Garth had applied for a
divorce?
Georgie was nigh speechless. In her agitation, she pushed Lump off her lap and onto the floor.
Lump whined. "Quiet!" said Mr. Inchquist, so sternly that Lump sat abruptly down. Quentin regarded Lady Georgiana with some concern, so strange was her expression. "Ma'am, are you unwell?"
"Divorce!" Georgie managed to whisper. "Mr. Inchquist, are you certain of this?"
Quentin was more than certain. He had just come from Town, and the
ton
was all abuzz. "Sure as the devil is in London," he said cheerfully, as Agatha returned to the drawing room with additional teacups.
Chapter Thirty-one
Wearied and more than a little exasperated by the day's events, Carlisle Sutton returned to his lodgings to find his uncle's widow waiting there. Again she wore boy's clothing. Carlisle glanced at the window, which was closed. "The innkeeper let me in," said Marigold. "I said I was your nephew."
She looked like no one's nephew that Carlisle could imagine. Her hair was tumbled down around her shoulders, because she had taken off her cap. "You surprise me," Carlisle said. "I thought you had skipped town."
Marigold's breast heaved. Or it would have heaved, were it not bound up so tight. "Pray do not make this more difficult than it is already!" she snapped, because she had worked herself into a fidget while waiting for Mr. Sutton to return, and now was trying not to notice that he was taking off his coat. "I have decided that I must not be always looking to other people to get me out of scrapes. So I have come to take my medicine."
Carlisle tossed aside his coat and loosened his cravat. "You look as though you expect to swallow something very sour. I promise it will not be so bad."
Marigold did not think it would be bad at all. That was not the point. "I am perfectly aware that I must redeem your uncle's necklace," she said stiffly. "It is the only honourable
thing for me to do. I am also aware that I shall never be able to lay my hands on twenty-five thousand pounds."
It was not money that Carlisle wished to lay his hands on at that moment. "You look hot in that jacket," he suggested. "Why don't you take it off."
Mr. Sutton appeared a trifle warm himself. He was unbuttoning his shirt. "And," Marigold continued with determination, "I am also aware of your terms."
She looked very stubborn. Carlisle folded his arms across his chest. "Are you come here to quibble, Miss Macclesfield? I had thought more of you than that."
The man thought nothing of her, and well she knew it. Marigold wished he would fasten up his shirt. "My name is Marigold, not Miss Macclesfield! I did not come here to quibble, but to do what I must. Still, I wish you to know that I am
not
a Paphian girl!"
How absurd she was, and how absurdly charming. Carlisle replied, "Who said you were? On the other hand, nor can you claim to be an untried maiden— Marigold."
Marigold was offended by this assessment. "That was different. I
married
them first!"
Carlisle frowned, and drew his shirt closer around him. "You can't wish me to marry you," he said.
Marigold stared at him in horror. "Good God, no! I meant only that this is all very strange."
Matters were to become even stranger. There came a knock at the door. "Sutton, I know you are in there. We must talk."
Marigold grabbed her cap and jacket, and scuttled under the bed. Carlisle opened the door. Magnus Eliot stood in the hallway. "Do I interrupt?" he asked. "The innkeeper said you had a guest."
Mr. Eliot's voice was heavy with innuendo. The innkeeper had not been deceived by Marigold's costume. "What brings you here, Eliot?" Carlisle inquired.
"A conversation with Warwick." Magnus stepped into the room. "Apparently I have something that rightfully should be yours, and his lordship would be most grateful if we dealt with the matter between ourselves." Which removed Lady Georgiana from the equation, to Magnus's regret. Had the lady been a little more wicked, or he a little less—but one might as well wish for the moon, as Lord Warwick had succinctly pointed out.
Carlisle Sutton would have liked to be privy to that conversation. "You want me to give you the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds. I believe that was the figure. Have you brought the gem with you?"
Magnus reached into his pocket and removed a jewel case. "You are welcome to the bauble. It has recently come to my notice that having the thing in one's possession is an invitation to thieves."
Beneath the bed, Marigold squirmed and tried not to sneeze. If only she could see! She scooted forward on the dusty floor just a little, and then a little more. Perhaps the gentlemen were so rapt in their conversation that they would not notice her. Slowly, carefully, she lifted up the bedspread and peered out. And then she scrambled out from beneath the bed, and leapt to her feet. "Leo! What the devil are you doing here?
