Belinda Goes to Bath

6

And Sylphs, like other pretty creatures,

Learn from their mammas to consider

Love as an auctioneer of features,

Who knocks them down to the best bidder.

Thomas Moore

Had Belinda still been at the inn, the marquess might have begun to wonder at the folly of calling on her. But by the time he arrived at the Queen Bess, it was to learn the stage-coach had left.

He was as annoyed as if Belinda had deliberately avoided him. He returned to the castle, ordered his travelling carriage, and set out in pursuit. He traced them as far as Beckhampton to find they had left an hour before and learned they would probably be stopping next at Shepherd’s Shore.

He drove on, and as the ground began to rise, so he found himself enveloped in the same snowstorm that had beset the passengers. They were not at Shepherd’s Shore and he wondered whether this stage coachman was as crazy as the last had been and had forged on to Bath. He began to worry, seeing in his mind’s eye Belinda lying in a snow-drift, calling for help.

He came to the lodge-gates and remembered that the Earl of Twitterton had a hunting-box there. He stopped and inquired at the lodge and was told that the stage-coach had gone up to the house.

He was driving the carriage himself. His valet was warmly ensconsed inside and one complaining tiger hung on the backstrap.

The marquess jumped down and told his tiger to take carriage and horses to the stables. The snow was still falling fast, but it had become wetter and the air was perceptibly warmer.

He presented his card to the butler, who answered the door. The earl himself came out to meet him. He was a bluff, soldierly man who had met the marquess before on several occasions and gave him a warm welcome, not asking the reason for the unexpected visit, assuming the marquess was taking shelter from the storm.

The earl said they had already dined and that the servants would prepare something for him, but the marquess had eaten a hasty meal at Beckhampton and so he said he would change out of his travelling clothes and then join the family. As his valet laid out his evening clothes and powdered his master’s hair, the marquess wondered how Belinda would look when she saw him again. Would she blush? Would she look angry? No doubt the stern Miss Pym had read her a lecture on the folly of her ways.

He found to his surprise that he was nervous. A footman led the way down to the first floor, saying the family and guests were in the drawing-room.

The double doors were thrown wide and the marquess’s name was announced. The marquess raised his quizzing-glass and studied the faces turned towards him. His heart sank.

The earl’s son, Lord Frederick, a brutish-looking young man, was standing by the fireplace. Seated beside the fire was Penelope Jordan. On a sofa, side by side, were her parents, both glaring at him. In a corner was some sort of poor relation, a faded lady netting a purse. The Countess of Twitterton rose to meet him. She was a thin, hard, horsy woman, wearing a row of false curls over her forehead. She should not have gained such a name by marriage as Twitterton, thought the earl. ‘Twitterton’ suggested a vague, dithering sort of female. The countess should have been called ‘Basher’ or ‘Floggem’. She looked like a man masquerading as a woman.

She was an excellent shot, the marquess remembered, and killed anything furred or feathered with a deadly aim. Perhaps that was why this drawing-room, albeit a drawing-room in a hunting-box, did not show any feminine frills or china. Trophies of the countess’s hunting prowess stared glassily down from the walls. All the animals she had killed looked as if they had died in a fit of boredom. There were also various bad oil paintings of slaughtered game. There was one painting of the countess herself over the fireplace. She was dressed in a filmy blue gown, her hair powdered. The artist had done his best to romanticize his subject, painting broken columns in the background, a Greek temple, and an approaching thunderstorm. But he had painted the expression in her eyes perfectly so that the painted countess surveyed the gathering in much the same way as the real-life one was doing – with a hard, autocratic, judgemental stare.

‘Didn’t think a little bit of snow would drive you off the road, Frenton,’ she said. ‘May I introduce …?’

‘I already know the Jordan family,’ said the marquess. Penelope struck an Attitude. It was meant to represent The Broken Heart. She put one hand on her bosom, stretched the other hand out and cast her eyes up to the ceiling.

‘Got indigestion, Miss Jordan?’ demanded the countess. ‘Rhubarb pills, that’s the thing. Shouldn’t have, though. Got a splendid chef, Frenton. That venison we had for dinner was hung till the maggots were crawling out of it. Sit down, Frenton. How’s hunting?’

