The Beggarmaid

THE BEGGARMAID

A Regency Romance

By

Lesley-Anne McLeod

Uncial Press       Aloha, Oregon

2007

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2007 by Lesley-Anne McLeod

ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-002-1

ISBN 10: 1-60174-002-6

Cover art and design by Cait Bens

All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the author or publisher.

Published by Uncial Press,

an imprint of GCT, Inc.

Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

To Cait, my first reader, editor, reviewer, and wonderful cover artist.

Thank you, dearest daughter.

* * * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE

King Cophetua was a legendary, very wealthy king of Africa who loved a penniless maiden named Zenelophon. They were married, lived long and happily, and were much mourned at the end of their lives.

Their story is told in a ballad called King Cophetua and the Beggarmaid, which is printed in Bishop Percy's Reliques of Ancient English Poetry. The tale of King Cophetua is mentioned twice in Shakespeare's plays.

CHAPTER ONE

Lady Hanwood's May Day Ball would be afterwards accounted one of the most successful of the London Season; there could be no doubt of it. It was still early in the evening and already the over-warm reception rooms were crowded. Candles, shirt points and flowers would all droop within the hour. The air could grow only more stale unless someone risked opening one of the many classically-draped windows.

But all the beau monde was present, and it had been shaken from its customary ennui, for the Marquess of Wessington was in attendance. He had only recently returned to England from abroad, and any hostess who could tempt him to attend at her ball would receive the accolades of her peers. Indeed it was noticed already that Lady Hanwood was more than usually complacent.

Wessington's progress through the crowded rooms was necessarily slow, as every few paces an old friend hailed him on his reappearance in London. He was recognized by everyone, and a murmur of excitement was spreading through Lady Hanwood's reception chambers.

Wessington paused several times to converse. Shortly after his arrival, he had been joined by the aging Earl of Elmsall, a man with whom he had no more than nodding acquaintance and nothing in common. He was beginning to tire of his companion, who had insisted that he must make Wessington known to his daughter. If she at all favoured her father, he had little interest in meeting her. He was polite to the older man, his late father's contemporary, only out of courtesy and a slight curiosity.

The earl was single-minded and querulous. He tugged the marquess' superbly tailored sleeve from time to time and urged him along to the ballroom. Suddenly he stopped his erratic progress and spoke to a whip-thin, foppish young man dressed in a satin coat and velvet breeches. Austin? Where's your sister, eh?

Last I saw her, sir, she was besieged in the ball-room, but that was some time since.

It seemed to Wessington that the young man surveyed his parent with embarrassed disapprobation, and spoke with respect out of habit rather than conviction. I believe I have not had the pleasure? he said, prodding Elmsall to an introduction.

The abstracted earl started and mumbled, Oh, aye, to be sure. This is my younger son, Austin. Not a bad lad. This is the Marquess of Wessington, Austin; make your bow.

Wessington could understand the resentment that burned in the young man's eyes as he obeyed his parent. Austin Brierley's thoughts were all too obvious. He was thinking, as he examined the marquess' garb, that his shirt points, which his best friend had assured him were all the crack, were indeed too high. Then it was evident that he remembered that Wessington was, in the vulgar parlance, a swell. He had obviously been informed that the marquess was a paragon, neither a dandy nor a Corinthian, but with elements of each and surpassing both. Never mind that Wessington had been sojourning in some godforsaken place abroad for the past two years. Austin Brierley clearly knew very well that a young man bent on cutting a dash in town could do much worse than emulate the marquess.

Wessington smiled his understanding at young Brierley, but nonetheless there was a mocking curl to his lip. He remembered his own father and his reactions to his father's nonpareil friends. He must be getting old if he called forth such responses from younger men.

The earl was pushing on. Come along, Wessington, if we are to find my girl. She is never long in one place.

The marquess held his temper in check and followed the older man. He would devote only five more minutes to this search, he vowed.

On the threshold of the ballroom, which had been admirably decorated with white India muslin in the style of a tent, and blazed with wax lights, Wessington insisted on pause. He removed his sleeve from the earl's moist grasp with every appearance of affability, though his irritation was growing.

Elmsall peered about short-sightedly, seeking out his daughter. There she is! He gestured across the room to a cluster of gentlemen, young and old.

Sets were forming for the next dance, but conversation held sway while heads turned as the marquess was recognized.

