The Wicked Marquess Read online

  Only four members of the party remained. Nonie urged her horse up alongside Lord Wexton’s, less in an attempt to shelter Miranda from his temper than to forestall further outrageous misbehavior from her charge. Miranda noted this move with approval. Perhaps the earl’s interest might be diverted to Nonie, who displayed very well on horseback, and looked very pretty in the bright green riding habit Miranda had insisted that she wear.

  “I realize Lord Wexton is a friend of yours, but he was very rude,” Miranda remarked to her uncle, who had dropped back to ride by her side. “Thomas doesn’t deserve to be treated so shabbily.”

  Sir Kenrick finished counting to four hundred. Among his many acquaintances were Joseph Planta, principal librarian of the British Museum and most senior member of the staff; and Sir Joseph Banks, President of the Royal Society. Both had seen fit to inform Kenrick that his niece had visited the museum recently, on the arm of no other than the notorious Sinbad.

  Miranda heard the sound of teeth grinding. “Uncle?” she said.

  Clearly, Miranda not only looked like her mama and her grandmama and the rest. “I have been too lax with you! Wexton is joining us for dinner. If you cannot be polite to our guest, I will lock you in your room.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Once again, Lord Baird approached Lady Darby’s grand old Jacobean house. Once again, Wiggins greeted him at the door. Benedict quirked an eyebrow. Wiggins shook his white-wigged head. Benedict deduced that he was out of favor. Wondering what he had done this time to incur his aunt’s displeasure, he mounted the oak staircase.

  Lady Darby lay in her bed, surrounded by books and medicaments, her cat stretched out beside her. She was reading a highly fanciful volume on the rights of women when Lord Baird stepped into the room.

  Odette put down the book and raised her quizzing-glass. “Faith, I do believe it’s Benedict. We must be grateful that he has taken time from his amusements to call on his old aunt.” Chimlin blinked one blue eye.

  Benedict opened the faded draperies. There were more vials and bottles on the bedside table that when last he was here. “Draw in your horns, Odette. What is so urgent that you summoned me from my club?”

  What was urgent was Odette’s health, for she had given in to the turpentine and snail water enema, and was consequently in a bad skin. If she had known that growing old was so demned uncomfortable, she might have refrained from embarking on that course. However, here she was, and here was her nephew, and what was to be done with the boy? “Pour us some brandy,” she demanded.

  Benedict obeyed. He handed Odette a glass, then drew up the carved chair. Chimlin twitched his whiskers in a threatening manner, and then went back to sleep.

  It occurred to Odette that brandy might have an insalubrious effect on a constitution that already been much abused. She sipped gingerly. “Your peculiar called on me.”

  Benedict raised his own glass. “Ceci came here?”

  “Ain’t that what I just said? She thinks you’ve fallen arsy varsy for the Russell chit. I think you’re up to some devilment.” Odette stifled a belch. “Have a care what you’re about. It ain’t wise to snap your fingers under the noses of the world.”

  Benedict regarded his grandaunt, who was not in plump currant. Her rouge stood out like red circles on her pale cheeks. Even her wig was pulled-about today, as if she strove for that hairstyle known as à la blouze. “This doesn’t sound like you.”

  Odette did not care to discuss her frailties. “It ain’t like you to cause such a rumpus. Cecelia is all in a twitter because you escorted Miss Russell to the British Museum.”

  So much for discretion. Benedict leaned back in his chair. “Ceci is making a piece of work over nothing. I do not immediately perceive how my visit to the museum concerns you, Odette.”

  “It has everything to do with me. Why did you take the girl there, of all places? Observe me near to swooning from the suspense.”

  Benedict plucked a cat hair from his coat sleeve. In addition to other unpleasant habits, such as clawing furniture and visitors and in general terrorizing the servants, Chimlin left everything in his vicinity liberally festooned. “I believed Miss Russell would enjoy the museum, and I was correct. Overall honors were divided between the kangaroo and the cyclops pig, although she was also impressed with the stuffed giraffes.”

  Odette set aside her empty glass. “I trust I need not remind you that this ain’t some sultan’s concubine to entertain you for a night.”

