Chapter 12
Twelve
By Thursday night, the rumors were racing through the Beau Monde.
The servants, as usual, heard the rumors long before their betters did.
At Marchmont House, however, rumor swiftly turned into certainty, and members of the duke’s upper level staff knew well before nightfall that calamity had struck: Their master was marrying the Harem Girl.
They knew it because he told them so.
After the Birthday Drawing Room, when the Duke of Marchmont returned to change from court dress into evening dress, he summoned Harrison into his study. Osgood was there, too, as he always was, to write down whatever needed writing down. He did a great deal of writing down wagers lost and won.
He knew, therefore, that he could expect a draft for a thousand pounds from Lord Adderwood, who’d bet that Miss Lexham would not make her curtsey to the Queen before the end of the month.
He did not know until this moment that His Grace had lost the wager regarding Miss Lexham’s being wed before the end of the London Season.
“I’m getting married,” His Grace informed his two employees. “To Miss Lexham. Next week, perhaps.”
Both men maintained their usual wooden expressions. Both offered the correct form of congratulations.
Both felt queasy, albeit for different reasons. Osgood feared that a lady in the house would upset his neat order and disturb his papers.
Harrison, who had no intention of letting any female interfere in any way with his arrangements, was mortified at the prospect of having to abase himself to a person who had made a spectacle of herself in the newspapers—one who had, furthermore, administered to him a setdown that a certain footman had repeated to another.
Harrison had dismissed both servants without a character.
His Grace knew nothing about this. His Grace didn’t know one footman from another.
“I shall make a note for a special license,” said Osgood. “And the purchase of a ring.”
“I planned to go to Doctors’ Commons for the license tomorrow,” said the duke.
“Yes, Your Grace,” said Osgood. “Have you any particular requirements regarding the ring?”
“Indeed, I do,” said His Grace. “I shall see about that, too, tomorrow. While I’m in the neighborhood, I’ll stop at Rundell and Bridge.”
Rundell and Bridge were royal goldsmiths and favorites of the Prince Regent. The shop at Number Thirty-two Ludgate Hill included among its regular customers not only English royals and nobility but those European crowned heads who’d managed to keep theirs attached to their necks.
If Harrison had ever worn an expression, it would have grown grimmer. But all his thoughts were written on the inside.
His master, to his knowledge, had never personally selected and purchased a piece of jewelry for anybody since coming into the title.
It was Osgood’s responsibility to buy the gifts His Grace gave to his amours.
The duke’s wishing to visit Rundell and Bridge himself and choose the engagement ring himself boded ill.
The Harem Girl, clearly, had her hooks in him very deeply, indeed.
“I must pay a brief call tonight,” Marchmont said casually to his secretary. “I shall wish to bring a gift.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
No more was said. No more needed to be said. The duke was getting married. A gift to the party he was not marrying was in order, and Osgood would be expected to have a suitable parting gift on hand.
The duke gave no further instructions. It wouldn’t occur to him to do so.
Osgood, who operated independently of the household staff, knew exactly what was required of him.
Harrison, as usual, would ascertain what needed to be done next in his sphere and would communicate these requirements to those in the lower ranks.
When the duke went up to dress, he let Hoare know of the impending nuptials in the same offhand way.
Hoare wept, but then he wept over buttons and over-starched neckcloths.
The only reason Marchmont hadn’t sacked him was that he was used to him and it was too much bother to get used to somebody new. Everybody knew this, including Hoare.
After the master went out again, Harrison summoned the valet, cook, butler, and housekeeper to his luxurious parlor.
He gave them sherry and assured them that Marchmont House would continue to run as it had always run.
There would be a slight augmentation of the staff in order to properly attend to the increased responsibilities.
Otherwise, all would go on as usual. While there was bound to be a short period of adjustment at first, he did not expect significant interference or disruption in the day-to-day operation of the duke’s establishment.
To Mrs. Dunstan he later confided, “I foresee no difficulties whatsoever—fewer, in fact, than might attend had His Grace chosen differently. The Mohammedans do not believe in educating women. Everyone knows there’s little in ladies’ heads but fashion and scandal.
