Lady Lucy's Lover Read online

  The leaders were killed and Mr. Butler had been pulled from his seat and dragged along the ground. The Marchioness’s arm had been broken in two places and two London surgeons had been called upon to attend her and her situation was still uncertain.

  And Lucy murmured shocked remarks, her mind still racing.

  At last Ann took her leave and Lucy was left in peace to search for a solution to salvage the wreck of her marriage.

  But try as she would, she could not think of any ideas. She did not think for a moment that the Duke had been mistaken about Mr. Barrington. He was too much a man of the world for that.

  She was still turning the problem over in her mind when her parents were announced.

  Mr. and Mrs. Hyde-Benton were disappointed to find the Marquess from home, but were determined that Lucy should make up for his absence by describing all the Notables she had met so that they might join the ranks of the aristocracy by proxy, as it were.

  Mr. Hyde-Benton was tall and sallow with a long lugubrious face. Mrs. Hyde-Benton was fair and faded, showing some traces of earlier beauty lurking in a weak, rather silly face.

  Lucy obliged them as best she could, but somehow could not bring herself to describe her day at Blackheath. Her parents, she knew, would immediately demand an exhausting and exhaustive description of everything the Duke had said and done.

  Instead Lucy found herself asking, “Do you know of a Mr. Barrington who is a bill broker, Papa?”

  “I have no dealings with him, but I have heard of him. Why?”

  “Someone was talking about him. He has an office somewhere in the City, I believe?”

  “Six Fetter Lane,” said her father promptly. “But bill brokers are not fashionable. Have you seen the Prince Regent this Season?”

  “I saw him briefly at the Courtlands’ ball,” said Lucy. Suddenly an idea of how to win back her husband’s love came to her in a blinding flash. “I think we are going to a reception at the Queen’s House.”

  “Oooh!” exclaimed Mrs. Hyde-Benton. “’Tis montrous exciting. You will need a court dress and a hoop and…”

  “Exactly,” said Lucy firmly. “I do not wish to ask Guy for the money because men do not understand the excessive cost of these things.”

  “Do not worry, my love,” said her mother. “Papa will gladly fund you. And… and… you must have your portrait painted. The Queen’s House. Oh, dear! I shall die of excitement.”

  “How much?” asked Mr. Hyde-Benton.

  Lucy took a deep breath. “Fifty thousand pounds,” she said.

  “Fifty thou—” gasped Mr. Hyde-Benton. He had thought that nothing more in the way of inflationary Regency prices could shock him. But this!

  “Lady Londonderry paid a deal more,” said Lucy, her heart thumping against her ribs. “You see, Papa, one’s gown must be embroidered in precious stones and it is the thing to have the heels of one’s shoes encrusted with diamonds. But it is excessive. I am flying too high.”

  Mr. Hyde-Benton took a deep breath. He could well afford even this vast sum of money. His daughter’s social success meant everything to him.

  Lucy watched him anxiously. She had no fear of her parents arriving on the supposed night of the royal reception in order to see her finery. The Hyde-Bentons were so obsessed with social climbing that they thought very little of their own status and were always careful to call on their daughter when they were sure she would not be entertaining any of her grand friends. Lucy’s success was enough for them. Every time her name appeared in the court circular, they cut it out and carefully pasted it into a gold-embossed book.

  “Very well,” said her father. “I will give you a draft on my bank. Perhaps I should give it to Lord Standish.…”

  “Oh, but he wouldn’t understand,” said Lucy quickly. “And he would be shocked at the extravagance. Confess, Papa. You are shocked yourself.”

  “Very well,” said Mr. Hyde-Benton again. “Now, Lucy, did the Prince Regent speak to you? What was he wearing? And is it true that…?”

  To Lucy, with the draft on her father’s bank firmly in her hand, it seemed only fair to please her indulgent parents as best she could, and so, with only a little twinge of guilt, she invented a long and fictitious conversation with the Prince Regent, and, after some time, her parents left, feeling quite dizzy and exalted at the thought of their little Lucy sitting talking to His Royal Highness for quite half an hour.

