When Marrying a Duke...

Lord Trevellyan scowled gravely, though Marietta suspected him of a strong desire to laugh at her, to mock her.

‘Respect is something that must be earned, Miss Westwood, and from what I have just witnessed, you have a long way to go before you can do so.’

In his mind this could also be applied to her father, for there were many on the island who would dispute his daughter’s use of the word gentleman where Monty Westwood was concerned.

It would never occur to her that her father and his partner were two of several traders in the colony whose shady endeavours were of professional interest. But he would not sully the sensitive ears of a seventeen-year-old girl with the disgusting truth about her adored father’s illicit dealings in the opium trade.

The Chinese had banned opium from its territories, but it was smuggled into Hong Kong from India covertly, increasing the addiction of the Chinese to the drug. He was convinced that Miss Westwood’s knowledge about the drug went no further than it being a very effective medicine. And, he thought, when he considered the misery it caused, long may she continue to do so.

‘You don’t know me, Lord Trevellyan, so you have no right to say that. And I have apologised to you—and your wife—which you would have heard had you taken the wool out of your ears.’

Max wasn’t accustomed to being answered back and was taken aback at her remark. One dark brow lifted over an amused silver-grey eye, before he checked himself and his lips curled scornfully across his even white teeth. ‘It sounded more like an excuse than an apology to me,’ he replied crisply, wondering what the hell he was doing arguing with her. Hearing the sound of youthful laughter, he glanced beyond her, noting the boisterousness of her group. ‘It’s certainly a wayward bunch you are with.’

‘These are my friends, actually,’ Marietta snapped defensively.

‘I think everybody would be obliged if they’d restrain their enthusiasm,’ he remarked, glowering beneath ferociously dipping eyebrows.

‘Why? We are just having some perfectly harmless fun.’ Snatching her bonnet off her head, she assumed an appearance of remote indifference as she turned her back on Lord Trevellyan and his wife and haughtily flounced back to her friends.

‘I say, Marietta!’ Oliver remarked, astounded and full of admiration for the way she had stood up to the formidable Lord Trevellyan. ‘You gave him what for.’

‘He deserved it,’ she remarked haughtily. ‘The man is arrogant, high-handed and quite despicable.’ Every word she uttered she believed was true, but if so, why was she drowning in an ocean of mortification? Why couldn’t she have walked away instead of arguing with Lord Trevellyan, which was what any well brought-up, self-respecting young lady would have done.

Marietta had first seen Lord Trevellyan at a musical tea party being held at a prominent merchant’s house. Her eyes had been caught by the handsome man who was a stranger in their midst. In contrast to the bored languor of other gentlemen present, he moved with an easy grace that expressed confidence, which sat on him lightly but with a strength of steel. His manner was authoritative, his tall frame positively radiating raw power and the kind of unleashed sensuality her best friend Emma was always talking about.

His charm was evident in his lazy white smile and there was an aura about him of danger and excitement that stirred her young and impressionable heart. Marietta thought it was an aura that women would find exciting and which would add tremendously to his attraction—indeed, every woman present seemed to be aware of his presence. But he appeared not to notice the smiles showered on him. His eyes looked cool and restless, his expression restrained and guarded. It was as if he were fed up with the whole occasion, which made Marietta suspect that he would very much like to be somewhere else.

As she’d continued to look at him she’d only become more aware of him as a man. She was motionless. There seemed to be a warmth, a hidden fervour of feeling, as if her whole being had been stirred and some change were taking place in its very depths. All at once she wanted desperately to make this fine gentleman notice her, to dazzle him with her wit and brilliance, while he had probably seen her merely as some silly schoolgirl.

Her eyes had continued to follow him until, unable to stand the suspense of not knowing who he was any longer, she asked her father.

‘Who is that man, Papa—the tall man with the black hair? I can’t say that I’ve seen him before.’

‘That—Oh! Max Trevellyan—Lord Trevellyan. He’s also a member of the British aristocracy—a duke, no less, but when he’s in Hong Kong he prefers to leave his title at home in England. That’s his wife, Nadine, a nice young woman and very beautiful, as you can see.’

