The Missing Marchioness (Mills & Boon Historical) Read online

  The clever devil obviously guessed that I knew more about Athene’s little friend than I could remember, but for the life of me I cannot recall what so intrigued me all those years ago.

  Marcus would not have been surprised to learn that Jackson visited Madame Félice on Monday morning, calling at her salon and telling the girl on the shop counter that he wished to see the Missis. In fact Louise told him so when he called at her Chelsea home early on the following Saturday.

  She allowed the little maid to let him in, but fixed him with the most freezing stare when he walked into her pretty drawing-room.

  ‘Well, well, Mr Marks,’ she said coldly. ‘Did you set that man on me, again? Because if you did I shall require yet another apology from you.’

  ‘What man?’ asked Marcus deviously, knowing perfectly well to whom she was referring.

  ‘Jackson, and don’t pretend that you don’t know whereof I speak. I saw him watching this house before you had me followed here, and when he arrived, asking to speak to me about my friendship with Athene, I immediately recognised him. He said that although he was an ex-Bow Street Runner he was engaged in government business and because I was Athene’s friend he needed to ask me about her other friends—in particular the missing Marchioness. He mentioned, in passing, but I am sure that it was deliberate, that he had been speaking to you. Did you suggest that he came to me? Because if so, you may leave at once.’

  ‘Word of honour,’ said Marcus solemnly, putting up his hand. ‘I did engage him to find out where you lived, but I said nothing which might send him here to question you. He asked me if I had ever seen the Marchioness, either when she was a child, or later after she had married Sywell, and I told him that I had not.’

  ‘Can I believe you?’ Félice’s agitation was plain to see. ‘If you didn’t, why did he visit me?’

  ‘Because he’s questioning everyone who had anything to do with Steepwood and Sywell. He even hinted to me that my father had a good motive for killing him—so you are not the only person on his list of those he wishes to interview.’

  No, thought Louise, but I am the only one who is the missing Marchioness! The thought made her shiver.

  ‘Can I believe you?’

  Marcus went down on his knees beside her chair, and gently took her hands in his.

  ‘Félice, believe me. It was bad enough for me to face his questioning: he made me feel as guilty as any villain in the Old Bailey dock and I certainly would not have had you subjected to him. He reminds me of one of those dogs who gets the bear they are baiting by the throat and won’t let go. I promise you that if I ever have you investigated again, I shall ask your permission before I do so! Will that satisfy you?’

  She wanted to believe him. He was so blunt and straightforward—even his naughtinesses when he had been teasing her in the shop about making him a shirt, and again when he had visited her for the first time, were mild in comparison with what she knew of the behaviour of other aristocrats who pursued those below them in rank. If he touched her, it was gently—and so far he had rarely done even that.

  ‘So it was his decision that he came to see me? And his only?’

  ‘Yes, I did not send him. If he comes again, be careful—behind that jovial exterior he is clever in the extreme.’

  ‘So I thought—fortunately I had nothing of importance to tell him.’ Oh, what a lie that was! Another! For she certainly had no intention of giving her true identity away to Jackson, of all people.

  Marcus smiled. ‘That would not please him, I think. He is a thief-taker and criminal-catcher, par excellence. He resents not being able to track Sywell’s murderer down—even though he might think that Sywell deserved to be murdered. His problem is that so many might have wanted to murder him—including his wife.’

  ‘Let us speak of something different. Shall I ring for coffee?’

  ‘I am forgiven, then?’

  ‘Yes, if you like. I don’t think that there was anything to forgive, though.’

  ‘And since it is a fine day, even if it is cold, you will walk down to the river with me and watch it flow by.’

  All the same, despite the pleasure of being with her there was the agony of not being able to touch her, for the more he was with Félice as he was now beginning to call her, the more his desire for her grew. Not only because of her pretty face and figure, but because he could talk to her as he had never been able to talk to a woman before.

  For all her romantic appearance, she was as delightfully down to earth as he was, and did not hesitate to check and challenge him if she disagreed with him. Her pleasures were simple ones, like his.

