FeverFantasy

CHAPTER NINE

The Marquis de Galle was not amused. When his mother had informed him two months ago that he had best prepare for their extravagant family reunion, to be held at Land’s End, he had been filled with a dismal sense of trepidation. He had yet to experience a family affair that didn’t devolve into a much-too-personal scrutiny of the Marquis’ life to date. Inevitably, it was decided that he was destined to be an aging, dissolute rakehell, who would die a lonely, insignificant death. God, how he hated these affairs! He adored his family, but of late they had far more unsolicited criticism than usual to offer. The Marquis took a deep breath, plastered a smile on his face, and squaring his shoulders, entered the asp’s nest.

“Dion! My boy! We were wondering if you’d ever come out of hiding,” his father said boisterously. With a flash of a devilish grin he promptly excused himself from what he knew was coming.

“Mere.” The Marquis moved to his mother’s side and kissed her cheek.

“Ah, Dion! Handsome as ever!” She favored him with a lovely smile that he knew far better than to be fooled by. It always went this way. Compliments to begin then the inevitable muck-raking of the rake. Into the muck. Burying him over his head.

“And you are ravishing as ever, mere,” he replied. His father had married a French aristocrat, and mere was what her children had always called her.

“Why, thank you, Dion. But tell me something, where did you find your housekeeper? Are those cobwebs?” She pointed a graceful hand at the ceiling, “or the latest fashion cultivated by the Belle Monde?”

“Mother.” He dropped her preferred form of address.

The lovely Duchess de Galle inclined her head. “I merely wonder. I gave you two months advance notice. I thought you might manage to have the estate properly cleaned in that time.”

“Mother,” he warned.

The Duchess smiled brightly, the subject changing as quickly as she was wont to change her mind. “Have you found a woman yet?”

“Mother.”

“That’s right, I am your mother,” she said, eyes narrowing, “and as your mother I have the right to ask. Can I help if I don’t want to see my son fritter his best years? Dallying with wenches and spending his old age childless?”

“I am not frittering my best years—”

“So you say! The women you sport with, they’re nothing but perfumed trollops, married at that!”

“In case you haven’t noticed, dear, dear interfering and nosy mere, I have not been sporting of late with trollops, perfumed or otherwise,” he commented dryly. His brother entered the room. “Paul!” he exclaimed, relieved. With Paul present, it would be two against one.

“Quit calling him that ridiculous name. He has a perfectly respectable name, and it won’t hurt you to use it,” commanded the Duchess.

Paul cut his mother a look of disbelief. “Apollo is far from a perfectly respectable name, mere. There’s nothing respectable about it. Bloody hell! What possessed you to name your children after Greek gods?”

“Really,” the Marquis was quick to unite with his brother on the issue. A united front might prevail against the formidable Duchess. “Dionysus? The god of wine and orgy? What kind of name is that for child?”

His mother tipped back her head and regarded her sons down her delicate, aristocratic nose. “A perfectly good one, and I suppose you think that explains why you tried to imitate your namesake so well?”

“It was a heavy weight to bear. You’ve three children who are so ashamed of their names your daughter goes by Arty. Arty!”

“Artemis is a--”

“I know,” the Marquis and Paul said in unison. “Perfectly respectable name."

"In what uncivilized part of the world?” the Marquis added.

“Besides, I didn’t name you after Bacchus for the reasons you’re trying to live up to. You vastly overrate your intellect if you think he was naught but the god of wine. Bacchus, or Dionysus, is from whence the word tragedy is derived, which later became equated with play or theatre. I named you after--”

“Tragedy? You named me for gloom and doom?”

“I named you for my favorite form of entertainment. Theatre. Leave it to you to find another form of entertainment to associate it with."

“In case you haven’t noticed, I haven’t been to London much of late. So your criticism of my sport, or lack thereof, holds no water.”

“I know. And that worries me too!”

Paul gave Dion a dry look. “You can’t win with her, brother. Until you’ve wed and settled down to producing heirs, she simply won’t be happy.”

“Is it so much to ask that a woman have grandchildren to spoil before she dies?” the Duchess cried dramatically.

“I’m sure Paul will provide you with heirs before long—“

“Leave me out of this. You’re first,” Paul shot a withering glance at his brother. “Don’t drag me in—”

“You’re every bit as capable as I.”

“Paul is only twenty-four,” the Duchess reminded. “You’re thirty. You’re getting old, Dionysus. Old, old, old.”

“God’s balls, Mother!”

“I despise that curse. For all you know, she might have breasts. Besides, I want only the best for you. Why haven’t you been to London lately? Strange rumors have been circulating."

The Marquis glared at his mother, turned on his heel, and stalked from the room.

The Duchess arched a brow at her youngest son, “Really, he is so touchy of late!”

“I’ve been hearing rumors. Rumors that the Marquis de Galle has retired from society. Do you know, he hasn’t left Land’s End but once in the past two years?” Paul said.

“Why?” None of them had been able to penetrate the Marquis shell. And the de Galle family was renowned for its busy bodying.

Paul shook his head, “I suspect he still blames himself over that ward of his.”

