Beauty in Black Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  BEAUTY IN BLACK

  BERKLEY SENSATION / published by arrangement with the authors

  BERKLEY SENSATION edition / June 2004

  BERKLEY SENSATION e-edition / June 2005

  Copyright © 2004 by Cheryl Zach and Michelle Place.

  Excerpt from Vision in Blue copyright © 2004 by Cheryl Zach and Michelle Place.

  Cover art by Leslie Peck.

  Cover design by Lesley Worrell.

  All rights reserved.

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  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  MSR ISBN: 0 7865 5606 4

  AEB ISBN 0 7865 5625 0

  BERKLEY SENSATION

  BERKLEY SENSATION books are published by

  The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

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  Prologue

  1817

  The marquess of Gillingham traveled by night.

  Everyone agreed that, in his dull black carriage with the faded crest on the door, bumping along a country lane by moonlight, the man whose face made babies cry appeared more comfortable with darkness. Some speculated he might feel uneasy with the stares his marred countenance evoked; others thought him indifferent to such vanity and suggested darker motives. Lurid rumors abounded as to why he preferred such a cloak of obscurity—tittle-tattle of devil worship and toasts made with virgins’ blood—all of which had spurred the vicar of the local church to preach endless sermons about the dangers of superstition and idle talk, but such liturgical warnings did little to stem the gossip. If anything, they appeared in a backward way to support it. Since the marquess never ventured far, traveling only to survey his large estate in Kent and note how his tenants fared, the whispers did not seem to bother him, though errant children on the edges of his county were sometimes threatened with his name.

  “Crack another egg by swinging your basket like that, Jemmy, and I’ll feed you to the Black Beast of Gillin’am, I will.”

  And the child in question would gulp and cross himself, or finger a scruffy charm hidden beneath his smock, and pay more mind to his chores.

  The marquess himself, his scarred face habitually shrouded by darkness, stayed close to home, ensconced in a large, dim mansion, ill cared for by the few servants who could be induced to stay with him.

  Until that spring, when the chatter around the neighborhood took on a new note, incredulous and eager, whispered with lowered voices and wide eyes.

  “The marquess is going to London!”

  “The Beast is taking a bride!”

  One

  “I hear he is quite hideous,” Louisa Crookshank said, her tone complacent. She bit into a plump hothouse peach. The juice dripped down her fair skin, and she rubbed it away, shaking back golden curls as she did so.

  Any other female would have looked quite unkempt, Marianne Hughes thought as she watched, but Louisa, even with her hair straying into her face and juice stains on her chin, managed to look as beautiful as always. Among Bath Society, she had been dubbed the Comely Miss Crookshank, and it was likely her biggest misfortune.

  “So why in the name of heaven are you contemplating his suit?” Louisa’s aunt by marriage, Caroline Hughes Crookshank, asked, sounding as usual slightly harassed. “Evan, put down that rock, and do not throw it at your sister!”

  The small boy tossed the missile, anyhow. His aim was off. The pebble hit the dove-gray skirts of their houseguest, but there was little strength behind the pitch, and it bounced harmlessly away. Marianne smiled and moved her feet away from the path of an even smaller boy, who was pushing a wooden carriage pulled by two wooden horses. As much as Marianne loved her sister-in-law and her children, Caroline’s brood were a trifle unpredictable. Because the day was so fair, they were sitting outside by the rose garden, having tea on the lawn and letting the children run up and down the gravel walkways.

  “Because Lucas Englewood jilted her, of course.” Cara Crookshank, who was eleven, reached for another scone.

  “He did not jilt me!” Louisa snapped. “And I shall box your ears if you again utter such a falsehood!”

  “Only because he never proposed, but you thought he was going to.” Cara plunged ahead, despite frantic signals from her mother to desist. But although she grinned at her older cousin, the child took the precaution of retreating behind her aunt’s chair.

  “Act your age, Louisa,” Marianne murmured as Louisa jumped to her feet, seeming ready to put her threat into words. “You are approaching one and twenty, not twelve.”

  Louisa sat down again, but her perfect features twisted into a frown.

  “I care nothing about Sir Lucas. He’s barely more than a child—”

  “He’s two years older than you,” Cara muttered, but this time, mercifully, her cousin did not hear.

  “I should like to meet someone more mature. Anyhow, why should I settle for a mere baronet when I could have someone whose title is inferior only to a duke’s? Perhaps I have a fancy to be a marchioness. And I’m told he’s ridiculously wealthy.”

  “You don’t need money. And you still have to look at him,” the younger child argued.

  “Cara, that is unkind,” her mother scolded. “You know what the vicar says about beauty lying inside a person, not out.”

  But the vicar did not have to contemplate an ugly face over his morning tea, Marianne couldn’t help thinking; she had met the vicar’s plump, pretty wife, who was quite adorable with her round red cheeks and sweet smile. Then she scolded herself for being as shallow as Cara—besides, because of her tender years, the child had an excuse; Marianne did not.

