The Marquess of Temptation

by Claudia Stone

  The Duke's raised eyebrows and snort of amusement, reminded Alex that no one --bar he and Hestia--knew that their marriage remained, as yet, unconsummated.

  "Thank you for your hospitality, Everleigh," Alex blustered, the tips of his ears a little red from his unintended innuendo. "It's mighty sporting of you."

  "Her Grace adores company," Everleigh replied with a small nod of his head.

  "And you?"

  "Depends on the visitor, Falconbridge," the Duke laughed, his teeth flashing white against his tanned skin. Alex knew that, like himself, the Duke was a man who preferred to be out of doors, and it showed. "I shall enjoy yours, never fear. Now, tell me, what business do you have with my Captain Black?"

  "If I'm honest, I don't actually know," Alex confessed. He relayed the tale of Hestia's father's will and the surprise association that David Stockbow had had with the young Black.

  "He was in the Navy for a time," the Duke said, scratching his chin thoughtfully, "That much I know. He's a quiet fellow, doesn't give much away, but I know him to be an honest, trustworthy sort."

  "I thought the same," Alex shrugged, "And loyal. He did say that he owed Stockbow his life and a man like Black would take that debt most seriously. Perhaps, however, if..."

  "If it was Stockbow's daughter asking him to give up his secrets?" Everleigh finished for him, with a wry smile. "He is most chivalrous. I'm certain when he arrives, that he will be very accommodating to Lady Delaney."

  "He is on his way?" Alex hadn't expected the Duke to summon Black until Everleigh had heard why Alex was so desperate to meet with him.

  "I asked Olive her opinion on the matter," Everleigh shrugged, "And as she holds your wife in such high esteem, she thought it was safe to send for him."

  "My thanks to your wife," Alex inclined his head.

  "Don't thank mine, thank yours," Everleigh responded, raising his glass in toast to both women.

  After a late supper, Alex and Hestia joined Jane and the Duchess, in paying a visit to the boarding house in St Jarvis. It had once been run by an inimitable woman called Mrs Barker, who had set the guest house up as a sort of refuge for ladies with intellectual inclinations.

  Today the proprietress was a Miss Polly Jenkins, a fiery red-head with a warm, Northern accent. Polly lived there with her sister and hosted a dozen ladies, ranging in age from eighteen to eighty.

  On their previous visit, Alex had been too agitated to appreciate Polly's charming, direct manner, or the easy, warm atmosphere of the guest-house. When they arrived the drawing room was filled with ladies, waiting patiently for a reading of Mrs Actrol's latest Gothic Romance. Polly ushered Alex and Hestia into a small sofa, so tiny, that they were squashed together side by side.

  "I'll fetch you both some tea," she beamed, bustling away, only to return moments later with two china cups for them. "There you go, my Lord, my Lady. Don't drink too quickly; Mrs Actrol does love the sound of her own voice, so you'll be here a while."

  "Poppycock," Mrs Actrol, who had overheard, blustered. "I only read for so long, because the ladies insist that I do."

  Indeed, once the authoress began her reading, the ladies of the boarding house fell silent, listening with rapt attention, to what Alex thought was a rather preposterous tale.

  "Imagine a man deciding to marry a woman he had won at cards," Alex scoffed quietly to Hestia, who giggled at his outrage.

  "You don't have to imagine," she whispered, glancing at Olive, "For you're sitting right opposite her."

  Oh, he had quite forgotten that Everleigh had tricked Olive's father into gambling away her hand in marriage. He glanced surreptitiously at Mrs Actrol, who for all intents and purposes looked like an innocent grandmother, and hoped that she would not find inspiration for another tale in his own marriage.

  The room was silent, as the guests listened to Mrs Actrol read the end of the chapter. It was so quiet, that when a loud rapping came upon the front door, several of the guests jumped.

  "My, who could that be at this hour?" Polly grumbled, making to stand up.

  "Allow me, Miss Jenkins."

  As the sole male in attendance, and with night having fallen, Alex felt that he should be the one to answer the impatient caller, who had continued rapping.

  "Hold your horses," he called,making his way down the hallway to the door, which he threw open in irritation.