“The Sullivan girl? That wasn’t his fault! Didn’t one of her young friends arrange the entire sordid affair?”

“Yes, but he told me once that although he blamed her at the time, if he’d been a better guardian and hadn’t shuffled Trina about from place to place, ignoring her, it never would have happened.”

“He was only your age when he accepted her guardianship! He wasn’t prepared to take on the welfare of a young girl!”

Paul shrugged, “All I know is he has a deep sense of failure. He feels he failed his friend, and can do nothing to fix it. You know how he is about honor.”

The Duchess was silent for a moment then said, “Still no word on the girl’s whereabouts?”

Paul shook his head, “I think that makes it even worse. For once, all his wealth and power can’t accomplish anything. He has searched high and low for two years now. He’s hired men. Nothing.”

“We need to get him out of this place,” the Duchess decreed sagely. “It bears the memory.”

Paul smiled, “I agree. Which is why I took your advice and arranged for his closest friends, the infamous Lords of Lussex, to be here today.”

The Duchess smiled. “Does he know?"

“I've not breathed a word of it. You?"

She shook her head.

"But as they are all traveling quite far to be here," Pauls continued, "I’ve graciously extended the Marquis' accommodations for the week. If they can’t snap him out of it, nothing will.”

“Apollo, you’ve always been my favorite,” the Duchess smiled becomingly.

“You say that to all of us,” Paul replied dryly.

_____

The Marquis de Galle found safe haven beneath an ancient oak and sat munching an apple, scowling. A week his family planned to be here! He wasn’t sure he was going to survive. It had been close to two years now. That long with no word of his ward. She seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth, and the Marquis fully accepted the blame. He had studiously avoided London, leaving Land’s End only once and then only to indulge in an act of ridiculous fancy. He had gone to Sacred Heart and stood outside the school staring at the darkened windows for hours. And then gone back home.

He knew the rumors that were circulating. Ridiculous, all of them. He’d been wounded in a duel and was no longer a man. He’d turned to young boys. Become a recluse, eccentric and jaded, indulging in all sorts of perverse activities. The hell with them all! The truth was he just wanted to be alone. There was nothing wrong with that.

He tossed the apple core away angrily, spitting out a seed he’d inadvertently munched, and leaned back into the tree with a sigh. Brushing his hand across his eyes, he squinted into the sun. For a moment, he’d been sure he saw his good friend Nicholas de Baal walking toward him. But Nicholas was in London, and rarely left. The Marquis closed his eyes, shutting out all discordant thoughts, only to snap them open when an apple core smacked him in the jaw.

“Dion, old chum! How the hell are you!? Tell me you haven’t really developed an appetite for young boys?” Nicholas smirked.

“Where the bloody hell did you come from?” the Marquis snapped, rubbing his jaw. His eyes widened in amazement when he saw Ramsey Calvin and Devin Cambridge loping across the manicured lawn.

Dion shot an accusing look at Nicholas. “Who invited you?”

“Since when had we stood on ceremony?"

Dion smiled faintly, conceding the point.

The four friends exchanged greetings, and spent several minutes making disparaging remarks about each other. Male bonding complete, they commenced to bring the Marquis up to date on the latest on-dits of London society, hoping to tempt him to return with them, thus resurrecting the famous foursome.

When simple invitations failed, Devin arched a brow at Nicholas, “Must be he’s heard of the new wench. Thinks he can’t compete in his old age.”

The Marquis ignored the remark.

“Yes, well, a chit like that wouldn’t spare a glance for the old Marquis here,” Nicholas said. “She’s a diamond of the first water! Incredible wealth, last of her line, and to top it off, a beauty the likes of which London hasn’t seen for a decade or more.”

“Sounds like you’ve set your cap for her,” the Marquis baited. “Next you’ll be raving over her maidenly virtues.”

Ramsey laughed, “No, I don’t think you have to worry about that. She’s taken London by storm, but doesn’t seem to be giving a lot of thought to virtue. Last I heard, the lady was claiming to have bedded me.”

“You too?” Devin said.

“What do you mean, you too?” Ramsey frowned.

“Well I heard she was claiming to have bedded me. As I recall, she said I’m the best.”

Nicholas snorted. “I heard I was by the far the most skilled,” he informed them.

The Marquis laughed, “Oh, this is fine! The three of you—sharing a wench! I don’t know the woman that could survive that.”

Nicholas shrugged, “I haven’t bedded her.”

“Nor have I,” said Devin.

The Marquis glanced at Ramsey, who shook his head.

Dion frowned, “What the hell? She’s going around claiming she’s bedded all of you, and hasn’t bedded any of you?”

“So it would seem,” Devin said. “Though for my life I can’t discern why. And it hasn’t seemed to tarnish her in the eyes of the ton a whit. They still laud her, although she brags of conquests like any man. Verily, it seems the woman is hell-bent on destruction.”

Nicholas nodded. “She’s been gaming heavily, too, from what I hear. Winning ridiculous amounts. It seems only to make her subsequent wagers more extreme.”

“What I don’t understand is how her betrothed tolerates it. What must her fiancé think of all this? She’ll be a handful, that one,” Ramsey said.