Allow me to find our way, Wessington said. He hoped to speed their progress now that their goal was in view. With the earl following, he stepped into the crush. With a carefully bestowed smile here, and avoidance of a talkative person there, they crossed the room more quickly than had seemed possible. With equal ease, they breached the cluster of gentlemen, and reached its centre.

With their appearance, the clamour of the group stilled. The lady at its core whirled to confront the newcomers who had had such an effect. For a moment she stood quite silent, disregarding her father, and frankly surveying the unknown gentleman with him.

The marquess raised a quizzical brow at the study, but returned it quite as interestedly. Elmsall's daughter was not above middle height, but something in her carriage and manner gave her slender, rounded form added inches. She wore a gown of pure white, but Wessington noted that though its style was simple, it appeared somewhat less than maidenly. It was fashioned of a fluid silk which, from its bellefleur-tinted ribbon under her bosom, clung subtly to every line of her beautiful form. She wore no jewels, but a single camellia adorned and partially concealed the smooth flesh revealed by her décolletage. Her hair was a deep, burnished copper hue and shone with striking beauty in lustrous curls from a knot on the crown of her shapely head. A perfectly oval, creamy-skinned face was highlighted by remarkable leaf-green eyes, arched by sleek, dark copper brows.

Genia, a word with you, her father grunted.

The young lady's slipper-shod toe tapped with her irritation.

Then abruptly it halted as Wessington engaged her with a challenging glance.

Lady Iphigenia Brierley's eyes narrowed with speculation as she examined the newcomer, and her chin lifted in a corresponding challenge.

The gentleman was very tall, and broad-shouldered, and was elegantly attired in a dark corbeau coloured coat and black breeches. His hair was as black as the coals in the nearby grate, and his eyes were so dark as to appear black also. His countenance was quite remarkably handsome, but carried more than a hint of strength, and unlike the winter pale dandies of the ballroom, his skin was an even sun-warmed brown.

Looking around at her circle of admirers, she said, My dear papa wishes to speak with me, so you must all go away now. But mind, if it is a dressing-down he wishes to administer, I shall expect to be rescued.

Disappointed, but laughing, the gentlemen--youths, roués, and those of the first respectability--drifted away to the neglected damsels of the ballroom.

Well, Papa? she asked. She was aware that they were watched avidly by half the occupants of the chamber.

Her father ignored the peremptory question.

Wessington, this is my daughter Iphigenia. Genia, the Marquess of Wessington.

Genia absorbed the name even as she dropped a slight curtsey. She maintained a studiously disinterested expression, but her interest was piqued.

So this was the famous Wessington. His name was legend, and she had heard that he had a face like the Greek gods of Lord Elgin's marbles. So he had, she thought, if a god might have a sardonic lift to his brows and a harsh line of lip.

Two years previous, the marquess had forsaken a position at the pinnacle of society, and had disappeared to the lands wild and exotic of the near and mid East. Prior to his departure there was no one in the London ton, not even the most newly presented damsel, to whom his name was unfamiliar. Maidens were warned to put no stock in his charming, unexceptionable flattery. Mamas tried to hold firm against his handsome face and fine figure. Young men attempted to emulate his deeds, and their elders envied his accomplishments and his fortune. He was exciting and unpredictable, and even in his absence, his name had not been forgotten. Two years of newly graduated schoolroom misses and blossoming pinks waited to behold the truth of the tales about Wessington.

I am honoured, she murmured. She kept her voice light and her words perfunctory. She had no intention of throwing out lures to the famous marquess.

Why do I doubt your sincerity? he quizzed her and smiled.

His smile held a devastating charm. Genia lifted a brow and laughed at this unusual attack. Elmsall, apparently satisfied that he had accomplished his objective, wandered off to seek more congenial company.

I had not been returned a day when I heard of you, the marquess said.

On her guard, Genia retorted, I cannot imagine why. All good report, I trust.

Ah, no, Wessington said, again surprising her. But all good is, after all, very dull.

A gleam sparked deep in his black eyes but Genia, though she joined his laughter, did not succumb to the marquess' charm.

Over his right shoulder, she was relieved to see her friend Lanark approach. She smiled a welcome to him but she was surprised when Lanark clapped a gloved hand on Wessington's shoulder.

The marquess spun round. Francis! he exclaimed.

His affection for the gentleman showed in his expression, Genia noted with lively curiosity. She thought it likely that Wessington was more usually guarded in manner.

