"Of course," Hestia echoed, her arms wrapped around the body of a squirming Cavalier. "Will she not recognise my name from the papers though, my Lady?"
"Clever girl," Lady Bedford exclaimed, "We shall have to give you a different name, my dear. Tell me, do you have a middle name?"
"Belinda."
"Belinda it is - and we shall simply tinker with your surname a little..."
And so, a fortnight later, Belinda Bowstock, with Henry, one of Lady Bedford's Cavaliers in tow, came to be employed as a companion to Miss Jane Deveraux, younger sister of the Viscount Jarvis. Jane was a bookish girl of nine and twenty, with a kind heart and no actual need for a paid companion.
"I'm afraid my new sister-in-law was afraid that she would have to spend time with me, so she hired you instead," Jane informed Belinda cheerfully on the first day of her employment. "I'm sure we'll rub along nicely together, though. Don't you, Belinda?"
It took Hestia a few moments to reply, for the sound of her new moniker was still so unfamiliar. Unfortunately there were several servants there to witness her slow response and it was quickly decided amongst them that the new girl was a featherbrain. Which suited Hestia quite nicely, for her brain was still reeling from her father's sudden death and the revelations about his history. Late at night, in the small bedroom on the top floor of the house, Hestia would mull over her father's last words to her and the letter he had received that fateful day. There were so many unanswered questions. Who was the blonde man that her father had seen in the garden? What was it that he had taken that had upset the letter writer so? And who was the mysterious author of the threatening letter in the first place?
Hestia resolved that once the fuss of the scandal had blown over, that she would return to Cornwall and find out exactly what had happened. For she knew, in her heart, that her father had not killed himself.
"I just need to keep my head down, like Lady Bedford said," she thought grimly, "And try to keep out of trouble so I can clear my father's name."
Which would have worked a treat, if Jane hadn't decided to bring her to a historical lecture in Bloomsbury, where trouble, in the form of the Marquess of Falconbridge, decided that he quite liked the look of Hestia B. Stockbow.
Chapter Two
Alexander Jack de Pfeffel Delaney, Sixth Marquess of Falconbridge, was a man who liked reason and order. It stemmed, he thought, from his years of having studied the scientific art of mathematics. He fervently believed that everything happened for a reason and there was both a rational explanation and solution for any situation - until today, that is.
"How on earth did you manage to entangle yourself like that?" he drawled, his eyebrows knitted together in surprise as he surveyed the woman before him. The blonde lady, if one could call her that, for no proper lady would be skulking in Montagu House alone, was attached to one of the museum's ancient Greek urns by a long piece of ribbon, which was in itself attached to the most hideous bonnet Alex had ever seen. The ribbon had inexplicably wrapped itself into a knot around the slender neck of the urn and the young woman, who Alex estimated to be not more than twenty, was trying to detangle it without knocking over the priceless, historical artifact.
"I don't know," the girl stammered, turning toward his voice. Her movements caused the urn to wobble precariously and Alex uttered a silent oath. It would not do for her clumsy actions to break the artifact into smithereens. As a patron of the museum, Alex was well aware of the item's historical significance, not to mention value. He was also aware that the noise would send dozens of people scurrying their way - and then he would have to explain what he was doing, alone, in the pottery room with a young woman. A beautiful, young woman, if the parts of her that he could see, were anything to go by.
"Don't move," he ordered, absently touching her shoulder to still her. The problem, he deduced, began with the mammoth proportions of her awful hat. The bonnet was so large that it concealed her view, its brim acting like side-blinkers on a horse, and the poor girl must have panicked and tangled herself even more in a blind-tizz.
"We shall have to take off your hat," he declared confidently.
"I've tried that," a mournful voice replied, "There are so many pins holding it in place that it's near impossible."
"Nothing is impossible," Alex gently chided as he assessed the pins which, upon closer inspection, he now saw were threaded through the hair at the nape of the young woman's neck. It looked like there were at least two dozen of them determinedly binding the bonnet to her head.