This lady will know even less of household matters than the average English gentlewoman, and she will be less inclined to tend to them.
We must not look upon this as a catastrophe but as an opportunity to enlarge the establishment. ”
Had Mrs. Dunstan harbored any lingering anxieties or doubts, Harrison’s confidence banished them. The following day, all the upper servants were cheerfully bustling about and bullying their inferiors, to prepare the house to receive its new mistress.
As to the unpleasant episode during her brief visit to Marchmont House—Harrison refused to let it trouble him. Once the lady lived under his roof, he told himself, she, like everyone else, would live by his rules.
Later that night, the duke paid a call to Lady Tarling.
Wearing the same wry smile she’d adopted on a previous occasion, she opened yet another velvet box. This one was green. This one contained a set of three gold floral bouquet brooches, set with colored diamonds.
They had been made to be worn separately or attached to form a tiara.
“How beautiful,” she said.
“I’m getting married,” he said.
She nodded and looked up. She was not surprised, except at how little the news surprised her. “I see.”
“I preferred that you not read about it in the papers first,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said. Whatever others might say, she had never deemed him entirely heartless. Or if he was, his good breeding masked it well.
She had heard rumors already. One always heard rumors, half of them nonsensical, but this one she’d found believable.
Perhaps she’d seen this day coming weeks ago, on the night he’d brought her the other generous gift.
It might have been then, or maybe on that morning in Hyde Park.
She wasn’t sure when it was, but at some point it had become clear to her that this man had given his heart elsewhere, a long time ago, whether he knew it or not.
Being prepared as well as intelligent, she accepted the news good-naturedly and congratulated him as a friend would do—and really, he’d been no more than that in recent weeks.
For what small regret she might feel, the magnificent brooches were more than adequate consolation.
By Friday afternoon, Marchmont had obtained the special license and ordered the ring. He went next to White’s, where he settled various wagers about whether he was or was not engaged to Miss Lexham and placed a bet against himself that he’d be married before the end of the month.
Thus, by the time Society descended upon Hyde Park at the fashionable hour, everybody knew and everybody was talking about it.
At six o’clock, the Duke of Marchmont appeared in Rotten Row.
He rode alongside Miss Lexham, who wore a rich blue riding dress of the latest mode.
Those able to get close enough said the color matched her eyes exactly.
A dashing plumed hat perched on her dark gold tresses.
She rode a spirited gelding, which she managed with ease.
The lively beast did want managing, for their progress was slow.
Even bitterly disappointed mamas and their equally dismayed unwed daughters hid their feelings.
They, like everyone else, wanted to be known to the next Duchess of Marchmont.
Everybody was made known to her except the ladies who’d shied away from her at the Birthday Drawing Room. These Marchmont somehow failed to see.
On Friday evening he dined en famille with the Lexhams.
The family gathered in the library after dinner, as they always did on informal occasions.
It was then Lexham said, “I heard about that ridiculous wager of yours, Marchmont.”
“So many fit that category,” said Marchmont. “To which one do you refer?”
“The one about whether you would or would not be wed by the end of the month. May I point out, firstly, that there’s only one of you—and some might take this as a sign of your turning into Lady Sophronia—and secondly, you’ve less than a week until the end of the month.
Would it not be logical to settle it with Zoe? ”
Zoe had been exceedingly proper all through dinner. Her dress was exceedingly improper. Once again her breasts were insecurely tucked into the world’s tiniest bodice. At present she stood at the window, looking down into Berkeley Square, where, at this hour, she was unlikely to see anything.
From where he sat, Marchmont had a profile view of her.
The candlelight glimmering in her hair and throwing part of her face into shadow made her seem remote, even mysterious.
He felt uneasy and found himself wondering whether he did know her, after all.
Then he told himself he was ridiculous: It was only a trick of the light.
Thrusting aside doubt, he said, “I find I’m not in favor of long engagements. Zoe, would you mind being married next week?”
“Next week?” said Lady Lexham. “But I thought that was one of your jokes. A short engagement, indeed.”