Loving a Lost Lord

by Mary Jo Putney

  He was lunging forward again when Adam grabbed her around the waist and rolled them both across the bed, away from the attacker. The world jolted as they tumbled off the bed, the blanket falling with them.

  Adam twisted so that he fell on the bottom to cushion the impact for her. She landed on top of him, the breath knocked out of her. While she dizzily tried to collect herself, Adam pushed away and sprang to his feet. “Mariah, get back!”

  He moved between her and the assassin, crouching defensively as the man circled the bed swearing, lamplight glinting from his blade. Tall, burly, and dressed all in black, the intruder was a nightmare come to life. Adam, naked and unarmed, looked terrifyingly vulnerable by comparison. But he was unafraid as he waited for his opponent to make the first move.

  Mariah scrambled to her feet, wondering frantically what she could do. She’d be useless at tackling an armed man.

  A blast of cold air revealed an open window. Lord only knew how the intruder had managed that, or how he knew exactly which bedroom to enter. But as she glanced at the window, she saw the bell rope on the far side of the bed. She dove across the bed and yanked the rope over and over, trying to wake every servant in the house.

  “She’s a good-looking slut. I’ll take her after I kill you.” The man sprang forward, slashing the knife with dangerous expertise.

  Moving with effortless grace, Adam slid aside and caught his assailant’s arm. Pivoting, he hurled the intruder headfirst into the wall.

  “Jesus!” the man swore as he staggered to his feet. “You filthy heathen! I’m going to cut you into such small pieces your own mother wouldn’t recognize them!”

  “What a limited mind you have,” Adam replied, circling. “Do you try to kill mixed-blood dukes for amusement, or are you paid?”

  “Both,” the man spat. “Business and pleasure together.” He sprang at Adam, sweeping the knife upward in a disemboweling blow.

  Adam wasn’t there. Once more he’d slipped away like a shadow, the light playing over his bare skin as if he were a Greek statue in motion. He chopped his hand at the other man’s neck. The assassin dodged, but Adam still landed a partial blow.

  The door to the dressing room and Wharf’s quarters was thrown open with a crash. Wharf and Reg Murphy, the head groom, charged through, both of them carrying pistols. Instantly sizing up the situation, Wharf swore, “Bastard!”

  He and Murphy fired so close together that it sounded like one shot.

  The intruder clapped a hand to his ribs. His fingers came away bloody. Outnumbered but not seriously injured, he leaped out the window. Mariah saw the dim length of a rope hanging outside in the rain. The man grabbed it and vanished from sight.

  Feeling very naked, Mariah retreated and scooped up the blanket from the floor. As she wrapped it around her, pounding feet sounded in the corridor. Adam grabbed her shoulders and pushed her toward the servants. “Murphy, get her away through Wharf’s rooms. Don’t let anyone see her! Wharf, hide those two green silky things.”

  It was hard to worry about her reputation when Adam had almost been murdered in his bed, but she turned and bolted through Wharf’s door, Murphy right behind her. As the groom pulled the door closed, she heard Randall’s voice as he burst into Adam’s sitting room. “Ash!” It sounded as if others were on Randall’s heels.

  She and Murphy moved through the dressing room and into Wharf’s bedroom. It was a sizable chamber with a bed in disarray. “Best rest here and catch your breath, miss,” Murphy said. “The corridors will be busy for a bit.”

  A wisp of smoke trickled from the barrel of his pistol and the acrid smell of black powder clung to him. She realized that though he and Wharf had been swift and competent in their response, the men were half dressed and disheveled. She glanced at the bed, then away. “A good thing you were both here and ready.”

  Murphy looked uncomfortable. “With the threats against his grace, Wharf thought we should be ready and armed, just in case. We were both army.”

  Mariah’s erratic upbringing had made her more worldly than most young women. She had a fair idea of the real reason why the men were together here, but there was no need to discuss the matter further. Like her, Murphy had good reason to avoid being seen by others in the household. “Ashton is fortunate to have you in his service.”

