Lady Sherry and the Highwayman (6 page)

The driver needed no further instructions. He took up his reins. Like the valet before him, the coachman knew that Lord Viccars was setting out this evening to visit a certain little ladybird. Nor was this the first ladybird to occupy that pretty little villa constructed in the Italian style, and neither Williams nor Briscoe, the coachman, fancied that she would be the last, whether or not their master stepped into the parson’s mousetrap.

About Lord Viccars’s prospective venture into matrimony, both loyal retainers had mixed feelings. They wished their master to be happy, but lamented the curtailment of their freedom, for both knew well that matters would become a great deal more prim and proper when a female took a hand. Williams would no longer be able, in his master’s absence, to carry on his very ardent flirtation with a Clarendon chambermaid; nor would Briscoe be able to execute the occasional commissions that enabled him to enjoy luxuries not generally available to persons of his station, an earl’s coach being above suspicion and therefore admirably well suited to the conveyance of various questionable items.

Not only Williams and Briscoe lamented Lord Viccars’s prospective marriage. This sentiment was shared by the lovely lady who awaited his arrival in the drawing room of the aforementioned pretty Italian villa in Marylebone. Indeed, the subject of that prospective marriage was a matter that much occupied her mind and made her wish to gnash her teeth.

Marguerite was not so foolish as to give voice to any rancor.  “
Mon cher
Andrew,” she murmured huskily as she pressed herself into his arms. “You are very cruel to leave me alone so long. I have missed you dreadfully.”

“Have you, my dear?” Lord Viccars stepped back to inspect his
chère amie.
She was stunningly beautiful with auburn curls and brown eyes and pale perfect skin; her voluptuous body, which she was prone to drape in dampened muslin so that not a single curve was left to the imagination.

Marguerite wore no dampened muslin this evening but a wrapper with a plunging décolletage that drew even Andrew’s somewhat jaded eye. Experience had taught him that this generous display presaged a request of some sort. “What is it this time, I wonder?” he murmured. “Or, perhaps, how much?”

Marguerite pouted. It was an expression that she had practiced long before her mirror and that suited her lovely, roguish face well. “You make me sound like a scheming sort of female. Truly I am nothing of the sort. True, my pockets are a teeny bit to let, but I do not wish to make a fuss about trifles, and you will not mind seeing the bailiffs camped outside the door.”

Lord Viccars was indeed experienced in the arts of dalliance, and thus well-qualified to translate. “You’ve been plunging deep again. How much this time?”

“Not so
very
much, Andrew!” Marguerite gazed beseechingly at him, allowed a delicate tear to trickle down one perfect cheek. Now he would come and take her in his arms and tell her not to worry her pretty little head about anything. Then she would make pretty, apologetic promises that both knew she wouldn’t keep outside of a week.

He made no move toward her. Marguerite allowed a second tear to follow the first. She knew Andrew did not approve of her passion for gambling, but it was the national vice and she did not see why she should abstain. After all, she
did
abstain from granting certain favors to other gentlemen, much as they might promise and plead. Marguerite was no common drab such as were found in the brothels around Piccadilly and in the flash cribs near Haymarket. She was a
femme entretenue,
kept exclusively by one protector and entirely at his disposal, which was sometimes a trifle inconvenient, since it was the fashion for gentlemen to spend as little time as possible at home. Andrew did not plague her in that manner, forever underfoot until she was hard-pressed not to shout at him to go away. He was very generous, his latest present having been a fashionable landau. He also possessed a title, the advantages of which Marguerite was not one to discount.

Just now, he was looking very stern. He had warned her several times of the consequences if she continued to gamble. What would she do if he did truly did cast her off? Marguerite had gotten into the habit of living far beyond her income. She had a passion for quality in everything and a position to maintain.
“Mon cher,
you are angry with me,” she murmured as she toyed with the fastenings of his waistcoat. “It was only a mere two hundred pounds. Will you forgive me if I promise never to do it again?”

Andew cherished no illusions about his mistress. She was extravagant and undisciplined, a creature of excess; her promises had no more true value than the caresses she lavished on him. When the time came, she would go from his arms to the arms of another without regret.

