Edwardian Candlelight Omnibus (65 page)

“Now,” said Francine, stepping back and surveying the dressing table, “it is time for the lecture.”

“Rats!” said Tilly grumpily, looking remarkably like a slimmer version of her old self.

Undettered, Francine drew up a chair beside the bed and sat down. “Lady Tilly,” she began, “you must tell me exactly what happened last night.”

“I don’t see that it’s any of your business,” said Tilly sulkily. “I’m not a child.”

“You are an innocent when it comes to the art of lovemaking,” replied Francine.

“Well, it was all right until you started ringing that bell,” said Tilly huffily.

“And nothing happened to startle you or embarrass you?”

“Yes, well, there was something,” said Tilly, blushing.

“Then tell me, my lady, and I will help. I do not believe in this custom of keeping young girls in ignorance. I remember my own experience…” She paused, bit her lip, and then laughed. “But that, as your Rudyard Kipling would say, is another story. Tell me yours.”

Tilly hung her head, but the desire to confide was too much for her and, eventually, in halting tones, she told Francine of that strange kiss that had so repelled her, so attracted her at the same time.

Francine tried not to smile. Her mistress was an innocent indeed!

“It is quite usual,” she said. “One does not always simply purse up one’s lips, so… for the kiss. Which brings me to the main point. The marquess is a very experienced man, my lady. If you fall into his arms like the ripe fruit, it will all be too easy, and then perhaps he will return to Paris to seek his amours.”

“I know… these women exist,” sighed Tilly. “But they cannot surely compete with true love.”

“Ah, yes, they can. Some of the highest courtesans in France have been training since birth for their roles. They are witty and clever and never dull. Why do you think I made you read all those books and newspapers and go through so many rehearsals? You must keep him at arm’s length, just a little longer.”

“It seems so very hard,” said Tilly, climbing out of bed. “I mean, playing all these games when all I really want to do is send everyone away and be alone with him.”

“That will come,” reassured the lady’s maid. “For this evening, you must plead the fatigue. In fact, you do look a little pale.”

“Oh, that’s something else,” wailed Tilly. “How could I forget. Oh, Francine. We’ve a
ghost
at Chennington!”

The lady’s maid crossed herself. “Where did you see this apparition?”

Tilly explained about the horrible face that had looked back at her after the fire bell rang.

Francine’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And did it slide through the door?” she asked in an awed voice.

“No, it didn’t,” said Tilly, wrinkling her brow with the effort of memory. “Philip heard the bell and dropped me on the bed and ran to the window. And these two…
things
… came out from under the be—the room was half dark, you know—and then the awful one turned in the doorway and… and… then, it went out and slammed the door behind it!”

“There you are. It could not be a phantom. Did my lord see it?”

“No. He had his head out of the window. But no human could have such an awful face.”

“I have the plan,” said Francine briskly. “I will help you dress and then I will run along to your husband’s rooms, and if he has quitted them, I will come back for you and we will search for the evidence—just like Scotland Yard!”

Tilly reluctantly agreed. Soon she was dressed and soon Francine returned with the news that “my lord” had gone off to visit one of the tenants.

The two girls entered the marquess’s rooms and looked around nervously. The curtains had been drawn back, but the day was dark and the ivy outside tapped against the pane in a truly gothic manner.

They tiptoed into the bedroom and with a quick look at one another, knelt down on the floor. Francine slowly lifted the bedcovers up and both peered underneath. A deep snore came from a huddled black shape against the far wall. Tilly opened her mouth to scream, but Francine put her hand over Tilly’s mouth and whispered, “Ghosts do not snore. Fetch the lamp.”

With trembling fingers they lit the lamp and peered under the bed. Toby Bassett was revealed, deep in blissful sleep. The smell of stale whisky was appalling. An empty whisky decanter lay on its side on the floor.

“Monsieur!” called Francine in a sharp voice. Toby sat up and banged his head on the underside of the bed. He rolled over on his side and stared at the two women, then he rolled back and stared up at the bed. “Where am I?” he said at last in a faint voice.

“You are under Monsieur le Marquis’s bed,” said Francine patiently.