  There was a man with a barrow selling roast chestnuts on the road by the river. Marcus saw her looking wistfully at them and said, waving what Louise always thought of as his lordly hand, ‘You would like some?’

  ‘Only if you joined me,’ she shot back, ‘which would be an odd thing for m’lord to do, would it not? Eat chestnuts in the street!’

  ‘You forget,’ he said. ‘I am Mr Marks today, and Mr Marks is allowed to be one of the crowd. He is accompanied by no flunkeys, and has no grand position to keep up, something which pleases him. I do not like consequence, my dear Félice, but I am doomed to endure it. Today I am one among many.’

  Louise was silent for a moment before she said, ‘I think that you truly mean that, Mr Marks. Do you avoid it when you live on your father’s estate in the north?’ For he had told her that he rarely visited London and preferred the country.

  ‘As much as possible, but noblesse does oblige, you know, however little I may wish it. It is my duty, you understand.’

  ‘Sywell never thought that,’ exclaimed Louise, without thinking.

  ‘No, I believe not, but he was hardly a man one would take as a model of what a man, never mind a nobleman, ought to be.’

  When they reached the Embankment they sat on one of the benches which faced on to the river and enjoyed their chestnuts, warming their hands while they ate them from the paper in which the barrow-boy had placed them.

  ‘Chelsea has many places of interest,’ Marcus said, ‘including the Royal Hospital for the Pensioners. I understand that one may walk in the grounds. There is little to see at this time of the year—other than the building itself, of course. It rebukes me a little, you know, for it is filled with soldiers who have given everything for their country, while I have given nothing.’

  He said this with such feeling that, again without thinking, Louise placed her gloved hand on his.

  ‘Should you like to have been a soldier?’ she asked him.

  ‘Yes, but my father would not permit it. And even though, in those days, we were at odds, I did not feel that I ought to disobey him. I may even have thought that I might please him by agreeing with him, but…’ and Marcus shrugged his shoulders.

  He was telling her things which he had never told anyone. Short though their acquaintance was, again, sitting by her, he felt more like Darby and Joan than many a couple who had spent years living together did.

  ‘I suppose I ought not to ask you this, but are you still at odds with him?’

  ‘No, we have become reconciled recently, and I think it is a great relief for both of us. Oh, I always respected him, but I could not love him. That, oddly enough, was reserved for my stepmother and her sons and the daughter whose trousseau you are making.’

  He laughed a little, and said, ‘I was very happy to gain twin brothers. You have met the Two Neds. I must confess that it was I who nicknamed them.’

  He must trust her, thought Louise, a little awed, and also a little ashamed because she felt that she could still not totally trust him, to tell her such things about his family life.

  ‘I like that,’ she said, smiling up at him, so that his heart gave a great leap in his chest, so sweet was her expression. ‘Do they like their nicknames?’

  ‘Oh, yes. You see they love to tease me for being old and passé, so I tease them back about being young and flighty—not too severely, mind
.’

  ‘How fortunate you are,’ she could not help exclaiming, ‘to have a loving family. It is something which I have always lacked.’

  Her face was so sad when she said this, that Marcus wanted to take her in his arms and kiss and comfort her, while saying: You can always have me for a family, but he had made her a promise to do no such thing, so he merely pressed the hand she had absent-mindedly placed on his, instead.

  It grew steadily colder. Marcus offered her his arm and they walked slowly back to her home, where she invited him in to drink tea with her: it had become something of a ritual. On the way they were so engrossed in one another that neither of them noticed a curious pair of eyes watching them. Their owner shook his head, but did not follow them.

  All the same when next he met Angmering he meant to twit him about what must be his newest conquest: it was the little modiste, no less, who had successfully held off every man who had made so much as a bow in her direction. Sandiman was not the only unfortunate who had felt the rough edge of her tongue. One wondered what spell Angmering had cast on her that she could look so trustingly up at him.

