Midnight Marriage: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Series) (6 page)

“Today we will sit outside,” he said, escorting her through the hall to the back of the house where there was a broad terrace overlooking the lawn and river beyond. “My godson is staying with me and I have asked that he join us. I hope you don’t object? He too is a native French speaker. And I should like for the two of you to meet.”

“Your godson? How delightful!” Deb dropped her gloves into the crown of her hat and set it aside on the low terrace wall. “I only hope he can bear with my conversation. It is weeks since I saw you last. As you know, my cook is a poor substitute and hardly a fit person to converse with. She teaches me many idiomatic sentences that would turn your ears very red, M’sieur.”

“That,” he said, handing her a glass of wine, “I can readily believe.”

He excused himself and disappeared into the house, leaving Deb to contemplate the summer garden and the inviting coolness of the river. She wondered if anybody swam down by the little pier, or went out in the skiff moored to one of the pylons: possibly the old man’s godson. She wondered at the godson’s age. He might be just a schoolboy. Someone Jack might like to have as a friend now that he was home from school. The thought had barely time to register when she was startled into dropping her wine glass. It smashed on the stones of the terrace, the last drops of wine splashing the hem of her petticoats. She spun about, flustered, eyes wide in astonished disbelief.

A voice, masculine and pleasantly drawling, had spoken to her back. “
Excusez-moi, mademoiselle
. My godfather—No, that won’t do,” he continued in English. “You may speak excellent French, but I prefer introductions to be conducted in English.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when Deb had her little disaster with the wine glass and spun about to find herself confronted with her injured duelist of the wood; seemingly fully recovered, more handsome then her remembrance of him, and at least three inches taller than her previous estimation.

“Good God!” she blurted out. “What are
you
doing here?”

T
HREE

T
WO HOURS
before Deb was due to arrive at Martin Ellicott’s Queen Anne house, the Marquis of Alston and his godfather were seated on the terrace, immersed in reading the London newssheets, drinking strong black coffee and keeping their own counsel.

The old man had been up and dressed since dawn. A lifetime of habit could not be easily broken, as hard as he tried to enjoy a leisurely morning in bed. He walked about the gardens, sat on the pier awhile and came back to the house to speak to his housekeeper about the arrangements for a late breakfast. He had then ordered a pot of coffee and settled himself on the terrace to reread a letter received the day before. There was a similar billet awaiting the Marquis; the messenger arriving after his lordship had retired for the evening.

The Marquis was still in the dressing stage when he joined his godfather on the terrace. He had suffered Frew’s ministrations: to be shaved and his natural hair combed off his face and secured in a silk bag with a large velvet ribbon tied at the nape of his neck, and to be put in a white linen shirt and velvet breeches. He had even permitted the fastidious valet to adjust the silk cravat about his throat, but he refused to be shrugged into an embroidered waistcoat until he had consumed his morning coffee. In horror did Frew watch his master negligently throw a brocade banyan over his meticulous dressing and go downstairs with this bedchamber article left hanging loose.

Martin Ellicott looked up from the printed page and eyed his godson with the critical eye of a man who had valeted a duke for more than thirty years. The son would never match the father for sartorial elegance, but the boy was more handsome, except when he frowned. He was frowning now, hands thrust deep in the pockets of his dressing gown, shoulders slightly hunched. The frown caused Martin to put up the newssheet to hide a smile. When the Marquis pulled such a face he was his ancient parent. Such an observation would hardly have pleased either nobleman.

“How did you sleep?” he asked conversationally.

“I had the most appalling thought this morning,” said Julian, looking out across the manicured lawn. “It was while Frew was fussing at me to put on a waistcoat. Did you ever fuss at my father? I dare say not.” He sighed. “Martin. What if she has left Bath? I’ve assumed all along she resides in town. But she might very well live in London, or Wales or-or—Northumberland, for all we know about her. And we don’t know the first thing, do we? Playing a viola isn’t much to go on. And you can’t make polite inquiries after a girl who carries a pistol and escapes to the forest to play her viola in peace. I distinctly remember her brown eyes because they are lovely. As for the rest of her face, I’m rather vague.” He looked at the newssheet concealing his godfather’s face. “Are you certain you’ve exhausted all possible avenues of inquiry? I thought Bath the sort of place crawling with poets and would-be artists and musicians.”