The fair-haired, well-favoured man confronting them was smiling in response. He said, How are you, Wess?

Very well. My return could not bring you up to London from your estates? I did write of my arrival.

Five weeks ago, from Dover. I received it. But I could not leave before my business was finished. In any event, you might have stopped at Rowde Hill. You have been to Bath? Lady Dorothea will have been happy to see you.

I have been to Sandown, and I have been to Bath, Wessington said. And I was happy to see her. Is all your family well?

Very well indeed. My mother and Sarah go on as usual at Rowde; Julia continues to terrorize her young ladies' seminary at Bromley.

And Sir Henry and Lady Jane?

There seemed to be some private laughter between the two gentlemen. Despite her curiosity, Genia began to feel ignored.

Indeed. You have missed a great deal. There are four little Tolworths now. And of course, my aunt is in health and spirits, as you see. He nodded across the chamber where Lady Hanwood, an angular lady in a ferocious puce turban, was holding forth.

Genia, though intrigued by this exchange of family gossip, twitched open her fan, and fluttered it. She could smell, through the perfumes and pomades, the food being laid out in the supper room. Her stomach rumbled and though it could not have been audible, the two tall men turned in unison to her.

Lady Genia, my apologies. Have you missed me? Lord Lanark took her slim hand between his large ones, and carried it to his lips. Have you shed a tear, breathed a sigh of regret, for my absence?

She chuckled appreciatively at his nonsense. Neither, Francis. I have been well amused, and did not realize you were gone away.

From the corner of her eye, she saw one of the marquess' dark brows rise at the intimacy in her voice.

You possess a hard heart, Lord Lanark accused.

She allowed her long thick lashes to veil her eyes. Wessington was intrigued, she was certain of it.

She said to Lanark, Not hard, my lord, non-existent.

Lifting her slim gloved hand to rest on his arm, Lanark said to the marquess, Would you believe such a beautiful creature could be without a heart, Wess?

All things are possible, Francis, you know that, Wessington said.

Genia was arrested by the uncommon response.

Lord Lanark shook his head, laughing as he said to her, Your dances are all bespoke?

All! she nodded, mock sorrowfully. I had thought you still from town.

But the next waltz, Wessington suggested. I am sure that is mine.

She gazed at him speculatively, and then reiterated, They are all bespoke, my lord.

She turned to Lanark. Francis, how did you entrap your aunt into inviting me this evening?

Lord Lanark shrugged, his blue eyes dancing. I threatened that I would ask you to wed me, if she did not.

Francis! In truth? Genia laughed with delight. She watched Lanark shrug his broad shoulders once more as Wessington surveyed his friend with curiosity.

As the musicians struck up a country dance, the crowd surged to again surround Lady Genia.

Lord Lanark and Wessington relinquished their places with bows and were replaced by, among others, a red-haired rake whom Wessington recognized.

I was certain someone would have put a period to Boningale's existence by the time I was returned, he said.

Lanark, watching Lady Genia and her admirers with superficial indulgence, laughed.

Wessington turned to his friend with a sudden question. Such intimacy with the lady, Francis. Are you thinking of becoming leg-shackled?

Lord, no, Lanark shook his fair-haired head. I am content to be her friend. I could not afford to be more; I'm but a lowly baron. You'd have to be as rich as Golden Ball to take her family on. And we should drive each other mad.

Wessington lifted a brow enquiringly, ignoring the lures being thrown out by several females, old and young, nearby.

You must know the family; father addicted to the bottle and the tables, one brother a rattle, the other a Bad Man. Expensive lot; they've been under the hatches for generations.

I do know that. I did not know about her. No mother? Wessington asked.

Died some years ago. It hit Lady Genia hard. And she never really made a come-out. She just... er, arrived, in society one day early last season. With little justification the biddies call her fast, including my aunt. The young ladies turn their backs, urged on by their mamas. All the loose fish in town are after her with improper proposals.

Second season, the marquess mused.

"There are no eligible parti for a portionless girl with connections like hers, no matter how beautiful she be, Lanark said. She has a hard life...bound to with family like that."

The marquess abandoned the topic with every appearance of disinterest and said, Dorothea asked after you.

Did she indeed? Lanark's face imperceptibly brightened. Kind of her. I paid a call when I was recently in Bath.

So she said.

Devilish place, Bath. Wonder she can bear it.

"She is wondering that also, now she is over the anguish