Thea's Marquis (2 page)

“Mama said I ought not to have spoken to them, and I have sunk myself beneath reproach by mentioning that you are with child, but I am glad I did since you and Meg can be comfortable.”

“So am I! It was brave of you.”

“Lord Hazlewood must suppose me shockingly coarse,” Thea said wistfully, “yet he was so very kind and courteous. I only hope I never have to meet either of them again.”

“Fustian!” Penny climbed into the high bed and sank back on the pillows with a sigh of relief. “They will put it down to your inexperience with the Polite World.”

“If I were fresh from the schoolroom, perhaps, but I am five and twenty, past the age to be permitted a few
faux pas.
If it were not that you claim to need my support—which I don’t believe for an instant!—I should refuse to make my bow to Society along with Meg.” She tucked the counterpane around Penny. “I had best go and see how Meg and Mama go on. I shall return in a moment.”

Meg, too, was already tucked up in bed. The sickly tinge had left her cheeks, though she was still pale. Their mother was bathing her forehead with lavender water to try to relieve the headache that still oppressed her.

“You will feel better when you have eaten something,” said Thea comfortingly. “You hardly touched a bite at luncheon.”

“If I had, I should have lost it long since,” Meg pointed out with a flash of her usual spirit.

Someone tapped on the chamber door and Thea went to answer it. A tall, thin man dressed in sober black bowed to her respectfully.

“I am Pelham, madam, the marquis’s gentleman. His lordship sends his compliments, and he begs the pleasure of the company of any of your party that’s fit, to dine in his private parlour in an hour’s time.”

Dismayed, Thea started to refuse. “Oh, but we—”

“My daughter and I shall be happy to accept his lordship’s kind invitation,” interrupted her mother calmly, joining her by the door.

“My lady.” The man bowed again and departed.

Thea closed the door and leaned against it, suddenly weak at the knees. “I thought they would have gone on to another inn. Mama, I cannot face Lord Hazlewood after behaving with such a lack of decorum.”

“I fear you must, my love. Much as I dislike such intimacy with strangers, we cannot refuse without rudeness when he has been so excessively obliging.”

“But he is a marquis!”

“And you are the daughter of a baron, Thea, not an ill-bred, discourteous nobody. Go and put on your blue silk. You and I shall dine with the marquis and Mr. DeVine.”

CHAPTER TWO

Thea stared at herself in the mirror, her dark eyes apprehensive. A plain white cambric spinster’s cap hid her pinned-up braids, but Penny’s skilful fingers had long since softened her once severely practical hairstyle. Now short curls adorned her brow and clustered at her temples.

That was the best part. Most of the colour was washed out of her best blue silk, and somehow its drooping shapelessness made her look even taller and thinner.

“I wish we had not decided to wait until we reach London before buying new clothes,” she said despairingly. “I look like a scarecrow.”

“Not even sackcloth could make you look anything but aristocratic,” said Penny, somnolent after a nourishing bowl of thick, savoury beef-and-barley soup, followed by apple pie. “I’m taller than you by a good inch, but if I were as slender and fine-boned as you are, I should be
aux anges.
”

“Are you quite sure you do not mind being left alone?”

“Quite sure. I shall be asleep the moment you snuff the candles. Be off with you, Thea. Your marquis is less likely to take exception to your gown than to being kept waiting for his dinner.”

Five minutes later, Mr. Percival himself ushered Thea and her mother into Lord Hazlewood’s private parlour. A square table in the centre of the room was already set for four with spotless white linen and gleaming glasses. The gentlemen rose from their seats by the fire and made their bows. The marquis dwarfed the diminutive Lady Kilmore.

“I trust your invalids are on the mend, ma’am?” he enquired.

“Yes, indeed, they are both asleep already, thanks to your kindness.” She paused, and Thea, her gaze fixed on her own clasped hands, was horridly afraid she was going to apologize for her elder daughter’s misconduct. However, she merely went on in a vague way, “Such a tiresome journey.”

“Are you bound for London, Miss Kilmore?” Mr. DeVine asked politely.

“Yes, sir.” Venturing to peek at his face, Thea saw a flash of boredom, quickly hidden. She tried to think of something to say and failed.

“Are you acquainted with the city?” he struggled on.

“My sister and I have never been there. Megan is to make her come-out.”

