The Wicked Marquess (28 page)

Excitement hung heavy in the air. Heads turned and necks craned as The Cornish Bruiser strutted forward and threw his hat into the ring. Would The Bruiser be able to make good his boast that he could beat any fighter in the land?

Most of the onlookers wagered that he could. The Bruiser boasted a devastating punch. The Black would be flat on the ground before a cove could say Jack Robinson.

The Black swaggered into the ring, sucking on an orange. He was a mountain of a man, his skin the color of good Welsh coal.

He spat orange seeds on the ground at his opponent’s feet. The crowd went wild. Local sentiment prevailing, there were more hisses than cheers.

The pugilists stripped to the waist, shook hands. One susceptible harlot swooned at sight of The Black’s arms, which were (or so marveled a member of the frail sisterhood who managed to remain standing) the size of mighty oaks.

The bell rang. The pugilists stepped forward. The Bruiser was first to swing.

His fist connected with The Black’s jaw. The crowd roared approval. The fight was underway. The match would go on until one of the combatants was so badly beaten or exhausted that he could not recover in the half-minute allowed between rounds that ended only with a knockdown or a fall. Each fighter had a knee man and a bottle man. The former knelt with one knee raised for the boxer to sit on between rounds. The latter provided water for the boxer to drink, and an orange to restore his energy, at the same time wiping him down with a sponge.

Broughton’s rules applied. Hitting below the waist was not allowed, nor was hitting an opponent who was down. Wrestling holds were permitted only above the waist. A pair of umpires decided how to deal with questionable practices such as holding a man’s hair to render him immobile while being hit. In case the umpires disagreed, a referee had the final word. All the same, ears were often bit clear through, and eyes were gouged, and bodies were assaulted below the waist while the referees looked the other way and the onlookers cheered.

Fights were often rigged, their outcome predetermined. That was not the case this day. Neither The Cornish Bruiser nor The Black had ever lost a fight for a fee.

They were well matched. In mere moments, both men were smeared with gore. Hope ran high among the spectators that this would be one of those events that ran on for as much as three hours.

 In the early going, The Bruiser knocked his opponent all about the ring, and almost caught him in a lock known as the Cornish Hug. The bout continued in this manner, with a great deal of sweat and shouting, splashing of blood and crunching of bone and thudding of bodies to the ground. But then The Black suddenly jumped up and landed a desperate blow between The Bruiser’s eyes, thereby temporarily blinding his opponent and gaining an opportunity to beat him senseless, which he proceeded to do with such grim determination that the fight was quickly won. There were accusations of cheating from The Bruiser’s partisans; and accusations of poor sportsmanship from The Black’s. All in all, everyone agreed that it had been an exciting match.

Mr. Atchison, Mr. Dowlin and Mr. Burton had enjoyed the demonstration. Mr. Burton had the additional satisfaction of having laid his blunt on the right man. The recent events at Baird’s Abbey, however, were never far from mind. If the gentlemen didn’t care especially whether or not the marquess survived his sudden illness, they did care how Miss Russell might be affected by this turn of events. Though they didn’t want to see her debauched – or if not
see
it precisely, witness the results – they also didn’t want her to have her heart broke, which Sinbad would probably do in any event, whether he was alive or dead.

Jem was also pleased to be present at the match. True to his word, the guv’nor had arranged for him to attend. Jem felt a little guilty about enjoying himself while his employer lay sick abed. He would not have left the abbey, had he not been assured Lord Baird was on the mend.

At least, he didn’t think he would have. A fellow had to watch out for himself, because it wasn’t likely anyone else would; must keep his peepers open and look sharp about him at all times.

He was looking sharply about him at the moment. People traveled to a sporting exhibition from miles around. Prizefights offered ready pickings for enterprising fellows such as himself. Jem half-expected to encounter some of his London cronies, was half-disappointed and half-relieved when he did not.

But wait. Was that—? No, he was mistaken. Misled by a trick of the light.

The guv’nor had also arranged for Jem’s transportation back to the abbey, probably not trusting he wouldn’t scarper given half the chance. And maybe he might have. Jem couldn’t say.

