Lady Margery's Intrigues Read online

  “No!” said Margery sharply, and then in a quieter voice: “No, the marquess is a rake and I have insufficient experience in dealing with that sort of gentleman.”

  “I've heard stories,” said Chuffley slowly, “that the marquess was not always so. It is said he had a liaison with a certain older society lady when he was a very young man. Treated him badly, she did.”

  “Oh, no!” Lady Margery put her hands up to her hot face. “Then it is true ... that he was disappointed in love. And I told him so. I was only funning and wondered why he became so furious.”

  “In that case, my lady,” said Chuffley, “it is well that his lordship is not on your list.”

  “Just as well,” said Margery with a faint tinge of regret.

  “There is one other thing, my lady,” said Chuffley, hovering near the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Since this campaign of yours is so important to all of us, my lady, I feel it would be as well to hire a lady's maid.”

  Lady Margery looked at him in surprise. “But I have my Chalmers. I have a lady's maid.”

  “Well, now, my lady, Chalmers is getting on, and she never was a real lady's maid. More like a housekeeper, I've always thought. Why don't you send her back to Chelmswood and put her in charge of seeing that the place is swept and clean for your return. A real lady's maid, my lady, can work magic.”

  “I have known you since I was a baby, Chuffley,” said Lady Margery, “and now I feel I do not know you at all.”

  “Sometimes old heads are better, if you will forgive the familiarity, my lady. A good general needs the best soldiers in his campaign.”

  “Very well, Chuffley, so be it. Find me a real lady's maid and let us see whether this duckling can become a swan."

  As Chuffley left, Lady Amelia walked into the room and sank down on a sofa ... and nearly did a somersault.

  “Tcha!” she said impatiently, “I never can get used to these backless monstrosities.”

  “It is the latest thing, all the crack I assure you,” laughed Margery. “You are supposed to imagine that you are Cleopatra reclining on an Egyptian couch.”

  “Never mind Cleopatra. I have brought the ribbons and trimmings you desired. Are you sure, my dear, that you should be making your own gowns? I am sure you are an expert needlewoman, but will they not appear ... well, provincial?”

  “Not a bit of it,” smiled Margery. “I have copied the designs in La Belle Assemblée down to the last thread."

  Lady Amelia looked at her cautiously. Margery seemed to be so happy and assured. At least they did not need to begin their campaign until the opening of the season, which was a full month away. She voiced this comforting thought and found to her horror that Lady Margery meant to begin her siege that very day.

  “I am like the Duke of Wellington,” laughed Margery. “I do not hesitate to attack no matter how severe the odds. I wish you to accompany me on a little walk.”

  Lady Amelia eyed her nervously. “And what am I to do on this little walk?”

  “Why, nothing,” said Lady Margery brightly. “I will do all that is necessary. The weather, I assure you, is perfect for my plan.”

  Lady Amelia stared out at the lowering sky. “It looks as if it might come on to rain at any minute.”

  “Exactly,” said Lady Margery.

  Viscount Swanley darted nimbly down the steps from his lodgings. The sky was very dark indeed and he intended to make a dash for his club before it came on to rain. He had meant to stay comfortably indoors, since he neither wanted to get drenched or have to battle for a chair or a hansom cab, but one of his footmen had just imparted the news that there was a tremendous wager on at White's right at that very minute. His footman had just received this startling piece of intelligence from someone's venerable old butler, and Viscount Swanley was never one to let a good bet go by.

  Two things happened as he reached the bottom of the steps. Heavy drops of rain began to fall and he collided with a very smartly dressed young lady who seemed to have grown out of the pavement in front of him.

  He swept off his curly-brimmed beaver and stammered his apologies.

  Then he noticed there were two ladies, the younger one being escorted by an older, plumper one.

  To his amazement, he realized that the young lady had placed a confiding little hand on his arm. Viscount Swanley was small in stature, but the tiny figure looking up at him made him feel like a giant.

  “Oh, please, sir,” she whispered, “could you procure a hack for me? It is ... it is starting to rain.”

  “Delighted,” said Viscount Swanley, although his heart sank to the bottom of his glossy Hessians.

