. How could she have expected anyone so devastating to fall in love with little Margery Quennell?
“Sit down, madam,” said the marquess, waving his hand towards one of the repellent chairs.
“Oh, call me Margery,” said that young lady with a flash of spirit. “I am well aware that you are in a bad temper about something. Perhaps you would now care to tell me what
that
something is?”
The marquess looked at her from under hooded lids. He had not expected such a direct question. How could one possibly tell one's wife that one had doubts about her morals?
“I have realized that it was a mistake to get married,” he said cruelly. “I am too used to my bachelor freedom. But I will afford you the same freedom, my lady, provided you are discreet.”
Margery flushed with annoyance. “Very well, my lord. Have you anything further to say?”
The marquess put up his quizzing glass and surveyed his wife. She stared back at him, resting her pointed chin on her hand.
“We shall, of course, appear at various functions together,” he said coldly, letting the glass fall. “I would not have it broadcast to the world I had made a mistake.”
“Have you plans for this evening?” asked Margery, equally coldly.
“I shall be privately engaged,” he said, crossing to the window and staring out into the street, with his hand holding the curtain.
“I see,” said Margery, staring at his profile while a cold anger slowly took possession of her.
There was a long silence. Outside in the street, a group of strolling acrobats were twisting and tumbling to the squeaky music of a fiddle. One of them saw the marquess watching from the window and executed several handsprings, ending in a low bow. The marquess dropped the curtain and turned back towards the room.
But his wife had gone.
He felt as if he had just lost some battle. Why should he spend the night sampling Mrs. Harrison's doubtful charms if his wife were to know nothing about it? He came to a sudden decision. He would be seen in public with Mrs. Harrison. Not among the
haut ton
but somewhere guaranteed to send a little ripple of discreet gossip running across London in Margery's direction.
“This was
such
a good idea, Freddie,” sighed Margery. “I should have felt so alone otherwise.”
Freddie bit his lip. He was once again enjoying the novelty of squiring a lady but he had no wish to see the Marquess of Edgecombe's face blazing at him from behind a yard of cold steel.
“Charles all right?” he ventured. “I mean to say, newly married and all that. I mean to say, shouldn't you ... er ... Shouldn't he...” He thrust the knob of his cane in his mouth like a stopper and let his eyebrows, which were wiggling up to his hairline, ask the questions for him.
“It is a modern marriage, you see,” said Margery with a lightness she did not feel. “Charles does not concern himself with what I do.”
Lady Amelia was waiting for them in their box. She had been joined by Toby Sanderson and an equally large man who bore a marked resemblance to Toby.
Toby introduced his elder brother, Archie, Lord Brenton, who gave Margery a stiff bow and a very hard stare from the family hallmark of bulging green eyes.
Margery curtsied and wondered wildly if perhaps this brother had been in residence during her disastrous visit. Perhaps
he
spent his time walled up in some closet or attic. But it turned out that Lord Brenton had recently returned from Paris. He exuded an air of disapproval of Margery in particular and bad feelings towards the world in general. After several glasses of the Gardens’ famous arrack punch, Lord Brenton suddenly broke into speech.
“What do you think of my breeches?” he demanded.
Amelia surveyed them. “Very fine,” she said in a repressive tone of voice. “Margery, do but look at that—”
“Brummell didn't like ‘em,” said Lord Brenton moodily. ‘How do you like my breeches?’ I said. ‘My dear fellow, take them off directly,’ says Brummell. Ladies present and all. One of the ladies says, ‘I beg I may hear of no such thing, else where would he go in his smallclothes?’ Told Brummell I'd just got ‘em and thought they were rather fine. Know what he said? ‘Bad knees, my good fellow! Bad knees!'”
“My lord, your smallclothes are not a subject for the ears of ladies,” said Amelia in freezing accents.
But, undeterred, Lord Brenton lumbered to his feet and struck several attitudes. “There! What d'you think? Knees all right, ain't they?”
“Sit
down
, Archie,” snapped Toby. “You're embarrassing the ladies.”
“Ho! Embarrassing them, am I?” He glared at Margery. “But ain't that the one that Pa said was— Ouch! What did you stamp on my foot for, Toby?” He sat down abruptly and plunged once more back into a brooding silence.
The bell rang for the fireworks display, and Freddie jumped eagerly to his feet. “Come along, Margery. They've got an extra special display this evening. ‘Course, my doctor still says I have to be careful. Says I have Nerves. Says I have Spleen. Says I—”
“We'll come too,” said Toby hurriedly, as they joined the press of people moving along the walk.
Margery forgot her troubles in the delight of the fireworks, which burst and flamed and sparkled against the black velvet of the sky. Everyone else in the crowd was sharing her enjoyment, particularly one lady near their group who screamed like a rabbit in the jaws of the weasel at every burst of stars. There were murmurs of amusement and necks twisted and heads turned.
Margery turned her head also and found herself staring straight at the aristocratic profile of her husband. There was another piercing scream, which she realized in a dazed kind of way was coming from the marquess's companion, who was hanging onto his arm.
Mrs. Harrison was in all the glory of a green-and-white striped dress embellished with coquelicot ribbons. She jumped and
oohed
and
aahed
and with every jump her magnificent breasts heaved themselves above her neckline.
Freddie and Toby had seen the marquess at the same moment and were at a loss what to do. But it was Lord Brenton who hailed the marquess in stentorian tones when the display ended, insisting that he join them.
The marquess's eyes held a hectic glitter. “Wouldn't think of it,” he murmured. “I am very much engaged.”