He found the abbey in much the same state as he had left it, the servants tiptoeing about and speaking in muted voices while their master lay abed. Martin the footman — who had also wanted to attend the prizefight and was disappointed that he had not likewise been released from his duties — sullenly announced that Lady Darby, Lord Chalmondly, Miss Blanchet and Sir Kenrick were in the solar, playing a desultorily game of four-handed whist. Miss Russell could be found in Lord Baird’s bedchamber, which was hardly proper, though it wasn’t his place to say. And where was that bedchamber? Inquired Jem. Martin pointed out the way.

* * * *

Miranda was wakened from a snooze by a soft tap at the door. She rose stiffly from her chair and stepped out in the hall. Jem described the prizefight in great bloodthirsty detail, all the while trying to steal a peek at the marquess. Miranda had lost interest in prizefights. She thanked Jem for his account and sent him away.

She closed the door, leaned against it. Then she approached the bed. Had Benedict moved since she last checked on him? His breathing was more regular than it had been earlier, and his color less pale. Miranda touched his forehead and found it cool.

Benedict’s eyes opened. “What are you doing in my bedchamber?” he whispered, and winced.

His throat would be sore, after all the retching he had done. Since it would be inappropriate to throw herself upon his chest, Miranda backed away. “You have been very ill.”

 “You must be mistaken. I am never ill.” Benedict tried to raise up on his pillows, and was surprised to find himself so weak.

Memory came back to him in flashes. He recalled the ball, and how strange he’d felt. His mouth tasted like some nocturnal creature had taken refuge there and died.

He managed to prop himself on one elbow. “Have your watchdogs actually left us alone?”

They were indeed unchaperoned. So weary was Miranda at this point – she had left the room only long enough to change from her evening gown into a simple muslin day dress – that she hadn’t even noted Colum’s failure to return. “You have been sleeping for some time,” she said.

The child looked exhausted. Had she been standing vigil at his bedside? Benedict felt damnably weak.

He was also feeling reckless, as is sometimes the case when a gentleman emerges from a nasty experience to find himself still alive.

Alive, and alone with a young woman who had vowed to seduce him. “Come lay with me,” he said.

Miranda’s previous experience with the opposite sex, varied as it had been, included no gentleman of the rakehelly persuasion who had recently awoken to realize he was not dead and consequently wished to celebrate in the manner that such gentlemen best understood. She regarded the marquess with astonishment.

“You said you were going to seduce me,” he pointed out. “You told me so when you interrupted me in my bath. Or perhaps I only imagined that episode? I take it from your blushes that I did not. Come lay down beside me. It’s deuced difficult to seduce someone from across the room.”

She was not across the room, precisely. Merely just beyond his reach. Miranda looked at the hand that he stretched out to her.

Benedict meant her to seduce him
now
?  He must be feeling the after-effects of the electuary, which had contained no small degree of opium.

A woman of the world would not cavil at such a suggestion.  Miranda would not cavil, either, under normal circumstances, but the gentleman in question had been very ill.

Someone who had been so ill should not be thwarted. Cautiously, she moved closer to the bed.

He grasped her wrist, pulled her down beside him. Gingerly, she settled in. Benedict tugged her closer and arranged her to his satisfaction, her head resting on his shoulder, her arm across his chest. “Comfortable?” he asked, as he stroked his hand across her hair.

“Um,” murmured Miranda, although ‘comfortable’ was hardly the proper word. Benedict at the height of his illness had not been as feverish as she felt now, pressed close against so much nearly naked masculine flesh.

His hand slid from her shoulder to rest upon her breast. Her temperature ratcheted upward several degrees. Miranda dared inch her own fingers across his flat abdomen. He did not protest. Since matters were progressing in this most satisfactory of measures, she contemplated which embrace the marquess might most enjoy. Butterflies in Flight? The Goat and the Tree? And then she realized that the chest upon which she rested had settled into the steady rhythms of deep sleep.

Chapter Thirty-six

Lord Baird wakened to see Lady Darby sitting by his bedside. She was wrapped in a voluminous linen dressing gown. A huge nightcap perched atop her head. Chimlin was draped full-length on the back of her chair.

