‘It’s not the time or the place, is it?’
‘No. Too much is still uncertain, too much could still go horribly wrong. And you can’t kiss me here, Dominic – it’s your mother’s house and she may come in at any moment, or your cousin, or a servant to clear away the tea things. I could not be comfortable.’
He took her hand and raised it to his lips, brushing it with the lightest touch that still made her shiver with frustrated desire. ‘It’s such a pity,’ he said, his voice low and seductive but his eyes full of laughter. ‘Although I’m not sure if I wish you to be comfortable, precisely. I had something far more exciting in mind.’
‘You are incorrigible,’ she said, her voice wavering between sternness and laughter. ‘You don’t want to reduce me to a quivering wreck on your mother’s sofa any more than I wish to be so reduced. Admit it!’
Together they looked at the sofa, which was a fashionable creation in shiny lilac satin, its gilded frame embellished with sphinxes and nameless knobbly Egyptian decorations that might perhaps be intended for stylised scarab beetles. As well as being ugly, it had an undeniably spindly appearance. And it wasn’t very large. ‘When I reduce you to a quivering wreck,’ Dominic said, ‘I promise you it will be in private, and on something much more solid.’
‘A bed?’ she asked wistfully. How wonderful it would be if all this could be over…
‘A very large bed, a rug in front of a fire, a couch in my summerhouse at midnight… Meg, I can think of a dozen places. A hundred.’
It was perhaps just as well that Cousin Sarah entered the room just then, to see if Lady De Lacy’s guests needed any more tea, or anything else to make them quite comfortable. Since they required nothing that she could provide, nor anyone else, they thanked her for her kindness, and took their farewells.
Dominic drove Meg to His Grace the Duke of Fernsby’s house and left her there, promising to return in an hour or so and escort her home. When she emerged, bearing the aspect of one who had been crying at some recent point, she said with a sniff, ‘Maria has been in a fever of anxiety over the last few days, and I cannot wonder at it. I was sorry not to be able to give her more definite news.’
‘How did she react to your suggestion that Lord Nightingale may have embezzled her fortune? I think you had not shared the suspicion with her before?’
‘I had not. She was very angry, of course, but when she had cursed our father in as many ways as she could conceive, and encouraged me to do the same, she agreed that it was all too horribly plausible, and that there can be no other obvious explanation for what has happened. She asked me to tell you that she is very sorry you should have become embroiled in our affairs, especially to the extent of finding yourself subject to something as shocking as blackmail.’
‘She has not said anything to distress you, or given you bad news? I know it is not in the least my affair, my dear, though I wish it were, but I cannot help but observe…’
Meg smiled rather damply at him. ‘How ungallant of you, to draw attention to the fact that I have been crying, sir! No, I am teasing you. We have been indulging ourselves in talking of the past, and of all the things our father has deprived us of, not least the chance to know our brother.’
‘The future will be very different, for all of you.’
‘Oh, Dominic, I do hope so.’
35
A few days went by without any news. Mrs Greystone, who still remained in complete ignorance of what was going on, emerged from her seclusion, but was still quite unsteady on her feet, and tearful, and made no protest when Meg said that she had no desire to attend any of the social engagements to which they had been invited, and thus had no need of a chaperon. It seemed safest to avoid public scrutiny, since it was now clear that none of Maria’s friends apart from Lady Primrose, who was so much more than a friend, could know of her disappearance or Meg’s impersonation of her sister. It was surely best not to risk close scrutiny now that it was unnecessary.
The wedding was now just a week distant. All of Maria’s trousseau had been delivered, but it was impossible to know if these magnificent clothes would ever be worn, and in what circumstances.
Meg had little to do all day now but to visit Maria, to ride and drive with Sir Dominic, to avoid her father, and to wait. By tacit consent, she and her sister’s fiancé had pulled back a little from the recent intimacy they’d shared. They found comfort in each other’s company – she did, at any rate, and she thought he did too. But they spoke of idle, trivial matters, and avoided discussion of serious subjects; particularly they refrained from speculating on whether Francis’s lawyer Mr Clarke would be successful in his enquiries. The consequences, if he were unsuccessful, were too horrible to contemplate. Dwelling on the matter could only make her anxious, and serve no positive purpose at all.
Sir Dominic did not renew his suit during this strange time, and Meg was grateful for his forbearance. She tried – and failed – to prevent herself from indulging in daydreams in which matters were magically resolved and she stood at the altar openly as herself and married him, while her mother, Aunt Greystone, Hannah, Maria and Lady Primrose looked on, smiling. In her fantasy, Angela Jones and Annie Gilbert were there too, with the little boys, as an acknowledged part of the family. It seemed most unlikely that this could ever happen, but when had daydreams ever been logical?