  He moved slowly to the edge of the pavement and gloomily raised his cane, expecting the cabbies to drive past him as usual as though he were invisible.

  Then he blinked in surprise.

  Not only one hack but three came to a stop, including several private carriages. Viscount Swanley did not know that the reason for this sudden halt in the traffic was because Lady Margery was pirouetting round and round on the steps behind him and waving her umbrella frantically in the air.

  Margery tripped past the amazed viscount and climbed into the first hack, carefully ignoring the outraged stare of the driver. She turned back on the step of the carriage and looked at the viscount from under her lashes. “Can I drop you anywhere, sir? I am most grateful, you see. No gentleman I have known before has had a commanding enough personality to stop three hackney carriages in a downpour."

  “By Jove, yes!” said Viscount Swanley, much struck. “I am going to St. James's, so if you could drop me at the corner of Piccadilly, that would be splendid. Charming ladies like you should not be seen in St. James's Street.”

  He climbed into the carriage and seated himself between Lady Amelia and Margery. Lady Amelia was in a silent state of shock.

  “Have we met before?” asked the viscount, enjoying the novelty of having to look down at someone he was talking to.

  “Allow me to present myself,” said Margery in a little voice. “I am Lady Margery Quennell and this is my aunt, Lady Amelia Carroll."

  “Servant!” said the viscount.

  The little lady beside him fell silent. The viscount was suddenly struck by a splendid thought: By Jove, she was shy! He decided to draw her out.

  “Shall you be at the opening ball at Almack's?” he asked.

  She raised her eyes fleetingly to his face. “Yes, indeed."

  “May I have the first dance with you, Lady Margery?” asked Viscount Swanley, feeling like no end of a lady-killer.

  “How very kind you are, my lord. I shall be delighted. I believe this is where you wish to be set down.”

  “Oh, what! Eh! Yes, yes. Of course. Enchanted. Remember, first dance, what!”

  Lady Margery nodded and smiled, and Viscount Swanley ran swiftly down St. James's and plunged into the gloom of White's. He had completely forgotten why he had gone there.

  The first person he saw was the Marquess of Edgecombe.

  “I say, Charles,” gasped the viscount, collapsing into a chair opposite. “You'll never guess what happened. I rescued a lady in distress.”

  Peregrine noticed with satisfaction that he had succeeded in surprising his elegant friend for once.

  “Yes, indeed, and it's no use looking down your nose at me like that. It's true!”

  “Tell me all about it,” said the Marquess of Edgecombe in a soothing voice.

  Viscount Swanley needed no second bidding. “It was like this,” he said. “I was coming out of my lodgings and I bumped into this young lady and her companion who seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Well, the young lady asked me to get her a hack, and my heart fell, ‘cause you know I never can.

  “So I held up my cane. Just like this, by Jove, and you would think it was Merlin's wand. Not one but three hackneys stopped. You could see the young lady was vastly attractive, because all the cabbies stared at her as if they had never seen anything like it before. A
nyway, we shared the carriage as far as Piccadilly and ... oh ... I don't know what we said except she has promised me the first dance at Almack's.”

  “Who is this paragon?” asked the marquess lazily.

  “Lady Margery Quennell.”

  “Lady ... My dear Perry. You are all about in your upper chambers. Lady Margery is a drab little female who has propped up the wall at Almack's for many a season.”

  “Can't be the same one,” said Lord Peregrine promptly. “This lady is a tiny little thing. Very fetching eyes.”

  “She certainly must have some mysterious presence,” said the marquess dryly, “to halt three cabbies in a downpour.”

  “Oh, I did that,” said his friend with beautiful simplicity.

  The marquess fell silent and studied the fair and foolish face of his friend thoughtfully.

  It was all very strange.

  * * * *

  The Honorable Toby Sanderson stumbled out from Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Saloon that afternoon. He felt exhausted. He had tried time and time again to pop a flush hit over Mr. Jackson's guard, with a singular lack of success. Only the day before, the Marquess of Edgecombe had beaten him in a curricle race with insolent ease. He was tired and hungry and was beginning to think that he was, after all, not the splendid sportsman he had fancied himself to be.

