Devil May Care Part 3/?
Author: Nefret24
Disclaimers and notes, see parts 1 & 2. As a refresher, don't own anybody but the young whippersnappers- not sure I should be proud of that, but it's true.
And yet More Author's Notes: Wow. You guys really know how to cheer a gal up. Reviews are like ambrosia for the soul. Lovely, really. Thank you all again for the encouragement. KEEP IT UP!!
Roxton and Marguerite meet! How exciting! I hope against hope that I didn't screw it up. In my defense, I'd like to point out that I haven't seen "The Journey Begins" but I have been told that M fires a rifle at R during that momentous first meeting (at least, in one version of that ep she does) and well, you'll see. I refuse to say anymore until you read this chapter.
Oh yeah, and I don't know anything about guns. Whatever model the Webleys (those are Roxton's guns, right?) are, that's what they are. I do have some shortcomings.
Can I just say OMG for Tapestry! So bloody marvelous! And perfect catty, mysterious, mischievous Marguerite! Just what I needed to keep on going. If you haven't seen it, you should- it'll knock your block off. I've been giggling for about an hour straight now. CalGal, for your wonderful recap, this chapter's for you.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife." ~ Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen
"Deceit deceiveth and shall be deceived. A false pedigree is always worse than none at all." ~ The Game of Kings, Dorothy Dunnett
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The Roxton Townhouse, London: Later the Same Day
Marguerite was dressed in red, her favorite color. Well, next to gold, it was her favorite color. The outfit had caused more than one gentlemen's eye to turn her way and she was glad for it. Tonight was a night for making new friends and finding new marks. The painfully stupid Wainwright and his dear auntie had been both appropriately fleeced and as expected, no one suspected a thing. They were simply too silly to ever be victims of theft; everyone assumed it was their own fault. And in a way, it was- Marguerite had marked them precisely for that reason- that it would be seen as their own stupidity at work. And she always loved it when a plan pulled through.
If that wasn't enough a good reason to be in fine spirits, she finally pawned off the pearls for a suitably nice amount of money that afternoon. Soon, perhaps even in a matter of weeks, she would finally have enough to suit her purpose. Yes, it was nice when things went according to plan.
She had paid her pleasantries to the lady of the house, a genial sort of woman who seemed to possess some degree of sense and was, of course, friends with Lady Farcourt. That made her next assault dicey, but not impossible. The problem of stealing from the elite of society was the fact that it remained a small circle. It was really of little consequence. Marguerite shouldn't have felt guilty anyway. It wasn't really stealing, just the redistribution of wealth, in a sense. Stupid people really shouldn't be allowed to have all that money.
In that sense, the night did have one slight damper on it. Lady Roxton was not an idiot. It would take a great deal of care to successfully cloak this theft and if anyone was up to the challenge, it was Marguerite.
The Roxton wealth and all its fine feathers was certainly coveted– and not just by her. Lady Roxton was a widow, and many older gentlemen, mostly retired military officers and aging dandies, seemed to be taking the opportunity to ply her with favors. However, they spent the majority of their time being ignored by the mistress of the house; she was too smart for their games and too tired to play them anymore so they were forced to find partners elsewhere.
For this reason, Marguerite found herself trapped in a conversation with a former officer of the Realm blather on about his time in India. To be fair, she was only half-listening and making nasty comments that the blighter couldn't hear because he was practically stone-deaf. The man was so rotund it was amazing he fit through the door, and she was forced to drink copiously as he exclaimed his strenuous and very physical acts of heroism abroad– otherwise, she should have laughed aloud. Not just laughed, guffawed. It was absurd. She could much less see him mount a carriage than a camel and was going to tell him so, when she noticed a new face walk in the door.
He was ruggedly handsome, and for all appearances, seemed to live an active lifestyle, judging by the way he filled out his clothes. Fancy dress didn't suit him, thought Marguerite, her eye lingering on his collar, a bit too tight, where his hair, a bit too long, curled ever so slightly over the edges. Still, there was something.