“Sit down and have a dish of coffee,” said the old man and set the sugar bowl in front of the Marquis. “The London papers arrived last night, as did letters from his Grace. One is addressed to you.”

“Ah,” said the Marquis absently and sipped at his coffee. He seemed not to have heard, so intent was he to pursue his thoughts, with little regard for the feelings of his listener who was tiring of the monologue on the mysterious lady fiddler. “There must be a hundred musicians in Bath. And not all of them play a viola. She might give lessons or take lessons. She has to get her music from someone. Then again, she might just have been passing through. There are always the inns. What do you think?” He addressed the raised newssheet and as it did not answer him he said with a laugh, as if reading Martin Ellicott’s thoughts, “My convalescence has turned me into a great bore! If you hadn’t found me bound up with makeshift bandages I dare say you’d think I’d seen an apparition to be forever boring on about my fiddler.”

“Whether this young lady exists or not, my lord, I am grateful to her for aiding your quick recovery,” Martin answered diplomatically. “Your determination to solve the mystery has got you out of bed quicker than any medicinal.” He put the newssheet aside. “However, a week of sitting about the house with only my humble self for company, and the lack of physical exercise, has magnified your little mystery into—forgive me—an obsession.”

“Thank you for being frank,” Julian muttered.

“As for pursuing all avenues of inquiry,” continued the old man, “I am confident all the usual channels have been exhausted. That is, only persons relied upon to remain discreet were approached. You told me once, you believe this female to be in some sort of trouble. Carrying a loaded pistol would indicate she may be in more trouble than is worth your while. Playing a viola in the forest at dawn with only her young nephew for chaperone and a loaded pistol for protection is hardly ladylike behavior.”

Julian’s eyes danced. “Martin, just because you spent a lifetime steeped in my father’s vice doesn’t mean that every female who crosses the path of the son is fit only to grace his bed. I am hardly worthy of the Duke’s reputation. After all, he did not meet Maman until well into his third decade. And it must have been a most shocking reputation at that, because, even after all these years, it’s stuck.”

“The Duke has been devoted to your mother since the day they met!”

“All right. All right,” the Marquis grumbled good-naturedly. “Don’t get nettled. Why shouldn’t he be devoted? Her loveliness is matched by her sweet temperament. Sometimes I wish—No, don’t build up steam under your cravat; just because I was going to wish her a little bit of age and ugliness. I know you’re as besotted as my father.”

Martin Ellicott’s face changed color. Julian had never seen the old man blush and it embarrassed him as much as it did the blusher. He picked up the letter and fiddled with the seal, giving his godfather an excuse to retreat behind the pages of his newssheet. Although the letter’s direction was written in his father’s elegant fist, the contents belonged to his mother. As always with her it was written in French, with only a sprinkling of English. He read the two pages of closely written script, saying without looking up, “They are staying in London until the end of the month and then taking Harry down to Treat for the holidays. It seems
Tante
Estée is unwell yet again. When isn’t she coming down with something? Poor old
Oncle
Lucian! Maman has persuaded them to spend a few weeks at Treat; says the country air will do
Tante
good. She tells me she wrote to you in
mon père’s
letter. She ends by hoping I am well and to see me at Treat on the -th.” He folded the parchment and slipped it into his banyan pocket. “No hint she knows of my latest folly. And your missive from my esteemed pater? Well! You needn’t pretend he doesn’t know because I am persuaded he must, just by the look on your face.”

Martin refilled their dishes. He looked pensive as he liberally sugared his coffee, and he did no more than glance at the Marquis. “When your fever broke, the first question you asked was if your parents knew if you were injured and the circumstance of your injury.”

“And you assured me you did not tell them.”

“I did not. Yet, your father knew—”

“Damn!”

“—and was here—”

“
Parbleu
. No.”

“—for one night,” continued the old man. “He would have stayed another but I persuaded him, with the physician’s help, that you were out of danger. If not for the fact Mme la duchesse knew you were coming to Bath M’sieur le duc’s presence here would have made Her Grace decidedly suspicious.”

