The Mark of the Midnight Manzanilla A Pink Carnation Novel (25 page)

Lucien turned his back on the others, looking intently at Miss Fitzhugh. “Do you mind terribly? Being betrothed?”

Lucien found that her response mattered, very much. His palms felt sweaty beneath the leather of his driving gloves.

Miss Fitzhugh’s eyes darted to one side, then the other. She pressed her lips tightly together. “I haven’t much choice, have I? It seems to have been decided for me.”

“You have every choice,” said Lucien firmly. He wouldn’t let her be bullied into anything, no matter how much he might want it. “What’s the standard phrase? You are fully cognizant of the honor I do you, but cannot now find it in your heart, and so forth?”

“And leave you to face the Black Tulip alone? No.” Miss Fitzhugh threw back her shoulders, seriously discommoding her stoat in the process. “You’re right. It isn’t such a dreadful plan.”

Lucien let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. “I should go to my aunt and uncle and apprise them of our impending visit.”

“And of your betrothal,” snapped Mrs. Reid, from behind him.

Lucien’s eyes met Miss Fitzhugh’s. He cocked a brow. “And of our betrothal.”

Miss Fitzhugh’s face relaxed into a reluctant smile.

“In that case,” said Miss Fitzhugh, “I imagine you had better call me Sally.”

Chapter Fifteen

Lucien Charles Edward Henry Caldicott, Duke of Belliston, Marquess of Stanyon, Baron Riversham, and Heredity Lord High Marshall of the West MarshandMiss Sarah Fitzhugh.A marriage has been arranged between Lucien, 6th Duke of Belliston, and Miss Sarah Fitzhugh, only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Peregrine Fitzhugh of Parva Magna, Norfolk.—
The Morning Post
20 October 1806Ghoul of B—H— to wed! A betrothal has been announced between London’s most mysterious peer and eccentric heiress, Miss S—F— (Sister of a certain sporting gentleman whose antics have appeared between these pages before. See December 30, 1803: Has Our Turnip Made a Pudding of Himself? Full details on Page 8.)Recommended wedding gifts for the happy pair include garlic, wooden staves, and a large supply of scarves.Will the new duchess survive the betrothal with her neck intact?—
The Speculator
20 October 1806 Correspondence following the Beaufeatheringstone Ball on 26 October 1806:

Miss Lucy Ponsonby to
Miss Delia Cathcart
Sally Fitzhugh, a duchess? It just makes me sick to think of it. As if it weren’t bad enough when Mary Alsworthy brought Lord Vaughn up to scratch (although Mama says there was something quite dodgy about that, not that we’ll ever know now).
Well, that’s some good at least. It was quite insufferable watching Mary put on airs about being a countess—as if we should all scrape and bow!—and now that Miss Fitzhugh has carried off the prize.
Not that I would have the duke at any price. How any woman of sensibility could even think—but, then, you know what they say about the Fitzhughs. They’re not quite right, are they? It is appalling the way Sally waltzes about with that furry thing draped over her shoulder. And there was no excuse for the way she was giggling—giggling!—behind her fan with the duke at Lady Beaufeatheringstone’s ball last night.
Really, there’s nothing the least bit amusing about soul-sucking creatures of the night. And one certainly shouldn’t look quite so much as though one were actually enjoying their company. . . .
The Dowager Duchess of
Dovedale to Lady Beaufeatheringstone
Good stuff in that Fitzhugh gel. She reminds me of me.
As for Belliston, if I were fifty years younger . . .
I’d still be too old for him.
Ha!
Lady Henry Caldicott to Mrs. Ponsonby
. . . I know I need not tell you my sentiments on hearing of Lucien’s ill-advised betrothal. Such a common creature—all of that brassy blond hair and that unfortunate brother. And that weasel . . . ! Words fail me.
[Omitted for reasons of space: four pages in which Lady Henry proves that words do not, indeed, fail her when it comes to enumerating the flaws of Miss Sally Fitzhugh.]