‘I don’t know,’ said the marquess. ‘Don’t hunt.’

‘But your papa kept the best pack in the county!’

‘One of his many extravagances,’ murmured the marquess. He looked around pointedly. ‘The lodge-keeper told me the stage-coach had descended on you.’

‘Yes, and a confounded nuisance it was, too.’

‘Hah,’ said Sir Henry in a voice he hoped was laden with sarcasm. ‘Ha! Ho!’

‘And where are the passengers?’ asked the marquess.

‘In the kitchens where they belong.’

‘Is the coach The Quicksilver?’

‘Yes,’ said the countess. ‘Why?’

‘They took refuge with me for a few days.’

‘There you are,’ said the earl. ‘Just proves what I’m always saying. This stage-coach business has got to stop. Not only does it allow the common people freedom to move hither and thither about the countryside, but come a little bit of bad weather, and they think they have the right to thrust their noses inside the door of every noble mansion.’

‘You are behind the times,’ said the marquess. ‘It is not only commoners who use the stage-coach.’

‘Go along with you,’ said the countess. ‘This lot’s got a Methody among ’em.’

‘I escaped that pleasure,’ said the marquess. ‘I entertained them as guests.’

‘With no concern whatsoever for my daughter’s feelings,’ barked Sir Henry. ‘Told you so.’

‘You don’t need to do that sort of thing any more, Frenton,’ said Lord Frederick.

‘What sort of thing?’

‘Well, let a lot of commoners put their thick boots under your dining-table, don’t you see. I mean, it was different when we thought the French Terror would spread over here, but they ain’t going to rise up and hang us from the lamp-posts, so we don’t need to be pleasant to ’em any more. And a damned good thing, too. Beg pardon, ladies.’

‘How refreshingly unsophisticated you all are,’ said the marquess. He raised his quizzing-glass, studied the cut of Lord Frederick’s coat, and sadly shook his head. ‘Now I am not so high in the instep, and by having these stage-coach people in my company, I found a treasure.’

‘Going too far. Too far,’ roared Sir Henry.

The marquess treated him to an icy stare. ‘By which I mean I discovered two of the best voices in the country.’

The countess regarded him suspiciously. ‘Mean that opera caterwauling?’

‘Anything you like,’ said the marquess. ‘They have an enormous repertoire.’

‘Have ’em up,’ said Lord Frederick. ‘Bit of fun. Bit of a lark, hey?’

Lady Jordan stepped into the breach. ‘I do not think you would enjoy these persons’ company at all.’

The countess, who had been about to refuse to send for the passengers, turned contrary and glared at Lady Jordan. ‘I’ll have ’em here if I want.’

Belinda and the passengers were eating a late supper in the servants’ hall. They all knew the Jordans were staying as guests. Belinda was glad that they were confined belowstairs.

It was therefore with a sinking heart that she heard the summons from the butler that they were all, except the coachman and guard, to go up to the drawing-room.

She smoothed down the creases in her gown as she stood up. She wished there were some way she could change into evening dress, but the butler was waiting impatiently and so, keeping very close to Hannah, she mounted the stairs.

When she reached the drawing-room, she half-turned to flee. There was the Marquess of Frenton, there the Jordans. They must have come together, thought Belinda. He must mean to marry her if he has started taking her about with him on visits.

Penelope was wearing a white silk slip of a gown with a silver gauze overdress fastened with gold clasps. A heavy gold-and-garnet necklace emphasized the whiteness of her throat and her glossy brown curls were bound by a gold filet. Her gown was looped over her arm as she stood up, revealing a surprisingly thick leg and shapeless ankle. A thin ray of sunlight shone into the gloom of Belinda’s mind as she saw that leg. Also, Belinda had taken off her pelisse before leaving the kitchen and knew that her muslin morning gown was ruffed and vandyked with the finest lace, and for almost the first time she took comfort in the armour of expensive fashion.

The marquess made the introductions. ‘Yes, yes,’ said the countess impatiently. ‘Which are the singers?’ The Judds edged forward, holding hands.