“It’s an arranged marriage,” Devin said, “Word is, she despises her betrothed. At Almack’s, she announced quite loudly that he was a dolt, and she’d sooner suffer torture than wed the man.”

“Well, he’s a lucky man to get Lady Ella,” Nicholas sighed, “She has the looks of an angel, and the fire of a woman that would be utterly uninhibited in bed. Would that she had spoken the truth about our liaison.”

“Lady who?” the Marquis said slowly.

“Lady Ella,” Nicholas replied, “A raven haired beauty that seems intent on ruining everything of consequence about herself. Who knows? Mayhap her betrothed will run pell-mell away from her if she continues on this course, and then she’ll come around for me in truth. One can always hope. If not, I may have to employ my every strategy to seduce her. Simply sharing a waltz with her bordered on erotic.”

Devin agreed. “That it did.”

“Lady Ella who?” the Marquis demanded.

“Damn, what is it, anyway?” Devin pondered. “Who pays attention to last names?”

The Marquis stood. “Try to stretch your paltry mental capacities and recall,” he growled.

“Bah.” Devin shrugged, “For the life of me, I can’t remember.”

The Marquis whirled on Nicholas. “I suppose you’ve lost your memory, too?”

Nicholas suddenly found his boots quite interesting and the Marquis turned to Ramsey. “It’s been a long time since we brawled, Ram old man,” the Marquis said irritably. “How is your memory faring these days? Perhaps a good clip to the head might jar it.”

“What was your question again?” Ramsey said.

“Lady Ella who?” the Marquis thundered.

“Ah!” Ramsey exclaimed, as though suddenly enlightened by the question. “Bennington, Lady Ella Bennington. Why? Do you know her?”

The Marquis’ jaw tensed, and his eyes turned slate gray. “No.”

Devin eyed him. “Yes you do. How?”

“I don’t know the chit.”

“Yes you do. You know her!”

“Perhaps,” he evaded. “Bitch,” he grunted.

“Oho!” Nicholas arched an interested brow. “She wouldn’t happen to be the one you mentioned a long time ago? The one you said tried to seduce you but was too young?”

“I told you never to bring her up."

“So she is,” Nicholas concluded. Any idea why she would try to destroy herself? It makes no sense.”

“Ah, yes it does,” the Marquis said heatedly, as he commenced pacing. “Indeed it does, if you know the vixen. What does her father say of the match? Will he relent?”

“Her father is recently deceased,” Nicholas replied. “Apparently her betrothed, this Terrence Bryce, met her father in the West Indies. When her father died, it was this Bryce who brought word, along with her father’s official will that stipulated she be disinherited unless she wed him.”

The Marquis laughed, a chilling sound. “How fitting. How completely just. Karma.” His laughter died away and his thoughts turned to Rafe Bennington. Lying about men, manipulating people without foresight of possible consequences. His eyes darkened, “Don’t you see what she’s doing?”

“No,” Nicholas replied, perplexed.

“What does a man seek from marriage? Wealth, title, and beauty. Of course heirs, but first it’s those three things. What can Lady Ella do if she doesn’t want to marry him, yet wishes to keep her inheritance? Get him to break the engagement. If she breaks it, she loses everything. But if she can force him to break it, she gains everything. Wealth can be frittered at the gaming tables. Title can be so besmirched as to become a hindrance. Beauty can appear so wanton as to become slandered, disparaged. Ah yes, I’d wager I know exactly what the little Lady Ella is up to. Trying to have her cake and eat it too. To give all appearances of becoming impoverished, besmirched, ruined, without actually suffering any harm at all. That, my dearest friends, is why she’s claiming to have bedded the three of you. She’s wagering that the rake’s ego will prevent him from disclaiming the lie. And it has, hasn’t it? Which of you has denied it in any salon or drawing room, but right here, today?” When not one of his friends replied he continued with a predatory smile, “Once before she set her wiles to work crossing me. Now she’s set her mind to ridding herself of an unwanted betrothal. Frankly, I pity the sot, but I won’t let her get away with it. If Lady Ella Bennington wishes to be ruined, it will be I, and only I, who has the pleasure of doing it. And it will not be in appearances only.”

“Oh?” Devin drawled.

“No.” The Marquis smiled. “Looks like I’ll be returning to London with you, after all.”

The howls and whoops were momentarily deafening. The Lords of Loose-sex would run the streets of London together again. It had been too long.

___

Across the lawn, the Duchess de Galle smiled.

They must have just finished telling him about Ella, a seed she’d planted. Good. She’d suspected it might bring him back to life. As she watched her eldest son, she noted that the gleam was back in his eye. The bounce back in his step as he crossed the yard with his friends. He would be going to London now, of that she was certain. God forbid he eve discovered how much she really knew about his life! Snooping was a mother’s privilege. From the diamond bracelet engraved with Ella’s name, to some discreet checking on precisely who Trina’s young friend had been, to a few carefully chosen interviews of the young friend’s companions at Sacred Heart—all had yielded interesting food for thought.

Now, she had but to sit back and watch. The game was on, and with luck, this time, the fiery young beauty named Ella—who seemed far more passionately French than boringly British to her—would make her son the victor.