He wasn't slick, that was it. There was bluntness in his manner, a sort of ease that lacked the vain pretensions of Nigel and his set. In fact, it was an almost conceited complacency and confidence of manner that marked his stride as he made his way to the couch where the hostess sat. From the looks of him, she doubted he would give a fig about cricket, and so the stranger's evaluation marks went up several points.
He approached Lady Roxton and bent down and gave her a peck on the cheek. Hmm must be a relative? Seems too old and sensible to be a nephew, but then you never can tell. She seemed to recall something about the Lady having sons- hadn't one died mysteriously?
The debutantes to her right were tossed into a flurry by his appearance and kept pinching their cheeks and smoothing out their gowns. Must be a son, Marguerite concluded. There's money to be had in their desperation. Eavesdropping on the idiotic girls' conversation, she discovered she was right.
"Ohmygoodness! Is he coming this way?"
"Do you think he sees me?"
"Why should Lord John Roxton bat an eyelash at you?"
"Well, he's certainly not going to look at you- in that outfit!"
"It's not nearly as horrible as yours!"
"Well, at least it's not from last season!"
Marguerite ignored the ensuing whispered catfight and contemplated the newcomer's face again, abstractly nodding to her companion who didn't need much encouragement to continue listening to the sound of his own voice.
He was standing dutifully behind his mother's chair with a solemn expression on his face, as if he was fighting back an urge to grimace. Well, surrounded by those tabbies and invalids she calls friends, only to be attacked by those absurd young things, well, it was no wonder.
Just then, almost as if he had sensed he was being studied, he glanced to the other side of the room and met her gaze. Their eyes locked and neither made any move to break the connection. If he thinks he can intimidate me, he's got another thing coming, mused Marguerite, tilting up an eyebrow slightly, never looking away. He continued to stare at her– probably waiting for me to blush, she thought. Well, newsflash, Lord John Roxton, I am not a novice and you are out of your league.
The girls to her left were entering a new state of hysteria, most likely brought on by the false assumption that he was looking intently at them. In a rush, they leapt forward in his direction, obscuring their direct viewpoints. Taking advantage of the situation, Marguerite excused herself from the bulbous bore and set off to another section of the room in search of answers to some recently formed questions.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Roxton had just managed to escape the clutches of three doting females and was treating himself to his second drink of the night, wishing that the champagne he was polishing off greedily was something ten times as strong.
He had, of course, been right. The old biddies were at it again, desperate to see him linked with one of their daughters, granddaughters, nieces, or any female in relation to them. It was almost as if he didn't need to be present at all; they would get into arguments about this one's embroidery skills or that one's temperament– it wasn't like the decision should be his own.
What he hadn't counted on was that woman. His innate hunter's instinct had alerted him to her unabashed stare and she didn't flinch or blush as the other young idiots did. She wasn't that young, but young enough, he could tell– her fair skin was unblemished and for the most part unpainted, with the exception of her blood red lips. Eyes like little steel balls. He wondered why she was there. She seemed so different, so out of place, in his mother's drawing room. She seemed wholly exotic, like a breath of fresh air. Or fresh lust, he amended wickedly.
Maybe it was her outfit, he mused. He was never one to notice or care about female fashion but the color of her dress could hardly be overlooked. The most astonishing shade of crimson– no debutante would ever think of wearing that. He had lost sight of her when the Misses Weldon and Simpson descended on him in a flurry of lace and borderline faintness.
He scanned the room intently over the rim of his champagne glass and eventually he saw her, by the large windows– talking to Nigel Wainwright, of all people!
He was about to balk aloud when he heard a slight cough to his right. It was Wainwright's friend- oh hell, thought John, what was the blighter's name? Something that began with an s? Spittington- no that wasn't it, though certainly appropriate
"Lord Roxton. I was wondering if I might interest you with a business proposition. My name is" the man began.