‘Then sing!’ commanded the countess, waving her hand imperiously towards a spinet in the corner. Hannah went with them and pretended to be helping them by lighting the candles that stood on top. ‘Sing something John Bullish and patriotic,’ she hissed.

She returned and took a seat in the corner next to the poor relation, who turned out to be a Miss Forbes, a fourth cousin of the countess.

‘I do hope they don’t put Lady Twitterton in a taking,’ whispered Miss Forbes. ‘When she was but a gel, she threw a vase of flowers at an Italian opera singer’s head.’

And indeed, it did look as if the countess was regretting her invitation. ‘One song and that’s that,’ she muttered in an aside to her son.

This time it was Mrs Judd who played the accompaniment. Mr Judd stood with one hand in his waistcoat pocket and the other resting on the edge of the spinet. He threw back his head, stuck out his chest, and began to sing:

‘Come, cheer up, my lads! ’Tis to glory we steer,

To add something more to this wonderful year;

To honour we call you, not press you like slaves,

For who are so free as the sons of the waves?’

The Judds looked considerably taken aback, but then delighted as the Earl and Countess of Twitterton and their son began to roar out the chorus. Hannah saw the stark disapproval on the Jordan family’s faces and gleefully prepared to join in.

‘Heart of oak are our ships,’ screeched the countess.

‘Heart of oak are our men,’ bawled the earl.

‘We always are ready; Steady boys, steady,’ roared Lord Frederick in a deep bass.

And then the Twitterton family, Hannah, Miss Wimple, Mr Biles, Belinda, and the marquess all joined together in the last of the refrain:

‘We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again.’

Mr Judd’s performance was cheered. Much emboldened, he went on to sing: ‘Oh, the roast beef of England, And England’s roast beef!’

The countess was noisy in her delight and called to Mrs Judd to sing something. Hannah almost held her breath. She hoped Mrs Judd would not sing something operatic. To her relief, Mrs Judd threw a rather saucy look at the earl and began to sing merrily:

‘A Captain bold, in Halifax, who dwelt in country quarters,

Seduced a maid who hanged herself, one morning in her garters,

His wicked conscience smited him, he lost his stomach daily,

He took to drinking ratafee, and thought upon Miss Bailey.

Oh, Miss Bailey! unfortunate Miss Bailey.’

Then, when the company had finished laughing at the plight of Miss Bailey’s ghost, Mrs Judd sang a sentimental ballad. This, too, pleased the countess immensely.

Penelope looked covertly at Belinda Earle. But the girl was still not beautiful at all; in fact, she looked crushed and diminished. Why was it then that Frenton appeared to be trying to seem unaware of her and Lord Frederick kept beaming at Belinda with a silly smile on his face? Then, horror of horrors, Lord Frederick left his post by the fire-place and drew up a chair next to Belinda’s. Before the arrival of the marquess and these hell-sent stage-coach passengers Lord Frederick had been behaving with Penelope just as he ought. He had paid court to her beauty and found every opportunity to be in her company.

Penelope could not know what was going on in Lord Frederick’s rather simple brain. He had been thinking what a rare treat this evening must be for a common lady like Belinda and how she would no doubt cherish it forever and talk to her grandchildren in later years about the evening she spent in a noble household. It made him feel grand and sort of Lord Bountiful-ish. In a pause in the musical recital, he asked Belinda what she thought of the hunting-box. Her reply startled him. ‘It always amazes me,’ said Belinda, ‘that a building called a mere “box” should always be so very large and grand. Mind you, my lord, I have only stayed at one before and that was at Lord Bellamy’s near Nottingham.’

‘Coach break down there as well?’ he asked sympathetically.

‘Oh, no,’ said Belinda. ‘Lord Bellamy is my great-uncle.’

‘Haven’t seen Bellamy this age,’ said Lord Frederick, barely able to believe her.

‘He died last year,’ said Belinda. ‘My Great-Aunt Harriet, Lady Bellamy, lives in The Bath, and it is there that I am bound.’

He looked at her doubtfully. ‘I have heard of ladies travelling by the stage because it saves the expense of out-riders, postilions and goodness knows how many other servants.’