Stacked on the floor beside her were several volumes.
The English Housewife, Culpeper’s Complete Herbal, Natural and Artificial Directions for Health.
“Hello,” Benedict said.

Odette started and closed her book,
Early English Meals and Manners,
from which she had learned that were a man drowsy after dinner, he should rest standing up against a cupboard or sit upright in a chair, because laying down on a full stomach hurt the spleen, and brought on dropsy and gout. That same man should be merry before bedtime so that nothing would trouble his repose or give him nightmares. He should have a fire built in his chamber, because the breath of a sleeping man putrefied the air; but he should not sleep too close to that fire because the fumes could dry up his blood. And he should wear a scarlet nightcap.

Lady Darby had already sent servants scurrying in search of a scarlet nightcap. She had only one nephew left.

Stiffly, she rose and approached the bed. Chimlin claimed her abandoned seat, clawed the fabric into submission, curled up with his nose tucked beneath his tail. Around his neck today was a choker of blue gems.

Odette poked and prodded the marquess, thumped his chest, pulled back an eyelid, peered into his ears. He suffered this inspection without comment or protest. “You’ll do!” she said, at length. “God’s blood, boy, you gave us a fright.”

Benedict pushed himself into a sitting position. “Miranda told me I’ve been ill.”

Odette snorted. “There’s an understatement. I will spare you the details.”

Where
was
Miranda? Had he only dreamed of her warm body curled up next to his?  Without mentioning the dream, Benedict inquired.

“I sent her off to bed. ‘Twasn’t proper she’d been in your chamber for so long.” Odette scooped up Chimlin, who muttered annoyance at having his slumber disturbed. “The physicians couldn’t make up their minds what was to be done with you, and so I sent them home. You may thank Colum and Miss Russell for the fact that you are still with us. I fancy the chit wants to keep you around long enough to try out some aphrodisiac.”

As if an aphrodisiac was needed. Or maybe it was. Benedict had invited Miranda to share his bed, only to fall fast asleep.

She must be sorely disappointed in him. Benedict was disappointed in himself. “Miranda has decided to seduce me,” he explained. 

“That explains the cook’s sudden partiality for parsley.” Odette wondered if Miss Russell’s explorations of the library had led her to certain love-philters that included hair that grew in the nether part of a dog’s tail, the brain of a cat or newt or lizard, the bones of a green frog that had been eaten bare by ants, the copulatory organ of a wolf. Then she thought of Phineas, who had set out for the Pig and Thistle as soon as the crisis passed.

Odette hoped he had not taken with him an ointment made of nettle leaves, goat’s gall and dung.

The duke was not her primary concern at the moment. “That little baggage fancies herself in amours with you.”

 “Have you been nipping at the brandy again?”

 “I heard her say so myself.”

“Eavesdropping, were you, Odette?”

 “The window was open. And I’d hardly count it as eavesdropping when she was talking to a hydrangea. Benedict—”

“The punch tasted bitter. I suspected that Miranda might have doctored it.”

Odette was visited by a vision of the entire party affected by a concoction of goat’s dung. “Not Miranda, but maybe someone else. We may eliminate a few suspects. Miss Russell swears by the innocence of her beaux. Mr. Burton is the most volatile among them, she says, and it is more his style to try and pop your cork. Wexton had already departed for London with the intention of buying up Cecilia’s vowels before her creditors throw her into prison for failure to pay her debts, which would embarrass him no end. At any rate,
he
would simply have challenged you to a duel, because to do anything else would have been conduct unbefitting a gentleman.” She paused to take in breath. “Poison is a coward’s way. Cecilia may be out of charity with you but she ain’t no coward. I can see Pettigrew acting the white-livered cur, but what reason would he have?”

Benedict realized he had been very ill, could not deny he still felt weak, but found it difficult to believe someone might want him dead. He was hardly the Sinbad of myth, who shared life-threatening adventures with rocs and apes and giant snakes and the Old Man of the Sea. “There were any number of strangers in the house.”

“There were also any number of people who aren’t strangers here.” Odette grew tired of hovering and sat down on the bed. Chimlin grumbled and arranged himself more comfortably on her lap.