Smythe! That was it! "Foggington-Smythe, right?" he said, barely shaking his extended hand.
"Oh, you remember me! St. John Foggington-Smythe, at your service. It's remarkable that you remember me! That's quite a coincidence because-" Smythe babbled, apparently delighted.
"Er, yes, friend of Wainwright's, aren't you?" Roxton drawled offensively, cutting him off in mid-piffle.
"Yes, again! You have certainly the most astonishing memory, Lord Roxton. Now about that business proposition"
"Who is that woman talking to Wainwright?" he interrupted boldly, sensing that was the only way to deal with the waterworks motormouth.
"Who?" Roxton pointed at the two in conversation across the room. "Oh, her. That's Miss Marguerite Krux. Nigel met her last week sometime in Hyde Park. Lovely woman. Striking eyes and all that, what?"
"Hmm yes. Is she here with him?" he asked abstractedly, intent on watching the couple talk. Nigel himself was blushing so that his ear had turned completely red. What the devil was she saying to him?
"Oh no, she came with Mrs. Caruthers and her party, I think. Nigel hasn't seen her but once since they met. Quite taken in. He always had all the luck," St. John sniffed. "Heiress, don'cha know. He wouldn't be the first to want to make an acquaintance," Smythe said, with a nudge to Roxton's shoulder.
Nigel and her? That had to be a mistake. There was no way in heaven or earth that a woman like that could fall for an idiot like Wainwright, Roxton thought furiously. But then, he reasoned, he had never met her. I know nothing about this woman and already I'm making snap judgements. She could be as mad as the rest of them.
"But of course, there is my business proposition"
"Later," said Roxton, moving away and towards the window.
"Yes. I'll talk to you about it later, shall I? Yes. That sounds best. I'll just talk to you about it then," St. John said to no one in particular.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Marguerite had made almost a complete circuit of the room. Lord Roxton's entrance, luckily, was a topic of many a conversation and subsequently, Marguerite could ask her questions with the cover of naiveté.
"Lord John Roxton is one of the most insufferable men imaginable," Lady Dowling sniffed. "His manners are atrocious!"
"To say that he has some at all!" Mrs. Peters tittered. "All those expeditions have turned him into a savage!"
"Expeditions?" Marguerite asked, curious.
"Oh yes, dear, I keep forgetting you've been on the continent all this time," Lady Dowling conceded. "Lord Roxton is a hunter."
"The Great White Hunter," Mrs. Peters drawled offensively.
At this remark, Mrs. Caruthers turned to their little discussion. "Oh Mary, don't say it like that! He's not a bad boy, you know. Beatrice has done her best."
"I meant no offense to her. She has done what she can, but really," Mrs. Peters continued huffily, "he treated my niece something awful. What can you expect, after he spends his days in the wild with the animals?"
"I take it he is no gentleman?" Marguerite ventured, recalling his long hair and tight collar. The athleticism required to become a hunter of his caliber was definitely apparent. Unbidden, a conjured vision of him without his shirt or jacket, baring sweat soaked muscles in the hot sun, rose in her mind. A quick mental shake removed it. Get a hold of yourself, girl, she told herself disgustedly. He's just a man like any other.
"Oh, he can be perfectly gentlemanly," said Mrs. Caruthers with conviction. "When he wants to," she added hastily.
It was at this point that Nigel had wangled her away from the throng for a more private discussion near the windows. She had been avoiding him with precision and cursed herself for not paying more attention to the room at large.
The poor thing was utterly taken in. He admired her prudence in keeping her distance but felt that now he could more openly express his feelings and vice versa.
In other words, his aunt has seen me and approved of my fictitious bank account, she mused maliciously. Oh, what would she think if she knew I was the one who had taken her pearls?
He was looking at her with his baby-blue child's eyes and Marguerite felt the urge to vomit. She couldn't believe someone could be that naïve, that puerile and that disgustingly sentimental all at once. Better to dash his dreams quickly- it'll be all over before he knows what hit him.