‘It was the decision of my uncle and aunt to send me by the stage,’ said Belinda.

‘How came it you landed in at Baddell Castle? Pole break?’

‘No, worse than that,’ said Belinda. ‘The driver was drunk and fell asleep. The coach left the road and we landed in the middle of a river. It was there that the marquess found us.’

‘Well, if that don’t beat all. What an adventure. Were you hurt?’

‘I sprained my ankle.’ Belinda poked a neat foot forward to show him an ankle wrapped in a bandage.

‘I say, you should rest that. Better get Mama to find you a bedchamber. Hey, Mother, this lady’s hurt her ankle. If you ain’t got any bedchambers made up, Miss Earle can have mine. She’s old Bellamy’s great-niece, by the way.’

‘How is he?’ asked the countess.

‘Dead, my lady.’

‘Sad. What of?’

‘A seizure, my lady.’

‘And what of that moralizing wife of his?’

‘At The Bath, my lady. I am to stay with her.’

‘Sorry for you and that’s a fact.’ The countess fell silent, for the Judds were preparing to sing again. They sang several popular duets and rounded off their recital with a rousing rendition of ‘Rule, Britannia!’

Amid the noisy applause, the countess strode over to the piano and accosted them. She began to question them about themselves and, on finding out all about the seminary, and then about the Marquess of Frenton’s introductions, an idea hit her. She knew that her peers considered her an eccentric and the only way she could ever outshine anyone was on the hunting field, but since only ladies of her own rather masculine stamp hunted, there was not much of a feeling of success in that. But if she could produce these singing Judds in her own drawing-room in the town house in London as her find, she would be able to put a good few aristocratic noses out of joint. Overwhelmed with gratitude, the Judds breathlessly agreed. Satisfied and delighted with their gratitude, the countess rang the bell and ordered bedchambers to be made ready for the stage-coach passengers whom she had previously expected to bed down on the floor of the servants’ hall.

The marquess was wondering what to do. He wanted to talk to Belinda but she was being monopolized by Lord Frederick. His eyes drifted over the assembled company. Miss Wimple, wearing a tremendous turban to disguise her shaven head, was talking in a low voice to the Methodist minister. The marquess studied the minister and his eyes sharpened. Hannah, watching from her corner, noticed that Mr Biles saw the marquess looking at him and the way Mr Biles flushed and averted his eyes.

Penelope at that moment caught Lord Frederick’s eye and beckoned to him. With a hurried excuse to Belinda, he rose and went to join her. The marquess took his vacated seat.

‘I am pleased to see you again, Miss Earle,’ he began.

Belinda bowed her head but made no reply. Her eye-lashes were very long and silky, the marquess noticed. Belinda Earle was like a good painting that one could examine at length and each time discover something new and pleasing. ‘I was on my way to The Bath,’ he said, unable to bring himself to say that the sole reason for his journey was to look for her. ‘I was very surprised to find the Jordan family here.’

Belinda looked at him, startled. ‘I had assumed you came with them!’

‘No, unfortunately they had to leave the castle.’

She had a sudden hope that he had sent them packing. ‘Why?’

‘Because I am having all the rooms redecorated and, alas, Miss Jordan is made quite ill by the smell of fresh paint.’

Meanwhile, Lord Frederick was telling a highly irritated Penelope about Belinda’s good social standing. ‘Odd, is it not?’ he asked.

‘What is odd?’ snapped Penelope.

‘That Miss Earle should choose to travel by the stage.’

‘There is a great deal odd about Miss Earle,’ said Penelope, lowering her voice. ‘Do you know she had the temerity to make an assignation with the Marquess of Frenton?’

‘When? Where?’

‘She sent him a letter. My maid told me of it and I thought I had better warn that travelling companion of hers, Miss Pym, about it as her real companion was ill. But Miss Pym, as far as I can guess, did nothing. Miss Earle is a well-known hussy.’

‘How shocking,’ said Lord Frederick. ‘Thought Frenton was courting you, or rather, that’s what the gossips said.’