"Why on earth do you need so many pins?" he wondered aloud, whilst thinking that it would take a few minutes of him threading his fingers through the young woman's locks before she was free. A thought that left him feeling a little dry-mouthed - which was ridiculous for a man of his age; he had touched far more intimate places on a woman's body than her hair.
"I need them to hold it in place, lest it's blown away by a gust of wind," the woman, whose face he still had not seen, explained cheerfully. "It's one of the chief risks of wearing a bonnet."
The opinion that losing the bonnet in question to a windy day, would, in fact, be no great loss, was on the tip of Alex's tongue, though he chivalrously refrained from voicing it. He knew that not everyone had the financial resources to be as sartorially refined as he, nor the help of London's most expensive valet in choosing clothes from Saville Row. Though heaven knows poverty was no excuse for such a heinous head-piece; the gift of sight was still free after all.
"I'm afraid, if I am to release you, that I will have to touch your hair," Alex said, the strange feeling inside him making him sound gruff and irritated. "I hope you won't take a fit of the vapours when I do."
"Lud, no," the girl snorted, "The only thing that's making me feel faint is the thought of that vase toppling over and breaking into a million pieces. My mistress would never let me hear the end of it."
"Your mistress?" Alex asked, as his fingers began to work their way through her hair. He wasn't particularly interested in the girl's life or occupation but he wanted a distraction from the alarmingly pleasant feeling of her gold locks against his fingers. Who knew that hair could feel so silky to the touch?
"Miss Jane Deveraux," there was a note of pride in the girl's voice, "She's here giving a lecture on the morality of the ancient Romans."
"Is she indeed?" Alex had little interest in the Romans - the Egyptians on the other hand were his current passion. He and his partner Pierre Dubois had been working since the war had ended, on trying to decipher the hieroglyphics found on an ancient Egyptian steele which was currently located in the museum. The work was a perfect mix of his two great loves - history and mathematics --for to decipher the ancient language required logic and Alex had that in spades.
"Oh, yes," the young woman nodded her head fervently, causing the pin in Alex's hand to snag on her curls. She did not seem to notice, for she continued speaking in her sing-song voice that brought images of the seaside in summer to mind.
"She knows everything about everything. She's so very clever - and she wants everyone else to be clever too. She helps to fund a school for girls in Brixton, so they can learn to read and write, and she spends her summers in St Jarvis attending egalitarian saloons with authors and poets."
"St Jarvis?" the woman's ramblings had finally caught Alex's attention, "Your mistress must be the Viscount's sister, Lord Deveraux."
"Are you acquainted?"
"In a way," Alex shrugged, he was nearly at the end of his bonnet mission, though his hands had now slowed and he was working at a more relaxed pace. There was something quite right about the feel of his fingers in this girl's hair and their close proximity. From where he stood he could feel the warmth emanating from her body and though he had not seen the young woman's face, he was certain it was pretty. What a pity she was only a servant...
"Everyone in the ton knows each other in some way or another," he continued absently, as he wrested the final pin attaching her bonnet to her head from her hair and - finally - set her free.
"Especially the men. We either schooled together in Eton and Oxford, or served together on the continent."
"You served during the war?"
Alex was unable to answer the question, for, now that she was released, the woman had turned to face him, and her wide, blue eyed stare had left him feeling winded. He had been right, when he had thought she would be pretty, but now seeing her fully, he saw that he had also been wrong - this woman was more than that, she was beautiful. Not in the classical sense, though her hair was blonde and her eyes were blue as was currently fashionable, she was beautiful in a fragile, almost sad way, that left Alex longing to cradle her in his arms.
Goodness, he started, where on earth had that thought sprung from?
"I did," he replied with a shrug, "For a time."
For three years, in fact, until the death of his younger brother forced him back to English soil and into a hasty, ill-thought-out marriage. One did what one had to, to secure the line; though there was not a day that Alex did not regret leaving the men he had fought with behind. His guilt was assuaged by the fact that he had still been working for the crown, helping to decipher codes in correspondence from suspected spies, but first and foremost, he was a man of action.