  The Duke of Habard waited patiently in the traffic jamming Fleet Street. Not for him the impatience of the flogging whip or loud oath.

  Sooner or later, the press of carriages and brewers’ drays would start to move. He found himself thinking of Lady Standish. She came so suddenly and vividly to his mind that he half turned his head, expecting to see her.

  The slight form of a heavily veiled woman was turning into Fetter Lane. There was something in the walk… in the turn of the head…

  The Duke frowned. The figure scurried quickly along and then turned into the dark court which led to the offices of Mr. Barrington.

  The traffic began to move, and, almost against his will, he swung off Fleet Street, into Fetter Lane and the court that led to Number Six. His gaze ranged over the handful of unsavory characters who were lounging about and he was glad he had brought Harry, the burliest of his grooms, along instead of his small tiger. He did not fear for himself but for the welfare of his horses.

  But he found himself reluctant to climb down and ascend the stairs to Mr. Barrington’s office. He had been thinking so intensely of Lady Standish that surely it followed that he imagined the veiled woman to be she. Then if it did turn out to be Lady Standish, surely it was entirely her own affair whether she wished to apply to Barrington for help. But such a lamb in the clutches of such a wolf! Then again, whatever she did was her husband’s affair, not his. At last, he came to the conclusion that unless he found out what exactly was going on in that office upstairs, he would not be able to enjoy the rest of the day.

  The staircase leading to Mr. Barrington’s office was dark and dirty and smelled abominably. Near the top were two burly individuals, leaning on either side of the wall.

  The Duke tossed the nearest one a guinea and said in a low voice. “Be off with you and drink my health. I have private business with Mr. Barrington.”

  The fellow hesitated and looked at his companion, who shrugged. They were paid sixpence an hour to “defend” Mr. Barrington, but so far there had been no cause for their services. And there was only a slip of a girl in with the old man. The man with the guinea winked. “We’ll just step out for a minute, guv,” he muttered, and, jerking his head to his friend to follow him, he ambled off down the stairs.

  The Duke waited until they had gone and then moved silently up to the door. Voices came faintly from within but he could not make out what they were saying.

  He turned the handle very gently and gave the door a little push, hoping it would not creak.

  Now Lucy’s voice came clearly to his ears. “I do not understand, Mr. Barrington,” she was saying. “I have here fifty thousand pounds in order to pay those bills of my husband’s. None of them is yet overdue and yet you dare to demand some extortionate amount of interest.”

  “Your husband was well aware of the arrangement,” replied Mr. Barrington, sounding highly amused. “He signed these papers, agreeing to the stipulated amount of discount.”

  “My lord is careless,” said Lucy, “and I do not believe for a moment that he knew what he was signing. I will take you to court.”

  “I do not believe that,” came Mr. Barrington’s voice. The amusement had gone and he sounded irritated. “The court would uphold my claim.”

  “But it would expose your sharp practices to the eyes of the newspapers and public,” said Lucy. For a moment the Duke could hardly believe this was the porcelain-miniature Lady Standish.

  There came the sound of a chair shifting. “Look here, my little lady,” said Mr. Barrington and his voice was no longer jovial but tinged with
menace. “You are threatening me and I don’t like threats. I see you are veiled and I should guess that you came here unattended. It would be a pity if anything should happen to the delightful Marchioness of Standish.…”

  The Duke of Habard pushed open the door.

  Mr. Barrington paused in midsentence, his mouth open. Lucy swung around. She was seated in a high-backed chair facing Mr. Barrington across the desk.

  The Duke raised his quizzing glass and studied the tableau.

  “My Lord Duke!” gasped Mr. Barrington, who made it his job to recognize all the members of the Quality. “We have just completed our business and Lady Standish is just leaving.” Mr. Barrington began to rub his thick hands. The Duke of Habard was a big fish and he was anxious to speed this irritating little Marchioness on her way.

  “We have not completed our business,” said Lucy in a hard clear voice. “I have here fifty thousand pounds and I wish my husband’s bills back and all the papers he signed.”