‘He was,’ said Penelope in a sad voice. ‘But I asked Mama and Papa to take me away, for I fear I and the marquess would not suit. He is a trifle old and set in his ways.’ She cast Lord Frederick a languishing look. ‘I prefer younger men.’

‘By George! And so you should, a delightful beauty like yourself, Miss Jordan.’

Lord Frederick’s brain, usually not very agile, appeared all at once to be working at a great rate. He had every intention of proposing to Penelope. She was rich and she was beautiful, and he could not understand why she had not been snapped up before. Lord Frederick was very much a man of his age. Love and marriage in his opinion definitely did not mix. One needed a pretty wife to grace one’s bed and table, but real pleasure was to be found elsewhere. He paid Penelope further compliments while his hot eyes ranged in the direction of Belinda Earle. He was sure she was the reason the marquess had pretended to need shelter from the storm. On to a good thing, too, thought Lord Frederick. He himself wouldn’t mind getting a leg over that. Young and sweet and, what was more important, no fear of the pox. Might try his luck with her himself.

The marquess, by talking on general topics and showing her every mark of respect, was trying to repair the damage he must have surely done in treating Belinda so vulgarly.

Belinda replied automatically, her spirits very low. It was obvious to her that the marquess had only kissed her because he thought she was damaged goods. When he had found out she was not, he had decided she was like any other boring female of his acquaintance, someone to talk civilities to. She did not know that behind the marquess’s calm eyes his brain was furiously working out some way in which he could get a chance to kiss that glorious mouth again. He was not yet sure whether he wanted to marry her.

The countess interrupted their conversation, asking the marquess again why he did not hunt, and Belinda was left with her thoughts. Penelope was flirting with Lord Frederick. How could she? marvelled Belinda. Lord Frederick, despite his fine evening clothes, had a low forehead and a leering, nasty look about the eyes. But Penelope was glowing and her beauty gave Belinda another sharp stab of jealousy.

Belinda furtively fingered her own thin, finely arched eyebrows and then looked miserably at Penelope’s thick, luxuriant ones. Also, as Penelope raised an arm to adjust a curl, she revealed a strong bush of hair growing in her armpit.

It was an age when gentlemen preferred ladies to have a lot of hair – everywhere. Never had false hair been in such demand. Not only should the hair on one’s head be thick and luxuriant, but the eyebrows were supposed to be thick, and the arms and the armpits seductively hairy. Some ladies, Belinda had heard, even shaved their arms regularly in the hope of encouraging growth. The newspapers abounded with notices advertising not only wigs but false eyebrows, and there were even advertisements for pubic wigs, complete with illustrations, there for anyone to see. Belinda saw the marquess looking at her and blushed deep red. No young lady should even think about pubic hair.

Hannah Pym was now holding a skein of wool for the poor relation. She saw the way Penelope leaned forward intimately to talk to Lord Frederick and then the way that gentleman’s eyes widened and he stared across the room at Belinda.

Hannah glared at Miss Wimple. She blamed the companion for starting all the gossip about Belinda, forgetting in her distress that it was Belinda herself who had given Penelope suspicions about the innocence of her character by writing that letter to Frenton. Damn Miss Wimple, thought Hannah. If only she would get really drunk and disgrace herself. But she was so taken up with that Methodist minister that she was behaving like a virginal miss in her teens.

Finally, the countess rose as a signal that the evening was at an end. Belinda, Hannah and Miss Wimple found they were to have a room each, the hunting-box having plenty of bedchambers so as to accommodate quite large parties of huntsmen.

Hannah would have preferred a room next to Belinda’s but found she was in the floor above. She decided to read one of her guidebooks before going to bed. A hush had descended on the house. Hannah read on and then decided Belinda was safe for the night. If only the girl could avoid the marquess for a little longer; Hannah was sure Frenton would propose to her.

Belinda, too, was reluctant to sleep. The marquess had looked as if there were many things he wanted to say to her. Perhaps he would call on her. And yet if he did, it meant he was of the same mind as before. He thought she was easy game.

At last she blew out the light and settled herself for sleep. One moment, she thought it would never come, and the next, she had plunged down into oblivion.