Really, it is most unfortunate, although not in the least unexpected, given Lucien’s father’s disastrous choice of a bride.
Even so, I suppose I shall have to lend my countenance to the match. Lucien has expressed his desire to bring his bride to Hullingden. He shows not the slightest consideration for the inconvenience caused by having to remove from London at the height of the Season. But there you are, it is his father all over again. Nothing would do but he would have what he wanted when he wanted it, and never mind the bother to those around him. If he had had any consideration, he would never have married at all, and I would not be forced to the imperative of arranging entertainments for appalling young women with garden pests as pets.
If that Lucien had never been born . . .
But no one will be able to say I haven’t done my best by my nephew. I have plans in train for a masquerade ball to be held at Hullingden on All Hallows’ Eve.
And beyond that, I do not see what I can be expected to do. . . .
Miss Sally Fitzhugh to Lucien,
Duke of Belliston (via footman)
All is in readiness for Hullingden! At least, Miss Gwen says it is, and it’s generally safer not to question her. Although I really have no idea why we need an entire trunk filled with billiard balls.
When do you depart?
Lucien, Duke of Belliston to
Miss Sally Fitzhugh
I leave tomorrow morning.
Will you be bringing your weasel?
Miss Sally Fitzhugh to Lucien,
Duke of Belliston
She’s not a weasel. She’s a stoat.
Lucien, Duke of Belliston to
Miss Sally Fitzhugh
A weasel by any other name . . .
Mrs. Reid (née Miss Gwendolyn Meadows) to Miss Sally Fitzhugh and Lucien, Duke of Belliston
Kindly stop tiring the footmen. You may flirt all you like once we arrive at Hullingden. In the meantime, I have messages to send. . . .
Mrs. Reid to An Undisclosed Location
[This message has been redacted by the request of the Pink Carnation.]
Chapter Sixteen

Miss Sally Fitzhugh arrived at the hamlet of Hullingden with her chaperone, her maid, and her pet stoat.

Of the three, the stoat was the least excited by their arrival. Ensconced in her own mahogany traveling case with ormolu accents, Lady Florence Oblong blinked lazily and then went back to chewing her own tail.

As they left London behind, the gloom of the metropolis gave way to the sort of brilliant autumn weather that made summer seem distinctly overrated. The air was crisp and cool, rich with the tang of mulch and fallen apples; the leaves flaunted their showiest orange, crimson, and gold; and the faint, sweet sound of a small brook singing as it tumbled over stones could be heard in the distance.

Hullingden, they were helpfully informed by the innkeeper at the local hostelry, the Cockeyed Crow, was the name of both the village and the castle. He had offered them directions, down a long and rambling way edged with tall trees that looked as though they had been old when William the Conqueror was young.

“A castle.” Sally raised her brows, but her chaperone only emitted a distracted sniff, her maid was asleep in the corner of the carriage, and Lady Florence appeared to be engaged in an extensive toilette.

Sally hadn’t expected a castle.

The word conjured up images of ruined towers on deserted hillsides, with White Ladies stalking the battlements and maidens sighing from the parapets, the filmy white fabric of their skirts billowing in the moonlight.

Which, Sally decided critically, was most likely to cause the maiden in question to come down with a bad cold. There was nothing romantic about a case of the sniffles.

Nor was there anything eerie about the landscape. The gatekeeper ought to have been tall and gaunt with cavernous cheeks and sunken eyes. Instead, he was a distinctly jolly individual who didn’t seem to have missed a meal in some time. The gatehouse was just as stony as one could desire, but there was nothing ruinous about it. There were lace curtains at the windows and the smell of something baking coming from the chimney.

The smell made Sally’s mouth water. They hadn’t had nuncheon when they stopped for directions at the Cockeyed Crow, and it had been some time since breakfast.

She was itching to quiz the duke about their destination, but he had ridden ahead, to see to the preparations for their reception, he had said, although Sally suspected it was really to escape Miss Gwen, who all too clearly viewed the prospect of a long journey in a closed carriage as an opportunity to grill the duke on everything he remembered about his mother’s activities twelve years ago.

Not the duke. Lucien. Sally kept forgetting that, just as she kept forgetting that in the eyes of the world, they were about to be joined in holy matrimony until death did they part.

Her death, that was.