  “The duke has been good to both of us.” Murphy went to listen at the door that opened to the public corridor. “It sounds quiet now. Ready to risk going back to your own rooms, Miss Clarke?”

  “Please.” She smiled ruefully. “I feel foolish in this blanket.”

  He opened the door warily and peered out, then beckoned for her to come. She moved past him and darted barefoot through the corridor. Murphy followed. At her door, she said softly, “The outside guards should be checked. The assassin might have injured one to get onto the grounds.”

  “A good thought. I’ll look now.” He hesitated. “No need to worry about Wharf and me talking, miss. We’d never do anything to hurt you or the duke.”

  She guessed that the groom was an expert on forbidden love. “Thank you, Mr. Murphy. The less said by any of us, the better.”

  She slipped into her room, where she’d left a lamp burning, and headed straight for the clothes press. A flannel nightgown, her heaviest wool robe, and slippers replaced the blanket. She was braiding her hair when Julia rushed into the room. “Mariah, what happened? Was that a gunshot?”

  Mariah realized that bare minutes had passed since the attack. After swift thought, she decided to tell the truth. “I was with Adam when a knife-wielding killer broke into his bedroom. Adam fought him off bare-handed while I pulled the bell rope. Wharf rushed in with a pistol and shot at the man, who went out the window like a rat racing down a gutter pipe.” No need to mention Murphy.

  “Good God.” Julia caught her breath. “Ashton is uninjured?”

  Mariah nodded. “He was…remarkable.” If he hadn’t been cat quick and had amazing fighting ability, they’d both be dead. She tied a ribbon around the end of her braid. “I’m going to his rooms, since it would be surprising not to investigate a gunshot.”

  “I’ll go with you. We shall look most respectable.”

  Mariah hoped so, because the appearance of respectability was all she had left.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Not surprisingly, Adam got no more sleep that night. By the time he had his banyan on again, what seemed like half the household was in his rooms, drawn by the gunshots. Randall was in a murderous mood when he learned what had happened and promptly went outside to see if he could find any traces of the intruder.

  Mariah and Julia arrived a couple of minutes later, heavily swaddled in robes and looking exactly as upset as one would expect if they’d been woken from sound sleep. Mariah’s gaze met his for one intense moment before she purposely looked around the room and asked, “What happened?”

  “A man broke in, but he’s been routed. No damage done,” he assured the women, trying not to think of how Mariah had looked lying in his arms.

  “Thank heaven you’re all right.” Mariah shuddered. “If this is London, I look forward to the peace of Hartley.” She took Julia’s arm and they left.

  He wondered if he’d still be alive if Mariah hadn’t been with him. The assassin had been very silent. If Adam had been sleeping, that knife might have ended up in his heart. It was Mariah who had spotted the intruder, and her kick had given them the instant they’d needed to escape. He had a horrible vision of lying dead from knife wounds while the assassin raped and murdered Mariah.

  As Wharf shooed other staff members, Randall returned, wet and grim. “One of the guards was knocked unconscious and tied up. The heavy rain covered up the intruder’s approach over the wall. He somehow managed to scale the house and drop a rope by your window.”

  “Is the guard going to be all right?” Adam asked.

  Randall nodded. “He was lucky. Did you get a clear view of your attacker?”

  “He had a skull tattooed on h
is hand,” Adam said tersely.

  “So it’s Shipley, and he’s alive.” Randall exhaled roughly. “At least now we know who we’re looking for.”

  “The trick will be catching the devil.” Adam frowned. “From what he said, he would enjoy killing a filthy heathen like me, but he’s also being paid to murder me. So the underlying question is, who’s paying him?”

  “Which means that when we get Shipley, we need to keep him alive long enough to learn who his employer is. This is damnable.” Randall headed for the door. “I’ll go to Rob Carmichael and let him know.”

  “No need to wake Rob up at this hour,” Adam said. “I doubt Shipley will be back tonight.”

  Neither would Mariah, alas.

  After breakfast with Randall, who left to find the Bow Street Runner, Adam reluctantly headed to his office to face the unending paperwork required of a duke. The last thing he wanted to do was read dry legalistic papers after the passions and perils of the previous night. Plus, tonight would be his family dinner party, which was a distracting thought. “Formby, am I ever going to get caught up on this work?”

