Marianne wondered what sort of mood the two ladies would be in today. She knew from having listened to their conversations the last two days that Lady Wilhelmina had all but given up on the idea that Lord Kendall might arrive to meet her. And after the surprising revelation in the dining room last night, Marianne assumed Lady Copperpot would be none too pleased. Marianne had managed to help Wilhelmina change out of her clothing and had fled to the fourth floor last night before Lady Copperpot had even returned from what was no doubt a gossip-filled first floor.
There were five more days of the house party left, however. Lady Copperpot and Wilhelmina had to find some way to occupy their time, and Marianne might as well get to the business of planning their picnic.
She opened the door to her bedchamber and was about to step into the darkened hallway when voices caused her to stop. She peered out to see an older man leaving the room of one of the other lady’s maids a few doors down.
The man looked as if he had absolutely no business in the hallway. In fact, judging by the quality of the clothing he’d clearly hastily put on, he appeared to be a…nobleman.
Marianne blinked, and slipped back into her room and closed the door. She wasn’t entirely shocked. She’d spent enough time at house parties to have seen such things happen before. But she didn’t recognize the man and she didn’t know which maid’s room he was leaving.
She would have to find out.
She counted to fifty, hoping to ensure the man would be gone by the time she emerged into the corridor again.
When she opened the door, she breathed a sigh of relief. He was gone and the door he’d come from was shut again. Marianne tapped her cheek, weighing her options. She finally decided a quick fib would no doubt be the best way to gain the information she sought.
Smoothing her sweaty hands down her skirts, she took quick, efficient steps toward the maid’s door. When she arrived, she sucked in a deep breath, lifted her fist and rapped twice loudly enough to heard, but softly enough to hopefully keep from waking the other servants in nearby rooms.
Some shuffling ensued on the other side of the door before a young maid with long blond hair opened the door clad only in a dressing gown. The seductive sly smile on the maid’s face immediately slid away the moment she saw Marianne standing there.
“Wot de ye want?” the maid demanded through narrowed, angry eyes. The sultry look on her face had been replaced with one of pure loathing.
While she hadn’t expected a warm welcome, Marianne certainly hadn’t expected this level of animosity. She fumbled to remember her story.
“I, uh, you’re Lady Hightower’s maid, Ramona, correct?” she blurted.
The maid’s eyes narrowed further until they were barely slits in her face. “I’m no such thing! Now get out o’ here before I call one o’ me master’s footmen to rid the doorstep of ye.” And with that the maid shut the door in her face.
Marianne stood there for a few surprised minutes, blinking and wondering why exactly the maid had been so hostile to her. Now that she’d seen her up close, she didn’t recognize her. Marianne sincerely doubted she was one of Lord Clayton’s servants, who’d been nothing but friendly. No, this woman was one of the guests’ servants, and she clearly wasn’t employed by the Hightowers.
Marianne moved off toward the servants’ staircase cursing her ill luck. She’d hoped that, if she guessed at the woman’s identity, the maid would feel compelled to tell her who she truly worked for. That ploy had backfired, obviously, and Marianne was no closer to learning the girl’s name than she had been when she knocked on the door.
Marianne shook her head as she made her way past Beau’s door and down the staircase toward the servants’ hall. Whoever the maid was, she’d certainly been rude and unhelpful. In fact, she’d been so rude and unhelpful, Marianne began to wonder if she was hiding something. Something other than a man leaving her bedroom in the wee hours of the morning—something Marianne could hardly fault her for, having just done something quite similar herself.
As she stepped into the servants’ hall, a friendly voice greeted her. “G’mornin’, Miss Notley. Ye’re certainly up early today.”
Marianne turned to see Mrs. Cotswold, the housekeeper, busily trundling around the corridor, carrying a teapot toward the kitchen.
An idea leaped to Marianne’s mind. She might not know who all the servants were, but she guessed Mrs. Cotswold might know. “Good morning, Mrs. Cotswold,” she called back, a slight smile popping to her lips. “I need yer help, please.”
The housekeeper stopped and her smile widened. “I certainly will help if I can, Miss Notley.”
“Excellent,” Marianne replied. “I’m hoping if I describe a maid ta ye, includin’ the room where she be staying upstairs, ye can tell me who she be.”
Chapter Twenty-One
In addition to the mind-numbing sex he’d shared with Marianne last night, Beau had had a particularly busy night and morning. After Marianne had tiptoed back to her room soon after they’d laid together for the second time in as many days, Beau had sneaked downstairs to speak to Kendall again.
He couldn’t help himself. He had to hear from the horse’s own mouth what had happened in the dining room between Kendall and Miss Wharton last night. Turned out, Miss Wharton had run away from the earl precisely as Marianne had described. And while Kendall had chased after her and attempted to explain himself, Miss Wharton had refused to listen.
Which is precisely what Kendall had done when Beau attempted to provide the man with additional unsolicited advice telling him he had to keep trying. Kendall had finally told him to get out, and suggested that Beau go speak to Miss Wharton directly if he wanted her to change her mind. Beau had thought about it for only a few moments before deciding to do exactly that.