“Now do I ever feel the jack-pudding,” Julian remarked, wiping a hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry, Martin. I hope he wasn’t too difficult. His arctic tempers can freeze over a room. This means I will have to tell him everything, of course,” he said more to himself and took out his snuffbox. “He may already know…”

“A word of advice, Julian. You will never keep anything from Monseigneur. Not where his family, his name, Her Grace—especially your mother—are concerned. I don’t pretend to know all his methods, but if he desires to involve himself, he will, and count no cost. You are best to tell him everything.”

“His letter to you, did it confide anything?”

“M’sieur le duc confides in no one. He merely inquired after your health. He did say I may tell you your unworthy adversaries are now returned to Paris. He did not mention them by name, and I do not care to know.”

Julian took snuff and shut the gold box with a snap, a hard light in the green eyes. “Interesting. Exceedingly interesting.”

A lackey came out to clear away the tray and dishes and to inquire if the table should be set for breakfast. The nod was given, an eye on the Marquis who was looking particularly grim about the mouth. Before Martin could suggest he change into a waistcoat in anticipation of the imminent arrival of their morning guest, the Marquis was halfway across the terrace and saying,

“I must be mended enough to ride into town. Have one of the horses saddled, would you? I won’t be home for dinner.”

“May I suggest the carriage, rather than a saddle, my lord? The physician did say—”

“He can go to the devil! I’ve wasted enough time poking about here.”

“As you say, my lord,” the old man answered calmly, following the Marquis through to the back parlor and into the expanse of hallway. “If I may remind your lordship that the wearing of swords is not permitted in town.”

“Eh? Not permitted? By whose order? But thank you for the advice. I won’t need my sword. I’ll carry a pistol.” He stopped at the bottom of the staircase to put a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “I’m not about to be foolish. I merely want to make a few inquiries of my own about my lady fiddler. Ah, did you think I had other plans? No. Not yet. That matter can wait. The charming scar below my ribs will serve as a reminder of that unfinished business.” He caught the butler hovering in the doorway and called out to him. “What is it, Fibber?”

“Miss Cavendish has arrived, my lord.”

“Miss Cavendish? Here?” Julian scowled. “
Now
?”

“Very well, Fibber,” said Martin, dismissing the butler. “We spoke yesterday of the best method of approaching this delicate situation, my lord,” he said to the still scowling Marquis.

“Did we?”

“Yes. It was decided, given your mishap and the fact you do not immediately want your identity made known to your wife, it would be for the best if you were to meet her here under unexceptional circumstances. This is Miss Cavendish’s usual visiting day, so her suspicions are unlikely to be aroused by the presence of my godson.”

“A chance to look-over the filly before purchase, aye, Martin?” Julian teased, an edge to his voice.

“I need not remind your lordship that the—um—purchase was made a long time ago,” he gently apologized.

Julian took snuff. “Are you certain she has no recollection of that night?”

Martin Ellicott bravely looked his godson in the eye. “On direction of your father I made it my business to befriend the Marchioness—or Miss Cavendish as she is still known to the world—and it is my considered opinion that the young woman has no recollection whatsoever of that unfortunate evening. Her family and yours permitted her to remain ignorant of her marriage and thus her elevated station, until such time as you came to claim her. Thus we have arrived at a highly delicate situation that requires, I am sorry to say, extreme care on your part.”

Julian heard the note of censure in the old man’s voice and his smile was bitter. “Every man has his Achilles heel, Martin; even His Grace of Roxton. Surely you can’t blame the Duke for marrying his heir in haste? Nine years banished to roam the Continent gave me ample time and opportunity to make an imprudent match just to spite him.” When his godfather looked unconvinced he leaned his wide shoulders against the polished mahogany balustrade and said flatly, “So my wife has no recollection of our midnight marriage. So she’s turned out to be a social misfit who made a bolt for Paris; that doesn’t greatly concern me either. Her prig of a brother has repeatedly assured the Duke that my wife’s virtue remains intact, and that’s the main thing, isn’t it? But if I don’t rein her in
now
and for long enough to get her with child, you tell me there’s every likelihood she’ll repeat the Paris fiasco, and this time elope with Cousin Evelyn if that piece of vermin, Robert Thesiger, doesn’t get to her first? Now
that
I won’t allow.” He grinned. “Once she’s met me and not my title she’ll soon forget the existence of my rivals.”