The Valet Who Loved Me

by Valerie Bowman

  “But he might be?” Beau continued.

  “He might be.”

  They settled back into an uneasy silence and after several minutes had passed, Marianne ventured to lay her head on his shoulder. “This is madness, you know.”

  “I know,” Beau replied, sighing. He leaned down and kissed her head.

  A few more moments of silence passed before Marianne asked, “Do you know Albina, Lady Winfield’s maid?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The next morning, sleepy as usual at least lately, Marianne was pressing one of Lady Wilhelmina’s gowns for the dinner to be held in the dining room that evening. As usual, the young woman and her mother were gossiping about the house party and its guests.

  “You could have knocked me over with a feather the other night when Lord Kendall climbed up on that sideboard and yanked off his powdered wig. Imagine, the man pretending to be a servant all this time. It boggles the mind,” Lady Copperpot said.

  “I thought it was one of the most romantic things I’ve ever seen,” Lady Wilhelmina replied with a long, dramatic sigh. “One of the most surprising, to be certain.”

  “Don’t be a henwit, Wilhelmina,” Lady Copperpot scolded. “There was nothing romantic about it. It was shocking. Scandalous. Revolting, if you ask me.”

  Lady Wilhelmina snapped her mouth closed, but not before Marianne saw the hurt in her eyes at her mother’s harsh rebuke.

  “I’m just sick that Lord Kendall is apparently taken now. There aren’t many truly eligible bachelors left at the party, and none of them seem particularly suitable for you.” Lady Copperpot frowned and shook her head.

  Lady Wilhelmina nodded. “Yes. Apparently, Lord Kendall is betrothed to Miss Wharton. But I do have to wonder if Lord Bellingham is skulking about, pretending to be a servant.”

  “What? Why would you say that?” Lady Copperpot asked, her face crumpled in a scowl.

  Lady Wilhelmina shrugged. “Well, someone told me there was a rumor that the Duke of Worthington had been pretending to be a groomsman in the stables. Though they say he’s gone now.”

  “What!” Lady Copperpot’s face took on a decidedly red hue.

  “Yes,” Wilhelmina continued with a knowing nod, “and last night at dinner, I heard Lord Clayton mention Lord Bellingham. Someone asked if he’d heard from the marquess.”

  Lady Copperpot’s eyes widened and she leaned forward, her face bright-red and full of interest. “And what was Lord Clayton’s response, Wilhelmina?”

  Lady Wilhelmina waved a hand in the air as she appeared to contemplate the question for a moment. “Oh, I believe he said something terribly vague such as, ‘You never know when Bell might appear.’”

  Marianne gasped, and the leather walking boot she’d been holding dropped from her hand to land on the floor with a solid thunk.

  “Well, I’m not holding my breath,” Lady Copperpot replied to Wilhelmina, ignoring Marianne as usual. “Your father and I have some plans in the works for the autumn. We’ll get you betrothed yet. Even before the next Season. Now, I’m going downstairs to see if I can learn anything else about Lord Bellingham’s visit. I’ll see you for tea.”

  With that, the formidable lady stood and exited the room.

  After the door closed behind her mother, Lady Wilhelmina gave an audible sigh. “I don’t know why things like betrothals must be so difficult,” she said out loud to the room.

  Marianne stepped forward, her hands folded primly in front of her. “I’m sorry ye’re having such a difficult time of it, milady.”

  “Oh, Marianne, be glad you’re not me,” Lady Wilhelmina said, a pout on her lips. “It’s such a chore to constantly go to parties, trying to find a suitable husband. You cannot possibly know how difficult it is.” The young woman shook her head pitifully.

  Marianne wasn’t about to miss her only chance at asking a highly inappropriate question. She cleared her throat. “Milady, if ye don’t mind, do ye happen ta know wot Lord Bellingham’s Christian name is?”

  Lady Wilhelmina frowned and blinked. Then blinked and frowned some more. “Funny you should ask, but I do believe it’s Beaumont. ‘Beau’ is what they call him.”

