But she did not seem to think so. ‘I am glad to hear it. I wish you the best of luck.’
He felt like strangling her—or perhaps kissing her into silence. He was dying to kiss her mouth—the short, curly upper lip showing a glint of two front teeth. He said, ‘Come, now that you are refreshed, dance with me as a token of friendship.’ He rose and offered her his hand.
Marguerite took it and rose too, putting down her glass. ‘Of course, Your Grace.’
The dance was a waltz, and he put his arm around her waist, drawing her as close to him as was proper, and a little more; he said, ‘As we are to be friends, Lady Marguerite, perhaps you could stop calling me Your Grace? My name is Thomas.’
The only person who had ever called him Thomas had been his mother; he did not know why he had proposed this. He bent his face to hers and inhaled her scent—something fresh and flowery, gardenias, perhaps.
She considered. ‘That might be a little too intimate, don’t you think? Perhaps I could call you Argyle.’ She smiled at him—she smiled at him as a friend. It made him wild. He said, ‘Thomas,’ between gritted teeth, but he was not sure she heard him. He tightened his arm around her and swept her around the ballroom, and after a while he felt her yield a little. But when the music stopped, she curtsied deeply, and turned her back on him.
* **
At another ball, seeing her sitting alone on a sofa watching Betsy dance with a sturdy young man, he went to sit next to her. Betsy wore another horrible gown in a virulent shade of green silk, showing an excessive expanse of bosom slightly veiled by an intricate sapphire necklace, but her face was fresh and animated. The young man was smiling at her.
Argyle said, ‘I see you have succeeded in making your new friend the toast of the town.’
Marguerite laughed. ‘Hardly. I have only managed to make a few people see beyond the hideous clothes. Everyone who saw her on a horse admired her.’
‘Yes, that was a clever piece of staging, I admit.’
She ignored the sarcasm in his voice. ‘Thank you. She is a nice girl.’
‘If you say so,’ he said indifferently. ‘I keep meaning to ask you, what happened to the girl you assisted in the street some weeks ago? Did they treat her at the hospital?’
She looked at him as though surprised he would remember, or take the trouble to inquire, but only answered, ‘Yes, they cleaned her cut and dressed it—and they put a bandage on her ankle to support it.’
Thinking he was being sympathetic, he said, ‘I expect riding with her in the hackney must not have been a comfortable experience—she appeared to me to be exceedingly dirty.’
Marguerite stared at him. ‘She was. But I wonder how clean you or I would be, Your G-Argyle, if we lived in the conditions she has to suffer.’ Seeming to realise she had spoken abruptly, she changed the subject. ‘The hackney driver proved to be a good man—he waited for us at the hospital, and then drove her home before taking me to my house.’
His lip curled. ‘With the amount of money I gave him, madam, it was the least he could do.’
Her eyes flashed. ‘I had not thought to ask him to stay—he could have taken the money and left. Not everything is about money, Your Grace.’
‘And you ventured into the slums with her.’ It was not a question.
‘Of course—I could not have left her by the side of the road, could I? She could barely walk, and she was carrying the baby. I was in the hackney, it was perfectly safe. But I tell you, Argyle, the conditions these people have to live in are appalling. The open sewers, the refuse everywhere…I could not believe…something has got to be done.’
The mocking tone was back in his voice. ‘Do not tell me you mean to go into politics?’
‘We shall see about that.’ She eyed him speculatively. ‘But are you not obliged, or at least expected, to attend Parliament?’
‘I am. And I do.’ His voice was cold.
‘Well, perhaps you and your peers should be doing something about it.’ She rose and left him, stepping towards Barnfield who was coming towards her holding a glass of ratafia. Argyle remained seated for a moment, watching her with an inscrutable expression on his face.
* * *
After some weeks it became obvious he was not making any headway. This made him so short-tempered that even Curtis, his valet, a man of stolid disposition who was used to his master’s curtness, remarked upon it.
‘Is something amiss, Your Grace?’ he asked, after he had been sent four times to fetch a different coat. Usually his master, though availing himself of the services of a most excellent tailor, was almost indifferent to what he wore.
His grace stood in front of the mirror, swearing under his breath as he discarded yet another neckcloth. His thoughts seemed to be elsewhere, since he did not answer for a moment. Then he said, ‘What was that, Curtis?’
‘Nothing, Your Grace. I was only asking if you needed anything else.’
‘No, that will do, thank you.’ He tied the last cravat in the simplest of knots, passed a hand through his hair and went out without a backward glance. Curtis decided, not unreasonably,that his master must be troubled by matters of the heart. He picked up the discarded neckcloths to press them again.
