Marigold's Marriages Read online

  Falk seized her arm. “Enough of this unseemliness, madam. The will is genuine, and you and your son no longer have a place in this family.” He pointed toward the staircase. “The dower house has been cleared of your property, and the room you have temporarily occupied here is being attended to right now, so I suggest you oversee matters before the carriage arrives at the door.”

  “How very premature to issue such orders before the seal on the will was broken. But then, I suppose if you already knew what the document contained ...” As she allowed her voice to trail suggestively away, she again heard the robin’s encouraging chirrup. She couldn’t help recalling how Merlin had met with his death. A robin. The same one? No, that was preposterous....

  “Just prepare to depart forthwith, madam! This family no longer welcomes you,” Falk replied, toying with the old gold ring he always wore. It was formed like an eagle, with outstretched wings and eyes of coral.

  “This family never welcomed me, sirrah, but Perry is Merlin’s legitimate child, and therefore heir to all this!” She swept an arm to encompass the hall, but in her heart of hearts she no longer knew anything for certain. What if an actor had indeed been hired to play the clergyman?

  Falk saw the uncertainty pass briefly through her eyes, and he smiled anew. “No, Miss Marchmont, your son is my brother’s illegitimate child,” he declared, trying to usher her toward the door.

  She resisted, shaking her arm free and whirling to face him again. “I will fight you through the courts!” she cried.

  To her astonishment, the entire family broke into laughter. Even Mr. Crowe was moved to smile. “My dear lady,” the lawyer said, “even presuming you had the funds for such a legal battle, you would still lose. Mr. Arnold is unassailable.”

  “Unassailable? How so?” she demanded.

  “It is quite impossible for you to win, Miss Marchmont,” Mr. Crowe insisted, declining to explain more.

  Falk addressed her again. “Enough, madam. I wish you to be gone from this house before another night passes. Is that clear, madam?”

  “Why do you always measure time in nights, not days?” She couldn’t help asking, for it was something that had always puzzled her about the Arnolds. A week to them was seven nights long, not seven days. Even Merlin’s will referred to the fourth night of April.

  Falk didn’t answer the question, but turned to snap his finger at two footmen, who came immediately. “Miss Marchmont is leaving,” he said.

  “I despise you, Falk Arnold,” she whispered, and a pin could have been heard to drop as she went on in a clear tone that could be heard by everyone. “You have always coveted my son’s birthright, and the only way you can lay your grasping hands upon it is by falsifying your own brother’s will! Is that how you achieved your other legal successes? Have you cheated and lied your way through the courts?”

  He turned to the footmen. “Remove this person,” he said tersely.

  The robin pecked at the glass, then burst into a defiant little song. Again he inspired her, and her next action was gloriously impulsive. There was an elaborate silver inkstand in front of Mr. Crowe, one of its bottles containing red ink, the other black. Before the footmen could take hold of her, she seized the red ink, and tossed the contents at Falk. There were startled cries as scarlet spots spattered all over him. “Throw her out!” he shrieked, searching for a handkerchief with which to mop the stains.

  But Marigold had already gathered her skirts to walk proudly toward the great staircase. She glanced at the window, and saw the robin fly away. As she ascended to the floor above, her head was held high, and no one could tell how utterly devastated she was. She reached her room to find two maids hastily packing her things. They faced her uneasily. “It was Mr. Falk’s orders, madam,” said one.

  With great difficulty, Marigold contained herself. It wasn’t their fault, so it would ill become her to blame them. So she said nothing as she went out onto the balcony. Her brief moment of doubt concerning the legality of her marriage was already a thing of the past. The odious Crowe had forged a new will to suit Falk, and she knew she stood little chance of proving it. The hopelessness of her situation made her feel numb. What would become of her now? And of Perry? She was without income, and disowned both by her own family, and by the Arnolds. How was she going to provide for herself and her son?

  Several minutes passed, and she could hear the maids whispering together, but suddenly they fell silent. Turning, she saw them gazing nervously at the door as Falk’s angry steps approached. The moment he entered, they gasped at his red-spotted appearance, then scurried out. He’d tried to wipe the ink, but had only succeeded in smearing it, and his continuing fury was such that he trembled visibly.