“You are going up for the Little Season, I expect,” said Lord Hazlewood. “I commend your wisdom, Lady Kilmore. My mother took each of my sisters to Town in the autumn to learn how to go on in the world before diving into the maelstrom of the Season the following spring.”

His calm voice gave Thea confidence. “That is part of it,” she agreed. “Also, our home in Northumberland is often cut off by snow from December to March, or even April.”

Mr. DeVine shuddered theatrically. “What a horrendous fate! No wonder you made your escape in good time.”

“As I daresay you have already guessed from his dress, Will is a true Bond Street beau, never happy far from the metropolis,” the marquis quizzed him.

“You malign me. Do not heed him. Miss Kilmore, it is envy speaks. Bond Street beaux are frippery fellows.
I
am a pink of the ton.”

“Coxcomb,” said his cousin as the door opened to admit a parade of waiters in striped waistcoats. Supervised by Mr. Percival, they bore in a steaming tureen, platters with pewter covers, casseroles and sauce-boats. Thea had never seen so many dishes served at once. She realized she was ravenous, but she had no intention of letting hunger overcome good manners. Mama should have no further cause to blush for her.

Even at home, with just the three of them. Lady Kilmore had always insisted that conversation was as important as food at the dinner table. Tasting the delicately flavoured
soupe à la reine,
Thea wondered whether to ask Mr. DeVine to explain the difference between a Bond Street beau and a pink of the ton. Nor was she precisely certain what a coxcomb was. Had they been unacceptable subjects for ladies, the gentlemen would not have spoken of them, but she did not want Lord Hazlewood to think her shockingly ignorant.

Before she could make up her mind, her mother asked if their host was travelling towards London or northward.

“We have just spent a few days at Hazlewood Castle, near York,” the marquis said. “We are on our way to Town.”

“Then you did not come to see the mill at Collyweston?” said Thea, recalling something that had puzzled her. “The landlord said he had no rooms available because there was a mill near here today. I do not understand how a mill could be there just for one day, nor why sporting gentlemen should go to see it.”

“Percival referred to a pugilistic exercise, Miss Kilmore,” explained Mr. DeVine, making a poor effort at hiding a grin.

She must have looked blank, for Lord Hazlewood frowned at his cousin and said kindly, “Will is flaunting his vocabulary. Miss Kilmore. He means a prizefight, a boxing match.”

Judging by Mama’s wrinkled forehead,
that
was no fit topic for a lady, but how could she have guessed? Once more she had blotted her copybook. “I thought he meant a windmill or a water-mill,” she said, excusing herself miserably.

“A natural supposition,” said the marquis. “The colloquial term is scarcely something a lady can be expected to know. I daresay Northumberland has many water-mills, Lady Kilmore? I am unacquainted with the county, but it is for the most part rough and hilly, is it not?”

Thea shot him a glance of fervent gratitude. She was beginning to think she would never dare open her mouth in company again, yet she felt she could say anything to Lord Hazlewood. If he was amused or shocked, he was by far too courteous ever to show it. She had dreaded meeting him again; now a faint hope raised its head that their paths might cross in London.

She finished her soup in subdued silence while the others talked about the beauty of the northern moors in summer, their bleakness in winter. Mr. DeVine obligingly helped her to some of the dishes before them. As he consulted her taste before serving her, she was forced to admit that several of the ragouts and sauces, and even one or two vegetables, were unfamiliar to her.

“Percival sets an excellent table,” he said, “which is why Rod always stays here. My cousin calls himself a gourmet, but the truth is, it takes a vast quantity of viands to keep up a man his size, and it would be dull work stuffing himself with boiled beef and potatoes.”

“Whereas Will starves himself for fear of spoiling the set of his coat,” retorted the marquis placidly. “Try some of these quenelles. Miss Kilmore.”

“What we plain folks call forcemeat dumplings,” Mr. DeVine informed her in a conspiratorial whisper. She began to like him, and there was something most attractive about the affectionate way he and his cousin teased each other.

By the time the table was cleared of dessert, Thea was sufficiently at ease to wonder aloud what variety of pears had been used to make a particularly delicious tart. Mr. DeVine asked a waiter.

The man gaped at him. “I dunno, sir.”

“Go and ask in the kitchen, man,” he said impatiently.