  “You’re making good progress, your grace,” his secretary said in his most formal voice, the one that suggested he wasn’t going to allow Adam to escape today.

  “Shall I hire an assistant for you? Someone to help with the winnowing and basics, giving you more time for matters requiring experienced judgment.”

  Formby looked startled, then intrigued at the thought of having an underling to order around. “That might be helpful, and ultimately reduce the amount of material that you must deal with.”

  Trying not to look indecently relieved, Adam said, “Excellent. Please start seeking someone qualified and acceptable to you.”

  Formby beamed. “Thank you, your grace. I have a nephew who might be suitable.”

  The door opened and a harried footman said, “I’m sorry, your grace, but this gentleman insists on seeing you.”

  He was brushed aside by a well-dressed man in his early forties, his right arm in a sling and his face tight with controlled fury. Planting himself in front of Adam’s desk, he snapped, “What are you doing with my daughter?”

  Good God, he had Mariah’s brown eyes and blond hair. This had to be Charles Clarke. For a stricken moment, Adam felt as if the man was aware of the glorious, life-affirming things he had done with Mariah the night before. But Clarke couldn’t possibly know about that.

  Under his breath, Adam said, “Summon Miss Clarke, Formby. Immediately.”

  As the secretary nodded and withdrew, Adam rose to his feet. “You must be Charles Clarke.”

  “The Honorable Charles Clarke Townsend,” the newcomer spat out. “I may not be a duke, but my family is not without influence, and you will not be allowed to confine and ruin my daughter.”

  “I shouldn’t wish to,” Adam said mildly. What he and Mariah had done wasn’t ruination, but generous, open-hearted love. “Your daughter saved my life when I was near death by drowning. She is an honored guest in my home, along with her friend from Hartley, Mrs. Bancroft, who is a most respectable chaperone.” If not necessarily a strict one. “By the way, I wore your clothing for several weeks. You have fine taste. What made you think I’ve ruined your daughter? She is a very independent young woman. Not easily ruined, I think. And is it Mr. Clarke Townsend, or Mr. Townsend?”

  “Townsend will do.” The visitor frowned, his anger blunted. “I have just come from my lawyer’s office. Granger says that Mariah visited him with the Duke of Ashton. That Mariah believed I was dead, and that you were watching her like a hawk. Like she was your prisoner. She has replied to none of my letters for weeks, which has to mean that something dreadful has befallen her. Is she your honored guest, or your captive?”

  Despite Townsend’s pain and anger, Adam had to smile at the absurdity of the situation. He nodded toward the door, where Mariah had just appeared in a graceful peach morning gown. She looked far too delicate and ladylike to have kicked a man in the groin the night before while she was in the midst of passionate, illicit lovemaking. His matchless Mariah.

  As Townsend turned, Mariah’s shock turned to blazing joy. “Papa!” Weeping, she hurled herself into his embrace. “I thought you were dead!”

  He winced as she crushed into his damaged arm, but he locked the other arm around her hard. “I was so worried, Mariah! What happened?” He glared at Adam. “Has this man ill-used you?”

  Mariah laughed. “Not at all. Oh, Papa, so much has happened!” A grouping of leather-upholstered furniture was arranged on one side of the office. She drew her father down on the sofa and sat next to him, so close they were touching.

  Adam left his desk and took the chair opposite the sofa. “You said you’re the Honorable Charles Clarke Townsend. Are you a son of the Earl of Torrington?”

  Clarke nodded. “I was the youngest and the black sheep. My father died a few weeks ago. We managed a deathbed reconciliation.” His expression was wry. “It’s perhaps as well that the reconciliation wasn’t tested over a longer period of time. We were like chalk and cheese. But…we were both glad to part as friends, I think. My eldest brother is the new earl.”

  Mariah gasped. “I thought perhaps you came from the gentry. I didn’t imagine your rank was so high.”