  She knew he’d dearly like to strike her, and she steeled herself. His amber eyes were like stones as he crossed the room to block her escape on the balcony. “I’ve waited a long time to be rid of you, madam, and believe me, in spite of your childish outburst, I am enjoying every moment”

  Never had he seemed more large and frightening, and as she pressed back against the balustrade, she was uneasily conscious of the drop to the gardens below. But to her relief he came no closer.

  “I could never understand what my brother saw in you, and I certainly can’t imagine why he had to go the length of making you his wife.”

  She gave a sharp intake of breath. “So you admit he married me?”

  “We are alone, my dear, so why should I pretend? Yes of course the will is false, but as you so shrewdly observed, I would go to any length to have your son’s birthright. It is now mine, and there is nothing you can do about it. Crowe is my creature through and through, and all trace of the marriage ceremony has been expunged. But there is an actor in my pay, and he is very eager to earn a fat purse for swearing before witnesses that he ‘officiated’ at a fake ceremony between you and my late brother. Attempt to take me to court, and you will very shortly be out of countenance, for I cannot lose when it comes to the law.”

  “We will see about that,” she replied in a trembling voice.

  He laughed. “I have protection, my dear.”

  “Protection?”

  “That is what I said.”

  Suddenly the robin fluttered down beside her on the balustrade. In its bill it held a marigold flower and a rowan leaf. Falk froze, and stepped involuntarily backward as she instinctively held out her finger to the little bird. For the briefest of moments she again thought he was afraid of her, but almost immediately his face became a mask. Then he lunged forward to grab her by the arms, and the robin dropped the flower and leaf as it flew into the room in alarm.

  Falk shook her roughly. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  The fall to the gardens threatened, and she was afraid. “I—I don’t understand. You know who I am!”

  “Don’t meddle in my affairs, madam, for you have no idea of my power,” he said softly, his face so close she could feel his breath.

  “Power?”

  Releasing her, he slowly crushed the flower and leaf with his heel. “Just remember nothing can defeat me, my dear. This is the last time you and I will ever speak, madam, a fact for which I am eternally thankful.”

  “The feeling is mutual, sir,” she replied.

  “Be gone from here within the hour.” He turned to leave, but the robin flew down from the top of the bed canopy, where it had taken refuge. It skimmed so close over his head that he was forced to duck, but then the bird swooped over him again and again, until he was obliged to raise an arm to fend it off.

  It seemed to Marigold that there was a definite purpose in the robin’s attack, and at last she saw what it was. Making a particularly daring dive, the bird seized Falk’s splendid golden hair with its tiny claws. For a moment Marigold couldn’t believe her eyes, for the thatch of curls lifted slightly, and she glimpsed the gleaming bald pate beneath. Falk Arnold wore a wig!

  With an apoplectic oath, he swiped at the robin, which darted out of reach before returning to another angle
of attack, this time seeming concerned with Falk’s coat pocket. A handkerchief protruded, and the robin seized it with its bill, then tugged with all its might. The handkerchief came out in a rush, bringing with it a red billiard ball that fell heavily to the floor. The ball would have rolled beneath a chest of drawers, had not Falk put out a foot on it. Its purpose evidently fulfilled, the robin flew out past Marigold, then away across the park, chirruping triumphantly as it went.

  Marigold was bemused by the truth about Falk’s hair, but even more by the bird’s incredible antics. As she gazed down at the handkerchief and billiard ball, Falk bent to retrieve both. There was a loud ripping sound as the back seam on his long-suffering breeches gave up what had been a very long struggle.

  In spite of everything, Marigold could have laughed. Oh, how good it was to see his humiliation. But somehow she kept a straight face as he stuffed the ball and handkerchief into his pocket again, then carefully backed out from the room.

  Chapter Three

  A fortnight later, the June sun was setting as the London to Bristol stagecoach rattled into the yard of the Spread Eagle Inn, which stood in the shadow of Windsor Castle. Horses stamped, bells rang, and ostlers shouted as a single passenger stepped down to the straw-strewn cobbles. It was Marigold, and she was to stay here overnight, before visiting Perry, who had still to be told the awful truth about their savagely reduced circumstances.