The marquess was having a painful interview with Mr Biles, the Methodist minister. ‘I do not think,’ said the marquess, feeling pompous, ‘that you are setting a good example to Miss Earle by flirting with her companion when you are a married man.’ Mr Biles turned red and then white and then looked sulky. Mr Biles, the marquess knew, lived in a village some ten miles from the castle. He was a wealthy man, son of a prosperous tradesman, and had married the daughter of an equally wealthy tradesman some six months ago. The daughter had been a middle-aged spinster when Mr Biles led her to the altar. She was a fat, plain, rather argumentative woman. It had been assumed her generous dowry had been the attraction, but the marquess was now not so sure. Mr Biles seemed genuinely smitten by the unlikely charms of Miss Wimple, shaven head and all.

‘I am sorry for Miss Wimple. I feel she has an onerous task,’ said Mr Biles defiantly. ‘Miss Earle—’

‘That’s enough!’ snapped the marquess. ‘Not one word. Miss Earle is a highly respectable young lady. Miss Wimple should be more mindful of her duties and guard her tongue.’

Trembling with outrage, the Methodist minister drew himself up to his full height of five feet two inches. ‘Miss Wimple is a precious pearl,’ he said. ‘I would do nothing to harm her. Just because you have a title and lands, you have no call to interfere in my life. You think you can walk over everyone. I, sir, am a Methodist and proud of it. I am not of the Church of England and need not fawn on every lord in the hope of a high living or a bishopric. I spurn you and all you stand for.’

‘Miss Wimple,’ said the marquess with a reluctant feeling of admiration for the minister’s sudden access of dignity, ‘is nonetheless a dangerous gossip. She does not have the interests of her charge at heart. On my arrival in The Bath, I have no other option but to call on Lady Bellamy, Miss Earle’s great-aunt, and tell her I consider Miss Wimple unfit for the position she holds. Good night!’

He walked back to his own bedchamber, but before he reached it, he saw Lord Frederick, in his night-gown, tiptoeing along the corridor. To the marquess’s amazement, Lord Frederick stopped at Belinda’s door, turned the handle and walked in.

The marquess quickened his step and grasped hold of that young man by the shoulder just as he was approaching the sleeping figure on the bed.

‘Wrong bedchamber,’ said the marquess icily, swinging Lord Frederick around.

Belinda gave an exclamation and sat up in bed.

Lord Frederick was holding a candle in a flat stick. The light from it illumined the two men’s faces.

Lord Frederick leered. ‘Sorry if I’m spoiling your game, Frenton.’

The marquess punched him full on the mouth and Lord Frederick went flying. The candle hit the floor and went out.

Belinda scrabbled feverishly with the tinder-box beside the bed and lit her candle.

Lord Frederick was struggling to his feet with a villainous look in his eyes.

‘You took me by surprise, you rat,’ he said. ‘Put up your fives.’

‘Come outside,’ said the marquess. ‘We cannot brawl in a lady’s bedchamber.’

‘Here and now,’ roared Lord Frederick. ‘I don’t care what your doxy thinks.’

The marquess struck him again, this time on the nose, and Lord Frederick reeled back.

‘Stop it!’ screamed Belinda. ‘You are waking the whole household.’

Lord Frederick lurched purposefully towards the marquess, blood from his nose staining the white front of his night-gown.

Suddenly Belinda’s bedchamber seemed to be full of people. Hannah was there, as were the Judds, the countess and earl, the Jordans, and several servants.

‘What are the pair of you doing, punching each other in the middle of the night?’ demanded the countess.

‘I found Lord Frederick in my fiancée’s bedchamber,’ said the marquess calmly, ‘and took appropriate action.’

Belinda blinked at him in a dazed way.

There was a sudden silence. Then Sir Henry Jordan gave tongue. ‘Do you mean to tell me you were courting my daughter while you were already engaged to this … to this …?’

‘Careful,’ warned the marquess.

‘Oh, Lord Frederick,’ cried Penelope. ‘You are hurt. I cannot bear it.’

She swayed and then neatly fell into his arms. ‘The deuce,’ said Lord Frederick, pushing her into her mother’s arms. ‘Let me get at him.’