“Can see that,” said Lord Brenton with a roar of drunken laughter. “Some chaps have all the luck, heh!”
“Better go,” hissed Freddie, writhing in embarrassment. He tugged at Margery's arm and led the unresisting girl away. There was a long silence.
“Who is she?” asked Margery finally.
“Dashed if I know,” said Freddie. “Probably some cousin or relative you don't know,” he added, improvising wildly.
“Do you take me for a green goose?” snapped Margery. “That is a lady of the town.”
“Well,” mumbled Freddie, desperately wishing himself elsewhere, “don't amount to much, you know. All the fellows ... mean to say ... wouldn't have brought you here had I known. Oh, damn and blast Charles!”
With dull eyes, Margery noticed the marquess returning to his box. She suddenly clutched Freddie's arm. “Freddie, please go over there and engage Charles in private conversation.”
“My dear Margery,” said Freddie, with all the enthusiasm of a dissipated sheep. “Not the thing, you know. Just ignore it and we'll go home.”
"Please."
“Oh, very well,” grumbled Freddie. “But the mood Charles is in, he's going to make me feel no end of an ass!”
Margery sat rigidly watching Freddie's progress. Amelia tried to take her hand and was shrugged off for her pains. Freddie was bowing to Mrs. Harrison. He was saying something. The marquess made some reply and Freddie blushed and made half a move to leave. He caught Margery's watching eye and turned back again. After a few minutes, the marquess gave an impatient shrug and got to his feet. Mrs. Harrison was left alone.
Before Amelia's startled eyes, Margery tripped quickly down from the box and made her way swiftly over to Mrs. Harrison. Toby and his brother watched with their green eyes bulging as never before.
Mrs. Harrison eyed Margery warily. “It's no use you a-making a squawk,” she said. “From the looks of you I suppose you're his wife.”
“Yes, I am the Marchioness of Edgecombe,” said Margery, realizing with a little shock that it was the first time she had used her title.
“It ain't my fault,” whined Mrs. Harrison. “I—”
Margery put a hand on her arm. “My dear, I am too
used to my husband's—er—pleasures to try now to put a stop to them. I am simply concerned for your welfare.”
“Are you threatening me?” demanded the widow, her beautiful eyes narrowing.
“No, indeed,” protested Margery. “But you are still young and beautiful and I would not like to see you in the hands of the physicians. My husband, you see, has a certain—er—disorder...” Her voice trailed delicately away and she dropped her eyes.
Mrs. Harrison stared at her in alarm. “Such a fine-looking lord! You mean he has the ... ?”
“Exactly,” said Margery in a low voice. “He has been in the habit of obtaining his pleasures by promenading the streets of Seven Dials.”
“Oh, my Gawd!” One beautiful hand fluttered to Mrs. Harrison's throat.
She knew only too well that certain degenerate members of the aristocracy were in the habit of finding their sexual pleasures in the back alleys of that filthy and notorious slum.
“Oh, my Gawd!” she said again. “You poor thing!”
“As far as I am concerned,” said Margery sadly, “the damage has already been done. But I feel for my unfortunate sisters who may not be aware of their peril.”
“I'll never forget this,” said Mrs. Harrison, wiping her brow. “Anything I can ever do for you, my lady...”
“It is enough that you are warned,” said Margery, getting hurriedly to her feet. “Please do not tell my husband I have talked with you. He will beat me.”
“'Ere! Letmeoutofthis!” gabbled the suddenly terrified widow. With a tremendous flurry of skirts, she jumped over the back of the box and disappeared. With a grim little smile on her face, Margery returned to her own box. Toby and his brother had their heads together whispering and broke off as soon as they saw her. Amelia seemed to be in a state of shock. Margery wondered how Freddie was coping with her husband.
“Will you stop gabbling and get to the point,” the marquess was saying. “We have been walking up and down and up and down and all you can do is bleat.”
“No need to talk to me like that,” said Freddie, finally breaking into coherent speech. “I ain't a fool, you know.”
“No, no,” said the marquess in a soothing voice. “You are the veriest wit and a pretty fellow to boot. So out with it!”
Freddie summoned up his courage. “Don't think it right,” he said. “Shouldn't be promenading round with that female, and you just wed.”
“And you shouldn't be promenading around with my wife,” said the marquess, viciously decapitating a rose with his swordstick.
“Not the same thing. No, no, no,” said Freddie. “Not the same thing at all. Different. Not at all alike.
Opposite.
Vice versa.”
“Get on with it.”
“Well, I'm a gentleman, so that's why it's different. I'm respectable,” said Freddie, much struck with this new idea of himself. “Yes. Respectable.
Friend
of Margery's. Now don't tell me
you're
out with that bit of muslin for her conversation,” he added with an uncomfortably shrewd look in his weak eyes.
“This is very, very interesting,” said the marquess in a deceptively mild voice. “I have known you for years, Freddie, but you surprise me, indeed you do. Pray tell me, what gives you the idea you can preach morality to me?”
Freddie thought about that one very long and carefully. “'Cause I'm decent and I'm fond of you, and I'm fond of Margery,” he said simply.
The marquess shook his head in exasperation. It was like arguing with a nice-natured child.
“Don't worry, old boy,” he said impatiently. “Simply attend to your own affairs and leave mine alone.”
They had turned about during their conversation and were now back at the boxes, which were crammed to capacity with the exception of one.
“You may rest easy,” drawled the marquess. “My ladybird has flown.” He made a distant bow in the direction of Margery's box and took his leave, wondering all the while why Mrs. Harrison had left and why he should feel so relieved.