‘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.’