‘Wife? Oh, I see.’ And Marietta did see. She’d been swamped with disappointment. Lady Trevellyan was perhaps the loveliest woman she had ever seen as she’d watched her walk across the room to her husband’s side. Her hair was blonde, her face exquisite, and she was poised, her slender figure swaying beneath the silk and lace of her dress when she moved. When she looked at her husband her lips were smiling, her eyes half-closed. Marietta recognised something in the charm of her attitude that caused a strange disquiet to fall on her.

After that occasion, even though her eyes sought Lord Trevellyan out, she always remained at a distance. Once they were introduced, but he took no more notice of her than he would any seventeen-year-old girl.

Marietta’s home was a substantial mansion high up on the Peak, which, overlooking the busy harbour and Kowloon, attracted prominent European residents because of its temperate climate compared to the subtropical heat in the rest of Hong Kong.

She had been born in England. Her father had come to Hong Kong after the Charter Act had opened the China trade to independent enterprise. Before that, taking advantage of the fashion craze for Kashmir shawls, which were a prized possession for any woman who could afford to buy them, and aware of the commercial opportunity, he’d made his fortune importing shiploads from India to Europe and America. Before long he was trading in other commodities from India—sumptuous goods, luxurious and exotic. It was in India that he’d met Teddy and they’d formed a partnership.

Arriving at the house, Marietta encountered Teddy on the veranda—the debonair Teddy Longford, a lady’s man who oozed charm and flattery. He was sitting in a bamboo chair with a cigar in one hand and a brandy in the other, his long legs stretched out in front of him. On seeing her he smiled a welcome.

‘Ah, here you are. Your father was wondering where you’d got to. I feel I must warn you that he’s not in the best of moods, having heard of your escapade at Happy Valley.’

‘Oh dear,’ Marietta said ruefully. ‘I was hoping he wouldn’t have found out about it. I thought I’d see you there.’

‘Not today. I had other fish to fry.’ A warm gleam lit up his brown eyes.

Marietta laughed, giving him a knowing look. ‘You’re looking very pleased with yourself, Teddy. Do I know the lady?’ she said teasingly.

He lifted a dark, winged brow, his lips twitching with humour. ‘I very much doubt it—but she’s a looker all right.’ Taking a long draw on his cigar, he squinted at her through the smoke. ‘Are you looking forward to the New Year celebrations?’ he asked, referring to the forthcoming event to be held at Government House.

‘Very much. What about you, Teddy? Will you be there?’

‘Naturally. Your father and I have a very important lady to escort.’

‘Then how could I resist two such handsome escorts?’ Marietta laughed, dancing off to placate her father.

Lord Trevellyan’s rebuke for her inappropriate behaviour had done nothing but inflame Marietta’s smouldering resentment towards him, but when confronted by her father’s state of agitation over her escapade, she felt a deep remorse for causing him such anxiety. Her first idea of slipping to her room to change her clothes was instantly discarded when she saw how pale he was.

Upright and decisive, Monty Westwood was a tall man with thinning fair hair and mutton-chop whiskers. His olive-green eyes were flecked with gold—a feature his daughter had inherited. He was a handsome man, though his flesh wasn’t as firm as it had once been, but he’d lost none of his ability to charm the ladies, although of late Marietta had noticed he’d lost weight and his tan had become an unhealthy yellow.

For a long time now Marietta had begun to suspect he wasn’t well—although if he wasn’t he would never talk to her about it. He did not burden his daughter with his own worries, for there were some things he might have talked about, but didn’t. His eyes held a faraway look and his pupils were often dilated. Of course he drank too much, but then everyone in Hong Kong drank too much and many suffered from damaged livers.

Marietta loved her father passionately. He was the only person in the world she did love—the only person she had loved since the death of her mother.

‘Please don’t worry about me, Papa. Here I am, safe and sound. I am sorry to have caused a fuss and I hope you are not too cross with me. I’m sorry. I know my behaviour doesn’t reflect well on you.’

Relief at seeing his daughter unharmed following her tumble caused the blood to return to Monty’s cheeks and he gave rein to his feelings. ‘You naughty child, Marietta! What have you been doing? Ever since Mrs Schofield called I have been so anxious.’

Marietta grimaced. ‘Oliver’s mother! I might have known she would seek you out to inform you of my latest misdemeanour. She hates it that Oliver and I are such good friends.’

