Free Wicked Godmother by MC Beaton Page B

she tried to choke out an apology, and then to the marquess’s fury, she fainted dead away.
    ‘You are a fool, Belinda,’ he said. ‘Let me help you up. The matter is not so great that you must frighten little servant girls with threats of prison.’
    Belinda Romney sprang to her feet and brushed the dirt from her riding dress. ‘This is too much,’ she raged. ‘First you cut me at the Phillips’ ball while you make a fool of yourself over that Metcalf female, and now, when I am nigh killed, you call me a fool. Well, that dog is going to receive the whipping he deserves.’
    She advanced on Beauty, her riding crop raised. But the marquess recognized Harriet’s dog. He agreed with Belinda that the animal needed a whipping, but for some reason he could not bear to see his mistress strike Harriet Metcalfs pet. He caught her arm and swung her round. ‘No, Belinda,’ he said. ‘No scenes. The one I had to endure last night was enough.’
    Lizzie stirred at his feet and moaned faintly. He knelt down beside her and lifted her head from the grass.
    He was aware of Belinda’s stormy departure, aware she had every right to be furious with him.
    Lizzie recovered consciousness. ‘I am so sorry,’ she whispered. ‘The dog . . . he had been so quiet. I had no idea he would be so bad.’
    ‘Fortunately for you,’ said the marquess grimly, ‘I know that animal and know he has been sick since he arrived in London. Come and I will set you on your road.’
    He helped Lizzie to her feet, but she swayed again and would have fallen if he had not had a firm grip on her.
    He gave an exclamation of annoyance and shouted for his groom, who usually stayed a discreet distance away when he was out riding with Belinda. ‘Fetch my carriage,’ he called. ‘This servant is unwell.’
    ‘Look, child,’ he said, giving Lizzie a little shake, ‘no one is going to send you to prison. Instead, you will be safely conveyed back to Sixty-seven Clarges Street – that is where you work, is it not?’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ whispered Lizzie. ‘Scullery maid.’
    The Marquess of Huntingdon did not expect Harriet to be awake, for it was only ten in the morning when he returned to Clarges Street with Lizzie and Beauty – London’s equestriennes such as Mrs Romney being the only ones who rose so early. But when he carried Lizzie into the hall, Harriet came running down the stairs in her undress, her hair loose about her shoulders. He found himself staring and said sharply, ‘Your dog, ma’am, nearly caused a bad accident.’
    ‘The girl!’ gasped Harriet. ‘That is one of my servants.’ She had been introduced to all the staff by Rainbird on her arrival and remembered the little scullery maid who had stood so shyly at the end of the reception line.
    ‘The girl has not been hurt, but she fainted.’
    Rainbird came hurriedly forward. ‘Allow me, my lord,’ he said, lifting Lizzie’s slight body from the marquess’s arms. ‘I shall take her belowstairs.’
    ‘Very well,’ said Harriet. ‘Bring refreshments to the drawing room.’ She had learned to grace the front parlour by that grander name. ‘Tell Mrs Middleton I shall come to see the girl as soon as possible. What is her name?’
    ‘Lizzie.’
    ‘If you think Lizzie requires the services of a physician, then by all means summon one. My lord, do not stand in this cold hall.’ She led the way into the parlour.
    Harriet was wearing a nightgown with one of the fashionable aprons which had come into vogue for undress. The nightgown was made high at the neck and had long sleeves. Harriet had found one was expected to wear more in bed than out of it. She raised her arms and hurriedly screwed her hair up into a knot on top of her head.
    ‘Pray be seated,’ she said to the marquess, ‘and tell me what happened.’
    ‘I was riding in the Row with a certain Miss Romney . . .’ He broke off and raised his thin eyebrows, studying the pink rising in Harriet’s cheeks and noticing the