The Marquess of
Eynsford stood before his mirror, surveying his reflection. The glass reflected
back a very Nonpareil of fashion, dressed with great restraint and elegance.
His bottle green coat and buff pantaloons fit as though they had been sewn onto
his body, the cravat was of an impenetrable whiteness, its elaborate folds
arranged in a wonderful style of his lordship’s own creation. Spotless white
topped riding boots shone brightly, reflecting the room almost as clearly as
the mirror. His golden curls were cunningly tousled, his only decoration a
single fob and an emerald ring. He was the very image of a fashionable
gentleman: tall, broad-shouldered, aristocratically featured, a haughty
expression in his blue eyes.
“Terrifying,” he
murmured.
“I beg your pardon,
my lord?” said his valet, who hovered nearby in case any slight element of his
master’s dress should be out of order.
“I said,
terrifying,” answered his lordship, raising his quizzing glass and gazing into
the mirror with a thoughtful expression.
The valet’s face
fell. “I think your lordship looks very fine,” he ventured. “That coat has an
excellent cut.”
“No doubt,” said
the marquess. “I am sure it is very fine indeed, Boothby. But do you not find
me a trifle overpowering?”
“Overpowering, sir?”
asked the valet.
“Or frightening?”
murmured his lordship.
“I am sure I do not
know what your lordship means. You look precisely as you should.”
“Perhaps that is
the problem,” observed the marquess.
Boothby gave up the
struggle to understand and stepped forward with a brush, energetically sweeping
some nonexistent lint from the coat. The marquess waved him away.
“Have done,
Boothby,” he said. “I am impeccably dressed. And yet--tell me, Boothby, if you
were a young lady who did not care for gentlemen of fashion, would you find me
overwhelming?”
Boothby appeared to
be confused. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”
“I’m sure you heard
me, Boothby.”
“I think any woman
who does not find you handsome is a fool, my lord,” said the valet stoutly. “You
have a fine figure and wear your clothes very well.”
“Thank you,
Boothby. You comfort me.” The marquis turned from the mirror and confronted his
valet. “If I wished to resemble a solicitor, or perhaps a banker, to which
tailor would I go?” he asked.
“My lord!” Boothby
turned quite pale. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“I thought I made
myself quite clear,” said his lordship plaintively. “I would like to find a
tailor who could prepare for me some suits such as those a solicitor might
wear. I can hardly ask Weston to do that for me, can I?”
“No, sir,” said
Boothby, quite sure of at least that one fact.
“Then where,” said
Eynsford slowly, “might I find someone who could?”
“But my lord, why
would you want a suit like a solicitor’s?” asked Boothby.
“A whim,” said the
Marquess airily. “I grow tired of being a nonpareil. Perhaps I will set a new
fashion.”
Boothby swallowed.
“But sir, our reputation! Yours and mine both!”
Eynsford smiled. “Do
not worry, Boothby, you will not suffer. Now tell me where I may find a tailor.”
“Well, my
brother-in-law is a tailor, my lord. Not a Bond Street man to be sure, but he
is competent and has quite a following. I am certain he could make you
something suitable,” said Boothby mournfully.
“Very good. Have
him come here to discuss it with me, will you? As soon as possible,” said the
marquess.
“Very good, sir,”
said the valet woodenly. “Is there anything else?”
The marquess was
once more studying himself in the mirror. “Hmmmm?” he said. “Oh, no, I will be
going out now, Boothby.”
The valet staggered
from the room and repaired to the servants’ hall, where he informed his
colleagues that the master had gone stark, raving mad.
The Marquess of
Eynsford wheeled his elegant curricle through the streets of London. He was
dressed in the simplest of black coats, a plain waistcoat, and a cravat tied
without pretension to fashion, much to his groom’s consternation. Even though
Boothby had relayed to the other servants their master’s recent odd behavior,
Chisholm had received quite a shock when Eynsford made his appearance. The
groom had considered the story to be merely one of his lordship’s whims, and
thought the valet was making too great a fuss. Now, from his perch behind the
marquess, his countenance betrayed no emotion at all, but he privately wondered
if Eynsford had run quite mad.
His lordship, in
turn, was pondering what response he might receive were he to be seen by an
acquaintance. He fully appreciated that the appearance of a soberly clad man of
business tooling a sporting curricle with prime cattle was odd enough to
attract attention, and he knew that his clothing would not long disguise a
figure as well-known as his own. Nothing, however, could persuade him to be
driven in a closed carriage, and it was obviously impossible to change clothes
once he had arrived at his destination. If he were seen he would doubtless
think of a plausible story; his known eccentricity might even obviate the need
for explanation.