  As he stood mopping his flushed forehead, he became aware of a faint cry of distress and swung round. The small figure of a lady was collapsed in the arms of her companion. Her eyes were closed and she looked about to faint.

  “Oooh! My ankle!” cried a faint little voice.

  The Honorable Toby gave a hunted look around him, hoping to espy some gentleman who would leap to the rescue. But the street was deserted, as most of the fashionable throng were promenading in the park.

  He took a deep breath and stepped forward. “May I be of assistance, madame?”

  A pair of gray eyes swimming in tears looked confidingly into his own. “So stupid of me,” murmured Lady Margery. “I have twisted my ankle, and my poor friend, Lady Amelia, is not strong enough to support me to a carriage. Perhaps, sir, since you seem so powerful and strong, you could...”

  Toby puffed out his chest. “Certainly, ma'am. Lean on me. That's the ticket! Why, you're as light as a feather. Hey! Cabbie!”

  Unlike the response to Viscount Swanley, cabbies halted immediately at the sound of the Honorable Toby's stentorian tones. He helped his fair burden into the carriage.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Lady Margery, her gray eyes still swimming with tears. “It is not often that one finds such a strong rescuer exactly when one needs one.”

  That was enough for Toby. The female sex were apt to shrink from his strong escort, claiming he talked and smelled of the stables. But, now, this pretty wench showed intelligence and appreciation!

  “Escort you home,” he said climbing into the carriage. “Can't have a little thing like you struggling out of the carriage by yourself at the other end.”

  Lady Amelia gave the cabbie the address and Toby looked suspiciously around the carriage and began to sniff. “Damme, if I shouldn't have brought round m'curricle,” he said. “This demned wagon reeks of onions. I shall have a word with that cabbie fellow soon as we stop, demme if I don't.”

  “Oh, please,” pleaded Lady Margery faintly. “Please do not make a fuss. I have a terror of scenes. Now, it is different for you gentlemen. You look as if you would not be afraid of anything!”

  “She'll come unstuck,” thought Lady Amelia. “She's buttering the bread too thick.”

  But Toby looked immensely gratified. “I'm not feeling as strong as usual, ma'am. Just had a round with the gloves with Gentleman Jackson.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Lady Margery with an artistic shudder. “Pugilism! It is not a subject for a lady, sir.”

  “No more it is,” said Toby in high good humor. “But we knights have to keep fit in order to rescue fair ladies, eh what!”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Lady Margery in a gentle voice.

  Toby could not quite say why he was so attracted to this stranger. She was wearing a very dashing hat of scarlet feathers which hid most of her face so that all he got a glimpse of was a pair of large tear-filled gray eyes. She was very small, no bigger than a child, and so ... so ... yielding, that was the word. He felt about ten feet tall.

  It seemed like no time at all before the carriage rumbled into Berkeley Square. Toby sprang down first, and assisted Lady Margery into her house as if she were made of glass.

  An elderly butler with powdered hair opened the door and bowed low before the Honorable Toby. “Bless you, sir,” said Chuffley in quavering accents. “My mistress is indeed lucky to have the help of such a renowned sportsman.”

  “You know me?” beamed Toby in surprise.

  “Who has not heard of the Honorable Toby Sanderson?” said the butler impressively. “Curricle Sanderson, I believe you are called, sir?”

  “Quite so, my man,” said the much-gratified Toby, who had never heard the term before, and pressed a guinea into this excellent retainer's hand.

  Introductions had been made in the carriage, and Toby realized with some dismay that he should have to take his leave of this warm world of praise and approval. All his life he had stumbled and fled from the female presence, but now he wished very much to see more of the intriguing Lady Margery.

  “I say,” he said, bowing low over Lady Margery's little hand. “Is it possible I might have the honor of the first dance at Almack's opening ball?”

  Lady Margery blushed prettily. “I have promised the first dance to Viscount Swanley, but I shall certainly save the next for you.”

  “Delighted! Gratified!” spluttered Toby, bowing his way out.

  Both ladies collapsed in the drawing room and burst into giggles.

  “Really Margery,” protested Amelia, “that poor man.”