‘Stop it, both of you,’ ordered the countess, ‘and tell me what this is all about. Frederick! What are you doing in Miss Earle’s bedchamber?’

Lord Frederick opened his mouth and shut it again. Then he raised the hem of his night-gown and mopped his streaming nose. Penelope screamed and averted her eyes. The truculence was dying out of Lord Frederick’s face and he was beginning to look puzzled.

‘Demne,’ he said, scratching his head, ‘looks like I got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Miss Jordan told me this evening that Miss Earle was no better than she should be, and so I decided to try for a bit of sport. Then when Frenton walked in, stands to reason I thought Miss Earle was his … er … little friend, if you take my meaning. Now Frenton says he’s engaged to her.’ He rounded on Penelope. ‘Why did you tell me such a hum?’

‘They cannot be engaged,’ gasped Penelope. ‘They only met the other week for the first time.’

‘It was love at first sight,’ said the marquess in an expressionless voice. ‘I am sorry I hit you, Frederick, but you were misled. My fiancée has suffered enough upset and distress. I suggest you go to bed and let me talk to her.’

‘There’s something havey-cavey in all this,’ protested the earl. ‘You never said anything about being engaged to Miss Earle when you arrived, and yet you must have known she was one of the stage-coach passengers.’

‘I am of a shy nature,’ said the marquess, ‘and my love for Miss Earle made me even more shy. Besides, I was stricken with remorse at having let her travel ahead on the stage in this weather.’

Belinda sat up in bed, unable to move or speak. The sheer gladness that had flooded her body when he had first said she was his fiancée was quickly ebbing away. The marquess’s eyes held a mocking glint now. He was making fools of the Twittertons and the Jordans, that was all.

One by one they all went out, all except Hannah Pym, who stood her ground.

‘You, too, Miss Pym,’ said the marquess.

‘Are you really engaged?’ asked Hannah.

‘Yes,’ said the marquess.

‘No,’ squeaked Belinda.

‘So,’ said Hannah, folding her arms, ‘what is going on?’

The marquess sighed impatiently. All he wanted was to be shot of Hannah Pym and to kiss Belinda Earle’s delicious mouth. He had said Belinda was his fiancée on the spur of the moment and to save her reputation. But now it seemed like an excellent idea. He would have Belinda Earle and that mouth of hers for his sole property for the rest of his life and he found the idea enchanting. On the other hand, he still felt guilty at having behaved towards Belinda in such an ungentlemanly way in the first place, and he had just made a noble gesture. So he opened his mouth and proceeded to put his foot in it.

‘It was all I could think of,’ he said. ‘Frederick has obviously been misled by Miss Jordan’s malicious and jealous gossip, although when I first saw Frederick entering here, I thought Miss Wimple might have had a hand in it. I had to save Miss Earle’s reputation, and so I said she was my fiancée.’

Belinda groaned and sank down on the pillows and drew the blankets over her head.

‘So now what are you going to do?’ asked Hannah.

‘Why, marry her, of course!’

‘Does she want to marry you?’

The marquess looked at Hannah in blank amazement. When did any woman not want to marry a wealthy marquess?

‘Go on, ask her, while I am still here,’ said Hannah grimly.

The marquess approached the bed. He tugged down the covers. Belinda’s furious eyes glared up at him. ‘Will you marry me?’ he asked.

‘No, I will not,’ said Belinda, and jerked the covers up over her face again.

The marquess swung round. ‘Do leave us, Miss Pym. Miss Earle is not your concern.’

‘No, I will not, sirrah. Miss Earle does not want you and so I shall stay right here until you leave.’

Belinda heard Hannah’s words, and instead of being grateful to her, she was suddenly and irrationally furious. Was her life always going to be dogged by middle-aged people who did not think she had a mind of her own?

She struggled up from under the blankets again. ‘I can fight my own battles, Miss Pym. Pray do as his lordship requires.’

‘I cannot argue with you, Miss Earle,’ said Hannah severely. ‘But I am going to fetch Miss Wimple. You are her concern and she should be here.’

Hannah marched out but left the door open.