  She wore a lilac silk pelisse and matching gown, and her rich red-gold hair was swept up beneath a gray jockey bonnet from which trailed a long cream gauze scarf. For the sake of Perry’s rightful claim to his inheritance, she was still wearing her wedding ring and calling herself Mrs. Merlin Arnold, but she had discarded black because of the peculiar Arnold tradition of wearing mourning for only a month.

  The last two weeks had been very wearying. She’d left Castell Arnold within an hour of her confrontation with Falk, and traveled to Lancashire to see her mother and stepfather, in the vain hope of finding refuge there. Her mother would gladly have taken her in again, but her stepfather was still obdurate. In his eyes a sin committed at sixteen remained unforgivable at thirty, and that was the end of it.

  From Lancashire she’d come south to London, to inquire about positions as governess or lady’s companion, for there was little else that a respectable woman could do. Needless to say, there were more impoverished ladies than positions, and there was nothing immediately available.

  For a week she’d struggled to find something, but already what little money she had was running out, and there would be fees to pay when she removed Perry from Eton. So this morning she’d woken up knowing she could no longer postpone the evil moment of telling her son he must leave the school he loved, and that instead of being master of Castell Arnold, he had nothing. What Fate had in store for them after that, she hardly dared think. Tonight, however, she’d put on a brave face, and keep up appearances by staying at a good inn.

  She stepped aside as fresh horses were brought for the stagecoach. The first lamps were being lit around the galleried yard, and there were lights inside too, giving everything a warm and welcoming glow. The innkeeper’s name was written above the taproom door; HENRY G. FINCH, LICENSED TO SELL LIQUORS, BEERS, WINES, AND SPIRITS. A bird within a bird, she thought, looking at the inn sign of an eagle with outspread wings.

  The design was an unpleasant reminder of Falk’s ring, and therefore of Falk himself, and all the feathered inmates at Castell Arnold. She would have preferred the inn to be called the Rose and Crown, the Royal Oak, or even the Pig and Whistle! But then she chuckled quietly as a fat pigeon perched on top of the sign to roost for the night, and promptly deposited a runny white memento which trickled down over the painted eagle. How very appropriate, she thought, thinking of Falk again.

  Taking a deep breath, she gathered her skirts to walk around the stagecoach toward the taproom, but suddenly a scarlet curricle swept smartly in beneath the archway from the street, and the nearest of its two dapple gray horses almost knocked her down.

  The gentleman at the ribbons hauled his unnerved team to a halt, and leapt furiously to his feet. “Have you no sense, madam? You might have been killed!”

  “Forgive me, sir, I fear I wasn’t thinking.” She looked up at him. There was something compelling in his quick hazel eyes. He was several years older than she was, and his sky blue coat and white breeches showed off his tall, broad-shouldered shape. A top hat was tilted back on his unruly black hair, and his tanned face was ruggedly handsome, although marred now by his anger.

  “In future, pray save your preoccupation for safer surroundings!” he snapped.

  Annoyance stirred belatedly through her. It wasn’t entirely her fault, he’d been driving too fast. “And perhaps in future, sir, you should drive with more care in such a confined area,” she replied, with a flash of her old spirit.

  For a long moment he met her gaze. That he found her retort annoying she did not doubt, but he said nothing more as he gave her the coolest of nods, then sat down to move the curricle on past the stagecoach. But at least he drove sensibly now, she thought with some satisfaction.

  Later, after resting longer than planned in the third-floor room, which was all she could afford, she went down to dinner. She didn’t want to enter the dining room unescorted at such an advanced hour, having found over the past week that a woman alone was a magnet to a certain species of disagreeable male.

  But tonight she had no choice. She had to eat, and the landlord, Mr. Finch, a burly ex-pugilist known as “Bull” Finch to his friends, had flatly refused to send a meal up to a guest who was clearly of little consequence. Bracing herself, she paused to adjust her gray-and-gold cashmere shawl, then she caught up her lilac skirt to go inside.