Having stopped off at his club for a reviving drink after extensive negotiations with business associates at his office, which had taken up most of the day, Monty had arrived home to find Mrs Schofield—a tiresome busybody who minded everyone’s business but her own—waiting in the hall to relate his daughter’s latest escapade. She had gone on to list all of Marietta’s shortcomings and insisted that he kept stricter control on her at all times.

It was one of those occasions when Monty felt a twinge of guilt over not having remarried, because it meant that Marietta had been left to the care of her amah, Yang Ling. Yang Ling was like all Chinese, industrious and cheerful, and Marietta was extremely fond of her. She acted as her companion and personal maid and accompanied his fun-loving daughter everywhere.

‘I thought you must have been injured,’ he went on. ‘As for Julian Fielding—it is singularly tiresome of him to cause so much trouble. I shall speak to his parents. He should not have ridden off with you like that. It was totally irresponsible—of you both,’ he added as an afterthought.

‘Julian isn’t to blame. It isn’t his fault,’ Marietta said defensively. ‘It was my idea to race. I took a tumble on Oliver’s mount, that is all. I didn’t mean to make a scene and it was nothing serious. Unfortunately I happened to land at Lord Trevellyan’s feet and he was none too pleased.’

Monty glanced at her sharply, his interest peaked. Lord Trevellyan never failed to make a big impression on those he came into contact with. He had a clever financial brain and was possessed of one of the finest business minds he knew. As with everything in his life his business affairs were conducted like a well-oiled machine. Those he dealt with were in awe of him, regarding this cold, frighteningly unapproachable deity whom, because of his wealth and the benefits of being associated with such a clever, powerful man, they strove desperately to please.

‘So you have spoken to the formidable Lord Trevellyan.’

‘Yes—although what he had to say wasn’t at all pleasing. What does he do? Is he very rich?’

‘I’ve made a lot of money, Marietta—I won’t go into the intricacies of it because you wouldn’t understand—but the days of the small shipping businesses are over. This time belongs to financial wizards with money, power and authority—men like Lord Trevellyan with grand ambitions. It’s about economics and insurance and industrial development. What did he say to you?’

‘He gave me a dressing down for muddying his shoes.’

‘Then I can only assume that coming from Lord Trevellyan it was well deserved.’

‘I suppose it was. I tried to apologise. His wife was more forgiving, though. How does she put up with him? She has my sympathy. She’s very lovely, isn’t she, Papa?’

‘Yes, she is. But—things aren’t always what they appear to be on the surface.’

Marietta looked at him with sudden interest. ‘Why, what do you mean?’

‘Never mind,’ he said airily.

She didn’t ask him to explain, but it left her wondering.

Arriving at Marietta’s house the following morning, Oliver didn’t recognise the girl dressed in loose black trousers and a long-sleeved, green-and-yellow-patterned tunic, round-toed slippers and one thick pigtail hanging down her back waiting at the gate. She had pencilled thin kohl lines around her eyes to alter their shape. It took him a moment to realise it was Marietta, waiting for him to take her to the native quarter. He was about to walk past her and, seeing his intent, she broke out into peals of laughter. Failing to see what was so entertaining, Oliver turned and looked at her stiffly.

‘I had you there, Oliver. Did you not know me?’

‘Marietta!’ Oliver was deeply shocked. ‘Why are you dressed like that? And whose clothes are they?’

‘I’ve borrowed them from Yang Ling. You said yourself that the native quarter is not a fit place for an English girl to visit, which is why I’ve adopted this garb. It’s going to be such fun. No one will recognise me.’

‘Yang Ling? You have told Yang Ling?’ He sincerely hoped she hadn’t.

‘Of course not,’ Marietta laughed. ‘I wouldn’t dare. She is convinced that Europeans lose face by visiting the native quarter and she would have a fit if she were to find out. Now come along! We are wasting time and if we loiter any longer someone may see us and ask questions.’

Oliver wasn’t enthusiastic about taking Marietta in disguise to the native quarter, but saw no way of making this plain to her without throwing her into a tantrum which would draw unwelcome attention to them. So without another word, they set off on his proposed tour in a light carriage driven by a coolie and drawn by a skinny horse, instead of the more common mode of transport of sedan chairs, which were carried up and down the steep roads of the island. Neither the grilling heat, which beat down on her little flat hat with relentless force, nor Oliver’s attempts to tell her how she should behave when they reached the native quarter and that she must remain silent could dim her enthusiasm.

