Lady Margery's Intrigues by Marion Chesney Read Free Book Online Page A

“They've got nothing there stronger than orgeat and lemonade."
    “It seems a shame that ladies such as myself should be deprived of a good partner,” commented Margery, looking directly into Freddie's eyes.
    He began to feel slightly hunted. Then he remembered that, were it not for this little girl, he would still be standing over a glass of negus. And Brummell had introduced her, which meant she must be all the crack.
    Freddie made a great decision. “Tell you what, Lady Margery, I'll come to Almack's just for the pleasure of standing up with you. There!”
    Lady Margery looked suitably gratified. To Freddie's surprise, she opened her reticule and took out a small piece of paper and a pencil. “Write it down,” she said.
    Freddie's mouth fell open and his chin rested on the starched folds of his cravat.
    “Eh?”
    For a minute, Lady Margery reminded him less of his old school chum and more of his former schoolmaster.
    “Please write it down,” pleaded Margery prettily. “Now, I know a gentleman like you, Mr. Jamieson, will have lots and lots of ladies trying to get you to dance with them. I must make sure you remember your promise.”
    “Oh, since you put it that way,” said the much-gratified Freddie, “I will.”
    He carefully printed a note to the effect that one dance was promised to Lady Margery Quennell and then tucked it in his pocket. “Keep it next to m'heart,” he said with great daring.
    His companion did not let him down. She blushed rosily and hid her face behind her fan. “Oh, Mr. Jamieson,” she sighed.
    By now, Freddie had forgotten to look for another bottle of wine. He felt no end of a splendid fellow. He leaned forward to make another dashing and witty remark and then stared in amazement. His companion had gone.
    He looked moodily at the empty bottle and then peered into it as if to see if Lady Margery had been some sort of genie. Then he noticed she had left her fan.
    * * * *
    The Marquess of Edgecombe was strolling among the tables at Watier's, wondering whether to go home or whether to settle down to a mild rubber of piquet.
    He stopped, amazed, at the unusual sight of his friend Mr. Jamieson, who was sitting in an armchair in one of the corners and fanning himself lazily with a little black lace fan with wrought-ivory sticks.
    The marquess sank into the armchair opposite. “Joined the Macaronis, Freddie?”
    “Eh, what!” said Freddie crossly, annoyed at having his splendid dream disturbed. “Oh, it's you Charles. Macaronis? Fiddlesticks! Do I look like a Macaroni? Do I wear blue-powdered hair? No. Clocks on my stockings? No. Lace handkerchief? No. Perfume? No. Stays—”
    The marquess gently interrupted this catalogue with, “Do you carry a fan? Yes.”
    Freddie blushed. “Oh, damme—er—this. Belongs to a charming little lady,” he said dreamily. “Know who she reminds me of? That little chap in our form—Sniffy—you know, chappie with the yaller hair.”
    “You're in love,” teased the marquess, expecting a furious denial.
    To his surprise, Freddie gave him a soulful look and said, “Yes. That's it. That's it in a nutshell. Haven't had a drink since that demned musicale of Auntie's, and I feel in top form. Must be love.”
    Freddie joyfully waved the feminine little fan to and fro in the excitement of his discovery. A faint scent of gardenias escaped from it and drifted across the smoke-laden masculine air of Watier's.
    The marquess studied his friend with narrowed eyes. “The lady's name, by any chance, would not happen to be Quennell?”
    “That's it!” said Freddie, delighted. “'Course you know all the beauties,” he added gloomily.
    “And how did she bring about this introduction?” asked the marquess coldly. “Did she sprain her ankle or faint in your arms?”
    “Neither,” said Freddie, surprised. “Brummell introduced us. The Beau was uncommonly taken with her himself.”
    The marquess began to feel that there must definitely be a new Lady Margery