There was no bridge across the Thames near Vauxhall Gardens, which lay on the south bank, so most people arrived by water. Darkness had almost fallen, and thousands of little colored lamps twinkled among the ornamental trees.
There were twelve acres of avenues, cascades, pavilions, obelisks, triumphal arches, and grottoes, all laid out in the formal splendor of the middle of the previous century. Some of the avenues and grottoes were less well lit, and as a consequence were much resorted to for flirtation, assignation, and intrigue.
Music drifted on the sweet summer air, and a fashionable crowd had already arrived as the boatman Rowan had hired maneuvered his craft through the crush at the stairs, and made it fast.
Marigold wore a simple décolleté silk gown that was muted orange-gold in color, and her new maid had pinned her hair into an intricate style. As she prepared to let Rowan help her ashore, she knew she looked as well as possible. If only she felt as good on the inside, but she didn’t. Her stomach was knotted, and she was almost sick with nerves as Rowan stepped ashore.
The diversions at Vauxhall Gardens were breathtaking, and under any other circumstances she would have enjoyed them all, but she knew the beau monde was about to be startled in no small way by the new Lady Avenbury. That was bad enough as far as she was concerned, but worse by far was the possibility of encountering Alauda.
She glanced at Rowan. Oh, how easy it was to see what drew Alauda to him. Like most of the other gentlemen, he wore the formal attire that was de rigueur at Vauxhall, a black brocade coat, lace-trimmed shirt, white silk waistcoat and breeches, and a tricorn hat, but he stood out. With his tall elegance, and darkly handsome looks, he more than warranted his reputation as one of England’s most fascinating and attractive men. But was he also the final victim of an ancient druidic curse, and doomed to die young, no matter what?
He held a hand out to his bride, and before she knew it, he’d pulled her close to put his lips to hers. It was a very public kiss, with people brushing past them on the crowded steps, but she felt as if they were alone. Wanton feelings began to race through her again, desires that longed to be satisfied.
Tonight she knew he would come to her, and oh, the pleasure she would know when she surrendered to him. Let the intervening hours pass quickly, but let the night go slowly. Oh, so slowly ... He released her, severing the train of thought as a druid’s golden sickle severed mistletoe. “Come, Lady Avenbury, let us face the world,” he said softly.
Marigold’s introduction to the ton of London was postponed just a little because she and Rowan chose to perambulate the gardens before joining the main throng of fashionable guests in the Grand Walk. From then on, however, the new bride was the center of attention, and found it a most disagreeable experience.
Rowan presented her as the former Mrs. Arnold, and at first, since Arnold wasn’t a name exclusive to Falk’s family, no one made the connection. However, the usual pleasantries soon elicited the necessary information, and after a while she was aware that her identity was known more and more to those to whom she was introduced. This was because whispers were in circulation behind her back. It seemed that some of London’s most fashionable salons were already acquainted with the titillating story of Merlin’s will.
The Arnold version of events naturally made certain that she figured to great disadvantage, in fact as little more than a kept woman with a child born the wrong side of the blanket. She endured the stir as best she could, thinking how very unfair it all was, for she had been married to Merlin, and Perry wasn’t illegitimate.
Glancing around at the whispering lips, raised fans, and scrutinizing eyeglasses, she could not help wondering if Rowan had really considered the many disadvantages of marrying someone who had nothing to offer except an undeserved but shocking reputation.
She was relieved when the time came to retreat to the row of supper boxes, which stood across the Grand Walk, directly opposite the orchestra pavilion. From here the concert could be enjoyed while sampling chicken salad, followed by Madeira cake, both courses enjoyed with champagne. Champagne was Marigold’s favorite drink, but it was inclined to go a little to her head, so tonight she was particularly resolved not to drink more than two glasses. It was a resolution that was not to be adhered to for long.
The June evening was warm and balmy, a tenor and soprano were singing duets, and the supper was excellent. Rowan seemed oblivious to the effect his bride had upon everyone. He made her smile by recounting amusing stories, one of which made her laugh outright, since it concerned a plump but odious fellow she had detected in the act of relating her supposed past to a group of companions.
The story revolved around the ice that had been used to chill the champagne they were drinking. Such a precious item was not easily acquired, and the management of the gardens had procured it the previous month from a vessel from Iceland that happened also to be patronized by Messrs Gunter, the famous confectioners of Berkeley Square. It seemed that the Gunters considered the entire cargo to be theirs, and from all accounts there had been a most unseemly quayside fracas. Insults had been hurled, tempers had flared, and the representative from Gunter’s— to wit, said plump and disagreeable tittle-tattler—had been deposited ignominiously in the Thames.