Their conveyance made good speed, eventually entering the seedy area of China Town, an area where not many respectable Westerners ventured. The streets were lined with shabby establishments with palm-leaf walls and thatched roofs. Bamboo curtains hung in doorways and Chinese writing was on boards dangling above buildings. The streets were narrow, steep and densely packed. The strong smell of hot oil mingled with spice, garlic and incense wafted above the general odours of dirt and decay. Washing was draped like bunting across the streets and heavily laden donkeys trundled along while barefoot children played.

At last the vehicle stopped in front of a large framed house with an open veranda. Marietta followed Oliver inside. The air was oppressive. Several men were taking their ease—Chinese and European—stretched out or sitting cross-legged on heaps of cushions with long pipes before them. The room into which they entered was dimly lit. Marietta’s eyes opened wide when from behind a beaded curtain two girls glided forwards. One had blue-black hair that was drawn back from a face that was pearl-like in its perfection and colour, with large slanting eyes. Her gown of crimson silk clung to her curves. The other girl was almost identical except that she was dressed in yellow. They stood in front of Oliver like dolls. They smiled with perfect teeth between plump red lips.

‘Who are they?’ Marietta whispered, never having seen Chinese women who looked like these.

‘The entertainment,’ Oliver replied, leaving it at that, not wishing to shock Marietta’s sensibilities by telling her the nature of the entertainment they performed.

Looking around the room lit by oil lamps, Marietta saw there were more girls, some so scantily clad as to be indecent. The crimson-clad woman sidled up to Oliver.

‘You likee me?’ she said, playing coy.

‘Yes, but not now.’

A portly middle-aged Chinese man with long moustaches drooping on either side of his small, fleshy mouth seemed to appear from nowhere, his hands tucked into his sleeves. He bowed respectfully.

‘May I present Tiger Lily and Jasmine. They are offering you their services with the magic of their exquisite bodies. They are skilful and will soothe your aches in some infinitesimal degree, but if their clumsiness is offensive, you should beat them for their correction and your pleasure.’

‘No,’ Oliver said. ‘I have not come for the girls, Mr Chang.’

Mr Chang accepted this and clapping his hands sharply, the girls melted into the background. He paid small interest to Marietta, who had her eyes cast down. Facing Oliver, he bowed in greeting while Marietta felt inordinately pleased with herself when his eyes passed over her without suspicion.

‘It is good to see you again, Mr Schofield,’ he said in silky tones as well as perfect English. ‘Will you honour me by accepting refreshment?’

‘I should be glad to, Mr Chang.’ Turning to Marietta, he said in quiet but firm tones, ‘Wait for me in the carriage. I’ll just be a few moments, but on no account wander off.’

Resentful at being so casually dismissed, but knowing better than to argue, Marietta returned to the carriage, expelling a sigh of exasperation on seeing the driver with his head bowed taking a nap. As time passed and Oliver did not return she became annoyed. The shadows were lengthening and the native quarter was beginning to wake from its afternoon torpor. Deciding she’d had enough, she stood up, then climbed down from the carriage and went back into the building to look for Oliver.

Like a moth blundering in the lamplight she stumbled over the cushions littering the floor. Eventually she saw Oliver. She was disappointed to find he had given in to the temptation to sample the wares. He was reclining on a pile of cushions with a pipe in his mouth, sucking in the vapour from a bowl held over the flame of a lamp, holding it in as long as possible, then slowly letting it out through his mouth. He was already on the blessed edges of oblivion, the strong narcotic having dulled his senses to forgetfulness and Marietta’s presence.

Angry that he could be so irresponsible, forgetful of her disguise, before he could take another pull from the pipe she snatched it from him and, placing her hands on his shoulders, shook him hard.

‘Oliver, wake up. Please pull yourself together.’

When he opened his eyes they were unfocused, his pupils just pinpricks in the centres of his irises.

‘Do not be alarmed.’ Mr Chang suddenly appeared silently behind her. ‘Your companion will wake soon and be none the worse for smoking the pipe.’ Turning his glittering black eyes on Marietta, he saw her more clearly. He opened his slit eyes a fraction wider. ‘Ah, you are English missee.’