  Marianne gulped. She rubbed one finger behind her ear. “Did ye say Beau?” She’d asked again only to keep from crumpling to the floor in a heap. She tried to sound nonchalant, but her insides were quaking.

  Lady Wilhelmina sighed again. “Yes. And I only know because Mama drilled his name into my head along with half a dozen others at the start of the Season. He’s one of the most eligible bachelors in London, you know.”

  Marianne simply nodded. She didn’t want to raise her mistress’s suspicions, but Lady Wilhelmina seemed to be in a particularly accommodating mood at the moment, so she risked another question. “Do ye…happen ta know anythin’ else about him? Lord Bellingham, I mean.” So much for nonchalance, her voice clearly went up an octave.

  Lady Wilhelmina frowned. “Taken a sudden interest into the affairs of the Marquess of Bellingham, have you, Marianne?”

  Marianne attempted to keep her voice steady. She knew it must seem terribly strange of her to ask, but she also knew that Lady Wilhelmina was the one person she could ask such things. Marianne couldn’t very well go traipsing about asking the other ladies at the party. Or even the servants, for that matter, without really arousing suspicion.

  “I was just curious if I’d seen him before,” Marianne finally offered. “In the servants’ hall, I mean. Ye mentioned he might be playacting at being a servant.”

  “Why, yes, that’s an excellent point.” Lady Wilhelmina tapped her cheek. She was obviously warming to the topic now that she saw the benefit to herself. “Let’s see. I do seem to recall some of the other young ladies saying that there’s a rumor he works for the Home Office. Of course, I don’t believe such rubbish. Why in the world would a marquess need to work for the Home Office? It makes little sense if you ask me.” She rolled her eyes dramatically.

  Marianne gulped again. “And…” She had to stop for a moment to ensure her voice didn’t shake. “Wot does he…look like, milady?”

  “Oh, he may just be the most handsome of the lot, if you ask me,” Lady Wilhelmina said, a wistful look in her eye. “He’s ever so tall, with close-cropped blond hair and the eyes the light blue of an angel’s. He’s ridiculously handsome.”

  With nothing more than a flare of her nostrils to betray her emotions, Marianne nodded calmly and made the last press to the gown before hanging it up in the wardrobe again. “I see,” was all she said. “Well, I’ll be certain ta keep an eye out fer him. If there won’t be anything else right now, I believe I’ll just go down ta the servant’s hall ta see about arranging the afternoon tea.”

  “That would be fine, Marianne, thank you.”

  Marianne could not leave the room fast enough. She forced herself to walk slowly to the bedchamber door and open it, but once she was out in the corridor and the door was firmly shut behind her, she nearly flew down the long hallway to the servants’ staircase.

  Once inside the stairwell, she pressed her back against the wall and let out her pent-up breath, while a mixture of fear, shock, and undiluted amazement swirled through her body.

  ‘Bell’? ‘Playacting at being a servant’? The name Beau, and working for the Home Office? The exact type of position that would have him searching for a criminal. She’d begun to assume he was a Bow Street Runner, but now she had little doubt.

  Nicholas Baxter, or Beau, was the Marquess of Bellingham, and a spy for the Home Office. And she’d been sleeping with him for the last three nights.

  Oh, dear God. She had a very important letter to write.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It was two o’clock in the morning before Beau finally threw himself into his lonely cot and pulled the blanket over his head. Then he cursed. Marianne had not come. Was she waiting for him in her room?

  They had a sort of an unspoken agreement that they would meet in his bedchamber. He’d
spent the last two hours wondering if he should go over to hers, but now it was clear. Even if she had thought he was coming, why hadn’t she searched him out by now, to see what was keeping him?

  Blast. Probably the same thing that had kept him from going to her room. Damnable pride. Now it was far too late. If he tramped over there at this hour, he’d no doubt wake her up and embarrass himself at the same time.

  They didn’t have an arrangement. Not one written in stone, at any rate. So why was he so out of sorts at missing her for one blasted night?