And where the devil have you
been?"
Mr. Eliot, for his own part, regarded Marigold with appreciation. "The beautiful ninnyhammer. I should have guessed. Don't eat me, Marigold. I didn't plan that matters should turn out as they did." He glanced at Carlisle Sutton. "Did I do you so great a disservice, after all, by shabbing off?"
So great was Marigold's agitation, so deep did her breast heave, that the buttons on her shirtfront popped. Marigold clutched at the edges of her garment. "You played fast and loose with me," she said, with immense dignity. "You broke my heart!"
Magnus eyed Marigold, and then Carlisle Sutton. "Hearts heal," he observed. "I suppose I should inquire, Sutton, if you are harboring intentions of a dishonorable nature toward my wife."
"Your
wife?"
Few
things had the power to startle Carlisle, but he stared now at Marigold. "You are married to Magnus Eliot?"
Marigold looked from one man to another in bewilderment. "I was married to Leo.
And then to Mr. Frobisher and Sir—Oh!" She paused, appalled. "If Leo is still alive—"
"Then you weren't married to those other gentlemen," Magnus said cheerfully. "Damned if you haven't become shockingly loose in the haft, Marigold."
"Of all the unjust things to say!" Marigold rested her hands on her slender hips, leaving her shirt to gape open as it would. "Who is this Magnus Eliot? You told me your name was Leo!"
Magnus shrugged. "I lied. It is a habit of mine. Precisely
why
I lied in this instance, I cannot recall. Now that you remind me, my middle name
is
Leo, although I have not used it in some years. As for the last name I used—what was it, do you recall?"
Certainly, Marigold recalled. "Flitwick!" she said.
Magnus's dimple flashed. "Ah, yes. Now I remember. What a delightful honeymoon we had, before I was forced to disappear."
"Before you took a powder!" Marigold grabbed her jacket and yanked her little pistol out of a pocket. "And left me
with the reckoning. What a hateful wretch you are, Leo. Or Magnus! Pray tell me why I shouldn't shoot you dead."
With one swift movement, Magnus divested Marigold of the pistol and drew her into his arms. "Because you are my wife. Remember?" Wickedly, he smiled. "Marital difficulties can be much more easily resolved. I'll make you a different bargain, Sutton. I'll give you the emerald. You give me back Marigold."
Marigold struggled. "Damn you, Leo! You can't mean to take up where we left off."
Of course Magnus did not. A wife would be most inconvenient in his line of work, unless she was sharp enough to help him in the gulling of lordlings, which Marigold demonstrably was not. For that matter, Magnus doubted that Marigold was in truth his wife, since the marriage had taken place under an entirely spurious name. But females were contrary creatures, bless them, and as soon as he told Marigold that he did not want her, she would wish he did. "Why not?" he said, therefore. "You
are
my
wife."
Her poor Leo, so cherished in memory, revealed as this odious loose-fish? Marigold kicked and flailed. "I don't wish
to be your wife! You abandoned
me, you cad. Indeed, I do not think I ever wish to set eyes on you again in all my life. Now unhand me, at once!"
Magnus did so, abruptly, not because of Marigold's words but because she had kicked him in a tender spot. Marigold swore again as she landed on the floor.
"Do you know, I don't think I wish to be married to you, either," remarked Magnus, as he rubbed his injured shin. "You have turned into a termagant. Now, Sutton, about that emerald."
Carlisle had been following these proceedings with no little fascination, and more interest than he would have imagined. "I have a suggestion. For a consideration, I will take her off your
hands."
Did Mr. Sutton
not
take Marigold off his hands, she would cost him a great deal more than twenty-five thousand pounds. Magnus held out the emerald. "I wish you joy of her," he murmured, and made Marigold a mocking little bow.
The door closed behind him. Carlisle looked at Marigold, who still sprawled where she had fallen. "Lady Georgiana has been hiding you all along," he said, as he pulled her to her feet.
Marigold brushed dust off her clothing. "Are you angry with Georgie? You should not be. I gave her no choice." Though Mr. Sutton had not removed his shirt, he had not fastened it, either. Marigold stared at his chest. "Am I mistaken, or did you just
buy
me from Leo?" she asked.