  Marcus had, as he had promised, behaved himself on their little excursion, though, God knows, he had been hard put to do so! He was equally well-behaved as he drank tea and talked about the clown, Grimaldi, who like Madame Félice he had seen performing at Sadler’s Wells.

  She was too young, she said, to have been taken to see the precocious Master Betty, who had entertained London for a short time nearly eight years ago, before the notion of seeing a young boy impersonate Shakespearian heroes had palled.

  ‘So,’ Marcus exclaimed, ‘we have another common love: the theatre. If it were not that we might be seen I should be happy to escort you there one evening. It’s a pity we don’t live in the middle of the last century when you could have worn a mask without comment—but as it is…’ and he grimaced.

  Louise thought it a pity, too, but did not say so; she felt it best not to offer Marcus too much of herself. The more she was with him, the more she liked him—she dare not use the word love any more than Marcus did, for to do so might launch them into unknown territory.

  ‘And I may come again next week?’ he asked her before he left for home, having taken her hand and kissed the back of it, an apparently innocent action which had both parties asking themselves before they parted what it was about the other which affected them so strongly.

  Louise asked herself the most questions about this. She was not so knowing as Marcus was. No man had ever roused her, and her late husband had treated her so roughly that she had no notion of the profound influence which the presence of a member of the opposite sex could have upon her body. Other than revulsion, that was, she had experienced a great deal of that!

  Now with Marcus all was different. The day seemed to brighten when she was with him; for him to touch her, even lightly, was to awaken strange sensations whose origin was a mystery to her.

  No novel she had ever read had spoken of such things. All was decorous. Men and women might banter with one another, but these other stirrings which were affecting her so strongly were never mentioned. For the first time she could understand why women could be seduced by love, for not only the man, but their body also, was betraying them.

  So even though she said, ‘Yes, indeed,’ to his wish to visit her on the next Saturday, she told herself firmly, once the door shut behind him, to be sure to go carefully with him, for the biggest traitor in her camp of virtue was none other than herself!

  Marcus found himself at something of a loose end. Back at his country home there was always something for him to do, some problem to solve, some decision to make, some friends to visit or go riding with.

  Here in London, though, the days passed in unchanging idleness. He could see why many of his contemporaries drank, gambled and wenched so much—they had little else to do. There was a limit to the length of time that he could sit and read a book, however improving. If he were compelled to live here permanently, he told himself that he would find something interesting to pursue—set up a laboratory, experiment with velocipedes, or study in detail the theory of scientific farming.

  Or he might go in for being a diplomat, like Lord Granville Leveson Gower, which was a bit of a joke seeing how undiplomatic he usually was! Or become an MP. Anything would be better than doing nothing. As it was, since he would shortly be returning to the north where he was both happy and useful, he hadn’t the time to start anything new.

  Wednesday morning thus saw him decide to visit Gentleman Jackson’s gymnasium at 13 Bond Street. This also had the advantage of not being far from Madame Félice’s work rooms, which gave him the added bonus of perhaps catching a glimpse of her. He could scarcely wait for the weekend to come round again when he might be with her—but he had given his word of honour not to badger her, so he must try to distract himself with other activities, preferably physical ones.

  Jackson’s was crowded when he reached there. Among the men present, some already changed to spar with one of his bruisers, were Sharnbrook, his sister’s future husband, and Jack Perceval. Jack was busy towelling himself off. He waved at Marcus when he saw him, and mouthed something incomprehensible in his direction.

  Marcus shrugged and sat down, and waited for the Gentleman, who was busy, to attend on him. Jackson was something of a friend, for he respected Marcus’s straightforward approach to life, as well as his good left hook. He was not one of those who played at being a bruiser—he worked at it on the few occasions he was in London.

  This sitting about, though, left him a target for Jack, who accosted him cheerfully while Marcus was talking to Sharnbrook.

  ‘You’re a downy bird, Angmering, and no mistake! How the devil did you get that haughty piece to eat out of your hand while the rest of us were trying to persuade her to look in our direction, not arm in arm it with her down the King’s Road and the Embankment?’