  “The Townsends have some of the bluest blood in Britain, which made my disgraceful behavior look all the worse,” he said. “Legally, your name is Mariah Clarke Townsend. I simplified the name to Clarke after my father disowned me.”

  Adam frowned. “That is not the action of a decent parent.”

  “He was not without justification, though perhaps he overreacted.” Charles sighed, then said to Mariah, “I was considered wild even before your mother and I eloped to Gretna when we were seventeen and eighteen. Both families were scandalized. I didn’t start to grow up until I became responsible for you, and even then, I needed Granny Rose’s help.”

  “Where have you been these last weeks? George Burke said you were dead, and he forged a letter from Granger and showed me your gold ring as proof. We learned that he was tampering with the post, but that didn’t prove you were alive.” She touched the sling. “Were you injured and that’s why you didn’t return to Hartley when expected?”

  “Part of the reason. But what about you?” His glance at Adam still contained suspicion. “Why are you here, in this house, in London?”

  Adam let Mariah tell the story, suitably edited. She ended with, “Julia and I have planned to return to Hartley tomorrow, since Ashton has kindly offered a carriage. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you accompanied us. Are you ready to go home?”

  He smiled mischievously. The charm he used to become a welcome guest at many homes for many years was clearly visible. “Remember I said my injury was only part of the reason I was delayed? More of the reason is only a few streets away. Will you come with me so I can explain more fully?”

  She chuckled. “You never could resist a surprise. Do you want me to meet some of the relatives with whom you’re now on terms again?”

  “You’ve always been good at reading me. Yes, that’s the case,” he admitted. “My brother is far more tolerant of my shortcomings than my father was. But I’ll say no more.” He got to his feet. “Are you free now? I’d very much like to take you off.”

  “Very well.” She glanced at Adam. “Will you come, too?”

  Ignoring her father’s frown, he said, “Of course.” He tried to look innocent enough that he wouldn’t alarm a protective father.

  He doubted that he’d succeeded.

  With Mariah’s father giving directions, Adam’s carriage driver took them to a house on the other side of Mayfair. When they stepped onto the sidewalk in front, Charles rather conspicuously offered Mariah his good arm. She suspected that he’d be much happier when she wasn’t staying at Ashton House. He wasn’t usually this protective, but he was very perceptive. She guessed that he sensed a connection between her and Adam.

  The previous night’s
rain had washed the sky clear, and it was a lovely spring day. She saw that their destination was a typical Mayfair town house, well maintained with ivory trim and flowered window boxes.

  Her father opened the door with a key, which was interesting. As he ushered Mariah and Adam inside, he called, “I’m back and I have her!”

  He led them into the salon on the right, where two women were embroidering. Both leaped to their feet. One was a petite, attractive woman in her early forties, and the other was…Mariah.

  Mariah gasped, on the verge of fainting. Adam took hold of her arm. “Steady, Mariah,” he murmured. “I think that like me, you have a previously unknown sister.”

  Mariah scrutinized the other young woman. Though they looked very similar, this stranger’s face was a little thinner, her blond hair was styled differently, and her expression hinted at a different personality. But her fashionable morning gown was the exact same shade of peach that Mariah was wearing.

  “Mariah?” the girl asked hesitantly.

  Mariah had to swallow before she could speak. “Papa, have you been concealing a twin sister from me?”

  “Well…yes.” He sounded both pleased and embarrassed.

  A wild thought struck Mariah. “Is your name Sarah?”

  “Yes!” Her sister looked hopeful. “Do you remember me?”

  “Not really. But please tell me—are you a paragon of all ladylike virtues?”

  Sarah looked startled. “Absolutely not! As Mama will be the first to tell you.”

  Mama? Mariah turned to the older woman, who was staring at her hungrily. She was a bit shorter than Mariah and her dark blond hair was accented with strands of silver, but she looked like Sarah.

  She looked like Mariah.

  Mariah pressed her left hand over her heart, feeling as if it would pound out of her chest. “You’re my mother? I’ve always assumed you died when I was only two!”

  Her father cleared his throat. “I always said that we lost your mother. I never actually said that she died.”