The Missing Marchioness (Mills & Boon Historical) Read online

  Besides, who knows what might happen?

  Now that she was in the Yardleys’ home there was even a certain strange spice in knowing who she was, and that the assembled Cleeves were quite unaware of the cuckoo who had entered their nest. Except, of course, that she was not a cuckoo, but was as much of an honest bird as they were!

  Nothing of this showed. She was discretion itself as she knelt before Sophia, pinning up her dress a little to show her pretty ankles, adding an extra discreet tuck here and there, suggesting that Lady Sophia ought to wear as little jewellery as possible.

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Lady Yardley. ‘I was most impressed by the turn-out which you created for the Tenison child’s marriage. I was informed that you had vetoed her mama’s wish that she should be hung about with geegaws. I, too, wish Sophia’s innocence to be emphasised, not only by her white gown, but also by a lack of old-fashioned family heirlooms, bracelets, bangles and brooches. They can always be worn later when the first bloom of youth has gone.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Louise, rising gracefully, and in the doing showing her own pretty ankles—attributes which Marcus would have admired had he been present. ‘Very well put, m’lady, if I may say so.’

  Careful, she warned herself, don’t overdo grovelling humility. Dignified gratitude would be a better line.

  This internal conversation with herself had become a habit for Louise from childhood onwards. She had had so few friends besides Athene Filmer, now Athene Cameron, that to ease her loneliness she had revived the imaginary companion of her lonely childhood, who might argue with her, but would never desert her.

  Finally, everything else having been inspected and approved, Lady Yardley was measured for her new wedding outfit, something tactfully discreet as befitted the mother of the bride. Louise had already decided that it was a pleasure to dress Lady Sophia and her mama; they were not only considerate clients, but her taste and theirs coincided exactly.

  Lady Yardley might not have been a beauty in her youth, but her face had character and she had worn well, and was more attractive in middle age than many who had been called pretty when they had been girls. Louise had sometimes wondered what Lord Yardley’s first wife had been like. The idle gossip which had come her way had suggested that the marriage had not been a happy one: the same idle gossip, however, credited the Earl’s second marriage as having been much more successful than his first.

  These were not, however, matters which she could discuss with her clients, but her interest in them was natural, considering that they were, after all, her relatives, even if that interesting fact was never to be revealed. She wondered if she would see Marcus again before she left the house. He was not a conventionally handsome man—unlike his father—but there was a suppressed power about him which Louise found interesting.

  After all, what did handsomeness matter? Sywell had been a handsome man in his youth, although in his old age no one could have guessed that.

  Louise did not ask herself why she might hope to see Marcus again—particularly as since her unhappy marriage to Sywell she had tended to avoid men. The one man in her life had been such a monster that it was not surprising that she had sworn never to have anything more to do with them.

  Which made it all the more surprising that Marcus Angmering had made such an impression on her.

  Marcus found that, contrary to his expectations, his father had not, as he usually did, left the house that morning either to go to his club or—more rarely—to visit Parliament.

  He entered the library in search of the Morning Post to find that the Earl was there before him. Marcus could not help noticing that his father seemed frail these days. There was a transparency about him which made him appear older than his years. Nevertheless he looked up eagerly when he saw his eldest son enter.

  It had been a source of unhappiness to the Earl that there had always been constraint between them: a constraint born out of his failed marriage with Marcus’s mother. It had been a great relief to him that Marcus and his second wife had dealt well together. Marcus respected her because she made his father—and his household—happy. She genuinely liked Marcus, admiring in him the ruthless honesty with which he approached life.

  ‘Ah, Angmering, I had hoped to see you,’ his father began. ‘There are a number of matters which I wish to discuss with you. Not business ones— I have inspected the documents and accounts which you have brought from the north, together with your report of the changes you have made to the running of the estates there. I am more than satisfied with what you have done. I should have got rid of Sansom long ago—advancing years had marred his judgement. I have nothing but admiration for what you have accomplished.

  ‘No, what I wish to speak to you about is something more personal. I sincerely hope that you will not take amiss what I have to say to you. I know only too well how much you value your freedom, and how much the notion of marriage fails to attract you. I must, however, ask you again to consider making a suitable marriage—not only to provide yourself and the estates with an heir, but because I would wish you to find for yourself the happiness which I share with my dear Marissa. I would not like this matter to come between us, but I feel it incumbent upon me to raise it with you.’

  Marcus knew how difficult his father must have found it to talk of his desire to see him married by the careful way in which he was speaking, quite unlike his usually bluff and, somewhat impulsive, straightforward manner.

  He owed it to him to answer him reasonably. Of late, and particularly since he had reorganised the northern estate so satisfactorily, the stiffness which had lain between them had eased a little. Consequently Marcus’s answer was as diplomatic as he could make it.

  ‘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 br
utal 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.’