  To her relief it proved almost deserted. Shadows blackened the furthest corners, and it was partitioned into settle-backed boxes that were only lit when candles were specifically requested. Without looking at any of the occupied tables, she hastened to the far side of the room, and slipped into one of the empty boxes, then sat with her back to the rest of the room, hoping not to be noticed because of the tall settle.

  The newly employed waiter, a nervous, large-nosed young man by the name of Bunting, came to take her order of beefsteak pie, potatoes, and peas. Yet another bird, she thought as she asked for a candle and some wine. She was brought both, although the latter might more accurately have been described as vinegar. However, to make a fuss would be to attract attention, so she put up with it.

  As she awaited her meal, she glanced around the room. It was long and low, with dark oak beams and uneven walls. The usual sporting prints hung in prominent places, especially those of prizefighters, and gleaming copper pots and pans were fixed around the stone fireplace. Pots of white geraniums stood on the windowsills, and outside the Windsor street was quiet.

  A lantern shone on a corner opposite, and a lady and gentleman strolled down from the direction of the castle. Several carriages passed by, and she heard a church bell sound the hour. Her attention returned to the room itself, and suddenly she noticed a picture that was far from being a sporting print. It was on the wall right next to her box, and depicted a robin with several distinctive white feathers in its wings. Her lips parted, and her heart seemed to lurch as for a horrid moment she was back at Castell Arnold, watching Falk Arnold’s precious toupee being dislodged by a tiny bird that was David to his Goliath.... She looked more closely at the picture, and was puzzled to note that it wasn’t protected by glass, indeed it had been subjected to considerable attack with what appeared to be ordinary dressmaking pins. There were pinpricks all over it.

  Her gaze was torn from the picture by the sudden arrival in the dining room of two rather affected, noisy gentlemen. Gentlemen? Perhaps not, for like the wine, they were in fact examples of that more vinegary creature, the Bond Street lounger. Drawling, foppish to a fault, and lacking in all manners, they sprawled in a box across the aisle from her.

  The other diners fell uncomfortably s
ilent, and a number of them hastily quit their boxes. Those who remained were careful to become as unremarkable as possible. The loungers thundered their fists upon the table for service, for there was no sign of Bunting. “Waiter? Candles! And be quick!”

  Marigold had frozen with dismay the moment the newcomers arrived, because she recognized them. Lord Toby Shrike and Sir Reginald Crane—bird names, naturally—were cronies of both Falk and Merlin Arnold, as well as intimate acquaintances of Alauda, albeit prior to Lord Avenbury. Marigold did not doubt that by now they would know about Merlin’s will, nor did she doubt that if they recognized her their taunts would be both loud and insulting.

  Thrown into a quandary, she quickly averted her face and moved her own candle so that it cast more shadow over her. Should she remain and risk their jeering? Or would it be wiser to quit the room and go hungry? But just as the latter course seemed the only sensible option, Bunting scurried in with her dinner.

  The loungers were displeased. “Demmee, sir! Candles, this instant!” cried Sir Reginald, banging the table. His long nose resembled a crane’s bill, and his trumpeting voice was not unlike that same bird’s call. He wore gray-and-black stripes, and his cheeks looked suspiciously rouged.

  Lord Toby flicked his perfumed handkerchief over his immaculate purple brocade sleeve. He was a pale, thin-faced man with brown eyes that somehow managed to look very cold, and he was by far the most unpleasant and dangerous of the two, for if he believed himself even mildly insulted, he demanded satisfaction. To her knowledge, at least two men had died at his hand.

  The moment Sir Reginald called, Bunting turned with a dismayed start, for it was the first he’d realized the loungers were there. Sir Reginald drummed his beautifully manicured nails upon the table. “Candles, demmee. We’ll take that one in the meantime,” he declared churlishly, nodding at the candle on Marigold’s table without observing whose it was.

  Bunting dithered, torn between duty and his dread of loungers. Sir Reginald rose with an oath that would not have disgraced the worst den in the East End, and reached over to snatch the candle. As he did, he at last saw Marigold. “I’ll be demmed,” he breathed.