No Place for a Lady (27 page)

Marcus merely grinned, knowing that at last he had accomplished his task. His mother's statement would no doubt rouse the entire household, including Fantine. He would be able to see her and finally judge for himself if she was all right.

At their mother's command, Lottie came rushing in, closely followed by her husband. Both she and Christopher looked hastily dressed and somewhat bleary-eyed, but both were able to nod in his direction. He smiled congenially back.

"Sorry about the ivy and the mud," he said, gesturing to the soiled settee and his filthy bare feet.

"Not at all, not at all," boomed his brother-in-law with a welcoming smile. "Brandy?"

"Please."

Lottie rushed over to him, brushing some of the mud off his face with her handkerchief. "Really, Chris, brandy? I do not think that is at all wise."

"Nonsense," returned her husband. "Seems like the perfect response to having a muddy, barefoot man in one's parlor. Come to think of it, sounds like the perfect response if one
is
the barefoot muddy chap, right, old boy?"

"Right," responded Marcus, but his eyes were still on the parlor door. Where was Fantine?

"He is frozen through!" gasped his mother, as she pressed her hand to his cheek. Unfortunately, the lace of her sleeve tickled his nose, and he was forced to release a prodigious sneeze. "He has taken a chill! Quick, we must warm him."

"Absolutely," cut in Christopher in his booming voice. "Your brandy—"

"Thank you—"

"Brandy!" gasped his mother. "We need blankets and boiling water for his feet."

"And tonic," continued Lottie, gesturing to the butler.

"Tonic!" snorted his brother-in-law. "Bother, but that is nasty stuff. Here, Marcus, have some more brandy."

"Much obliged," Marcus answered as Chris topped off his glass.

"Thank heaven," exclaimed his mother, as the butler preceded a veritable army of servants carrying blankets and hot water. "Lottie, help me take care of his feet—"

"Yes, Mother—"

"And what kind of tonic is it?" his mother continued without pause. "Pray, not that vile potion I sent you last year? It killed the rooster, you know. Cook gave him just a spoonful...."

Marcus never truly listened to his mother. Not closely at least, but her words faded into nothing when he saw Fantine step into the room. She still wore the demure canary gown. In fact, it was the very brightness of the fabric that caught his attention in the first place. But what robbed him of speech was something entirely different.

She looked terrible. Quite dull, in fact.

Her eyes were keen as they took in the scene. Lottie was at his feet carefully smearing the mud on his toes. His mother nearly stretched across his lap as she buried him beneath three heavy blankets. His brother-in-law stood two steps away, trying hard to stifle his laughter in his brandy glass.

But though she seemed to see the tableau, she did not react to it. Instead, she settled quietly into a comer, folded her hands into her lap, and lowered her head.

Something was most definitely wrong.

He leaned forward, trying to catch her gaze, but it was lowered to her lap. He had to do something.

Pushing away his mother, he stripped off the blankets.

"Marcus—"

"Hush, Mother. I am quite well," he said curtly, then stepped over his sister, set aside the brandy, and went directly to Fantine. "But are you?" he asked as he knelt before her.

It took an agonizingly long time for her to look at him. Then, when she did, her eyes were wide and confused, as if she was torn between fear and panic.

The sight alarmed him. He did not know what to do or say, especially since the wrong word might send her fleeing.

"I am quite well, my lord." Her voice was soft, cultured, and so restrained as to be almost nonexistent. Definitely not what he had come to expect from her. "It is kind of you to ask."

Marcus frowned, his fear escalating. "You do not sound at all fine. You sound..." He could not find the correct word. "So... demure."

She tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable. She could have been any of a hundred different society girls, just another face in the crowd of debutantes. "I am behaving inappropriately?"

"Yes!" Then he shook his head. "I mean, no, but—"

"Stop it, Marcus!" his mother cut in. "You are upsetting the girl!"

Marcus shifted to stare at his mother. "Me? I upset Fantine?" The thought boggled his mind. But one look at Fantine's face, and he knew it was true. He did frighten her. And he had not the least clue why.

Then his mother was standing before him, her hands on her hips, her expression as severe as he had ever seen before. "Exactly what are your intentions here, Marcus?"

He shifted to look at her, but the movement strained his injured ankle, and for the second time that night, he fell flat on his behind with a rather loud thud. His mother merely stepped forward, as much the protective hen as ever. "Come, Marcus. Surely this is not a difficult question. Exactly what are your intentions regarding Miss Drake?"

He frowned, momentarily forgetting that Drake was Fantine's new surname. Then, when he did remember, he glanced at her, looking for help. But there was nothing to see, no expression on her face.

"Marcus!"

"I have no intentions whatsoever!" he snapped, not really knowing what he said. His only thought was to pacify his mother so that he could concentrate on Fantine. "I am concerned for Fantine's well-being. She is not acting right."

"Nonsense," his mother returned. "She is behaving perfectly."

Marcus shook his head. "No, you do not understand."

"On the contrary, I believe I do. Lottie tells me you want her as your mistress."

There was no safe means of responding to this statement, so Marcus remained silent, choosing to shoot his sister an angry glare. She merely shrugged while Christopher silently refilled Marcus's brandy glass.