The waiter scurried off, while another set out tea for the ladies and, with the ladies’ permission, port for the gentlemen. He had scarcely closed the door behind him when it was flung open again and a small, plump man in a chef’s cap rushed in. Bowing with a flourish, he beamed at Thea.

“Ah,
mademoiselle,
you are ze young lady zat demands to know vat is zis
poire?
To you I kiss ze ’and. Zese ozzer English, zey eat like pigs but nevair zey ask ze intelligent qvestion. For zis
tarte aux poires,
I use only ze Parkinson vordens. You add ze nutmeg,
un peu
de gingembre
, cinnamon, and...” he looked around suspiciously, then muttered in her ear, “...and
un soupçon de poivre
. You are surprise, hein? Zis is mine secret.”

Mr. DeVine was in fits of laughter. The Frenchman cast him a disdainful glance and bowed to the marquis. “Milord, you also appreciate ze art of
la cuisine.
Always Monsieur Percival, he tell me, ‘
Monsieur le Marquis
is here, do your best, Ambroise.’ Ze dinner please you?”

“Excellent as always, Ambroise.” Lord Hazlewood flipped a coin to the chef, who caught it with dexterity and dropped it into the pocket of his apron, where it clinked. Apparently other patrons enjoyed Ambroise’s creations, if falling short of the true appreciation of the connoisseur.

He bowed to the flustered Lady Kilmore and strutted out.

“You have made a conquest. Miss Kilmore,” said Mr. DeVine, smiling at her in a friendly way.

“What an odd man! If he knew how ignorant I am about cookery, he would not have told me his receipt.”

“Do you mean to reveal the secret ingredient?” Lord Hazlewood asked. “He has never favoured me so highly.”

Thea shook her head, feeling like a peagoose. “Even if I were prepared to betray his confidence, I fear I only understood one word in two, and I have no notion what the secret ingredient is.”

The marquis and Mr. DeVine both laughed, but as if she had said something witty, not foolish.

“I shall have my chef experiment,” said his lordship. “What kind of pears did Ambroise use?”

“Parkinson’s wardens,” Thea told him. “Wardens are good cooking pears, though too hard for eating. I have read of Parkinson’s variety but never tried them. In the north—”

“Thea, if you have finished your tea it is time we retired,” her mother interrupted, sounding anxious.

“Yes, Mama.” What had she said wrong now? Once more abashed, she murmured her thanks to Lord Hazlewood for a delightful evening.

“It was our pleasure, ma’am. Lady Kilmore, I trust you will make use of this room when you break your fast tomorrow morning. Whether my cousin and I are about or not, you will be more comfortable than in the public coffee-room.” He opened the door as he spoke and a hubbub of shouts, whoops, guffaws, and female squeals from that and the taproom met their ears.

The dowager assented absent-mindedly, her thoughts elsewhere. As she and Thea ascended the stairs to their chambers, she said in distress, “Oh dear, another matter of which I did not think to warn you. Pray do not mention your interest in growing fruits and vegetables, Thea. Flowers are unexceptionable, or even herbs, but people will think you odd if you talk of pears, potatoes, and parsnips.”

Potatoes, parsnips, pregnancy, and prizefights, Thea thought rebelliously. How much easier her introduction to the ton would be if all she need do was avoid every word beginning with
P.

“Thea?” A small, frightened voice woke her next morning. Sleepily she rolled over towards the centre of the bed. Penny was sitting up, her face a ghastly colour, shivering and clutching her stomach and her throat. “I think I’m about to be sick.”

Throwing back the covers, Thea sprang out of bed and rushed to fetch the white china basin from the washstand. She tucked Penny’s wrap about her shoulders, then donned her own, an aged, shapeless, blue flannel garment.

“I’ll call Mama at once. She will know what to do.”

“I’m going to die,” Penny moaned.

Her long braids flapping against her back, Thea dashed across the passage to knock on the door. Meg opened it. She was already dressed, her cheeks pink, her dark eyes restored to their usual brightness.

“Thea, it is sunny out and there is a garden behind the inn. I’m going to walk for a while before breakfast. Will you and Penny...” She saw her sister’s face as Thea stepped into the room. “Oh, what is wrong?”

“Penny is feeling dreadfully ill.” With relief, she saw that her mother, too, was up, though not yet dressed. “Mama, pray come quickly.”

As they all hurried to the other chamber, Lord Hazlewood approached from the far end of the passage. Not wanting to be rude, Thea stopped.