The notion was not particularly shocking to a gentleman who had spent a great deal of time in India. "Not precisely," Carlisle murmured. Marigold's shirt had lost all its buttons in the scuffle, and consequently afforded a most tantalizing view. "Or maybe just a little bit. Unless you should dislike the idea."
He pushed the shirt down off her shoulder. His touch sent shivers up and down her skin. "You are very wealthy, are you not?" Marigold inquired. "Because a fallen woman—which apparently I am, although I did not know it, so I am not entirely certain that it counts—should think about such things."
"Very,
very
wealthy." Carlisle picked her up into his arms.
Heavens, but it felt good to be carried in such a manner. Neither Sir Hubert nor Mr. Frobisher—And Leo—
The devil with Leo. That was then and this was now. Still, Marigold wished a certain reassurance. "I shan't go to gaol?"
How blue were the eyes that regarded him so warily. How golden was her hair. How pretty the plump breasts that he was releasing from their binding.
Carlisle had captured his tiger. He didn't think he would be able to behead her for some time. "I was thinking more along the lines of India," he said.
Marigold's eyes widened.
"India?"
"India is a country of many contrasts." Carlisle ran his fingers through her hair. "Calcutta. The jungle. Camels and monsoons and peacocks. Would you like to ride an elephant, do you think?"
Marigold thought that what lay on the road ahead might be very interesting indeed. "What an excellent idea. I believe I should like that above all things." And then she gasped, because Carlisle had clasped the emerald around her neck.
"I've long had a desire to see you wearing this," said Mr. Sutton, "and nothing else."
Marigold giggled, and pulled off her boots.
Chapter Thirty-two
The hour had grown somewhat advanced by the time Lord Warwick presented himself at Miss Halliday's front door. Tibble opened that portal. Garth prepared yet again to explain who he was. Before he could do so, Tibble spoke. "Warwick!" The butler beamed. "I got it right, didn't I?"
The old man's air of triumph was disarming. "Indeed you did," his lordship replied gravely. "Now may I come in?"
Tibble's smile faded. "You
aren't really a groom, are you?" he asked.
Once again, Garth reflected upon the strangeness of Georgie's household. One would grow used to it, he supposed. "As a matter of fact, I am a marquess. Now will you please stand aside?"
"A marquess?" The smile returned to Tibble's face. "Then that's all right! You'll find Mistress Georgie in the drawing room." Tibble did not lead the way, as his lordship already knew it, but instead hastened to the kitchen to impart these tidings before he forgot what Warwick had said he was.
Georgie was in the drawing room, exactly as predicted, although Lord Warwick had not expected to find her sitting beside Lump on the faded rug. She was frowning over a letter. The hound's great head was in her lap. Lord Warwick cleared his throat.
"Garth!" Georgie scrambled to her feet. Lump opened one eye, recognized Lord Warwick, wagged his tail, and went back to sleep. All this jauntering about—and eating things one shouldn't—took the juice out of a fellow. Lump needed to rest and regain his strength.
Georgie stepped over her recumbent pet and held out the letter. "You have been very busy. It would appear that now I am in your debt."
Lord Warwick did not take the proffered letter, but instead closed the door behind him. To insure that it stayed closed, he wedged a chair beneath the knob. Then he turned back to Georgie, who was watching him with considerable interest. "Magnus Eliot asked me to bid you his farewells."
"Oh? Mr. Eliot is leaving Brighton?" Georgie inquired cautiously, as she eyed the barricaded door.
"No." Lord Warwick looked forbidding. "But I do not think that your paths will cross again."
"Ah." Georgie gestured with her letter. "I have received a note from Marigold. She and Mr. Sutton have struck a bargain. Marigold is going to India with him and, she says, ride an elephant
.
" Indeed, at that very moment, a bemused Janie was gathering up the belongings still strewn about Marigold's bedchamber, Mr. Brown having finally been persuaded to go home. "Marigold also writes that she is married to Mr. Eliot—or
was
married to him, when he called himself Leo—and Mr. Eliot has very generously given Mr. Sutton the emerald."
There was no end to Mr. Eliot's chicanery. Lord Warwick had already paid him twenty-five thousand pounds. One had to admire the scoundrel's daring. Garth sat down on the couch.