"How brave," the woman whispered, unswayed by his deliberately short and uninspiring reply.
"Lots of men were brave," Alex replied gruffly, wishing to close down the conversation topic, "And lots of them didn't return. I am lucky that I did. Now tell me Miss, what exactly are you doing alone in a room that is, quite clearly, marked as being private?"
His sudden change of tact left the girl flushing red with embarrassment. He almost regretted the harshness of his words, though the pink stain which made her cheeks glow, acted like a reward for his poor manners. In truth, usually, his actions were always the height of chivalry, but this girl - whatever her name was - was setting his nerves on edge.
"I was looking for a place to freshen up," she stuttered, avoiding his eyes as she alluded to that most private of feminine acts, "And Lord Payne sent me in this direction. I think he might have been confused..."
"...By what types of pots were in the pottery room," Alex finished her sentence with a guffaw of laughter. Lord Payne, who was heir to the Ducal seat of Hawkfield was a character Alex knew well from the clubs, as well as the papers. He was renowned for his pranks and high-jinks, Alex wouldn't put it past the blighter to have sent the girl the wrong way for his own amusement.
"I'm afraid that Lord Payne was mistaken in his direction, Miss --"
"Bowstock," the girl supplied, after an oddly lengthy pause.
"Miss Bowstock," Alex felt a stab of satisfaction at having spoken her name. Remembering his manners, he gave a curt bow before introducing himself, "I am Lord Delaney."
"I know, my Lord," Miss Bowstock responded, dipping her knees in a curtsy that would not have looked out of place in any ballroom across the country. Perhaps she was gently born, Alex thought, and had simply taken up a paid position out of necessity. It was not unheard of, for many a family had lost their fortune at the hands of a bad heir.
"Allow me to escort you back to the auditorium to Miss Deveraux - I'm sure she is wondering where you have got to." Alex said and gallantly held out his arm for Miss Bowstock to take. Most women in her position would have clung on to it, enchanted by his wealth, his title and his status as a widower - but not Miss Bowstock. Instead she gave him a rather alarmed look, as though he had offered her a hissing snake and not his arm.
"Thank you," she said in a decidedly firm voice, "You're very kind, but that's really not necessary. I will find my own way back to the auditorium."
"Oh, but I insist," Alex replied, adopting his most haughty, commanding tone. He was not used to people rejecting anything that he offered - especially not women. It rankled slightly at his pride that Miss Bowstock seemed most eager to be rid of him. "I would not like anything untoward to happen to you...again."
"You are too kind," Miss Bowstock sounded pained by the kindness she referred to, "But I am afraid that I will have to insist. You have helped me far too much already, my Lord. I will find my own way back - safely - thank you."
"Are you always this stubborn?" Alex sighed irritably as he realised that she would not budge. He was not usually quick to anger, but his nerves had already been frayed by the tension of touching Miss Bowstock's hair - and now, at her seeming indifference to him, his normally ice-cool demeanour had disappeared.
"No," Miss Bowstock frowned at his words, "Are you always this bossy?"
"Yes," Alex's eyes narrowed dangerously; he was not used to insubordination of any kind. "Though I like to think I am more suggestive, than bossy per se."
"You're not being suggestive if what you suggest is not optional," Miss Bowstock pointed out cheerfully, "I think the word is dictatorial, my Lord. Thank you again for your kind offer, but I cannot allow you to escort me back to Miss Deveraux, for she would wonder what we had been doing together all this time...alone."
Dash it, the girl was right. Alex frowned, he may have been a man who liked reason, but he didn't like it when it was used against him.
"You win this battle, Miss Bowstock," he finally said, his eyes holding her gaze.
"Well, there won't be any other battles, my Lord," she smiled, a triumphant grin on her face, which made her eyes crinkle at the corners. "So I suppose you might say that I have won the war."