‘Yes, I am English missee,’ she repeated crossly.

He moved closer and brushed her cheek. ‘And with skin like a peach. A treasure beyond price. You stay here, English missee. There are many who would pay handsomely for your company.’

Not so naïve that she didn’t know what he implied, she gasped. ‘How dare you? Despite what I look like, I am a respectable English girl and my father counts for something on the island. Be good enough to wake Mr Schofield and we will leave.’

Ignoring her, Mr Chang took her arm. ‘Not so hasty now, English missee.’

Beginning to get alarmed and feeling a sudden chill when she became aware of furtive figures lurking in the shadows, Marietta shook her arm free. ‘Do not touch me. I warn you that the British Consul knows of our whereabouts and you will be in serious trouble if you try to keep me here.’ Looking at Oliver, she saw him stir. ‘Oliver, wake up,’ she said sharply. ‘You must take me home at once.’

Seeming to remember where he was, Oliver thrust the pipe away. Shaking his head, he staggered to his feet, struggling to fight the opium fumes that fogged his brain. ‘Marietta! Oh God—forgive me—I quite forgot.’

‘Clearly.’ She raised a knowing eyebrow. ‘What a complete idiot I have been. I thought you had come to buy the drug for an acquaintance when all the time you wanted it for yourself.’

Swaying slightly, Oliver regarded her for a moment with a closed expression, then leaned in with a confidential whisper. ‘There you have me, Marietta. I will confess that I am here to purchase the narcotic for my own use. As you have witnessed yourself, I am rather fond of the odd pipe. It’s quite common, you know.’

‘I don’t dispute that, but how could you, Oliver?’ Marietta found the idea of smoking opium frightening. Her imagination was already vibrant. She was aware of what happened to people who took mind-altering substances, that it ruled its addicts with its weapons of need and distrust. Once in its grip, there was no escape. She sincerely hoped that, where Oliver was concerned, his indulgence in this particular vice was a passing phase. ‘Now pull yourself together for I think there is some villainy afoot. I think your Mr Chang wants to keep me here.’

Taking his arm, with great difficulty she managed get him on to the veranda, relieved when no one tried to stop them and ignoring the pipe smokers who rose and drifted away into the shadows.

‘Devil take it,’ Oliver mumbled, stumbling to his knees and grabbing at a post to keep himself from falling flat on his face. ‘I’m all at sea.’

‘It jolly well serves you right,’ Marietta scolded.

Suddenly a tall, lithe black-haired man materialised from across the street. ‘Get up, man,’ he retorted as he hoisted Oliver to his feet.

‘Thank you,’ Oliver muttered. ‘I am much obliged.’

Marietta’s head spun round on hearing the strong authoritative tones. Suddenly she wished the ground would open and swallow her up. She lowered her head to hide her face, for there was no one in the whole world she would so much dislike to discover her in this disguise as Lord Trevellyan.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Max demanded of Oliver.

Oliver’s eyes darted about, but he saw there was no escaping Lord Trevellyan’s interrogation. ‘I—came on behalf of a friend to collect a package, and before I knew …’

‘Like hell you did,’ Max ground out. ‘You knew what kind of establishment this is—that not only is it a house of ill repute, but that Chang deals in narcotics. If you are hell-bent on self-destruction, young man, you are going the right way about it.’

Marietta was about to move behind Oliver when a warm hand on her shoulder pulled her back and spun her round to face him.

‘Wait. Are you with him?’

Knowing there was no escape, Marietta raised her head and met his gaze, her eyes wide with horrified embarrassment. She saw astonished recognition in his eyes and tried to shrink away, but he held on to her shoulder, his fingers digging into her soft flesh.

‘Miss Westwood. Just as one might have expected. What an absolutely tiresome girl you are.’ She flinched before the exasperation in his voice. ‘I might have known—although I didn’t expect to meet you engaged in yet another mad escapade quite so soon. It leaves me wondering what the devil you’ll get up to next.’ He rounded angrily on Oliver. ‘Have you no sense? You must have known it was the height of dangerous folly to bring a young girl to a place such as this. Not only does Chang deal in opium, but slaves are his speciality—the younger the better, and the fairer the skin the higher the price.’

‘I hadn’t meant to bring her, but …’