  “These gorgeous ladies,” sighed Mr. Barrington with mock jollity. “They should not addle their pretty heads with business matters.…”

  “Know your place, my good man,” snapped Lucy, “and do not dare to patronize me!”

  She returned Mr. Barrington’s glare, although she was suffering from feelings of shock and dismay that the Duke, the very man who had warned her against Barrington, should turn out to be one of his clients.

  “I will be with you directly, Your Grace,” said Mr. Barrington.

  At the Duke’s reply, Lucy took a deep breath of relief.

  For the Duke smiled pleasantly and said, “I have no business with such as you, Barrington, nor am I like to have. I am waiting to escort Lady Standish home.”

  Mr. Barrington picked up a handbell on his desk and rang it furiously.

  “If you are ringing that thing to summon your yahoos, you will find them gone to the nearest tavern,” said the Duke, moving forward.

  “Give Lady Standish all the papers she requires, Barrington, and do it now, if you please.”

  Lucy glanced up quickly at the Duke’s face. He had not raised his voice but somehow his tall figure seemed to emanate cold anger.

  For a long moment Mr. Barrington and the Duke stood looking at each other.

  Mr. Barrington rapidly came to a decision that it would be politic to give Lady Standish what she wanted. But somehow he would ruin the Standishes, somehow he would get the Marquess back into his clutches.

  “Very well, Your Grace,” he said mildly. He lumbered off into an adjoining room where he could be heard shuffling through files and papers.

  Lucy clenched her hands into fists in her lap to hide their sudden trembling. She glanced up at the Duke’s stem profile and he turned and looked down, immediately aware of her gaze. His lips curved in a smile and one eyelid drooped in a mocking wink.

  It all seemed like a dream to Lucy. In no time at all, she found herself perched up beside the Duke on his phaeton, clutching a sheaf of bills and papers and breathing in deep gulps of sooty London air.

  The Duke had dismissed his groom. Lucy waited rather apprehensively for the lecture that she was sure he was about to deliver. But he merely said pleasantly, “It is a wonderful day. If you are not too anxious to return home immediately, we may drive to the Park and enjoy the air.”

  Lucy nodded shyly. The Duke proceeded to enliven the short journey by entertaining Lucy with stories of the Lady Jehus who made driving in the London streets a risky adventure. There was Lady Archer, for example, who was the terror of the West End from the pace at which she drove; then there was Lady Stewart with her famous four grays; and a Mrs. Garden from Portland Street who won a considerable bet by driving her phaeton and bays from Grosvenor Gate through the Park to Kensington in five and a half minutes.

  On reaching the Park, he pointed out the Prince Regent, driving with St. Leger in a carriage and pair, with blue harness edged with red, the horses’ manes decorated with scarlet ribbons and the Prince’s plumes on their crests, the carriage itself lined with rose-colored satin and festoons of rich gold braid.

  Then there was Lord Rodney, driving his nag-tailed horses, and Lord Petersham driving his brown carriage and brown horses and dressed from head to foot in brown and all for the love of a Mrs. Brown, and Mr. Tommy Onslow, the T.O. of the cartoonists, and Mr. Charles Finch wearing a servant’s livery. And…

  The Duke broke off for a second and then said, “These carriages kick up so much dust. Let us find a quieter part of the Park.”

  To his relief, Lucy agreed without demur and he was able to swing his phaeton round and away from the fascinating spectacle presented by a very tipsy Marquess of Standish, driving Harriet Comfort, before his fair companion managed to see it.

  The Duke drove at a very slow pace until they were away from the fashionable crowd and then reined in his horses.

  “You must be wondering what I was doing in Mr. Barrington’s office,” began Lucy.

  “No,” he said quietly. “What you were doing was easily understandable. But I do feel compelled to offer you a word of advice.”

  “Which is?” asked Lucy nervously.

  “It is this. You cannot prevent your husband from the consequences of his folly forever.”