"Nigel, really! Is that a proposal?"
His pernicious blush was making an appearance again. It was getting so that she could predict them. The speech impediment that had affected him in the garden seemed to be coming on so he merely nodded his head vigorously.
"I'm sorry, but I cannot accept it," she said, archly. He would hate her after this but she had burned so many bridges in her lifetime that she had become used to the scorn of others.
"But-but-but the garden" Nigel stumbled for words.
Marguerite almost pulled back in horror when she saw tears welling up in the lad's eyes. Oh good grief. Two kisses and he had probably mapped out our entire life together. She hadn't counted on it being that bad. Might as well concede something, he would need a melodramatic reason, of course all these young idiots thrived on melodrama.
"Nigel, I can't accept you. It's just that" she wracked her brain for some wild excuse from a bad novel, "I have six months left to live," she finished weakly, lowering her eyes, hoping to look suitably pathetic.
Nigel stood there like a statue. At least the tears were gone. It seemed as if he were trying to put on a brave front now. And they say chivalry is dead, thought Marguerite wryly as she raised her eyes and spoke again in a hushed whisper. "That is why I have been on the continent. The doctors say they can help but it is hopeless. It would do you good to find someone else-" she broke off, turning from him as if she were fighting back tears. She pinched her nose harshly with her nailtips, willing the tears to build up convincingly.
"I had no idea, I am so sorry," Nigel said and was about to clumsily pat her shoulder when she flinched away.
"No, Nigel. Forget me," and in a suitable theatrical manner, quickly exited the room, leaving him standing there forlornly.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Marguerite made her way out onto the balcony, the cool night air refreshing after the close heat of the drawing room. She moved up to the railing and gazed up at the sky, still devoid of stars. She chuckled beside herself. Six months to live. And he believed it!
I should be disgusted with myself, she thought. Here I am, one of the most accomplished liars on the continent, who have talked my way out of more perilous situations than a simple engagement, and I almost choke with a doting young idiot! I must be getting soft in my old age.
As the cool breeze wafted in her face, making her hair dance around her face, she felt absurdly pleased with herself. She reached in her purse for her cigarette case. It was molded in gold and had formerly been possessed by a Duke (or was he an Earl?) whom she had met crossing the Channel. It was too pretty to pawn and she had kept it. She extracted a thin cigarette and in the reflection of the case top, caught sight of a man standing at the balcony doors.
Ah, so you've found me. Well, let's see what you're made of Lord John Roxton, she thought, readying for battle. He too seemed to be determining a method of attack. Let me make it easy for you, shall I?
"Cigarette?" she asked simply, extending the case but not turning her back. She heard him approach and felt the warmth of his body as he drew near. Callous fingers withdrew a single cigarette from the case and he then stood next to her by the rail. She plucked the cigarette from his fingers and placed it in her mouth with her own. Delighted to see his eyes slightly widen at that, she extracted her lighter and lit them both, then removed one for him.
Accepting it with a raised eyebrow, his eyes lingered on her lips and then focused on the tip of the cigarette. He raised it to his lips and emulated her example of taking slow, indifferent drags of smoke. He didn't look at her, but out at the street below. His idea of playing it cool, no doubt.
Marguerite could have purred with pleasure. He was getting wound up, she could tell. She knew that no matter whom he had talked to, she assuredly knew more about him than he did of her. And it riled him. He also didn't seem to like being spotted first either. Most likely a blow to his stalking instincts or some other rubbish. A half-smile played on her lips, betraying her pleasure at winning the first round.
Shifting, she tilted her head up to look at him. Never one for stalling unnecessarily, she began. "You didn't say thank you."
He almost seemed startled by her remark (not expecting that, I'd wager, thought Marguerite, recalling her theatrics on the night sky not a week ago), but his eyes danced. "Didn't I? Forgive me, Miss Krux," he said with just a twinge of sarcasm and half a smile on his face.