Nonetheless, he enjoyed her company. In Marguerite’s presence, Andrew felt no obligation to say anything other than what he felt. Seldom had he encountered one of the muslin company who trod the downward road to perdition with such
élan
, and he admired that in her. “Save your promises for someone who will believe them. I’ll stand your banker this time, Marguerite, but the next time you land yourself in the basket, you must extricate yourself. Since we both know how you will do so, it will then be time for us to say
adieu.”

Marguerite ignored this warning with its ominous suggestion that Lord Viccars knew of the gentlemen who clamored to take his place. She flung her arms around him. “
Merci!
How kind you are to me, and what a horrid wretch I am to tease you so. I vow I will make it up to you,
mon chou.
I mean to be very, very good.
Vraiment!
You will see.”

Andrew had scant interest in the goodness of his mistress just then. Her heady perfume invaded his nostrils and stirred his senses, as did the warm little body pressed so ardently against his own. Marguerite was never so passionate as when she’d cut a successful wheedle, which was no doubt why so many gentlemen had let her lead them up the primrose path.

He was not responsible for all the elegancies displayed in this villa. Many of them Marguerite had brought with her. Andew gazed upon a Grecian urn that he did not recall having seen before. Only a fool would allow himself to be certain of Marguerite. Or trust her not to plant the antlers on his brow.

Lord Viccars was no fool. He definitely didn’t trust this sweet-smelling female who was kissing him so passionately. If she could find a wealthier and more generous protector—she had long had her eye on the Regent, but he preferred much older women, alas, and moreover his pockets were perennially to let—she would immediately give Andew his
congé.

Such uncertainty was curiously stimulating. Lord Viccars swept Marguerite up into his arms and strode out of the drawing room and up the graceful mahogany stair.

Marguerite’s bedchamber was as inviting as the woman herself. It was dominated by a large canopied bed with silken curtains that could be drawn closed or left open at whim. The other furnishings were equally elegant. The walls were covered with a pretty patterned paper, and an Axminster rug lay upon the floor. Soft candlelight rendered the scene most pleasing to the eye.

Andrew was not paying much attention to his surroundings at that particular moment, however. For one thing, he had seen this chamber many times before. Moreover, Marguerite was whispering some extremely naughty suggestions in his ear.

He carried her across the room to the bed, and set her on her feet. She smiled roguishly and helped him out of his well-fitting jacket, his waistcoat, his— but the prurient details of Lord Viccars mounting his mistress have no proper place in this account. Suffice it to say that
femme entretenue
though Marguerite may have been, she could on occasion comport herself like the lowest Covent Garden nun, to her protector’s surprise and delight.

Sometime later, Lord Viccars was sprawled on the rumpled sheets, lingering over a bumper of fine old brandy known as “diabolino” and savoring the view of Marguerite
en déshabillé.
“I’ve brought you a present. A small token of my affection. You will find it in my pocket.” Marguerite searched eagerly through his discarded clothing. At least she was honest in her avarice, he mused, unlike ladies better bred and born.

Andrew did not include Lady Sherry in this assessment, of course. He watched Marguerite fumble with a jeweler’s box, her lower lip caught in enchanting frustration between her teeth, and wondered what Sherry would make of his acquaintance with this unscrupulous little jade.

There was nothing untoward in the relationship. It was the thing for gentlemen to have mistresses, after all. Andrew would give up Marguerite when he was married, naturally. Not that he wished to, any more than he wished to dwell again in his venerable town house. Both sacrifices were required of him if he was to take a wife.

The case would not open. Pouting, Marguerite held it out. He would miss her, Andrew realized with some surprise, as he opened the box.

Marguerite’s eyes lit up when she glimpsed the diamond and emerald necklace that nestled within. Then nothing would do but that he should fasten it on for her and she should strike various poses for him.

So very grateful was Marguerite for her present, and so provocative were the poses she struck, that no few hours elapsed before Lord Viccars departed from the little Italian villa in Marylebone. His gait was not entirely steady, due less to a liquor known as diabolino than to physical excess.