  He’d told her too much. He already knew that. He’d wanted to know more about her and while he could have lied to her about his name and about his reasons for being here, something had made him tell the truth. Their connection had made him tell the truth. And just as much as he hoped she hadn’t lied to him, he hadn’t been able to lie to her. It was an uncomfortable position for a spy to be in. Especially a spy in the middle of a mission. He had no business getting close to her. No business whatsoever.

  Hell, he’d even had the thought for a moment to two: what if Marianne was the servant who’d helped Lord Copperpot write the letter? But he’d quickly discarded the notion. He simply refused to believe that it was her. Though he surely needed to see a sample of her writing before he could completely rule her out. Blast. Now he had two samples to gather, and very little time left to do it.

  He’d spent a good part of the day trying to come up with a ploy to get Mr. Wilson to write something. But each reason he invented ended up sounding more ridiculous than the last. He’d even contemplating asking for Mrs. Cotswold’s help, but she’d made it clear at the beginning of the bet that she intended to treat them all no differently than the real servants. She was committed to the end, even after Kendall and Worth had packed up and left.

  What, precisely, did Marianne know? For all Beau knew, she’d made him as a spy and had been sleeping with him to ward off his suspicions. Wouldn’t that serve him right for letting down his guard?

  He’d told her he was looking for a criminal. She may well have guessed.

  Beau scrubbed a hand across his face. She’d asked him about Miss Wharton’s maid, Albina, last night. But when he’d told her he didn’t know the woman, Marianne had dropped the subject. Surely, she didn’t think Frances Wharton’s maid had been involved in her brother’s death somehow.

  But that was the problem. He had more questions than answers at the moment, and he greatly disliked being in such a position.

  He had managed to sneak into both Lord Hightower’s and Lord Cunningham’s rooms the last two days to search for any sign of their guilt. But he’d turned up exactly nothing. And listening at doors had proven useless. After the meeting between the three noblemen soon after their arrival, he hadn’t been able to place them together again since. Clayton had also been keeping an eye on all three men, and indicated that the trio never seemed to speak at dinner or while the gentlemen drank port afterward. Frustrating.

  Beau’s final hope was to somehow get a sample of Mr. Wilson’s writing. Or Marianne’s.

  Marianne. The thought of her reminded him once again that she hadn’t come to his room tonight. Even if she’d guessed what he was up to, it didn’t explain it. She was more the type who would arrive to confront him.

  No. The fact of the matter was, it was entirely possible that Marianne simply no longer wanted him. And while he hated to contemplate that thought for longer than a moment—for reasons that he didn’t want to examine—he still had to admit to himself that it was true.

  His affair with Marianne had come to an untimely end, and Beau had only two days left to catch a traitor.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Marianne woke up the next morning in a cold sweat. She’d had the dream about Frederick again. Reaching for her, asking for her help. Whenever she reached back and tried to save him, he disappeared.

  She sat up and took a deep breath. She felt sick inside. The house party would be coming to an end tomorrow, and she was no closer to finding Frederick’s murderer than when they’d arrived.

  Marianne had told Beau the truth. She was searching for her brother’s murderer. And she was no closer to finding the blackguard than she had been when she first began in Lord Copperpot’s employ.

  This house party had been a promising event. It had exposed her to additional people who might well have been suspects. But the house party would last only one more night and she’d learned almost nothing during her time here.

  She’d allowed Beau to distract her. She had to admit that much. She was ashamed. If she hadn’t been frolicking with him beneath the sheets, perhaps she would have had more energy to search for Frederick’s killer. That’s why she hadn’t gone to his bedchamber last night.

  But that hadn’t been the only reason she hadn’t gone. The truth was she’d considered going, considered going and allowing him to make love to her while she pretended that she didn’t know who he was. But in the end, she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t kiss him and touch him and let him touch her, knowing that he was a marquess. There was just something so off-putting about it. When she’d thought he was a servant, or a Bow Street Runner, their stations in life had seemed much more equal. But now…now she couldn’t touch him knowing he was the type of man who could decide the fate of her entire family. Beau was more powerful than she’d ever guessed, and something about not telling him that she knew didn’t feel right.