  Marcus gave Jack a look which ought to have slain him at ten paces, but didn’t.

  ‘Don’t know what you mean, old fellow.’

  The words ‘old fellow’ sounded as though they were a curse, which Marcus meant them to do. It was a wretched nuisance that one of the Ton’s greatest gossips should have seen him with Madame in Chelsea—and what the devil was Jack Perceval doing there, anyway?

  Jack put his finger by his nose. ‘Oh, damn that for a tale, Angmering. Were you, or were you not, squiring that pretty little filly Madame Félice in Chelsea last weekend—or have you both acquired doubles?’ He gave a great bellow of laughter as he ended.

  Marcus could feel Sharnbrook’s knowing eyes on him. Since his relationship with Madame was an innocent one he was feeling something strange—that, for once, he was an aggrieved party. He was also feeling something else strange, and savage—that he would like to plant a real facer on Jack Perceval’s inadequate chin to teach him not to take a virtuous woman’s name in vain. Marcus had thought that Jack had become his friend and would thus have the decency to keep quiet about what he had seen. On the other hand, though, he supposed gloomily that the temptation to pass on such a rare piece of gossip was too great for him.

  Well, he would make sure that Jack would keep silent, for the thought of the knowing laughter and the hilarity about Madame’s supposed fall from grace was too much for him to contemplate.

  So, he rose, leaned forward, took hold of the towel which was now round Jack’s neck, and using both his hands, tightened it gently, while saying, ‘What do I have to do, Perceval, to stop you from jeering in public about a woman who has never behaved in such a manner that you have the right to doubt her virtue—and mine—come to that? What would it take, Perceval?’ and he tightened the towel a little further as though he intended to use it as a garrotte.

  He had no notion of how savage he looked when coming out with this. His face white, Jack spluttered, ‘Come off it, Angmering, I didn’t mean anything you know—only the give and take we all go in for, you must know that.’

 
‘No, I don’t know it, Perceval, and I’ll thank you not to blow smoke on any woman’s good name when I’m present. Just tell me you won’t do so again, and I’ll not twist your head off its shoulders.’

  Sharnbrook put a hand on Marcus’s arm. ‘Steady on, old fellow. Don’t threaten to murder poor Jack because he’s a bit of an idiot. We all know that, don’t we, Jack?’

  ‘Yes, but does he know it?’

  ‘He does now,’ grinned Sharnbrook. ‘Say pretty please, I’ll be a good chap in future, and Angmering will let you go, won’t you?’ and he tightened his grip on Marcus’s arm.

  Reluctantly Marcus released the stutteringly apologetic Jack, dropping his hands, just as the Gentleman came over, saying in his quiet way, ‘Now gentleman, no brawling, please, reserve that for the ring. As for you, Mr Perceval, you should be aware by now that I have a rule that we don’t tattle about the fair sex in here. Remember that in future.’

  ‘I didn’t mean anything by it,’ grumbled Jack, his head bent.

  ‘In that case, sir, if you didn’t, best not to say anything, eh?’

  On that the Gentleman left them, leading Sharnbrook away. He said quietly to him while he laced the gloves on to the Duke’s hands, ‘I never thought m’lord Angmering had such a short fuse. He’s always struck me as the easygoing kind.’

  ‘Oh, where women are concerned,’ returned Sharnbrook, falling into a fighting pose, ‘we’ve all got short fuses. Depend upon it, Angmering is in a bad way—and for the first time, I would hazard. And now, let’s to work.’

  Unaware that, for the first time, she had become the public target of unkind gossip, Louise was working on Sophia Cleeve’s trousseau. She had cut out the wedding gown herself, and was busy basting the skirt together when the girl in the shop came in to tell her that the Bow Street Runner was back, asking to see her again.

  ‘Again!’ exclaimed Louise, almost sticking a pin into her hand rather than the pin-cushion, so shocked was she by Jackson’s return. She had thought to see the last of him, and didn’t relish yet another session of polite verbal fencing.