  “Pooh!” retorted the unrepentant Margery, “I made him feel no end of a splendid sportsman. And look at all the suffering I went through, sniffing a vinaigrette full of onion juice. I thought I would faint when he started complaining about the smell. And Chuffley was simply marvelous! ‘Curricle Sanderson,’ indeed! And that splendid quavery voice.”

  Lady Amelia looked solemn. “My dear Margery,” she protested, “have you considered that you do not seem to hold any of these young gentlemen in any kind of high regard, and yet you are proposing to spend the rest of your life with one of them?”

  “I will endure anything to save my home,” said Margery grimly. “So far, I have had a successful day, but I have not finished. Ring for Chuffley.”

  Chuffley appeared promptly, looking well pleased with himself.

  “Where shall I find Mr. Freddie Jamieson this evening, Chuffley?” demanded his mistress.

  Chuffley took out a small slip of paper. “Let me see,” he said. “I sent our potboy to engage Mr. Jamieson's potboy in conversation. Mr. Jamieson has been ordered to attend his aunt's musicale this evening. His aunt is Mrs. Mary Divine, who is in residence in Grosvenor Square."

  “That is a setback,” said Lady Margery, removing her feather hat and throwing it on the sofa. “I cannot inveigle an invitation at such short notice.”

  Chuffley proudly produced a gilt-edged card. “I took the liberty, my lady, of calling at your father's residence at Grosvenor Square. It is not generally known that he is in Paris. Among his correspondence I found an invitation from Mrs. Divine. It is, of course, addressed to the earl and countess but, as you know, it is quite in order for his daughter to accept the invitation and go in his stead.”

  Lady Amelia groaned and Margery clapped her hands. “Tonight we attack the well-lubricated soul of Mr. Freddie Jamieson!”

  * * * *

  The Honorable Toby Sanderson was tooling his bright yellow curricle past the Royal Academy when he saw a familiar elegant figure strolling on the pavement.

  “Hey, Edgecombe,” he called cheerfully. “Can I take you up?”

  The marque
ss leapt up nimbly next to Toby. “You can drop me at Brummell's. I promised to call and I am already late. You are looking in fine fettle. Did you defeat Jackson at last?”

  Toby's face darkened momentarily at the thought of his lack of sporting success and then brightened as he recalled the later glories of the afternoon.

  “Never mind about Jackson,” he said. “Would you say I was a ladies’ man, Edgecombe?”

  The marquess twisted in the seat of the high-perched curricle and stared at the beefy face of his friend.

  “No,” he said baldly.

  “Thought not,” said Toby with a sigh, “but I mean to learn. I tell you, Edgecombe, when the lady's worth it, a chap will go to any lengths.”

  “Dear me, Toby, I was not aware of the softer side of your nature. Who is this lady?”

  “Lady Margery Quennell, and the prettiest little thing you ever saw.”

  The marquess stared at his friend in amazement. “It cannot be the same Lady Margery. How did you meet?”

  Toby proudly told of the sprained ankle and his rescue and how he had been promised a dance at Almack's.

  This was too much for the marquess. “Toby, my dear fellow,” he remonstrated. “All the world and his wife knows you don't dance!"

  “Hired a dancing master,” said Toby, turning a darker shade of red.

  “Dear me,” said the marquess. “Lady Margery has had a busy day. First she collides with Swanley, who immediately falls under her spell, and only a few hours later she is conveniently swooning in your arms.”

  “Mind your tongue, Edgecombe,” said the normally good-natured Toby. “I don't want to call you out, but damme, I shall, if you go around casting asperates.”

  “Aspersions,” corrected the marquess faintly.

  They had arrived outside Mr. Brummell's residence at 13 Chapel Street, and a much bemused marquess took his leave of his friend.

  He was ushered into the Brussels-carpeted drawing room, where he could chat with the Beau through the open door that led to his dressing room.

  The famous Beau Brummell was attired in a muslin dressing gown and seated facing a mahogany-flamed cheval glass with two brass arms for candles. He was sitting in a low armchair waiting for his valet, Robinson, to attend to his hair, which was rather light and thin and needed to be waved with the curling tongs.