  Caroline finished her lecture, adding, “Since you have all finished your tea, I think it is time the children went back to the nursery. I shall check on them and on the baby before I change for dinner.”

  Cara pouted, but she turned toward the house. The next oldest sibling was made of sterner stuff.

  “But I wanted to play another round of bowls with Auntie Marianne,” Evan wailed, waving his handful of pebbles.

  “Later, we will have another game,” Marianne promised as their mother wavered.

  Fortunately, the governess, Miss Sweeney, who had all the firmness their doting mother sometimes lacked, said, “Come along, now. And drop those stones, Master Evan.”

  She herded the children back toward the nursery suite. Their progress was reasonably peaceful—Evan only once reaching over to pinch his older sister, who shoved him away—until Louisa said while the young ones were still in earshot, “Thank heavens, infants make such a noise.”

  “I am not an infant!” Evan roared.

  His younger brother,
Thomas, took up the cry, bawling, too. “Not a ’fant!”

  Caroline winced. “Louisa, please don’t aggravate the children.”

  Still bellowing, the children disappeared into the house, Miss Sweeney’s erect form just behind them. There was a moment of silence. A bird sang at the edge of the lawn, and a bee buzzed as it hovered above a nearby rosebush. The impassive footman offered them a selection of cakes from a silver tray.

  Louisa looked innocent as she accepted a raisin cake. After “artless,” it was her second most practiced expression, Marianne thought, trying not to laugh.

  “But seriously, Louisa, why would you consider his suit?” her aunt Caroline continued. “You haven’t even met the man. Looks aside, because he can hardly be judged on such a consideration, I have heard rumors that he is most unpleasant.”

  “If you haven’t met him, how do you know he is interested in your hand?” Marianne asked, taking a sip of her cooling tea.

  Louisa blinked. “He will be, when I do meet him. When I go to London!” The last was uttered in a rapturous tone, and she turned eagerly to their visitor. “It would be such an amusement for you, Aunt Marianne. I know your official mourning is long past, even if you do still wear such drab colors, and think how diverting it would be to chaperone me to all of the parties and amusements of the Season!”

  Marianne glanced at her sister-in-law, who had the grace to blush. “So I’m to be waylaid, was that the plan? ‘Diverting’ would hardly begin to describe the role of chaperoning ‘the Comely Miss Crookshank.’ ”

  “Please, please, Aunt Marianne. I will be so useful, never a bother to you. And I have been longing to go to London and do a proper Season. You know how many times I’ve had to put it off! First, because Papa was sure that my little cold would turn into lung fever if I left home, then the next spring Aunt Caroline was increasing, and then the next year there was poor Papa’s illness. Now that my own mourning is months past, as much as I miss dear Papa—” to her credit, the girl’s voice wavered a moment before she finished—“I know he would wish me to go and enjoy myself.”

  The problem was, she was quite right. If her indulgent father had not pampered her so much, Marianne thought, Louisa might not be such a self-centered and naive young beauty. The girl’s mother had died years earlier, and her father had felt compelled to deny his golden girl nothing. And this was the result.

  Marianne wished she was as young as Thomas and could enjoy a proper tantrum. She glanced again at her sister-in-law, who put down her embroidery.

  “Louisa, why don’t you go and apologize to your cousins for calling them names while I have a chat with Marianne,” Caroline suggested.

  Louisa’s brilliant smile flashed. “So you can plead my case? Oh, I will. I will be so good, you will see. Please, please say yes, dearest Aunt. You will never be sorry!” She gave Marianne an impulsive hug that almost upset the teacup on the small table at her elbow, then floated off toward the house.

  When the two women were left alone, Caroline waved away the servant and turned at last to face her guest.

  “You might have warned me.” Marianne lifted her brows.

  “I know, I did mean to,” Caroline said. “Please forgive me for thrusting you into this. I have tried to persuade her that she can enjoy a coming-out at home, but nothing will do for Louisa until she is able to taste the delights of London. And you remember that when she turns one and twenty, she will inherit that most respectable fortune, so I must entrust her to someone who will keep a sharp eye on her. I would not want her enthralled by the first fortune hunter she meets. And she has no aunts on her father’s side, only a great-uncle who is a bachelor and not on good terms with the family, anyhow. And she is, indeed, somewhat vulnerable at the moment because, no matter what she says, I think she expected young Lucas to offer for her, and when he pulled away—and then, too, you are really the only person she actually listens to!”

  The reasons tumbled out as if they had been often rehearsed. Marianne closed her eyes for a moment. The scene had seemed so peaceful, until now. In this quiet setting, she had hoped to escape the vague sense of frustration that had dogged her for months. And now—the prospect of having to ride herd on a high-spirited and somewhat self-centered young lady enjoying London for the first time—well, as she had said, diverting hardly described it.

  “Caroline, why can’t you—” Marianne began, then paused and asked bluntly, “I know you don’t care for London, but—are you unwell?”