Of course, he’d had to wait until morning dawned and Miss Wharton had gone to Clayton’s library as had become her habit. But Beau had sauntered in and had a brief talk with Miss Wharton, a talk he believed just might have served to change the lady’s extremely stubborn mind.
Beau wasn’t patting himself on the back quite yet, however. It still remained to be seen if Miss Wharton would, in fact, forgive poor Kendall. And the story Beau had told the young woman in an effort to convince her had come at a price.
For the second time in as many days, Beau had been forced to reminiscence about the worst mistake of his life.
“There’s not a day that goes by that regret is not my constant companion,” he’d told Miss Wharton. “Take it from me. The moment you make the decision you’ll regret for eternity can also feel very much like being perfectly right.”
Add that to the fact that there were only five more days left of the house party and he’d yet to uncover the Bidassoa traitor, and Beau was feeling entirely out of sorts. He desperately wanted to know who Marianne really was, but he knew that wasn’t possible while he remained unwilling to tell her the truth about his own identity. It would be both selfish and hypocritical of him to ask her to reveal her secret when he had no intention of revealing his own.
The worst part was, there was a large part of him that didn’t want to know the truth about who she was. What if he found out, and it meant they would be forced to end their affair? That was selfish of him too, but he couldn’t stop himself from wanting the affair to continue. He wanted her whenever he saw her, whenever he smelled her, whenever she was in his presence, and when she was out of it. It was ludicrous, but true.
Even now, as he stood in the servants’ hall waiting for a letter that he was expecting, he couldn’t help but want her. He was getting hard just thinking about her. Blast. Blast. Blast.
Marianne wasn’t here in the hall. Before she’d left his bed last night, she’d told him something about needing to be up early to see to a picnic for Lady Copperpot and Wilhelmina. But even knowing she probably wouldn’t be at the post call, Beau found himself searching the crowd of servants’ faces for her.
The butler calling out for Nicholas Baxter fina
lly served to distract him, and he grabbed his letter—clearly another one from the Home Office—and made his way up to his room to read it.
The letter didn’t say much. Curiously, it still revealed absolutely nothing about Marianne’s true identity, and all it mentioned about Mr. Broomsley was that there was nothing suspicious whatsoever in that man’s past. Not exactly news to Beau. The letter asked him to concentrate on Mr. Wilson. He was their best lead at the moment, but besides noting the other night at dinner that the man had certainly appeared to be hiding something, Beau had made little progress in that quarter.
The only thing he’d done was locate Wilson’s bedchamber. It was three down from his own, on the opposite side of the corridor. His next move would be to sneak into the room and search for a writing sample. He wouldn’t have much more time to do it.
Beau took a deep breath. It was his sole goal for the entire day. After a morning thunderstorm, the Copperpots embarked on their picnic, and Beau had little else to do but search Mr. Wilson’s room.
Beau briefly considered asking Marianne if she would serve as lookout for him. But he quickly discarded the notion. Such a request would likely prompt her to ask more questions about what he was up to. And selfish or no, he quite liked the arrangement as they had it for the moment.
No, Beau had to search Wilson’s room quickly and alone.
He’d become a bloody expert at peering out into the hallway of the fourth floor to ensure the way was clear. He did so now, quickly and efficiently, pleased to discover the corridor was empty. At this time of day, he knew from experience, most of the servants were either tending to their needy masters and mistresses or down in the servants’ hall chatting with one another.
After closing the door to his own room, Beau quickly made his way down to Wilson’s door. Taking another glance each way, he pressed his ear against the door to ensure the man wasn’t inside. He waited a full two minutes by the count of the clock in the hallway. When he’d heard neither shuffling nor snoring, he’d decided it was safe to try the door.
It opened, thank Christ, and Beau was able to see at a glance that the small room was empty.
Much like his own, the room consisted of only a small wardrobe, cot, desk, and chair. And like his own, there wasn’t much lying around Mr. Wilson’s room.
Beau began with the desk, reasoning that if there was any writing to be found, it might well be in the desk drawer. A search of the desk turned up a couple of odd pieces of cheap paper and a quill but otherwise nothing.
Blast.
Next, he turned his attention to the wardrobe. Swinging both doors wide, he rifled through the man’s rucksack and clothing, even checking the pockets before relenting. Nothing. Not so much as a scrap of paper with a note hastily scrawled on it.
He made a cursory search beneath the bed and even inside the man’s spare set of shoes before admitting defeat.
Damn. Damn. Damn. Beau stood in the center of the bedchamber for a moment thinking. He would have to get Mr. Wilson to write something. But how?
Beau didn’t know how, but he knew who he would have to ask to help him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
After finding absolutely nothing of import in Mr. Wilson’s room, the day had gone steadily downhill for Beau. Clayton had found him to inform him that Worth was out in the stables packing to leave, intending to forfeit their bet.
Kendall had already forfeited, of course, given the fact that the man had tossed his wig into the soup in front of the entire party. But if Worth, that competitive bastard, was forfeiting, something was seriously wrong.
