said Mrs. Marsh. “Stands to reason. Young ’andsome lord like ’im. Nuff to turn any young gel’s ’ead.”
The marquis sighed. He had enjoyed Mrs. Marsh’s company and her gossip about Stone Lane Market immensely and did not want to spoil the afternoon. But he felt it was his duty.
“My brother,” he said, “is a thoughtless young bounder. I feel he doesn’t plan to get married for a long time, if you take my meaning.” Gold eyes met blue for a long moment.
“Well, Pol won’t settle for anything less than marriage, me lord,” said Mrs. Marsh. “I wouldn’t let her marry ’im anyways. No good comes of marrying out of yer class.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go as far as that,” said the marquis pleasantly. “But certainly where Peter is concerned. He is going away, you know. To India. That should put a stop to his philandering.”
“Well, then,” said Mrs. Marsh brightening up. “Wot’s the two of us a-sittin’ a-worryin’ for. My Polly’ll come to ’er senses soon enough. Thank you fer the tea, me lord. Oh, lord! ’S’all right, not you. I clean forgit to give Polly them sausages and things.”
“Peter will see that she is fed this afternoon, anyway,” said the marquis soothingly. “I’ll send you home in my carriage. I’m going to walk to my club.”
And so it was Mrs. Marsh and not Polly who dazzled Stone Lane by arriving in a carriage with a ducal crest on its side and two stunning footmen perched up on the back.
The marquis did not go to his club after all, but to his young brother’s flat in Jermyn Street. He found Peter in great spirits, lying in a hot bath and drinking champagne.
“What’s the celebration?” asked the marquis, perching himself on the edge of the tub. “The loss of Miss Polly’s virginity?”
“Not yet,” said Peter cynically. “Pass the soap, there’s a good chap. Yes, Polly. What on earth were you doing squiring old Mrs. Marsh?”
“I like her,” said the marquis simply. “I don’t want you to have an affair with young Polly, Peter. First of all, the girl’s family is respectable—”
“Shoreditch! Respectable? Pooh!” said Peter rudely.
“I said respectable. Secondly, she works at Westerman’s.”
“Well, she’ll have left Westerman’s by the time I’ve got her to say ‘yes’ to my evil designs,” said Peter cheerfully. “What are you talking about and why are you worried about the girl’s good name? She’s working class and she’s a rotten little snob—lied to me. Told me that”—here he mimicked Polly’s voice—“‘Papa and Mama were drowned in the Indian Ocean. Typhoon, you know!’ She’s a stunning looker but take it from your baby brother, she’s a common little tart with the soul of a slut and that’s the way little Peter likes ’em.”
“I hope
you
get drowned in the Indian Ocean,” retorted the marquis. “If I weren’t sure that you would forget this nonsense by Christmas, I’d see to it that you were kept out there for longer.”
“I’m not a child,” said Peter sulkily. “Go chase after your own love life.”
The marquis shrugged his elegant shoulders and left. He resolved not to trouble himself any more over Polly Marsh. The girl was obviously pretty hard-boiled and knew what she was doing. And Peter would definitely have cooled off before Christmas.
CHAPTER FIVE
Lord Peter sailed away to India. At first Polly received a few hurriedly scrawled picture postcards that she faithfully pasted into her album next to the Zena Dare pictures. Then even the postcards ceased to arrive.
Polly was not dismayed. It was not in the nature of young men to write. Why, she herself found it difficult to find the time to pay as many visits to Stone Lane as she should. For Polly was busy studying the aristocracy.
She studied the grand ladies as they alighted from their carriages at the theater or in Bond Street, carefully noting their dress and accents and listening to their small talk. The world of the
The marquis sighed. He had enjoyed Mrs. Marsh’s company and her gossip about Stone Lane Market immensely and did not want to spoil the afternoon. But he felt it was his duty.
“My brother,” he said, “is a thoughtless young bounder. I feel he doesn’t plan to get married for a long time, if you take my meaning.” Gold eyes met blue for a long moment.
“Well, Pol won’t settle for anything less than marriage, me lord,” said Mrs. Marsh. “I wouldn’t let her marry ’im anyways. No good comes of marrying out of yer class.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go as far as that,” said the marquis pleasantly. “But certainly where Peter is concerned. He is going away, you know. To India. That should put a stop to his philandering.”
“Well, then,” said Mrs. Marsh brightening up. “Wot’s the two of us a-sittin’ a-worryin’ for. My Polly’ll come to ’er senses soon enough. Thank you fer the tea, me lord. Oh, lord! ’S’all right, not you. I clean forgit to give Polly them sausages and things.”
“Peter will see that she is fed this afternoon, anyway,” said the marquis soothingly. “I’ll send you home in my carriage. I’m going to walk to my club.”
And so it was Mrs. Marsh and not Polly who dazzled Stone Lane by arriving in a carriage with a ducal crest on its side and two stunning footmen perched up on the back.
The marquis did not go to his club after all, but to his young brother’s flat in Jermyn Street. He found Peter in great spirits, lying in a hot bath and drinking champagne.
“What’s the celebration?” asked the marquis, perching himself on the edge of the tub. “The loss of Miss Polly’s virginity?”
“Not yet,” said Peter cynically. “Pass the soap, there’s a good chap. Yes, Polly. What on earth were you doing squiring old Mrs. Marsh?”
“I like her,” said the marquis simply. “I don’t want you to have an affair with young Polly, Peter. First of all, the girl’s family is respectable—”
“Shoreditch! Respectable? Pooh!” said Peter rudely.
“I said respectable. Secondly, she works at Westerman’s.”
“Well, she’ll have left Westerman’s by the time I’ve got her to say ‘yes’ to my evil designs,” said Peter cheerfully. “What are you talking about and why are you worried about the girl’s good name? She’s working class and she’s a rotten little snob—lied to me. Told me that”—here he mimicked Polly’s voice—“‘Papa and Mama were drowned in the Indian Ocean. Typhoon, you know!’ She’s a stunning looker but take it from your baby brother, she’s a common little tart with the soul of a slut and that’s the way little Peter likes ’em.”
“I hope
you
get drowned in the Indian Ocean,” retorted the marquis. “If I weren’t sure that you would forget this nonsense by Christmas, I’d see to it that you were kept out there for longer.”
“I’m not a child,” said Peter sulkily. “Go chase after your own love life.”
The marquis shrugged his elegant shoulders and left. He resolved not to trouble himself any more over Polly Marsh. The girl was obviously pretty hard-boiled and knew what she was doing. And Peter would definitely have cooled off before Christmas.
CHAPTER FIVE
Lord Peter sailed away to India. At first Polly received a few hurriedly scrawled picture postcards that she faithfully pasted into her album next to the Zena Dare pictures. Then even the postcards ceased to arrive.
Polly was not dismayed. It was not in the nature of young men to write. Why, she herself found it difficult to find the time to pay as many visits to Stone Lane as she should. For Polly was busy studying the aristocracy.
She studied the grand ladies as they alighted from their carriages at the theater or in Bond Street, carefully noting their dress and accents and listening to their small talk. The world of the
Similar Books