Toby groaned and rolled over and over until he lay at their feet, blinking his eyes in the light. He groaned and put his hand to his forehead. “I remember now,” he said. “I wanted to pinch some of Philip’s whisky and I saw him going off to Tilly’s rooms. So I crept into the sitting room and was just enjoying myself no end when I heard someone coming to the door. I took the whisky and doings and dived under the bed. Well, who should I see when I looked out but that great fat thing of a duchess, sitting in front of the fire.

“Then, next thing, her daughter comes rushing in and they both dive under the bed and nearly smother me. I think it was her daughter, except her face was all scaly. So I went to sleep. Couldn’t stand the sight of them,” he added casually, forgetting that his beloved fiancée was one of the two women to whom he was referring. “Don’t tell Philip. He’d murder me.”

Tilly had recovered from her fright, relieved to learn that the mansion was not haunted after all. She helped Francine raise the shaky Toby to his feet, reflecting that he was one of the few men who became improved by a hangover. His tousled locks fell romantically over his pale forehead and his dark eyes burned with a seemingly romantic fire. Toby groaned again and buried his head in his hands. “I will go and fetch the sal volatile,” said Francine, departing swiftly and leaving the door open.

“I won’t wait,” said Toby, struggling to his feet. “Must get a bath and a change of clothes. Can’t be found like this.”

He staggered and clutched hold of Tilly, who supported him to the door. “Please don’t tell Philip,” pleaded Toby. “He’d think it was a bit much. I mean, passing out under his bed.”

“I won’t,” promised Tilly.

“Philip’s a lucky man,” said Toby, suddenly focussing on the heart-shaped face turned up to his own. He bent and kissed her on the cheek.

“What
the hell
is going on here?” demanded the Marquess of Heppleford from the doorway.

Tilly blushed guiltily. “Toby just dropped by to see if there was any sal volatile,” she lied.

“Must go,” said Toby and bolted from the room. The marquess eyed his wife. He was amazed at his own feeling of fury at seeing Tilly in Toby’s arms. He remembered that quite a lot of women found Toby attractive. He, the marquess, had felt invulnerable up till that minute, encased in the armor of his own good looks. Now he began to doubt their power to charm.

“What are you doing in my rooms?” he demanded harshly.

“Looking for you,” said Tilly calmly, although her heart was hammering against her ribs.

He closed the door behind him and locked it. “That is what I like to hear,” he said, moving slowly toward her. “It was time you came looking for me.”

Tilly opened her mouth to say she hadn’t come looking for him and then remembered her promise to Toby. Francine, listening in the corridor outside, fled. Action must be taken quickly. It was too soon!

“Why was Toby kissing you?” demanded the marquess, catching her hand and drawing her against him.

“It was a brotherly kiss,” said Tilly, breathlessly. “He had been drinking last night and felt awful, and I was just being sympathetic.”

“Well, in the future, you will be sympathetic to no one but me,” said the marquess, tracing the line of her cheekbone with his finger.

Tilly could feel her treacherous body beginning to tremble against his and made a last stand. “What about our contract?” she cried. “We weren’t going to meddle in each other’s affairs. What about that woman in Paris?”

“I must have been mad,” said the marquess. “I did not realize I had all this here. You have grown very quickly into an enchanting woman. Kiss me, Tilly.”

Still, she turned her head away. “It’s too easy,” she whispered. “When you’re tired of me, you’ll go looking for another mistress.”

“No,” he said slowly. “I don’t think I will. You must trust me, Tilly.” He put his hand under her chin and forced her to look at him. She stared up into those eyes as deep and as blue as her own and knew that she was helpless. His hand was loosening the bone pins that secured her hair and it came tumbling about her shoulders in a red cascade.

“Kiss me, Tilly,” he urged, winding his hand in the tumble of her hair. “Kiss me… now.”

She closed her eyes, feeling the now familiar hard lips against her own, searching and probing. The little sounds of the outside world penetrated for a few moments: the sound of the birds squabbling in the ivy; the patter of rain against the window; a servant somewhere along the corridor, whistling as he went about his work; and then all sight and sound went spinning away as she became more deeply enclosed in a dark world of passion, where nothing existed but the feel of his long fingers and the pressure of his lips.