There were, apparently, already wagers at White’s on whether she would survive the honeymoon. The news had made Sally’s blood boil, and caused her brother, Turnip, to duck, fling up his hands, and say hastily, “Hold your fire, Sal! Ain’t the thing to shoot the messenger, don’t you know!”

In the ballrooms of London, the announcement of Sally’s betrothal had been greeted with equal parts envy and pity.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t trade places with you,” Lucy Ponsonby had announced.

“I should hope not,” Sally had retorted. “The Belliston sapphires wouldn’t go with your coloring at all.”

Sally had no idea whether the Bellistons had rubies, sapphires, or a collection of small bits of gravel, but she did have the satisfaction of seeing Lucy Ponsonby’s eyes turn a gratifying shade of green.

Harder to deal with had been the tongue-tied sympathy of the good-hearted and small-brained, all of whom seemed to assume she was selling herself to a monster for a title.

“Have you taken a good look at the duke?” Sally had said acidly to the fifth of these inquiries, and stalked off to the ladies’ retiring room for a good fume at Agnes, which would have been markedly more satisfying if Agnes hadn’t responded with a tentative “You can still cry off, you know. Before you go to Hullingden.”

Sally had regarded her friend with some aspersion. “I’m hardly about to be flung into an oubliette in my nightdress!”

“Well, noooo . . . ,” Agnes admitted. “Not in your nightdress.”

It was nice to know that her friends thought her betrothed would wait until she was properly attired to subject her to strange and arcane tortures.

The memory still made Sally fume. Had any of them, including her so-called friends, taken the time to examine the duke? Had any of them spoken to him? If it weren’t for those ridiculous rumors, they would all be panting to be the object of his attentions. For heaven’s sake, the man was the image of the romantic ideal, with all that tousled dark hair, and that sensitive mouth that could turn so easily from a grimace to a crooked smile. Sally couldn’t deny that she took a certain satisfaction in the attractive picture they made entering a ballroom together, even if most of their grand entrances were marred by Lucien murmuring something droll, making her snort ratafia up her nose.

There was nothing quite so unpleasant as ratafia up one’s nose.

As for Lucien, he was very pleasant, indeed. Sometimes a little too pleasant. He was the perfect companion—attentive, courteous, with a dry, sardonic wit. But Sally couldn’t help feeling that there was something else hidden away behind that civilized facade. Not—and here she spared a dark thought for Lucy Ponsonby—an insatiable lust for blood, but something held in reserve, some mystery deep at the heart of him that she itched to unravel. Sometimes he would look at her with those dark, deep-set eyes, and she would sense a flicker of . . . well, something. Something that fizzed through her like forbidden champagne.

Perhaps here, in his family home, she would find that window into his soul, the key that would unlock his reserve.

Not, of course, that she was meant to be unlocking anything, Sally hastily reminded herself. This betrothal was a contrivance of convenience. It didn’t matter if the duke’s lips turned up at the corners, or if she could still remember the brush of his gloved hand against her cheek as he had fastened his cloak around her neck. He was, Sally reminded herself bracingly, a good soul in a tight spot, and she was here to help. That was all.

And to prevent a homicidal spy from marauding across the countryside. It wouldn’t do to forget the homicidal spy.

“Look,” Sally said quickly, more to distract herself than anything else. “That must be the castle. Do you see? There. Through the trees.”

Miss Gwen looked at her over her spectacles. “What else did you expect to see? The leaning tower of Pisa?”

“It doesn’t look terribly castle-like,” said Sally. There weren’t any battlements, at least none that she could see. There was a vast dome in the center, and two symmetrical wings stretching out to either side.

“Castles are as castles are,” said Miss Gwen austerely.

Sally looked at her sideways. “That doesn’t mean anything at all.”

She thought she heard a chuckle from beneath the maid’s white cap, but when she looked, the woman was just as she had been before, slack-jawed in sleep, her large buckteeth protruding over her bottom lip.

Lucien was waiting for them at the foot of the stairs below a distinctly Palladian portico. Standing by himself at the center of the vast circular drive, his dark coat contrasting with the pale stone of the castle, he looked, thought Sally, particularly alone.