Ah, yes. The other shoe has dropped. Ready to play with me now, Lord Roxton? She flashed him a grin then took another slow drag, and looked out over the side. "I'll consider it, Lord Roxton."
A rakish smile graced his features and Marguerite suddenly understood the full extent of the hysteria of the debutantes. He was gorgeous! In a deliciously unsuitable way. "If I mind my manners?"
"Manners?" she repeated questioningly. "I wasn't aware that you possessed any," she added with a wicked smile.
"The ladies have been gossiping again, I see," he replied, a wry smile crossing his face. "I'm sure Nigel illuminated my better qualities?"
Oh aren't we trying to be clever? Was that statement intended to acquaint me with the fact that you have eyes in your head? "Better qualities?" she grinned again.
A scowl briefly passed on his features; she had to give him credit- he recovered quickly enough that had she been less experienced an adversary she wouldn't have caught it. Temper, temper
"Lacking in those as well?" he said, an edge to his voice.
"Well, I admit, you must have some"
"A noble concession," he scoffed.
"since you do have all those adolescent girls flinging themselves at your feet," she finished impertinently.
His eyes flared with anger. Oooh, I've hit a tender spot, thought Marguerite maliciously, taking another drag of her cigarette.
"You're a fine one to talk, with young Nigel wrapped around your finger."
"And which finger might that be?"
"Fortune hunter, are you?" he said, changing tack. He seemed desperate to get a handle on her, to extract the information he couldn't learn from anyone else. Oh, what an amateur.
"I like fortunes but hunting is your area of expertise, so I'm told," she quipped.
He stubbed out his cigarette forcefully on the railing. "Planning to steal away with the lad's inheritance?"
"Why should I bother with him when yours is so much greater?"
That shocked him as she had planned it would. After gaping for a moment, he managed, "Are you?"
"Am I what?"
"Out to get my inheritance?"
"If you insist," she said with a crooked smile, contemplating what was left of her cigarette before extinguishing it. "Would you like to give me the grand tour?"
"Want to see the house you're buying into?" he said, the rakish grin making a comeback. Ah, good, he's realized it's all just piffle. And I'll finally get a handle on where those valuables are. It was so nice when things came to fruition.
"After you, my lady," he said dramatically, holding the balcony door open for her as she swept past him regally.
As they re-entered the drawing room, there were of course, some staring eyes. Marguerite noticed Nigel talking to his spitting friend again, but he stopped long enough to shoot her an anxious glance. Probably thinks the night air has weakened my constitution, she grimaced inwardly. Roxton seemed anxious to make it to the drawing room door without one of the aforementioned adolescents attacking him, forcing Marguerite's lips to quiver with suppressed mirth.
After glancing around some unimportant rooms- the dining hall, the East and West parlors– they made their way into the library. Marguerite could tell as soon as she entered the mahogany-furnished room that this was Roxton's sanctuary. There was a lion's head on the wall and next to it, a large glass case of guns, clips, and swords.
The mantelpiece was crowded with photographs. Roxton with his kills, Roxton with his mother, Roxton with a slightly older young man- the dead brother?- Roxton in a military uniform.
"Very nice," she said, eyeing the lion's growling head on the wall warily. Yes, his mother definitely needed to redecorate in here.
He laughed as he saw her grimace. He moved over to the glass case and extracted an ivory handled pistol from it. "This pistol and I have been through a lot together. Took that beast down in seconds flat," he said proudly, and twirled the gun in his hand.
"A Webley ---?" Marguerite stated, raising an eyebrow.
Shocked him again. He extended the ivory handle towards her with a look of awe and she took the gun, measuring its weight in her hand, admiring the delicateness of the carved ivory. It was loaded.
"You be careful don't know how to use that thing, do you?" he said, caution and amusement mingling in his tone.
"Oh, I'm sure it's easy to figure out," she said playfully, pointing the gun at him.