His thoughts were very clear, at all events. He was quite satisfied with Marguerite’s response to his gift of the necklace, and wondered what gift he might make to Lady Sherry that would rouse a similar excess of gratitude. Not similar, precisely; a gentleman could not regard his
fiancée
in the same light as a member of the muslin company.

Andrew pondered these matters as his carriage rattled through the dark and foggy streets. How was he to influence a lady whose sentiments he could not anticipate from one moment to the next? He could hardly lavish on her such presents as he had given Marguerite. At this point, a vision rose unbidden of Lady Sherry clad in his diamond and emerald necklace and nothing else.

He banished the vision with some reluctance. Pleasant as his imaginings were, they in no way helped him to concentrate on how best to earn a lady’s gratitude. At the end of several more moments, Andrew gave up the effort. Sherry clearly needed nothing that he could provide.

Yet why the deuce was fretting herself to fiddle strings? Lord Viccars devoutly hoped his courtship had not sparked that response. If so, could he in honor go on with it? On the other hand, could he, realistically, desist? Andrew didn’t fancy being crossed in love. Before his patience gave out, or Lady Sherry’s scruples won out, she must be persuaded against further shilly-shallying about setting a wedding date.

Again, how was the thing to be brought off? The only thing Andrew might supply Sherry that she lacked was the news he’d heard this evening of the highwayman’s escape, and he could not even be certain that he would be beforehand with that. Sherry had taken an almost personal interest in the rogue ever since she’d decided to base her current hero on his exploits.

From what she had said of him, her own highwayman sounded a very rake-helly sort. Despite his own inclinations in certain directions, Andrew didn’t approve of rakehells. However, the ladies obviously felt otherwise, and it was the ladies who largely made up Lady Sherry’s readership.

How very much of an oddity was his beloved. Although Andrew couldn’t enter into her feelings, he knew she set great store by her story writing and became very involved emotionally in her plots.

Sherry’s readership. Escaped highwaymen. Rakehells. Lord Viccars’s realized what he could do to prove his devotion. He would track down and fetch for Lady Sherry the escaped highwayman.

Chapter Seven

Meanwhile, a family dinner was underway at Longacre House. Only Lady Sherry, Sir Christopher, and his wife were present, Aunt Tulliver having elected to take her meal in her room, or in the book room, to be precise. Lavinia—blissfully unaware that there was hidden in Sherry’s book room anything more exceptionable than paper and quills and pots of Japan ink—could only be grateful for this unusual reticence on the old woman’s part. This meal, at least, would not be enlivened by muttered but perfectly audible comments on the quality of the food or the even more distressing sounds attendant upon an ill-fitting set of false teeth.

“Devilish inconvenient!” pronounced Sir Christopher as he set aside the spoon with which he’d been making forays into a bowl of pea soup. Lavinia glanced up from her own soup bowl, alarmed that she might somehow have been remiss in her housewifely duties.

Sir Christopher had no complaint about either his wife or the dinner she had provided for him—a formal affair of several courses that included roasted beef, fried flounder, potatoes, and French beans, in addition to the soup. “Luddites,” he said in response to her inquiring glance. “Malcontents. One can barely stroll down a street in the City without seeing some meeting or other underway. On the one hand, leading figures want to relieve the distress of the working man. On the other, the working man wants to seize the property of the leading figures. At the same time Castlereagh and Liverpool refuse outright to entertain any notions of parliamentary reform. As a result, we have mobs rioting and smashing machinery and wearing the tricolor.” He reached for his wineglass.

Sir Christopher believed the ladies should not be kept in ignorance of events that transpired outside their proper sphere, and so he brought with him to the dinner table each day an accounting of current events, a treat for which the ladies were secretly not so grateful as they might have been, perhaps because Sir Christopher had a tendency to sermonize, which may have been the result of the long hours he spent in the courtroom, contemplating a vast array of scoundrels who had been taken into charge on an equally vast array of criminal offenses.

There was currently in Sir Christopher’s gaze a gleam that presaged just such an outburst taking place. Hastily, Lavinia distracted him with roast beef. “Lady Throckmorton came to call today, and the Countess Dunsany.
And
Lord Viccars to see Sherris, who was not here!”