  Only from his grandaunt would Benedict tolerate such a comment, and then only because she was so frail. “I am flattered to discover that you hold me in such high esteem. The truth of the matter is that I am trying to prevent Miss Russell from disgracing herself. She is much tormented by her suitors, and her uncle, and has decided she may avoid the altar by blackening her good name.”

  Odette snorted. “Is the girl addled?” she inquired.

  “Her reluctance to marry has to do with her mama, and her grandmama, and her great-grandmama, and a family tendency toward scandal, or so I’m told.”

  “And with the fact, I’ll wager,” Lady Darby inserted shrewdly, “that her papa hanged himself as result of her mother’s indiscretions, which is how she came to be in Symington’s care. I’ll wager you didn’t know that. Or that her mama died destitute on the Continent after being abandoned by Black Jack Quarles.”

  Benedict began to understand why Miranda was not inclined toward matrimony. “I did not.”

  Odette found herself energized by the conversation. When one is feeling liverish, it is wonderfully therapeutic to have a target upon which to vent one’s spleen. “Then you’re the only one who doesn’t, because that hussy you’ve been bedding is spreading the old stories all over Town. Pettigrew knows you took Miss Russell to the British Museum, so therefore Cecilia knows, and now I know about it. You may be sure that the rest of the world will soon know about it too.”

  Benedict experienced a need for further refreshment. He refilled his brandy glass, and then his aunt’s. “Miss Russell is most interested in matters botanical. She is also fascinated by herbal lore, though wary of claims that anyone who unwittingly eats a leaf of scelerata will die laughing, or that an expectant mother who consumes lettuce will give birth to offspring raging in mind and lacking in wit.” He paused. Best not to contemplate Miranda and offspring, and the making thereof. “I considered the museum unexceptionable enough. It’s hardly the setting for a lover’s tryst.” So long, that was, as one avoided a certain gardener’s shed.

  “Unexceptionable for most people, maybe. In light of your reputation and Miss Russell’s antecedents, tongues will wag if you are merely together in the same room. God’s life, Benedict, you ain’t preventing her making a byword of herself, but helping her along apace.” Odette smoothed her hand over Chimlin’s soft fur. “Do you like the chit?”

  Benedict liked the chit well enough that he’d damned near ravished her, first in the middle of Lady Underhill’s musicale, and secondly at the British Museum. He said, “Anybody must.”

  “Must they? Cecilia don’t. I told her the same thing I am telling you: Miss Russell won’t do. You are old enough to be her father, and would make her miserable with your philandering.” Benedict tried to interrupt, but Odette held up one age-spotted hand. “Let me finish! I made it clear to Cecilia that she wouldn’t do, either, and you may thank me for it, because that one means you to feather her nest.”

  “I also like Ceci,” Benedict said.

  “Then you had better do something about her before she winds up in the basket.” Odette narrowed her eyes. “You won’t tell me you have a tendresse.”

  Benedict shook his head. Had he a tendresse for anyone, which of course he didn’t, he would hardly confide it in his aunt.

  Odette tickled Chimlin’s chin. “Symington means Wexton for his niece. Were you aware of that?”

  How did she learn these things? Benedict recalled Miranda’s complaints that Lord Wexton was preoccupied with lamps. Any man pre
occupied with lamps in Miranda’s presence must be an utter ass. “Symington could have made a better choice.”

  “Cecilia married against her father’s wishes. It ain’t surprising that Wexton cut her off. Don’t get your back up: I dislike the man myself. The fact remains that he will make your Miss Russell a suitable match.”

  “She’s not my Miss Russell,” Benedict said.

  “See you remember it,” retorted Odette. “There’s no use glaring at me, I ain’t the one as made the world what it is. At any rate, Symington’s no ogre. From what I hear, he dotes on his niece. Do you take my meaning? Leave the gel alone, for both your sakes. Once she’s safely wed – well, that’s a different kettle of fish.”

  Lady Darby’s generation had never been mealy-mouthed. Benedict restored the carved chair to its proper place, then bent to kiss his aunt’s withered cheek. “I’m not on the dangle for Miss Russell. You may set your mind at ease.” Seen so close, Odette looked even more fatigued. “You are worn to flinders. What does the doctor say?”