  “But he will be so relieved, so overjoyed to find I have taken the load of debt from his shoulders that he will… will be more prudent in future.”

  Poor thing, poor silly little thing, thought the Duke angrily. She was about to say, “so that he will take me in his arms and say he loves me.”

  “It is very hard to be prudent when one is a hardened gamester,” he said. “London abounds in hells, all capable of taking the estates away from the best families in England. There’s the House with the Red Baize Door in Bennet Street, the Pigeon Hole at Ten St. James’s Square, Mrs. Leache’s and Mr. Davis’s in King Street, and hundreds of others. I have witnessed the frenzy of the losers. I have seen proud men, weeping like statues without moving a muscle of their faces, and with nothing to show they were alive but the tears running down their cheeks.

  “There is a record of a ruined man seizing the edge of the table in his teeth and dying in the act. The company fled horrified and he was found by the watch, dead, with his eyes open, his face distorted, and his teeth driven far into the wood of the table. A Frenchman was seen to ram a billiard ball down his throat, whence it was removed by a surgeon; an Irishman put a lighted candle into his mouth. A gamester, whose nonchalance at repeated losses was remarked upon, opened his shirt and showed his chest all lacerated by his own fingernails.

  “My dear Lady Standish, your only solution is to persuade your husband to return to the country. He is very young, not much older than yourself, I believe.”

  “But… but it is not fashionable in the country,” said Lucy weakly.

  “No,” he agreed with an edge to his voice. “There are all those unfashionable tenants who rely on us for a livelihood and decent housing. If our estates go on the gambling table, what becomes of them?”

  “I will try,” said Lucy like a patient child responding to the severe lecturing of a stern parent.

  He turned and looked at her in sudden compassion. He wanted to tell her that he would do everything in the world to help her be happy. And then he remembered that Lady Standish was married and that her marital troubles were none of his business. His mind clamped down on these strange new emotions, and he gently set his horses in motion.

  “How solemn we have become!” he said lightly. “I gather you are to attend the Ruthfords’ masked ball tonight?”

  “Yes,” said Lucy, “but you, Your Grace, have other plans?”

  “Perhaps I might change them,” he found himself saying, much to his irritation. This friendship with Lucy Standish must cease. He was becoming too… interested.

  It was late afternoon and long shafts of golden sunlight were slanting through the translucent spring green of the trees.

  The air was warm with a hint of summer. Lucy found her
self wishing she would never reach home—home with all its agonies of lost love and rejection. It would be pleasant to drive on forever beside this austere companion, on out into the spring countryside far from the dirt and glitter of the city.

  But when he lifted her down from the carriage, after having called on one of the Standish footmen to hold the horses, and she felt his hands at her waist and saw those strange silver eyes holding her own, felt the trembling of her legs and the way her treacherous body seemed to be melting towards him, she became aware of a sense of danger, aware that any journey with the enigmatic Duke might not end in the tranquil way it had begun.

  She could not analyze, could not understand the effect his very lightest and most impersonal touch had on her whole body. Gathering her wits, she entered the house to be told that the Marquess of Standish was at home. Lucy was quite confident that the Duke would shortly be proved wrong. Men thought they understood men—but surely no one understood a man better than his own wife.

  The subsequent row was of such a magnitude that even the prophetic Duke of Habard would have been startled.

  It was as well that Lucy forebore from explaining that the Duke of Habard had been witness to the business transaction. It was as well the Marquess had not seen her with the Duke in the Park. He considered she had disgraced him enough.

  She had behaved in a grossly unfeminine way, he railed. He had had a good run at the tables and would have shortly come about. Barrington was a sterling fellow. All the Fashionables went to Barrington. Damme, if the story got about, he would have to leave Town.

  And that was when poor Lucy suggested leaving Town might be a very good idea indeed.

  And that was when the Marquess told her that he should have known better than to marry a country bumpkin with straw for a brain. She was a yokel, insipid, a disgrace to any man of breeding. He hated her with all his heart and soul!

  “There are other men who find me attractive,” shouted Lucy, quite overwrought.