Crrrump!
Like an exploding bomb, a brick hurtled down into the remains of last night’s fire, sending a huge, suffocating cloud of ash and soot swirling around them. They fell apart, choking and gasping, and then Tilly ran to tug open the window while the marquess rang the bell and unlocked the door. To his surprise, a bevy of footmen almost fell into the room. The marquess’s feelings were suddenly as black and suspicious as his soot-streaked face. He prided himself on the efficiency of his servants, but it did seem odd that so many should answer the summons of the bell when he hadn’t even called for help and could have been ringing for his shaving water.

The marquess and Tilly looked a sorry pair. Both were covered in black soot and ash from head to foot. Both were suffering from the dizzying effects of shock and interrupted passion.

When Masters arrived to announce that Cyril Nettleford, his lordship’s nephew, was waiting belowstairs, the marquess’s wrath knew no bounds.

“What in hell and damnation is going on in this house?” he roared. “First some fool rings the alarm bell when there’s no fire, then someone throws a brick down the chimney, and now that unmitigated ass, Cyril, is camped out in my drawing room. Tell him to leave, Masters!”

“I am afraid I cannot do that,” said Masters. “You have always welcomed any of your relatives before this, my lord, and you have not issued any orders to the contrary. Mr. Nettleford has been accommodated in the Blue Room, my lord, and his hired carriage has been sent back to London.”

“Of all the—” began the marquess, but Tilly placed a soothing hand on his arm. “I shall have a quick bath, Philip, and see if I can get rid of him.” And before he could reply, she was gone.

Cyril Nettleford waited impatiently in the drawing room. It was not the lord he wanted to see but the lady. He had seen the Beast on her wedding day and, knowing the terms of the old marquess’s later will, had been delighted. He had been ecstatic at the news from Paris. Philip would never beget a legitimate heir, the way he was carrying on. And he, Cyril, stood to inherit the marquess’s fortune if no heir were forthcoming. But he had also learned at the wedding that the marquess had not known of the later will. A visit to the family solicitors then revealed that the marquess now
did
know and was quite prepared to do something about it. Cyril had arrived at Chennington to see if there was anything he could do to put a spoke in the married couple’s life. He was sure there would have been no reconciliation at this early date (for what wife would not be furious at her husband spending his wedding night in the arms of a French tart?), but he wanted to make sure there would
never
be one.

His heart sank as Tilly was announced. What the
hell
had happened to the Beast? A slim redhead, dressed in a saucy tailored skirt and striped blouse, stood before him. Her eyes were wide and a dazzling blue and not the little crinkled slits he had remembered. And her hair was no longer frizzed, but twisted and coiled by the hand of a genius. She was wearing some faint and elusive perfume that was seduction itself. How on earth was Philip going to keep his hands off her?

Tilly was equally amazed at what she saw. She thought Mr. Nettleford looked like a species of spotted snake. He had lank fair hair and lank Piccadilly weepers growing down either side of his face. His face had a greenish tinge that was marred by clumps of angry red spots, and his eyes were green and slightly protruding. He wore the latest thing in double-breasted suits and his spats gleamed as whitely as the tops of Beau Brummell’s riding boots no doubt used to gleam across the spinneys and fields of Regency England.

“So kind of you to invite me,” he said, rising to his feet.

Tilly decided it was time to deliver the cut direct. “I rather gather you invited yourself, Mr. Nettleford, and as we already have a houseful of guests…” She let her voice delicately trail away, but Mr. Nettleford had been snubbed by experts. “Oh, good,” he cried. “Obviously you mean that with so many guests, what difference does another one make. Ha, ha, ha.”

Tilly winced. She knew that when people laughed in books it was written down as “Ha, ha, ha,” but never before had she heard someone who actually laughed like that.

Tilly was about to persevere in her attempt to get rid of him, but the wily Cyril guessed so before she opened her mouth and counteracted by changing the subject—dramatically.

“You must have been amazed at the terms of my great uncle’s will, Lady Tilly. I mean the
second
will.”

“Really?” Tilly raised her eyebrows in the haughtiest manner possible. “I certainly found the will, but I did not read it. It is my husband’s business, after all. Don’t you find it so irritating, Mr. Nettleford, when people poke their noses into what does not concern them?”