Beau had marched out to the stables to see if he could talk some sense into the duke. But that had ended in nothing but frustration. Beau was completely unsuccessful at getting Worth to tell him why the bet no longer mattered to him.
Beau suspected it had something to do with Lady Julianna Montgomery, an old flame of Worth’s who was attending Clayton’s house party. Worth hadn’t admitted a thing, but his reaction when Beau had mentioned Lady Julianna’s name told him everything he needed to know. Beau had been forced to leave the stables, knowing Worth was returning to London. A damn shame.
Beau shook his head. It seemed both of his competitors had got involved in some messy dealings with ladies since this house party had begun. A good thing he wouldn’t follow suit. What he had with Marianne wasn’t messy in the least. It was quite tidy actually, up to and including the fact that they didn’t even know each other’s real full names.
He may be the winner of a substantial amount of money as of this afternoon, but the win didn’t feel satisfying in the least. Both of his friends were heartbroken. How had such a simple-sounding bet become so troublesome?
He sighed. One word explained it: Women.
Well, he had no intention of allowing his dalliance with Marianne Notley (or whatever her name was) to bring him to his knees.
Beau waited until he was in bed with Marianne late that night before he asked for her help. He’d decided to ask her after giving her yet another orgasm.
“If I ask for your help with something,” he said after their breathing had returned to rights, “will you promise to ask no questions about it?”
A soft laugh came from the pile of bright red hair that was still splayed over Marianne’s face. “No. Not at all.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
“Because I’ll almost certainly want to know what you’re up to.”
“But what if I can’t tell you the details?” he countered.
“Can’t, or won’t?” she shot back, clearly remembering the question he’d asked her about her brother’s death.
“Well-played,” he replied with a smile, pulling her close to him again and kissing her delectable bare shoulder. “Marianne, sweet Marianne. I could stay here in bed with you forever.”
She laughed again and swiped her hair from her eyes before sitting up against the pillows. “I somehow believe you’d get bored eventually. Besides, how do you see this ending between us?”
He wrapped an arm around her waist. “Must we talk about the end?” It was the last thing he wanted to talk about. They had four more days. Four more days in which they could pretend to be something they weren’t. Strangely. He usually enjoyed pretending to be someone he wasn’t; this time, it just made him feel melancholy, thinking about the end.
“You know it must end,” she replied. “And I for one would like to know who you really are before it does.”
“Oh, now you want to know?” He laughed.
“I’ve always wanted to know. But as the days go by, I want to know more.”
“I want to know who you are, too,” he replied. They stared at each other, both with a stubborn set to their jaws for several minutes.
“Will you be leaving before we return to Lord Copperpot’s house?” she finally asked.
“Probably. Or at least soon after.” He might as well tell her that much. He fully intended to find the Bidassoa traitor before this house party ended, distraction or no.
She frowned. “You don’t know?”
“Not yet.”
“That’s a strange thing to say.”
“Here we are again. Do you want to tell me who you are, and why you’re not using your real name?”
“Does it matter?” she replied, leaning back against the pillows and pressing her forearm to the top of her head.
“Will you tell me why you’re here at least?” he asked.
“Will you tell me why you’re here?” she countered. She gave him a sidelong glance.
They stared at each other again, neither making a move to concede.
“I will tell you if you tell me,” she finally offered.
His gaze remained skeptical as he said, “You promise?”
She nodded. “I promise.”
“Very well.” He lifted her hand from the blanket to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “I promise, too. I know it’s hard to trust, but I will if you will. But we must also promise to ask each ot
her no more questions.”
Marianne took a deep breath. “Very well. You go first.”
He chuckled at that. “Fine.” He searched for the right words for a few moments before saying. “I’m here to catch a criminal.”
She nodded quietly. “I am too. My brother’s murderer.”
It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room for a moment. They both stared at each other as if they’d never seen each other before. Finally, Beau found his voice first. “Why would your brother’s murderer be here? You said he died in the war.”
“He did—and I thought you said we wouldn’t ask any more questions.”
“Yes, but damn it, now I want to know.”
“Are you going to tell me which criminal you’re looking for?”
“No.”
“Then I’m not going to tell you what happened to my brother. I think I’ve said enough.”
Beau’s frown intensified. “How can you find your brother’s murderer at a house party?”
“The same way you can find whatever criminal you’re looking for here, I suppose.”
He glared at her. Why was this woman so stubborn? He’d never met anyone as stubborn as he was. Normally when he was charming, and certainly when he was seductive, he could get most women to tell him whatever he wanted them to. But Marianne was different. She wasn’t about to tell him more. He could tell by the set of her jaw. She was done talking.
“Fine,” he shot back, pulling his arm from her and plumping the pillow angrily behind his head. “I suppose we’ll have to go to our graves not knowing each other surnames.”
She laughed. “I wasn’t thinking about my grave quite yet. I’m not entirely certain what will happen tomorrow at this point.”
He couldn’t help himself. “Do you really think your brother’s killer is here? In this house?”
She glanced down at the sheets and traced her finger in a small circle. “I don’t know,” she allowed.
The Valet Who Loved Me Page 12