The Missing Marchioness

‘Not recently, I hope,’ he said.

Marcus thought that for sheer banality this conversation took some beating.

Louise thought so, too. What in the world is wrong with us?

‘Not quite,’ she replied—and what kind of an answer was that?

Marcus released her hand, but not before kissing it.

‘You will allow me to assist you into the carriage.’

Her hand out of his, Louise felt that some sustaining presence had vanished. It was an odd feeling for her, for she had grown used to being self-sufficient. The presence reappeared when he helped her up, and disappeared again when he let go of her.

She was aware, although she made no effort to look back at him, that he watched her until her carriage was out of sight. Something told her that it might not be long before she saw him again—and that something was right.

The question was, could she afford to know him?—however much she might want to. Anonymity had been her protector since the day when she had fled Steepwood Abbey, to find safety far from her tormentor, and from anyone who might remember poor little Louise Hanslope.

Marcus watched her carriage go, his mind in a whirl. Like Louise, he could not believe the strength of his reaction to someone whom he had only just met. He must see her again, he must.

But how?

Chapter Two

‘K now anything about a pretty little modiste, Madame Félice by name, do you, Gronow, old fellow?’

Marcus thought that Captain Gronow knew everything that there was to know about everybody, and he was not far wrong. It was fortunate that he, too, had been in Hyde Park that afternoon, and he had ridden over to him to pick his brains about Madame.

‘Society’s favourite dressmaker, has her place in Bond Street, eh? I can’t say that I actually know anything—only on dits and suppositions which might, or might not, be true. Would that do?’

‘Anything would do—better than knowing nothing at all.’

Gronow pondered a moment. He didn’t ask Marcus why he wished to be informed about Madame, he thought that he knew.

‘Well, she appeared out of nowhere some time ago and was immediately able to afford not only to buy the Bond Street shop but also have it done over completely. So, the argument runs, she must have a rich backer—either here, or in Paris, since she’s supposed to be French. I say supposed, because no one is sure of that, either. But who can the rich backer be, eh? No one has ever seen her with a man. She sometimes rides here in the late afternoon, but she acknowledges no one—and no one acknowledges her. A mystery, eh, what, wouldn’t you say? The ladies say that she’s very much a lady. Perfect manners, never presumes, unless it’s to correct, very gently, provincial nobodies like the Tenison woman, Adrian Kinloch’s mother-in-law—whose taste certainly needed correcting, I’m told.’

‘A paragon, then,’ remarked Marcus somewhat dryly. It was a little discouraging to learn that either his beauty was virtuous or that someone, rich, powerful and discreet, ran her. On the other hand, discretion of the sort which Madame was evidently practising was always to be commended.

‘Lives over the shop, does she?’

‘Well, even that’s unknown. That ass Sandiman apparently came the heavy with her one day at her salon, and the story goes that she gave him a bloody nose for his impudence—which could argue virtue—or the appearance of it.’

Marcus was fascinated. ‘She’s so tiny, how in the world did she tap his claret?’

‘With a poker, apparently. Poor fool wasn’t expecting it, it’s said. She led him on for a bit and then, when he was least expecting it, planted him a facer as good as the Game Chicken could have done—except that he don’t use a poker! I’d look out if I were you, Angmering, if you’ve any notion of furthering your own acquaintance with her. Don’t want your looks ruined for nothing!’

‘Well, thanks for the warning, Gronow. Always best to know what might by lying in wait for you, eh?’

‘All’s fair in love and war, they say.’

‘And no real notion of who might be running her? If anyone? Could the money she spent to set up her business have been some sort of a final pay-off for her, do you think?’

‘No idea, old fellow, none at all. If I hear anything I’ll be sure to let you know.’

A mystery woman indeed then, Madame Félice. And strong-minded, too. One might have guessed at her possessing a fiery temper with hair that colour—and such a determined little chin: he particularly admired the chin.

Marcus rode back to where his sister sat, talking to Sharnbrook—and there was a fellow worth knowing. He had to commend Sophia for her common-sense and good judgement in bringing him to heel.

Now, if he could only persuade Madame—if she were free that was—that he, Marcus, would be as good a bet as any to set up house with, then he could be as happy as Sophia without the shackles of marriage to trouble him. All that remained necessary for him was to find some means of promoting his friendship with her, and that was going to be difficult.

In the normal course of events there were a thousand ways in which he could contrive to meet a woman. If she were in society there was the park, or the ballrooms of mutual friends, or he could make a polite afternoon call. Likewise if she were in the demi-monde there were any number of recognised haunts where she might be found.

But Madame Félice was different. She belonged to neither one or the other of these two groups. She had her own legitimate business, and possibly also a circle of friends—but these would certainly not be the friends of Marcus, Lord Angmering, a member of high society, of the ton. Not that he associated much with the ton himself.

Come to think of it, he had become, except for his brief visits to London, a bit of a solitary. So he would have to devise some ploy, some trick, to further his acquaintance with Madame—which would itself serve to add a little spice to a life which he freely acknowledged had lately been rather dull.

So the afternoon found him sauntering along Bond Street trying to look innocent, although the good Lord alone could explain why he should, seeing that he was bent on seducing a woman who, for all he knew, was truly innocent. Except that in the world which Marcus inhabited, women in occupations like Madame’s were rarely so. Gronow had hesitated to pass any judgement on her which was, in itself, remarkable, but that proved nothing.

In his musings he had finally reached Madame’s salon with its little bow-window, a large hat on a cream-coloured shawl chastely displayed inside it—an indication of Madame’s character? He sincerely hoped not.

Now to go in—but what to say? He could scarcely ask her to make him a pretty little toilette. On the other hand, what about a shirt? Would it be beyond Madame’s talents to design a shirt for him? He could always claim that his present tailor was not sufficiently up to scratch for a man who hoped to make a good show at his sister’s wedding.

Yes, that was it.

It wasn’t a very convincing notion but it would have to do.

Marcus pushed the shop door open and walked in.

Louise had had a trying day. Her forewoman had contracted a light fever, and had consequently been unable to come in to work: her best cutter had thrown a fit of the tantrums on being asked to create something which she did not care for, so that Louise had been compelled to do it herself to prove that the design was not only feasible, but beautiful. This had finally brought obedience from the cutter, but having been proved wrong she had sulked for the rest of the day.

Now, to cap everything, the assistant who manned the shop counter had come in all of a fluster.

‘Madame, there’s a man outside who says he wants you to make him a shirt. I told him that you only design for ladies, but he won’t take no for an answer, won’t go away, and demands to speak to you.’

‘Does he, indeed? Does this man possess a name?’

‘Oh, I’m sure he does, but he hasn’t given it.’

Louise heaved a great sigh. Whatever next would turn up to ruin her day?

‘Very well, Charlotte. Remain here while I go and dispose of him.’

A man wanting her to make him a shirt! Whoever had heard of such a thing—and whoever could he be?

She walked determinedly into the shop—to stare at Marcus.

As seemed always to be the case, the mere sight of him was sufficient to deprive her of all common-sense.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said foolishly. And then, to recover herself a little, ‘I might have guessed.’