  “Nothing of interest.” In point of fact, the medico had said nothing at all of late, at least not to Lady Darby, because she had dispensed with his services. “Don’t concern yourself. I’ve as many lives as a cat.”

  If so, she had used up most of them. Benedict made sure his aunt was comfortable, and took his leave.

  Odette shrugged off the wrap her nephew had placed around her shoulders, picked up another digestive biscuit, and gave Chimlin’s tail a tweak. “Let’s see now. Benedict isn’t dangling after Miss Russell, who is meant for Lord Wexton, who will be even more out of charity with Lady Cecilia when she lands herself in the basket, and Benedict has to rescue her. Plague take the whelp!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The hour was considerably advanced when Lord Baird departed his club, where he had enjoyed a supper of boiled fowl with oyster sauce, followed by an apple tart, the whole washed down with several glasses of claret; had plunged at hazard and engaged in several conversations with his friends. Strolling along beside him was Percy Pettigrew. Percy had been sticking close as a court plaster for the past several hours.

  He was harping on his favorite subject. “It is said the ladies of that family have a weakness for promiscuity. A veritable fascination with gentlemen such as yourself.”

  “So you keep telling me.” Benedict managed to keep his tone calm. “And as I keep telling you, Miss Russell is little more than a child.”

  “You sound so sincere. I almost believe you. But then I remind myself of your rendezvous at the British Museum.”

  Benedict shot Percy an exasperated glance. “No rendezvous, but an accidental meeting. As I have also said before. Miss Russell was visiting the museum with a party of her friends. I had gone there to view the curiosities brought recently from France. You will have heard of the Rosetta stone.”

  Percy quirked a skeptical brow. “And among the curiosities you discovered the little Russell? Voilà! Quelle coincidence. You needn’t try and pull the wool over my eyes — Sinbad.”

  Subjecting Percy to physical violence was unlikely to throw him off the scent. “You’ve become a dead bore on the subject of Miss Russell,” Benedict retorted. “I begin to suspect you have a partiality there yourself. Are you eager to set up your nursery, Pettigrew? Or to plump up your purse? You will face stiff competition, in that case.”

  Percy clutched his chest. “A hit, a palpable hit. And as nicely delivered as if I had served it up myself. Where is your carriage? Shall I take you up in mine?”

  The last thing Benedict wanted was to engage in further conversation, and certainly not within the confines of a carriage, where his present inclination toward violence might less easily be curbed. He refused his companion’s offer and set off down the damp dark street. The day had been unrelentingly unpleasant, beginning with the interview with his aunt, continuing with the scolding he’d received from his valet for arriving home festooned with cat hairs, and ending with Percy’s irrepressible nosiness.

  Percy, like Lady Cecilia, was related to Lord Wexton. Benedict had hitherto swallowed Ceci’s complaints about her cold-hearted sire with several grains of salt. Wexton had possessed sufficient paternal feeling to bail his eldest daughter out of the River Tick, following her husband’s death, before ordering her to nevermore darken his doorstep. The night was thick with fog, the streets so deserted that Benedict had only the company of his own footsteps.

  Or so he had thought. He heard a scuffling noise behind him. Benedict turned in time to see two figures materialize from the mist.

  Footpads were not uncommon in the London streets, particularly at this late hour. Predators prowled in search of well-breeched swells who had imbibed more than was prudent and were therefore incapable of putting up a good defense.

  In the current instance, the footpads gravely erred. This well-breeched swell had not only ridden with Maratha marauders and trained with Rajput warriors (not to mention the various physical exertions required of him by the odalisques of the sultan or pasha or caliph), he frequently traded blows with the one-time boxing champion Daniel Mendoza. Lord Baird displayed very well, was fast on his feet, and felt no obligation to observe such customary rules as no blows below the belt, or not hitting an opponent who was down.