  The man standing on the doorstep was none other than Captain Black, drenched to the bone from the rain, which was lashing in off the Cornish coast.

  "My apologies for the noise," he said with a smile as his teeth chattered, "But His Grace told me that you needed me urgently."

  "You look like you need a cup of tea urgently, Captain," Alex replied, standing aside so that Black could step in out of the rain. "The ladies are in the parlour, and I'm loathe to interrupt their enjoyment of the evening. I'm sure between the two of us we can find the kitchen and boil a kettle."

  The two men made their way back down the hallway, passing the parlour where Alex could still hear Mrs Actrol's booming voice as she read. The door opened and Emily, Polly's sister, poked her head out, a smile on her innocent face.

  "The kitchen?" Alex whispered gently.

  Emily pointed shyly down the corridor, apparently afraid of speaking in front of two strange men. Her wide eyes caught sight of Captain Black and her mouth opened into an "O" of surprise.

  "My friend has come to visit," Alex whispered, gesturing to Black, who stood somewhat in the shadows. "Would you be so kind as to tell my wife that she is needed in the kitchen?"

  The young woman nodded and disappeared, leaving Alex to lead Black in the direction that Emily had pointed in.

  "The proprietress's younger sister," Alex said by way of explanation, for it had been too dark for the Captain to see the girl clearly. "She's a rather special young woman, I am told."

  Daft, was the word that some people would have used to describe Emily, or soft-headed. Both expressions left a rather bitter taste in Alex's mouth, for Emily was as he had described; special, unique and innocent.

  The kitchen was an enormous, flag-stoned room, with a huge wood-burning stove that threw off great heat. Alex dragged a chair over to beside the stove, insisting that Captain Black dry off before they discussed anything.

  "Thank you, my Lord," the young man laughed, "But I'm well acquainted with being soaked to the bone --perils of the occupation, as you well understand."

  "You're off duty now," Alex reminded him, "You have every right to be dry. Sit down and I'll fetch you some tea."

  The kitchen was not a room that Alex would consider his area of expertise, though he managed to make the young Captain a cup of tea without causing too much mess. The Captain took the cup with thanks and Alex noted that, while his clothes were as fine as any gentleman's, the Captain had the hands of a man who worked.

  The door opened and Hestia slipped into the room, just as Alex was taking a seat.

  "My dear," he said, standing again at the sight of his wife, "This is Captain Black, your father's old friend. Captain Black, I'd like to introduce you to my wife, the Marchioness of Falconbridge."

  "A pleasure, my Lady" Black, who had also stood on Hestia's arrival gave a bow. If he was shocked that the man he had met less than a month ago, had gone on to marry the ward that he had proclaimed he did not want, the Captain's handsome face hid it well.

  "I take it then, that your business with me is related to the late David Stockbow?" Black asked, once a chair had been fetched for Hestia.

  "You would be right," Alex leaned forward, watching the Captain closely for any signs of unease. He saw none, Black seemed relaxed, he wore the look of a man anticipating a friendly conversation, rather than an inquisition.

  "Did you know my father well, Captain?"

  Hestia was the first to speak, her face bright with hope. Alex felt a wrenching in his gut; he did not want his wife to hear anything bad said against her father, but he feared the worst. Worse still, it had to be done-- f
or they would never solve the mystery of Stockbow's death, unless they understood how he had lived the last years of his life.

  "I knew him a little," the Captain cleared his throat nervously, as he addressed the Marchioness. "For the first few years of my apprenticeship in the Navy, your father was quite the legend. In fact, he attacked the first ship I ever sailed on."

  "Oh, dear," Hestia chewed her lip nervously, evidently unhappy at this news.

  "No," the Captain laughed easily, "Don't be upset. He was quite gallant. In fact he saved my life. A few of us young tars had ignored our Captain's instructions to surrender. I soon found myself with a knife against my throat, and only for your father's interrupting my would-be killer, I would not be here to tell the tale."

  This seemed to mollify Hestia, and the look of distress left her face. Alex frowned; he knew that he needed to question Black on Stockbow's activities during the war, but feared that Hestia's relief would be short-lived if he did.