With a wave of her fingers, Miss Bowstock turned on her heel and fled the room, seemingly desperate to be free of his company. Alex stood still for a few minutes, after she had closed the door and contemplated their brief encounter. It had been a long time since he had met a woman who piqued his interest so and, unlike Miss Bowstock, he was certain that there would be many battles ahead. He was certain, because he would instigate them.
Alex reached into the breast pocket of his coat, took out his time piece and checked the hour; the afternoon had all but disappeared. Knowing that he would get no more work done that day, he decided to return home to wash and change for dinner - after which he would pay a visit to White's and reacquaint himself with Lord Deveraux. He had never been particularly fond of the chap - but it stood to reason that to be friends with the man who employed Miss Bowstock, could only be in his interest. And there was nothing that Alexander Jack de Pfeffel Delaney liked more than reason...
Chapter Three
Hestia felt giddy for days after her encounter with the Marquess of Falconbridge. Her nerves hummed and thrummed as she carried out her daily duties and she thought that perhaps, if she had someone to confide in, that the feeling would leave her, but alas she did not have anyone to share her secret with.
Her relationship with Jane, while close, was not so close that Hestia would dare to overstep the invisible boundaries laid down by her station. As for the other staff in the household, well that was another matter entirely. Her position meant that while she was, essentially, a servant, the other servants did not view her that way. They were slightly suspicious of her, because of her closeness to the Mistress of the house, and because of this they kept their distance. Hestia, who had had a small circle of friends in Cornwall, had felt desperately lonely since her arrival in London, and now she felt even more so as she longed to discuss the dark and handsome Marquess who had spent an agonising few minutes running his hands through her hair.
Thank goodness for Henry, the King Charles Cavalier that Lady Bedford had insisted she take with her to keep her company. Henry followed her everywhere like a shadow, even sleeping at the foot of the bed in her narrow room on the top floor. When she was not required to accompany Jane out, Hestia often took the excitable dog to Green Park, where he could happily run around the wide, open fields to his heart's content.
That morning Jane had left the house early, accompanied by her wretched sister-in-law Emily. The two were gone to Hawkfield House, in St James' Square, to call on the Duchess of Hawkfield. Much to everyone's surprise, Jane and Lord Payne, had announced that they were to be ma
rried a few days previously. Hestia was thrilled for her friend, who she knew was ridiculed by her brother and his new wife for being a spinster, at having won the heart of London's most eligible bachelor. She was also thrilled because the fuss around Jane's engagement meant that Hestia had more free time to explore London.
The fashionable streets around the Deveraux's Berkeley Square home held little appeal for Hestia, who was slightly intimidated by the grand gentlemen and elegant ladies who paraded by. Instead she found herself pulled toward Green Park, where wide open fields filled with cows who grazed the grass, reminded her of home.
That morning she wandered off the path of the Queen's Walk and settled herself under a tree, allowing Henry to gambol about in the long grass before her. She settled the book she had brought with her onto her lap, turned it open to the first page, and promptly fell into a daydream -- a daydream which featured a man who looked remarkably like the Marquess of Falconbridge.
"Stop. Stop. Stop." She whispered aloud, once she realised what she was doing. Had she learned nothing from her mother? Men, especially darkly, handsome ones like the Marquess, brought nothing but trouble --and Lord Delaney had already proven himself to be more than troublesome. She should have more sense than to fantasise about a man like he; a pompous, overbearing, bossy --
"I thought I recognised that bonnet."
A shadow fell over the pages of her book and Hestia looked up to see that the very man she had been inwardly insulting towering above her.
"My Lord," she stuttered, after a moment of shocked silence. "What are you doing here?"
"I might ask you the same thing."
Lord Delaney folded his arms across his chest and glared down at her, his handsome face a picture of annoyance. Confused by his anger, Hestia glanced left and right of the tree she sat under, searching for something that said she should not be there, but seeing nothing she simply replied; "I am reading, my Lord, as you can see."
"Yes, I see," the Marquess's words were like ice, matching the glacial blue of his eyes. "Reading. Alone. In Green Park."
The Marquess of Temptation Page 2