"Well, you cannot have her," continued his mother undaunted. "We are bringing her out. That makes her a well-bred young lady in all respects, whether or not she is technically a bastard."

"Mother!" Marcus exclaimed. He could not help himself, as he glanced fearfully at Fantine.

"Do not feign worry now, my boy," she continued. "Fantine has been most honest with us."

"Fantine was honest?" The words slipped out without his conscious thought, and he regretted them almost immediately.

"Of course she was! Shame on you for even thinking that she would not be! Really, I am most disappointed in you."

Marcus had no response to this except to take his brandy glass from Christopher.

"Now you listen to me, young man, and you listen well. Despite her parentage, Fantine is a well-bred young lady. She will not be anyone's mistress, least of all yours. She is here for her coming-out, sponsored by me. There will be no more midnight climbs up to her window, no more furtive glances or attempts to be private with her. Whatever your political or private motivation, you have asked Lottie and me to bring her out, and we will. As of this instant, your responsibilities are at an end."

Then she paused, took a breath, and pinned him with her most imperious stare. "I believe it would be best for you to remove yourself from London for a while. Yes, in fact, I am quite sure of it. Christopher can be our escort. You may go away." She made tiny shooing motions at him.

He gaped at her. "But—"

"And now," she continued, "I feel in need of a rest. Good night, everyone." Then she strode out of the room leaving a deafening silence behind her.

Marcus gritted his teeth. It took him a moment to collect his wits enough to address Fantine. But just as he took a breath, his mother interrupted again—in the form of a disembodied voice from the stairs.

"Come along, Fantine. You need your rest, too." The woman did not even have the grace to stick her head through the parlor door, but her voice echoed through the room nevertheless.

Fantine immediately rose to her feet. "Yes, Lady Anne," she called. Then, neatly eluding Marcus's outstretched hand, she slipped out of the room.

"I'd best go as well," said Lottie as she too gained her feet. "It will take some time getting Mother's room just right, and I still hope to get some sleep."

Just before leaving the room she paused, turning to her brother with an expression she had no doubt learned from their mother. "She is right, Marcus. You cannot be seducing the girl we are bringing out, no matter what her background. It is bad ton, you know. And rather crude besides." Then she slipped away.

Marcus stared at the empty doorway, wondering if it too would begin reproaching him. Then he turned toward his brother-in-law, almost afraid to hear what the man would say.

But Christopher did not say a thing. He merely crossed the room, brandy bottle in hand, and settled his large frame into the chair recently abandoned by Fantine. He did not speak again until the two had nearly finished off the bottle. When he did finally offer a suggestion, it was with all the hearty goodwill of a longtime drinking companion.

"Take my advice, old boy," he said cheerfully. "Find that maid you had at Harris's ball, buy her some bauble, and enjoy yourself. It will take your mind off Fantine."

Marcus just stared at him, words failing him completely.

Chapter 15

Fantine sat on her bed and tugged at the high neck of her night rail. It was pristine white, covered with lace, and made her feel like a doll in a shop display. Add a blank smile and eventually some customer would buy her. Unless, of course, no one wanted her and she was tossed out on the rubbish heap.

But she refused to consider that possibility.

Flopping down on her pillow, Fantine resolved to focus on the future. She loved him, but what of it? Marcus had no intentions regarding her. Good. Because, as she and now his mother had firmly said, she would not be his mistress. The man had obviously never even thought of marriage, and given the circumstances, there were no other options. She was free of Marcus.

Forever.

Fantine forced her face into an empty smile and told herself she was glad of it. But if Marcus had failed in his goal to make her his mistress, he had succeeded in something else entirely. He had reminded her what it was like to live without constant struggle. She had discovered that she liked hot food and warm rooms. She enjoyed nice clothing and a soft bed. And she wanted such comforts to continue.

She would indeed compromise so she could continue to have a warm bed, good food, and clean undergarments. So she could continue to feed Nameless and the boys. She still refused to become Marcus's mistress, but she would now consider a loveless marriage to some other man. Especially if she chose a husband whom she could tolerate, even like.

Mr. Edwin Thompson sprang to mind. He was a tall man with short brown hair and serious brown eyes. He was polite, intelligent, and after three teas and a dinner in his company, she felt quite at ease with him. Perhaps she could marry him.

Or perhaps not. After all, he was the only eligible gentleman besides Marcus that she knew. She still had a whole month and a half worth of balls and parties in which to discover potential husbands. Perhaps she would choose one of them.

True, this was not why she had decided to have her Season. She was intent on exposing Teggie. But she was a capable girl. She could perform her job for her father and still find a husband. That was, after all, just what Penworthy wanted.

And it was what she wanted too.

Especially now that Marcus would no longer be interfering, constantly tempting her away with his kisses. His mother had made that quite clear. She had even told him to remove himself completely from London. Fantine would be free of his distractions. She could meet the men of the ton and perhaps be snatched up in days.

Part of her still cringed at the thought. She had spent the last ten years throwing Penworthy's upper-crust heritage right back at his face. She had taunted and tortured him, saying she would live her own life on her own terms, not his.

But the thought of returning to the rookeries, of scrounging for enough to eat while the cold seeped into her bones, made her realize just how much of a fool she had been. Life required compromise. She could no longer stick to her principles when all they gave her was an empty belly and a cold hearth.