The muffled sound of a child’s keening cry filtered through the closed library door.
What the deuce? Hamish’s eyebrows slammed together, and he cocked his head, listening. Surely he wasn’t that foxed that he was beginning to hear things . . .
The distraught sobs grew louder, more intense. And then there was a knock on the library door. “My lord . . .”
With a growl, Hamish strode across the room and threw the door open, revealing MacAlister, his craggy-faced, silver-haired butler.
“What’s all this caterwauling . . .” Hamish demanded, but his voice trailed away when his gaze skipped past a white-faced MacAlister and landed on Daniels, a strapping young footman standing a few feet behind him. And in Daniels’s arms was a child. A young girl, to be exact, clinging to Daniels’s liveried coat like it was a lifeline as she bawled her eyes out. Her toffee brown hair clustered in damp, matted ringlets about her flushed, chubby face. When she caught sight of Hamish’s frightful countenance, the pitch and volume of her cries increased.
Jesus Christ and all his saints. Hamish had a premonition his headache was about to turn into a monumental megrim.
“My lord,” began the butler again. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the ear-splitting wails. “It seems . . . It seems this child has been abandoned on your front doorstep.”
“What do you mean, abandoned?”
“I’m afraid I mean exactly that, my lord. Abandoned with naught but a bundle of clothes tied up in a blanket and this . . .” MacAlister held out a crumpled, stained piece of paper. “This note that was attached to her pinafore explains it all. I didn’t mean to look, my lord, but it was unsealed, and I needed to ascertain whether this was a matter that merited your concern . . . My sincerest apologies if I’ve overstepped—”
Hamish waved away his apology as he took the sheet and crossed to his desk. “Take the bairn out to the terrace, Daniels,” he said, gesturing toward the French doors. “Our ears will be happier for it.”
“Her name is Tilda, my lord,” offered MacAlister, hovering in the library doorway.
“I see,” remarked Hamish grimly as he propped his hip on the edge of the desk and ran his gaze over the neatly written script. A woman’s handwriting, perhaps.
My dearest Lord Sleat,
I hope you can forgive me, but I fear I have run out of options and you are my last hope. You see, my little Tilda is your daughter, too, and as I am without material means and can no longer provide a safe home for her, I entrust her to your care. I know you are kindhearted and will do right by her.
A desperate, heartbroken, and destitute mother.
A woman you used to know.
What the bloody hell? Hamish’s gaze shot to the terrace, where Daniels jiggled the inconsolable Tilda—he assumed it was short for Matilda—on his hip while making ineffectual shushing noises. This squawking scrap of a child was his by-blow?
Surely not . . . He considered the child again, looking for any similarity in their features—any clue at all that might confirm Tilda was his—but he was at a complete loss. All he saw was a wee bairn with light brown curls, blue gray eyes, and a red, tearstained face. She looked nothing like him. But then, what little girl would resemble a hulking, battle-scarred Highlander?
She must take after her mother, he decided. Hamish was always so careful whenever he swived a woman, using whatever means necessary to prevent conception as well as protecting himself from god-awful diseases like the pox. Frowning, he racked his brains, trying to think who the anonymous author of this letter might be. Who the mother of this child might be.
Tilda couldn’t have been much older than three, if she was a day. He’d had so many women over the years—polished courtesans, tonnish widows and wives, and whores. Obviously, wee Tilda had been conceived four, at a pinch five, years ago, possibly just before he’d joined Wellington’s army. Then again, it was quite possible the bairn wasn’t even his.
Hamish’s frown deepened as he perused the note once more. The woman had addressed him in a familiar fashion. My dearest. Kindhearted . . . He snorted at that. A woman you used to know. Clearly in the biblical sense.
Damn it all. It could be anyone.
Hamish scratched his tightly clenched jaw as his gaze returned to Tilda. Daniels was now sitting on the terrace stairs, bouncing her on his knee. The man must have some experience caring for bairns, as he seemed to have a knack for it. Was it his imagination, or had Tilda’s crying abated a little? He could only hope. When in town, Hamish kept a largely masculine household. As the housekeeper, Mrs. Foster, was currently away caring for a sick family member for an extended period, the few maids-of-all-work had been let go. So Daniels would have to do.
