The Youngest Dowager: A Regency romance(67)
‘I assume you do not need me to tell you that he was a patron of the arts, a man of highly refined artistic taste and the most rigorous standards?’
‘No, you assume correctly. I need to know what manner of man, what manner of… husband he was.’
Collier’s lips thinned. ‘What I am about to tell you is well known in certain circles, but never spoken of. The late Earl had certain very discreet tastes. You will have observed the strict discipline of his household affairs: I believe he took a similar approach to his amatory affairs. Not every woman is prepared to tolerate such demands but a very young, very innocent wife may be cowed into it. And, of course, if you know where to purchase them, these pleasures may always be bought.’
‘The bastard.’ Marcus had expected to hear that Charles was unkind, uncaring, demanding the highest standards in his self-centred existence, but not this.
‘Indeed,’ Sir Frederick said.
Suddenly Marcus needed to know more, to understand the full depths of his cousin’s character. ‘And can you put a name to an establishment he patronised?’
Sir Frederick picked a sheet of notepaper from a rack by his side and dipped the quill pen in the standish. He scratched a few lines, dusted it with sand and folded the note. ‘Here.’ He passed it over. ‘If you really have the stomach for it.’
Marcus glanced at it, then tucked it into his pocketbook. ‘Thank you. If you, and others, knew of this, how could it be that her father did not?’
Sir Frederick got to his feet. ‘Oh, he knew all right. But Sir George would never let a detail like that worry him if he saw the chance to sell his daughter and finance his own pleasures.’
Marcus walked slowly into the hall and waited while the doorman found his hat and cane. He did not want to visit Madam Hall’s establishment, but he had to. He needed to understand exactly what the woman he loved had endured because only then could he seek to heal her. Only then could he teach her to trust again.
Ignoring the passing hackney carriages, he struck off on foot along King Street and across St James’s Square, into Charles Street towards the Haymarket, and then Panton Street.
Marissa climbed into the barouche outside Hatchard’s after a satisfactory half hour spent browsing. ‘Matthews, can you recall where that art gallery was that Lady Smithson recommended when she called the other day? I think you were in the room serving tea when we were discussing it. I must think of a wedding present for Miss Venables and Lady Smithson said they had some interesting Italian Renaissance prints that might appeal.’
‘Oxendon Street, I believe, my lady. It is just off the Haymarket. Shall I direct the coachman to take you now?’
‘Yes, please.’ Marissa settled back against the leather upholstery and let her thoughts stray as they made their way along the crowded thoroughfare. As usual, they strayed to Marcus, and a little smile curved her lips as she thought of him. The warmth of the sunshine soothed her, the bustle of the street surrounded her with life and vitality, and her spirits rose. Could there be some way for them to be happy together? She could not deny her love for him, her response when he kissed her. And he desired her, liked to be in her company, was a friend to her. If only she could pluck up the courage to talk to him about it.
Even without any plan, without any clear idea of what she could do to get out of this coil, Marissa felt suddenly optimistic, almost happy. He was a good man, a kind man. Surely there must be a way for them?
As she thought it the carriage turned into Panton Street and there Marcus was, right in front of her, on the left-hand pavement, just turning to ascend the short flight of steps to a glossily painted front door. ‘Matthews, there is his lordship. Coachman, pull up!’
‘Drive on!’ Matthews commanded with uncharacteristic sharpness, and the startled coachman flicked his whip over the bays’ rumps. The horses broke into a canter and the barouche was past the house before Marcus’s hand dropped from the knocker.
‘Matthews.’ Marissa twisted round in her seat to glare at the under-butler, perched up behind on the footman’s seat. ‘How dare you? I had expressly asked the coachman to pull up.’
‘I am sorry, my lady,’ he stammered, red to his hairline. ‘I think you were mistaken and that was not his lordship. I wished to save any embarrassment caused by you greeting a perfect stranger.’
It had been Marcus and Matthews was so obviously lying that Marissa was momentarily speechless. When she recovered herself she realised she could hardly pursue the subject in an open carriage. The driver was doubtless agog over the exchange as it was.
‘Drive home, please,’ she ordered stiffly.
Inside Madam Hall’s discreetly painted front door Marcus found himself in a dark, heavily panelled space. There were a few white marble statues which reminded him, with a shiver, of Southwood Hall. The butler, a saturnine individual, bowed and enquired his business.
Marcus experienced a momentary doubt about the information Sir Frederick had given him. In his youth in Jamaica he had visited as many houses of ill repute as the average young buck out with a party of high-drinking friends, but nothing like this.
He looked round at the heavy drapery and subdued lighting and the many doors that opened off the hallway. ‘I wish to speak to Madam Hall.’
‘Do you have an appointment, my lord?’ Marcus realised that the butler must have recognised him, although he had not offered his card. Given that he had spent so little time in London, the man could only know him from his resemblance to his late cousin. Perhaps Sir Frederick was correct after all.