The best solution,
however, was to avoid being noticed, and so he bowled along at a considerable
rate, maneuvering the vehicle deftly in and out of the busy London traffic.
“Where are we
going, my lord?” asked Chisholm.
“Kensington
Gardens,” said the marquess cheerfully.
“Kensington, my
lord?” asked Chisholm. The idea that his lordship had gone mad took deeper
root; only dowdies lived in Kensington, and he could not imagine why they would
be going there.
“Certainly,” said
Eynsford. “I have an ambition to stroll about there. I grow weary of Hyde Park.”
“Weary, sir?”
“Exactly.” The
marquess swung the curricle neatly about a farm wagon blocking their path. The
burly driver gave them a surprised look; businessmen were seldom such neat
whips, and the horseflesh between the shafts of the curricle was far beyond the
touch of anyone but a nabob.
“What are you
about, sir?” asked Chisholm. He had served the Marquess since he was a boy, and
thought little of speaking his mind.
“About, Chisholm? Simply
because I choose to visit Kensington today does not mean I am about something,”
observed Eynsford.
“My lord, I’ve
known you since you were a lad, and if you were ever up to mischief I knew it
then and I know it now. I can tell from the look on your face, much less your
dressing up in strange clothes and going to strange places.”
Eynsford’s lips
twitched. “I think these clothes are very respectable, as indeed are Kensington
Gardens.” he said.
“Aye, but when were
you ever respectable?” asked Chisholm. “You can’t fool me, my lord.”
“Perhaps my behavior
is a trifle unusual, Chisholm, but it is in a very good cause. I assure you, I
am doing nothing illegal or immoral.”
“That is as may be,
sir,” said Chisholm, “but it hardly reflects well on your credit to be seen in
such a way.”
“I had no idea that
you held my reputation so dear, Chisholm. You were always wont to tell me if I
grew too high in the instep, and now you are positively encouraging snobbery.”
They bowled into
Kensington Gardens and the marquess drew up his horses. He waited for Chisholm
to go to the horses' heads, then leapt from the carriage. He tossed the reins
to his groom. “Walk ‘em,” he said. “I have no idea how long I will be.”
Chisholm stood,
shaking his head, as Eynsford strode off into the park. He had no notion what
game his master was playing, but felt that if the marquess thought he was going
to gammon anybody into thinking he was anything but a highly-bred nobleman, he
was doomed to fail. No person of the middle class walked with that assured
stride or held his shoulders in quite that confident way. His lordship carried
himself as though he owned the world. Chisholm spat contemplatively and began
to walk the horses.
Eynsford strolled
through the grounds, seeking an angelically blonde head. A turn around the park
revealed nothing but some giggling schoolgirls and a young couple who looked at
him guiltily as he sauntered past. But his second pass achieved its aim; he
perceived Lady Morgan and her two small children at some distance, Jamie and
Emily frolicking with a ball, their mother watching from a bench, a fond smile
on her face, and a nursemaid hovering in attendance. Her fair hair was bound
back in a severe style and her dress was still of sober black, but her eyes
held a depth of happiness and calm. Phillip paused, gazing at her in
admiration.
As he stared, Emily
failed to catch the ball tossed by her brother, and she came running across the
lawn, her ringlets flying out behind her. As providence would have it, for the
marquess if not for Emily, she stumbled and went sprawling only a few feet from
where Eynsford stood. Immediately she let out a wail.
Phillip, grateful
for once that his sister had a large brood of children that she insisted on
bringing to his country seat every summer, ran a few steps and, kneeling down,
lifted Emily to her feet. Her pretty white dress was stained with grass, but
she was otherwise unhurt. He found himself gazing into tearful eyes as blue as
Letitia's.
“There, my girl,”
he said. “I think you took no harm.”
The child's lips
quivered as she stared at the strange gentleman and wondered whether to
continue crying or not. The marquess fished out his watch and held it towards
her, catching the sunlight on its gold surface.
“See, isn't it
pretty?” he asked. The glinting piece of jewelry distracted Emily from her
woes, and a smile broke out on her face as she contemplated the watch.
Letitia ran up,
James close behind her, with the nursemaid trailing behind.
“Emily, are you
hurt?” she asked, a nervous edge to her voice.
“I believe she is
quite well, ma'am,” said Eynsford, rising to his feet. “Her dress may never be
the same, but she most certainly will recover.”
Letitia kneeled
down and inspected Emily hastily. The stranger's words appeared to be true, for
Emily merely smiled at her and then reached chubby hands towards the watch the
gentleman still held in his hand.