  The taller of the felons advanced, swinging a stout club. Benedict stepped quickly to one side and delivered a well placed kick to the side of his leg. The ruffian stumbled. Benedict felled him with a chopping blow on the back of his neck. Before the second, slighter footpad could react, he yanked off his many–caped greatcoat and flung it over the thief’s head. Within seconds, the first of the would-be assailants sprawled unconscious on the pavement and Benedict’s knee was firmly planted on the second footpad’s chest.

  That chest was not robust. Benedict eased back his weight a bit and pulled away the muffling greatcoat. Staring up at him was a mere stripling.

  The boy attempted an ingratiating smile. “Our mistake, guv’nor! We mistook you for a flat, which I now see you ain’t, and it was all Freddy’s idea anyway that we should pinch your pocketbook, not that he’s a foot-scamperer, or me either, but we was both pitch-kettled. No harm done, now was there? It ain’t like your napper got cracked.”

  His prisoner was wheezing. Benedict further eased the pressure of his knee. “Not for want of trying. Give me your name.”

  The footpad licked dry lips. The theft of property worth more than one shilling was punishable by death, and if he hadn’t stolen as much as a shilling, he had certainly tried. They should improve themselves, Freddy had insisted, when the opportunity presented itself. Under influence of a potent beverage known as a dog’s nose, Jem had agreed. Now the consequences he had failed to consider loomed over him like the shadow of Newgate. All too vividly, he could see himself hanged for his attempted crimes, his body dancing herky-jerky for a full quarter hour before all life had left it, his corpse given over to the resurrection-coves for sale to some quacksalver who would cut him open to see what had made him tick. If only he had listened to his ma when she told him Freddy was a beetle brain.

  Benedict hauled his prisoner up and off his feet, and gave him a good shake. “Your name,” he repeated.

  “Jem!” the captive gulped.

  Benedict held in his grasp no hardened criminal, but a lad so terrified that his teeth were chattering in his head. He wondered what the boy did when he wasn’t attempting to waylay flats. He might have been some shopkeeper’s apprentice. Or a fugitive from the workhouse.

  If the scamp had run away from a workhouse, Benedict could not fault him for it. Workhouse children slept crammed with six or eight other unfortunates into a single bunk, were wakened at dawn and given a miserable breakfast and set to toil until dusk, after which they were sent back to bed so that the whole miserable routine might start over again. Even so, it was a better life than in the manufacturing districts, or the coal pits where children were put to work at seven years old, for as long as thirty-six hours on end. If fortu
nate, this ragamuffin still lived with his relatives, in some vermin-infested slum.

  Benedict set Jem on his feet but retained a firm grip on his filthy collar. “Do you have a family?”

  “It’s just me, guv. All alone in the world.” Save for a mother and seven siblings, but Jem refrained from mentioning them.

  “How old are you?”

  Fear of having his neck cricked gave way to a new horror. Jem had heard of gentry coves who fancied young men like himself. “Er!” he said.

  Benedict interpreted this utterance to mean that Jem had not yet reached his majority. Nor was he likely to, if he continued on his present road. “You’ll come along with me until I decide what’s best done with you.”

  “Hoi!” Jem struggled to free himself. “I ain’t — You can’t— I mean, thank you kindly, guv’nor, but I ain’t wishful of putting on a petticoat!”

  A petticoat? Good God. Benedict seemed unable to stroll the streets of London without encountering innocents determined to consider him the instrument of their downfall. “I meant that there may be a place for you in my stables, providing you can find your way around a horse. Providing you forgo trying to rob wayfarers like myself. You must also forgo your friend Freddy, and others of his ilk.”

  “You mean me to be a stable boy, guv?” Jem repeated warily. He had never shared close quarters with a horse.

  Benedict released him. “Alternately, you may return to your friends, and I’ll see you dangling on the gallows soon enough. Which is it to be?”

  Jem was uncertain just what it was that a stable boy did. On the other hand, he didn’t care to come any closer to the gallows than he already had. On the third hand, his ma had several hungry mouths to feed. And on the fourth, golden opportunities didn’t often fall from trees. “At your service, guv’nor!” he said, and executed an awkward little bow.

  Perhaps it was Benedict who was pitch-kettled: he had just taken a footpad into his hire. “It’s not ‘guv’nor’ but ‘my lord.’ Come along, then.”