  "Did you ever meet him again, after that?" Hestia asked, interrupting Alex's train of thought.

  "I did," the Captain was solemn now. He sighed deeply, as though weighing his words before he spoke them. "During the war your father acted as a spy for the British --it was easy for him to convince the French that he had little interest in a British Victory."

  Alex looked up, startled by this turn of events. He had thought Stockbow a traitor; a stab of guilt pierced his heart. He had been so quick to judge the man, because he had been a pirate, but even thieves had honour, it seemed.

  "He carried messages, wounded soldiers, even arms, across the channel. It was quite risky," Black continued, "In fact, one of Napoleon's ships attacked him near Calais, just before war's end. It was lucky that my men and I happened upon the fighting. We managed to see the French off, and your father was able to transfer two-dozen infantry men, who were being returned home, safely to my ship."

  "So he was a hero?" Hestia whispered, her eyes shining brightly.

  "Of sorts, though he made me swear upon my life, to never tell a soul." Black laughed, a deep rumble that filled the room. With his dark black hair, tanned skin and the wicked glint in his eye, the young Captain looked momentarily like a pirate himself.

  "He worked for England, but still reserved the right to pilfer as he pleased," Black looked deeply amused at this, "And the government allowed him--Whitehall were grateful for any help they could get, at the time."

  "Can you think of anyone, anyone at all, that Stockbow might have crossed during his tenure for the Crown?" Alex asked. That David Stockbow had turned out to be a hero, of sorts, was heartening for his wife, but not for their investigation.

  "I can't say," Black replied, shaking his head. "Stockbow was a thief, but he was known for always behaving with honour when he attacked a ship. There is no one, that I know of, who held a deep grudge against him."

  Alex stifled a sigh; they were back to square one. Though the happiness in his wife's eyes was heartening, he felt a rising despair at the thought that Dubois might actually be guilty of murder.

  The sound of the ladies leaving the parlour and traipsing up the stairs, all achatter, jolted the trio from their conversation.

  "I had not realised the time," Captain Black said, rising to stand. "It was a pleasure to meet you again, my Lord."

  "Do you have somewhere to stay for the night?" Alex questioned, he didn't want the poor chap sleeping out in the rain.

  "I'll stay here, I think, if there's a bed," Black shrugged, nonchalant.

  "I'm sure there's a room in Pemberton Hall, though if you desire to stay close to the town, I'm certain that Polly will put you up."

  "Polly?"

  Was it Alex's imagination, or had the young man turned pale at the name?

  "Yes, Polly Jenkins. She runs the boarding house," Alex replied, a little concerned that Black's relaxed demeanour had changed so suddenly.

  "And the girl?" the Captain's voice was hoarse, "The young girl from earlier?"

  "Who? Oh, Emily; why she's Polly's sister, as I already told you."

  Captain Black's mouth was a grim line, as he nodded his head.

  "Thank you, my Lord," he said, rising to stand. "I shall go find this Miss Jenkins and beg a room for the night."

  With a curt bow, the Captain left, leaving a rather bemused Alex and a tired Hestia in the kitchen.

  "Shall we return to Pemberton?" Alex asked gently; his wife's eyes were heavy with sleep. He couldn't blame her --it had been an evening of revelations. His own mind was still attempting to digest the idea that a man he had worked with, for years, was capable of murder. Added to this was the guilt that he had not yet shared his suspicions with Hestia; though admitting that he thought Dubois guilty, was as good as signing the man's death warrant.

  "Yes. I fear we have outstayed our welcome --it sounds like everyone has gone to bed."

  Hestia allowed him to take her hand, and assist her from her chair. As she stood, she stumbled, falling against his chest. Her scent, a soft mixture of sweet florals, threatened to overwhelm him. He dropped his head, to place a chaste kiss upon her lips, but was met by an eagerness that soon turned the tender embrace rather more passionate.

  "Thank you, for everything, Alex," Hestia whispered, as they broke apart. Her eyes were bright, shining with happiness as she looked up at him. "I don't know how to express how much all this means to me, except--"

  She broke off and flushed, turning her face away from his shyly.

  "Except what?" he asked, a little befuddled by her sudden embarrassment.