Letitia laughed. “You
are right, sir,” she said softly. “You have succeeded in driving her fall from
her mind. You must have children of your own.”
“Unfortunately I do
not,” said the marquess. “But I have many nieces and nephews who enliven my
existence.”
“I thank you for
your aid, sir,” said Letitia. “It was very kind of you to stop for a small
child.”
“I am glad I could
be of assistance, ma'am,” said Eynsford. There was a small pause. “I realize
the circumstances are unusual, but perhaps you would allow me to introduce
myself,” he continued. “I am Mr. Phillip--Markham, a solicitor in the Inner
Temple, visiting a client in Kensington.”
The nursemaid gave
him a look of astonished disbelief, but Letitia only smiled at him and extended
her hand. “I am Lady Morgan,” she ventured. “I live here in Kensington.” She
reflected that this solicitor was a remarkably handsome man. Lady Morgan had
always thought of solicitors as resembling Mr. Linkwall or Mr. Askworth,
Isobel's solicitor, who were elderly gentlemen. This very tall and excessively
beautiful individual did not resemble them in the least. He was, however,
dressed like other solicitors she had met. Naturally, she thought, there would
have to be some young solicitors, for where else did the elderly ones come
from?
Eynsford took her
hand and smiled down at her. “My condolences on your recent bereavement,” he
said, indicating her mourning dress.
“Yes, 'twas very
sad,” said Letitia, feeling a pang of guilt at her lack of actual sorrow. “My
husband died in a hunting accident.”
“How terrible for
you,” he said.
“It has been
difficult,” murmured Letitia. “But my children make me very happy.”
“Children are
indeed a great blessing,” agreed his lordship.
Jamie tugged on his
mother's dress and held his ball up to her.
“If you will permit
me, Lady Morgan, I will play with your son. That will give you some moments to
comfort your daughter,” said the marquess.
Letitia hesitated. Though
Emily seemed to be little in need of comforting, James' face had lit up at the
prospect of playing ball someone other than his mother and sister.
“Thank you,” she
said. “That would be kind of you.”
Any of Lord
Eynsford's acquaintances would have been startled to see how he conducted
himself in the next few minutes. As Letitia and Emily sat on the bench and
watched, the haughty tulip of the
ton
engaged in tossing a red ball back
and forth with a sturdy youngster. Oddly enough, he found himself enjoying it,
and gave James considerable advice on the correct way to hold and handle the
ball. Lady Morgan looked on with pleasure, and reflected that James' own father
had never given him this sort of attention. The gentleman was kind to take an
interest in her son.
After a quarter of
an hour the marquess detached himself from James and strolled over to where
Lady Morgan sat.
“You have a
delightful boy there,” he said. “A fine young man.”
Letitia beamed at
him. “You are very kind, sir. I hope he will be a credit to his family.”
“I am sure he will,”
said Lord Eynsford, reflecting that he could hardly help being an improvement
on his father. “And now I must be going. It was very pleasant to make your
acquaintance, Lady Morgan. Perhaps I will see you again here in the gardens?”
Letitia favored him
with a smile. “I come here almost every day,” she said. “If you are a frequent
visitor we will doubtless encounter one another again.”
“I hope that we
may,” said his lordship, bowing.
After Mr. Markham
had left them, Letitia had the children gather up their toys and they began to
walk back to her house. As she did so she saw a curricle tool by, and it seemed
to her that it was her new acquaintance at the reins. For a moment she
reflected on whether it was normal for solicitors to be driving sporting carriages,
but it occurred to her that they, like everybody else, needed to get about.
In the curricle
Chisholm was viewing his master with a jaundiced eye.
“Did you have a
pleasant stroll, my lord?” he asked.
“Certainly,”
replied Eynsford. “The grounds are delightful.”
“And all you did
was walk?” asked the groom.
“To be sure,” said
his lordship. “What else would I be doing?”
The groom didn't
respond, but pulled a sour face. There was a lady in it, no doubt, he
reflected. If that was the case, then he would know about it soon enough.
Eynsford, for his
part, was pleasantly bemused. He had not experienced the same emotions that he
had seven years ago in Lady Wiggin’s ballroom, and yet he had found Letitia to
be neither silly nor insipid. Her air of calm had been as attractive to him now
as her charm had been before. And she was still incredibly beautiful, her looks
only enhanced by the faint aura of tragedy that hung about her. It occurred to
the marquess that Mr. Markham, who had been intended to make only one
appearance in Kensington Gardens, might possibly walk there again.