Belinda surveyed the marquess with a militant eye. He was still in his evening dress and his hair was powdered. His eyes looked aloof and remote. ‘Well?’ demanded Belinda sarcastically. ‘Tell me all about this love at first sight.’

He sat down on the bed and looked down at her. ‘I was trying to save your reputation.’

‘Good!’ said Belinda, her eyes flashing. ‘Now you have done that … go away.’

It was obviously the moment to tell her he loved her, but his pride would not let him. He had already been made too vulnerable by this girl who could wrench his heart-strings so easily. She did not love him, he thought sadly, or she would not look so contemptuous and angry.

Then he began to find himself becoming angry. There was that mouth, just below his. He put his hands on either side of her body and leaned down. He bent his head … and passionately kissed a mouthful of blanket. Belinda had dived under the covers again. He stood up and stripped the covers off her and threw them on the floor. He knelt on one knee on the bed, grasped the front of her night-gown and jerked her up against him. ‘Now, you will kiss me,’ he said.

Belinda opened her mouth to scream. He covered her mouth with his own and began to kiss her with single-minded intensity. Belinda beat at his shoulders and then pulled at his powdered hair, giving it several painful yanks, but he had the rest of her body and mouth imprisoned. The hand holding the front of her gown was pressed tightly against her breast. Her body was turning to liquid fire and her lips were beginning to tremble beneath his own.

Hannah Pym stood in the doorway again. For a short moment, shock kept her silent. Such blatant passion was indecent. They were both alike. They must get married and leave the world safe for decent people who did not know the meaning of lust.

‘My lord!’ she called loudly.

The marquess dropped Belinda on the bed and then looked at Hannah with a basilisk stare. Hannah felt her authority shrivel before that stare. Hannah, the gentlewoman of independent means, fled; even Hannah, the housekeeper ruling over a large staff, melted away. She could feel herself back in the kitchens of Thornton House as a scullery maid. She felt like apologizing for her very existence, and only Duty, stern daugher of the voice of God, made her give herself a mental shake and say in a strong voice, ‘They’ve gone; fled. Miss Wimple and Mr Biles, and a footman tells me they’ve taken the earl’s carriage!’

‘Good riddance,’ said the marquess.

Hannah’s eyes flew to Belinda. Belinda was looking the picture of shame. If he had told her he loved her, she would be radiant. Men! thought Hannah bitterly.

‘Why have they gone?’ asked Hannah. ‘They had no need to flee.’

‘They had every need, madam,’ said the marquess. ‘Mr Biles is already married.’

‘Married? Does Miss Wimple know?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘But we must save her,’ said Belinda.

‘My dear heart,’ he said in a testy voice that robbed the words of any affection, ‘you are rid of a companion who did her best to blacken your name.’

‘I do not like her,’ said Belinda. ‘But I am going to try to find her. I cannot stand by and see even such as Miss Wimple ruined. She does not have much money, and if he abandons her there is nothing left for a lady to do but to go on the streets.’

‘Might stop her damned moralizing,’ said the marquess savagely.

‘We will all go,’ said Hannah soothingly. ‘My lord no doubt has a carriage.’

‘Which is staying in the stables.’

‘Which you will get out of the stables,’ said Hannah, ‘unless, of course, you have no affection for Miss Earle whatsoever.’

He looked at her in silence. Hannah met his gaze steadily. Hannah did not care a rap what happened to Miss Wimple, but she was frightened to leave matters between Belinda and the marquess as they were. If Belinda was allowed to go ahead on the coach to The Bath in the morning, then perhaps by the time the Marquess of Frenton should be calling on that moralizing great-aunt to ask permission to pay his addresses, he might instead have been snapped up by some designing female. And Hannah did believe that it was never any good for the path of true love to run smooth.

The marquess looked at Belinda. Her face was flushed and her hair tumbled and he realized with a shock that he found her very beautiful indeed and doubted that he would ever think of her as an ordinary-looking female again.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will change into my travelling clothes. Miss Pym, I suggest you go to the servants’ hall and tell the coachman that neither you, Miss Earle, Miss Wimple, or Mr Biles will be taking the stage. Oh, and I gather the Judds are to remain here. He will have an empty coach. Give me half an hour and then meet me in the hall!’