He gulped audibly. "Maybe you should just give it back to me" he began, and was inching toward her, hands raised in a defensive manner.
An impish grin slowly spread on her face. Oooh, this was gonna be fun. "Don't think a woman can handle firearms?"
"A dangerous pursuit for anyone," he added hastily.
"Dangerous for whom?" she asked in the same playful manner, very expertly lining up her target and squinting expertly down the barrel of the gun.
"Marguerite, please"
She fired the gun. He swore and ducked, hands covering his head as he heard the sound of shattering glass.
"Not a bad little gun," she commented briefly and set it down on the table.
His eyes blazing with fury, he swept it up and strode towards her, towering over her slight frame with his proximity. "Are you out of your mind! What possessed you to do such a thing! You could have killed me!"
"Just like all my husbands," she said mysteriously and with a wink, swung around towards the library doors. As she reached them, she turned around and added, "Lest I forget my manners- good evening, Lord Roxton." With another mischievous grin, she left the room.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Roxton sat down at the library's mahogany table, visibly shaken. A mystery woman, with a thirst for fortune, a wicked tongue and the audacity to fire a gun at her host indoors, was more than just cause for a hearty drink. He got up and went to the sideboard. Finding the whiskey, he poured himself a full glass, ignoring the water bottle. Full strength, that's what he needed. His hands still shook a little.
He was still amazed she hadn't hit him. He could have a hole in a portion of his anatomy right now if it weren't for blind luck! Though, he mused, she did hit something. I remember hearing glass shatter. What the devil did she break?
Angrily, he began to look around the room. It wasn't the case with the guns; that had been to his left. What had been behind him?
The fireplace.
He moved over to the mantel and sure enough, she had hit one of the pictures. The only one with Roxton alone, the portrait his mother had taken of him when he had enlisted for WWI, and had felt rather dashing in his new military uniform, was missing most of its glass.
Then Roxton swore again. The audacity of that minx! She was playing with me the entire time! He threw down the picture on the Persian carpet and stalked off, hoping to catch that infernal woman before she left. She didn't know whom she was messing with.
The picture fell on the floor right side up, so that when the butler came in later to tidy up, he was confused as to why a portrait of the master should have a bullet lodged in its silver frame- particularly as the bullet had ripped right through the photograph- hitting him squarely between his eyes.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Marguerite, who had well known what she was aiming at in the library, knew that Roxton soon would figure it out too. Not wanting a confrontation, she said her farewells quickly thereafter.
As she made her way through the foyer, she noticed Nigel's cricket friend sitting at the base of the stairs, gripping his neck. He swayed to a standing position and then, as if he were about to swoon like a female with the vapors, he sat down quickly again. What the devil happened to him? she wondered idly. She watched as a servant brought him some ice for his head while she waited for her cab to arrive. He probably fell down the stairs, she thought nastily. The bloody twit.
Just as her cab arrived, she was unfortunate enough to have Nigel come darting out of the house.
"Persevere, darling," he said as he helped her with the most officious care into her seat. "Your image is enshrined in my heart and there is light at the end of the tunnel! Do not worry, my love!" he said, closing the cab doors with a flourish.
Marguerite was thankful for the darkness as she grimaced as he continued reciting trite prose. Oh good Gad. This is really too much.
"Driver! What are you waiting for!" she said, and thumped the wall of the coach loudly and was quickly acknowledged, the coach jerking to life in the direction of the Ritz.
As she was driven home, she thought back to the events of the evening. All in all, not bad for a first reconnaissance. Lady Beatrice certainly could be a profitable mark and her son had good entertainment value. He could be downright delectable when he was angry. She smiled all the way home.
Little did she know that the jewels that she had already thought of as her own were to be pilfered that very night, and not by her.
TBC
Ooh, aren't I awful? A cliffhanger.
And wasn't she terrible to Roxton? He will get his own back soon enough
Reviews are what I live for. Can't write without em. So what are you waiting for?