  Caroline bit her lip. “I hated to beg off for such a reason, but the fact is I am increasing again, Marianne. I don’t think Louisa has discerned my condition, although with her, you never know—one moment acting so childish and the next, putting on airs like a matron.”

  “Ah,” Marianne said. The baby in the nursery was barely a year old. No wonder Caroline was looking a little wan. “My felicitations!” She leaned across to give her sister-in-law a quick hug. “How are you feeling?”

  “Wretched,” the other woman admitted. “I can barely keep anything down. And the thought of trying to negotiate a London Season in this condition—you know I much prefer the quieter pace of Bath.”

  Marianne sighed. It looked as if she was well and truly snared. How could she say no when she saw that Caroline, her late husband’s sister as well as her oldest friend, was so pale and had barely touched her food as they had eaten? And in any case, who could blame her sister-in-law for wanting to delegate such a task? Louisa would be a challenge to a more resolute woman than the gentle Caroline, of whom Marianne was deeply fond. She still felt connected to her husband’s family, by affection if no longer by the marital vows. In addition, she and Caroline had been intimates since they were girls, growing up on neighboring estates in the West Country.

  “Then I’d best be prepared. Tell me about this notorious marquess,” she said, giving in to the inevitable. “And why Louisa is so eager to captivate a perfect stranger.”

  Looking more at ease, Caroline leaned back into her chair. “It’s all gossip, really, but you know how it is in Bath.”

  Marianne grinned and sipped her tea. No answer was necessary. Gossip was as common in the watering place as the ill-tasting mineral waters that visitors sipped at the Pump Room.

  “The local squire’s wife, in the village next to the marquess’s estate, wrote to our Mrs. Howard that the marquess was on his way to London to look for an eligible bride. Apparently, after inheriting the title on his father’s death, he feels it is time to set up his nursery. A perfectly normal decision.”

  “And there are no eligible ladies in his neighborhood?” Marianne asked.

  “I’m not sure any would have him,” her usually mild-spoken sister-in-law said.

  Startled, Marianne looked up. “He’s that ill-favored?”

  “He contracted the small pox when he was a young man, as I understand it, and was left gravely scarred.”

  Marianne blinked in surprise. Most people of means, in the progressive years of the early nineteenth century, were inoculated to avoid the killing, maiming, much-feared illness that once had struck down so many. Most saw that their servants and farm laborers were also protected. Her parents had made sure it was done when Marianne was only little Evan’s age. But she had heard the pricking of the arm did not work for everyone. And the phrase, “when he was young,” was also ominous: the man was old, as well as maimed?

  “Oh, dear,” she muttered.

  “And ill natured, I hear, which concerns me more,” Caroline added. “I cannot allow Louisa to throw herself away on some rude boorish person, no matter if he has titles to spare.”

  Marianne nodded. Even if the girl was a bit vain, none of them wished her to be unhappy in a poorly conceived union, certainly not Marianne, who had had the rare choice of marrying her childhood sweetheart. It looked as if she would be forced, despite her better judgment, into the role of duenna.

  She shook her head.

  The other woman gave her a questioning look.

  �
�Ironic,” Marianne explained. “After Harry died, I always thanked heaven that I was left with enough funds not to be forced to hire myself out as a governess.”

  Caroline laughed. “Oh, come now. It will not be as bad as all that! You only have to go to parties with her and keep an eye on the men she meets.”

  “And theaters and parks and breakfasts and teas and balls and who knows what, and the men will gather around her like bees to a fragrant flower. I shall be beating them off with a cane,” Marianne predicted. “Beauty and wealth, both? Despite her father’s connection to trade, Louisa may be almost as big and successful as she hopes.”

  But at least, it might induce the girl to forget her goal of conquering the unknown marquess, and it should certainly ease the pain of her rejection by her first suitor. Marianne sighed. “I must tell my maid to start packing. I’m sure Louisa expects to leave for London with scant delay. And you should lie down for a time before you have to change for dinner.”

  Caroline, who had been trying to hide a yawn, did not argue. They both strolled toward the house, and inside, Marianne found her new charge lying in wait.

  “Well?” Louisa demanded, jumping up from the chair where she had been sitting, apparently trying to look virtuous by stabbing the linen in her embroidery hoop with large, untidy stitches. “I have begged pardon of all my cousins, even Evan. Have you decided? Will you take me with you back to London, darling Aunt?”

  Marianne barely had time to nod before the girl grabbed her in a delighted hug. “Oh, you are the dearest aunt in the world. You won’t regret it! And you shall enjoy the diversions, too, you know. Aunt Caroline always says you should get out more. Even old people need some merriment.”

  Caroline protested weakly, “Louisa!”

  Marianne, who was two years past her thirtieth birthday, blinked. What on earth had she committed herself to?

  She sat with Louisa for a time, listening to the girl natter on about all the delights of London that she could not wait to taste, everything from a visit to Vauxhall Gardens to her formal court presentation as she made her bow before royalty. Finally, Marianne reminded Louisa of the approaching dinner hour, and they both went up to change.