  His wife went up on her tip-toes, to place a kiss on his lips. The first kiss offered and not stolen, he thought as he realised exactly how his wife wished to express her gratitude. Within his chest a lion roared victory and his body stirred at the thought of how he might finally make her his proper wife.

  Though, how could he claim to be a proper husband, if he was not telling her the whole truth? Inside his head a battle raged between his conscience and his body --and he was not entirely certain who would win.

  "Let's go home," he said, a little gruffly, taking her hand and leading her to the waiting carriage that would take them back to Pemberton.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In all her life, Hestia had never felt so humiliated.

  "Slow down, my lady," Catherine called from behind her, as they raced along the rugged cliffs by Pemberton Hall. "Even Henry can't keep up!"

  Indeed, poor Henry was looking a little tired, as he moved his short legs as quickly as possible to keep up with them.

  "I'm sorry," Hestia cried, coming to an abrupt halt. So abrupt, that Catherine thusly ran into her.

  "Whatever's the matter, my Lady?" the girl asked, in her gentle lilt, as she saw the tears on Hestia's cheeks.

  She could not tell Catherine what was bothering her, no matter how kind the girl's intentions, for it was too humiliating to bear. Last night, she had offered herself to her husband, only to have her overtures coldly refused.

  The moment that she had invited Alex to share her bed, his face had taken on a strange expression and he had wordlessly shook his head in response.

  "I shall remain on the floor tonight, my dear," he had said, through clenched teeth. Hestia, who after all their passionate kisses, had been expecting a rather warmer response, had nearly died of mortification. She had lain in the bed, stiff as poker, willing the silent tears of shame to stop, before her new husband heard and realised how much he had upset her.

  That morning she had decided to be as cold as he, and had refused his offer of visiting St Jarvis, instead opting to walk along the cliffs.

  "Something's the matter, my Lady," Catherine said gently, reaching into the pocket of her skirt and extracting a handkerchief. She passed it to Hestia, who noted the initials "RBM" embroidered in the corner, before she patted the tears from her cheeks. She wondered idly, who this RBM might be, but did not dare ask, in case it was a previous suitor of Catherine's.

  "Thank you, Catherine," she s
aid, passing the cotton cloth back to her waiting maid. The wind rustled her skirts and Hestia felt soft droplets of salty rain.

  "Oh, dear," she sighed, glancing up at the sky. A huge bank of grey clouds could be seen, rolling in from across the sea.

  "Looks like the Irish are sending over the rain," Catherine said with a smile, "Perhaps it would be best to return to Pemberton, my Lady? I'm not sure that Henry would appreciate getting soaked."

  Hestia glanced down at her faithful companion, who had thrown himself miserably upon the grass. He looked up at her, his brown eyes pleading and she relented.

  "You're quite right, Catherine," she replied in a brisk voice, hoping to gain some composure over her feelings. "We shall return to Pemberton, post haste."

  As they walked, at a much more relaxed pace than before, the two women fell into easy conversation.

  "One of the scullery maids said this morning that there was a terrible commotion last night," Catherine confided, "A man called Captain Black arrived, he works for the Duke on one of his ships. Well, the proprietress of the boarding house refused him a room, and he had to walk all the way from St Jarvis to Pemberton, by foot in the rain."

  Hestia digested this news silently, recalling the Captain's strange behaviour the previous night, when he had learned Polly's name. The two evidently knew each other; though if Polly had refused Black a room for the night, then she clearly wasn't overly fond of the Captain. Which was a surprise, for Hestia had found the handsome Captain most charming and unassuming.

  There was nobody home when the pair arrived back from their walk, bar the staff who bustled to and fro. Hestia went to her suite of rooms, hoping that perhaps Alex would be there, so that they could discuss what had happened the previous night. He was nowhere to be found however, and, thinking that she did not want to spend a dull afternoon alone, Hestia went in search of the library and a good book.

  Pemberton Hall, which Olive had told her had originally been built in the fourteenth century, was a warren of corridors. It took Hestia a quarter of an hour to find the library, though when she pushed the door open a crack, she paused at the sound of a familiar voice.