  There had been one more reason she hadn’t gone to him last night. And it was perhaps the most compelling reason of all. She no longer trusted her heart around him. She’d spoken nonchalantly about the end of their affair the last time they’d spoke, but voicing those words had left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  If she chose to end it before it ended naturally, perhaps she wouldn’t feel sad. Perhaps she’d feel in control. Perhaps it would seem as if she’d actually had the power to end it all along.

  They’d both agreed it could go nowhere after the house party was finished. She’d avoided his room last night to save her own heart. And no matter what other reasons she told herself, she knew deep down that that was the real reason she didn’t go to him.

  Yesterday, after talking to Wilhelmina, and learning Beau’s identity, Marianne had rushed up to her bedchamber and written to the people who were helping her, demanding an answer from them as soon as possible.

  She’d received a rush reply just this morning. The letter had come into the servants’ hall along with the rest of the post, and she’d quickly grabbed her letter when Mrs. Cotswold had called her name. Then she’d hurried to a private spot beneath the staircase to read it.

  Marianne’s eyes scanned the page and her mouth dropped open.

  She read it all once more to ensure she hadn’t been confused. Then she read it one more time for good measure. She could hardly believe the words glaring back at her from the page.

  She read it a fourth time. But it was clear. General Grimaldi didn’t make mistakes. She needed to speak to Beau.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The blasted house party was set to end tomorrow and Beau was no closer to finding his traitor than he’d been when he arrived. The only good thing he could say for this damned party was that he’d won the blasted bet, but he’d give every farthing of his winnings and more to find the Bidassoa traitor.

  He’d finally manage to contrive a reason to ask Mr. Wilson to write something. Beau had feigned a hand injury, of all inane things, and pushed a piece of paper and quill toward the man as he sat next to him in the servants’ dining hall earlier this afternoon.

  “Would you mind terribly, finishing this letter to my sister in London?” he’d asked, sliding the mostly written letter over to the man.

  Mr. Wilson had eyed him with both distaste and suspicion, but he’d obligingly written the final two innocuous sentences that Beau had dictated to him before pushing the letter back and saying, “Here, will that do?”

  Beau had thanked the man profusely and studied the handwriting e
xtensively, but he’d known the moment Wilson began writing that he was not the author of the traitorous Bidassoa letter.

  Beau’s final attempt to find the traitor was even more ludicrous than feigning a hand injury. He’d actually sneaked into Marianne’s room, found her journal, and examined a few pages from it. He ensured he didn’t look at any of the recent entries, if there were any. He didn’t want to completely invade her privacy. As it was, he felt like a complete arse for suspecting her. But he’d hardly be doing his job if he didn’t rule her out. And rule her out he did. Her handwriting was lovely, nothing like the scrawled scratchings of the Bidassoa traitor.

  Marianne had stayed away from his room last night. He’d tried to block the thought from his mind all day, but he hadn’t been able to. He hadn’t even seen her since the day before yesterday. He was beginning to believe she was avoiding him. But why?

  The way things stood, he knew he might not see her again before the end of the party, and that thought made him feel vaguely ill. He was waiting for a final letter from the Home Office, the one in which he would get his next set of orders. Without having made any progress on the traitor, he fully expected to be ordered to continue to investigate the matter, but he’d already ruled out Lord Copperpot. It was unlikely that he’d be asked to remain with the family. What purpose would that serve?

  Beau was pacing in his small bedchamber, mentally debating. Should he go find Marianne and demand a reason for her disappearing from his life? Or would he be better off quietly leaving after the party ended tomorrow without a word to her, and cherish his memories of their nights together?

  A knock at his door interrupted his thoughts.

  In a foul mood, he stalked over to the door and ripped it open.

  Clayton stood in the doorway, a sly smile on his face. “I swear you get more letters than I do, and I live here.” The viscount stepped into the small bedchamber, holding a new letter between two fingers.