Laughing made Marigold feel infinitely better, and Rowan smiled at her. “There, their clacking tongues do not seem so bad now, do they?”
“Not quite.”
“You will be a nine days’ wonder.”
“They clearly think you have been duped by a designing trollop.”
“Trollop? Good heavens, is that what you are?”
“Don’t tease me, for we both know what’s being said.”
“And we both know it will have to be unsaid when my lawyers unearth the truth. Pay society no heed tonight, Marigold, for tomorrow we will be at Avenbury Park in the depths of Wiltshire, far away from spiteful, inconsequential tongues.”
She was curious about his country seat. “Tell me about Avenbury Park.”
“What do you wish to know?” he replied.
“Well, how old is it? Is the park large? What is the surrounding countryside like? Anything really.”
“Parts of the house date back to the twelfth century, but it was mostly rebuilt and enlarged during the reign of Henry VIII. The park is considerable, and boasts a natural lake, which is a rare thing in an area of chalk downs. The gardens are formal, in the Tudor style, and part of the henge runs through it—by henge, I mean the great circle of prehistoric standing stones and surrounding water-filled moat for which Avenbury is famous.”
“Percy told me the village is built actually inside the henge. Is that true?”
“What a tiresome mine of information is Master Percy Bysshe Shelley. Yes, it’s true. The village and the house are within the stones, but not at the center. That position is occupied by a small area of common land and a particularly ancient oak tree.”
“Who put the stones there? The druids?”
He exhaled slowly. “Rustics no doubt attribute them to giants or the arch-fiend, but the truth is that no one knows. In my opinion the Avenbury circle, Stonehenge, and so on, predate the worshippers of mistletoe. I do not doubt that the druids used them, indeed I know they did, but they did not create them. And please don’t take this conversation as a signal to bring up the subject of the curse yet again.”
“I promised not to, just as you have promised to tell me when you’re ready.”
“And I will stand by that.”
He poured her a third glass of champagne, which she wouldn’t have touched were it not that at that moment she at last saw Alauda. Rowan’s loathed mistress was with her husband, and they had encountered Sir Reginald Crane and his wife.
Sir Reginald’s clothes were quite subdued for once, because he would not have been allowed in unless he conformed. His nose, however, was far from subdued, being rather red and swollen from its ordeal with the snuffers. Lady Crane, a flat-chested woman with a pronounced lisp, wore a mauve silk gown that clung unbecomingly to her bony figure. Beside a beauty like Alauda, she was at a decided disadvantage.
Marigold’s archenemy was glorious in a bright yellow muslin that was so fine it afforded tantalizing glimpses of her magnificent body. Her raven hair shone with diamonds, her fan wafted elegantly to and fro, and her tinkling laughter carried clearly. The elderly Earl of Fernborough was a short man, slender and dapper in formal black. He was a notoriously ruthless devotee of gaming hells, and had ruined many a less fortunate man. His amours now exceeded those of his wife, although at the outset of the marriage he had been faithful.
As Marigold watched, Lady Crane suddenly pointed toward the supper box, and said something. By the way Alauda’s smile vanished, Marigold knew she had just learned of the new Lady Avenbury. After tossing a thunderstruck glance toward the supper box, Alauda made some excuse to her husband, then hurried away toward the long, less well-lit avenue known as the Dark Walk. There she paused, looking long and hard at Rowan before disappearing into the enticing shadows.
Like Marigold, Rowan had become aware of his mistress’s presence, although he pretended he had not. Marigold willed him not to go after Alauda, but she was disappointed. He tossed his napkin onto the table, and then rose. “If you will excuse me for a moment, I have something to attend to.”
Marigold couldn’t look up at him. “By all means,” she said quietly.
If he noticed anything amiss in her response, he gave no sign of it as he left the box. Marigold remained motionless as he followed Alauda into the Dark Walk. She was hurt by the swiftness with which he’d responded to his mistress’s silent command. Maybe it was the champagne that caused the bewildering succession of emotions that now rushed through her, from resentful anger to keen pain. She knew she was being foolish, because as he’d already pointed out, she’d known all along about his liaison with Alauda.
Gradually a fiercely determined light entered in her green eyes. The new Lady Avenbury would not—could not—let an assignation take place right under her nose without at least taking some token action. This was her marriage, Rowan was her husband, and his private arrangements were her concern! To perdition with Alauda!
Trembling, Marigold drank her champagne, folded her napkin, and placed it on the table next to his. Then she got up and hastened after them.