She tried too – and failed spectacularly again – to suppress seductive thoughts of what would happen afterwards, when she was alone with her husband, as they undressed each other in laughing haste and fell naked into the bed that he had promised her. He’d kiss his way down her body, his lips worshipping her breasts and then moving further; her hands would fix in his silky honey-brown hair and she’d give herself up to waves of intense pleasure…
But it might so easily never happen. If they could find no ammunition to counter Lord Nightingale’s blackmail, if her suspicions turned out to be false or impossible to prove, there would be no way out of their tangled situation without pain and scandal. Even if she quashed her fears and married Sir Dominic under her sister’s name – and she still wasn’t at all sure if he’d agree to that, or if she should – the fear of exposure must always cloud their happiness. Their children would be illegitimate, and forever vulnerable to discovery. But then if she refused to participate in the masquerade, refused to take that risk on herself, and on Sir Dominic and their unborn children, she’d be betraying Maria and placing her in all sorts of danger… How could she be happy, if she had put her own interests above her sister’s and left her in painful uncertainty?
The days passed slowly. Meg’s only real recourse was to escape into writing, and she found herself sketching out a fantastical novel in the Gothic style, with two heroines, a pair of twins, Melusina and Marianna, who had long been separated due to the cruel machinations of their guardian. He was a sinister Italian nobleman, who – for reasons presently unclear but which would no doubt reveal themselves in due course, not least to his creator – kept them imprisoned separately, one in a ruined castle, one in a rustic hovel in the middle of a dreary swamp. Meg lost herself in bloodcurdling prose and implausible situations, aware that she was pouring much of her real anguish into the thoughts and feelings of her long-suffering heroines. One of them was presently chained to the wall in a medieval dungeon, dressed in rags and straining against her bonds – no, it was an oubliette, which sounded much better, in the middle of a terrifying storm, and water was rising about her feet, creeping ever upwards. Was it all to end here, leaving her bereaved sister to seek bloody revenge? That was assuming Marianna ever found out what happened, but probably an aged retainer would tell her in a highly touching manner. Or maybe the aged retainer wouldthinkpoor Melusina was dead, when in fact she escaped at the last possible moment…
At this point, a note arrived from Sir Dominic, and Melusina was abandoned temporarily to her watery fate. Meg herself was summoned to tea at Lady De Lacy’s house once more; Sir Dominic would arrive to collect her later that afternoon.
She dressed herself with care in one of the new gowns: it had a blue silk bodice, puffed sleeves and a skirt trimmed with a series of fine horizontal pleats at the hem. She wore it over a long-sleeved habit-shirt of white-embroidered muslin that was almost transparent, and revealed what she hoped Sir Dominic would find to be intriguing glimpses of her upper bosom and arms. She had no idea what secrets were to be disclosed this afternoon, nor if the news was good or bad; she had an absurd need to be dressed well to arm herself against any eventuality. It was odd, she mused, how waiting felt like the worst thing in the world until it was almost over, and then one craved ignorance again as a preferable state. Thus might Marianna feel in her hut, as she waited anxiously for news of Melusina…
Sir Dominic was accompanied by his groom, and it scarcely needed his warning frown to prevent her from bombarding him with a dozen urgent questions during the phaeton ride. Fishwick was a highly trusted servant who had known the secret of Maria’s disappearance, but that didn’t mean his employer had shared the rest of the matter with him – the blackmail, and all their suspicions. ‘I had a brief note from your brother, asking if we could meet at my mother’s house again, which I have arranged. I know little more than that,’ he told her. He’d squeezed her hand reassuringly as he handed her up into her seat, but there could be no other form of communication between them for the moment.
When they arrived in Clarges Street, Fishwick took the ribbons and drove away; they might be a long while about their business, and Sir Dominic would not wish to keep his horses standing. ‘Your sister should arrive soon, if she has not already,’ he said in a low tone as they climbed the steps. ‘Francis said in his note that he felt it important she be here, and he is right, of course. She will have come veiled, to conceal her identity as far as possible, and will announce herself to my mother’s servants as you. But the time for such concealment is almost past, I hope.’
They were, in fact, the first to arrive, but Francis appeared a few minutes after them, with Maria and Lady Primrose on his heels. They were all shown into Lady De Lacy’s larger drawing room, since they were too numerous for her private sitting room, and there was an awkward little silence as they all removed their hats and seated themselves. Cousin Sarah was not present, and Dominic’s mother was looking particularly tragic in purple and grey, with a great many trailing scarves. Dominic and Maria smiled at each other rather ruefully, on this their first meeting since her flight, but there was no time for any sort of conversation between them.
Francis, very pink in the face, said, ‘I’m very grateful to you, Lady De Lacy, for allowing us to meet here. Excessively kind of you, ma’am, I must say. And though it’s not to the purpose and we should get on with our business, I’m happy as a grig to see both my sisters together, after so many years! I hope… But it’s not the time.’ They murmured agreement; Maria was seated in the middle of a large sofa, with Meg on one side and Lady Primrose on the other, and clasped a hand of each. Sir Dominic was at his mother’s side, in case of spasms, and Francis had the place of honour, in a gold Louis XV armchair with a rather thronelike aspect that was oddly appropriate in the circumstances.
‘I trust we’re all up to snuff on the matter – no secrets here?’ Francis said, and they all nodded. ‘Well then, I have to tell you that my sister Margaret, Meg, was quite right. Dashed shocking thing, and I’m sorry to have to say it in front of all of you, but there’s no dodging it: the old b… the old gentleman has been doing exactly what you feared – making free with Maria’s fortune. The better part of it’s gone, according to what Clarke was able to discover.’