Hamish beckoned MacAlister farther into the room. “Did you, or whoever discovered this child, see anyone in the street who might have been the child’s mother? Did you question any of the passersby?”
The butler nodded. “Aye, indeed, my lord. Daniels heard her crying, but when he went to investigate, the wee lassie was all by herself. He alerted me, and after I read the note, I went out into the square, but no one that I questioned had anything useful to impart.”
Hamish shook his head. He couldn’t believe this woman would just leave her child on his doorstep, alone and beside herself with terror. She must have been somewhere close by, watching and waiting to see if Tilda would be taken in.
Sleat House was in Grosvenor Square in the middle of Mayfair, for God’s sake. This wasn’t St. Giles, or Whitechapel, or Seven Dials, where motherless waifs could be found around every other corner.
After issuing orders to MacAlister to conduct another search for Tilda’s mother in and around the square, Hamish picked up his empty whisky glass, then put it down again with a resigned sigh. Drinking wouldn’t help, no matter how much he craved another dram. Duty was pulling him in two opposite directions. For the sake of his sister, he needed to quit London and return to Skye without delay, but how on earth could he do that now that he’d been saddled with a child who may or may not be his?
There was no denying it: today was turning out to be one of the most frustrating, if not altogether impossible, days of Hamish’s life.
16 Grosvenor Square, Mayfair
“Explain yourself, Olivia de Vere. How could you have been so careless as to ruin not only your stockings but an expensive day gown of the finest Indian muslin?” demanded Aunt Edith. Reclining against the plump satin cushions of her favorite settee like a matronly Queen of Sheba, she subjected Olivia to a narrow-eyed, glacial stare. “Bagshaw tells me that the tears are irreparable and there are grass stains in the fabric. Grass stains! I can’t even begin to think what you were up to.”
“Something unladylike, no doubt,” murmured Prudence, reaching for an elaborately iced petit four off the afternoon tea plate of fine bone china. She popped it into her mouth, and her jaw worked furiously as she chewed it with relish.
“Yes,” agreed Patience, tossing her perfectly styled honey blond ringlets. Her blue eyes gleamed with pernicious glee. “I really don’t know why Mama and Papa bother to buy you anything fashionable. It’s not as if you go anywhere.”
Aunt Edith sniffed and adjusted the fall of her cashmere shawl. “I’m beginning to think that if you can’t look after the nice things your uncle and I purchase for you, Olivia, you should jolly well go without. Well, have you nothing to say for yourself, gel?”
Olivia tamped down the urge to retort that if her aunt or cousins stopped sniping, she might be able to get a word in.
She opened her mouth to speak, but then Prudence cut in. “She probably hasn’t, Mama.” Her cousin fiddled with the lace on the edge of her sleeve with her sticky fingers as if to emphasize that she could wear fine things and make them mucky with impunity. “Nothing worth listening to, at any rate.”
Olivia drew a deep breath, praying for patience. “I . . . I was
attempting to rescue Lady Charlotte’s c-cat—” she began, but then Aunt Edith waved a dismissive hand.
“I’m in no mood to hear your incoherent attempt to produce a pitiful excuse,” she returned in a waspish tone. “As punishment, you shall be confined to your room for the rest of the afternoon and evening with only bone broth and bread for dinner. And keep that horrid cat in there with you. I’m sure she makes me sneeze.”
* * *
* * *
Peridot had disappeared.
Twilight was rapidly descending, and Olivia couldn’t find the cat anywhere in her bedchamber, the upstairs gallery, or indeed any of the rooms she could access on the upper floors. After checking every possible nook and cranny for the last half hour, frantic didn’t even begin to describe how she felt.
If her search downstairs proved fruitless, Olivia determined she must also venture outside even though a dreary mizzle now veiled the back garden. It was not the sort of weather a cat would brave voluntarily, but nevertheless, Olivia would be remiss not to look farther afield.
Fastening a serviceable cloak of dark blue wool around her shoulders, she hurried from her room. She couldn’t bear to think that anything terrible had happened to Peridot, especially if she’d crossed paths with Felix. If her horrid cousin had harmed one hair on Charlie’s cat’s head . . . A thought-robbing mix of resentment and fear suddenly flared inside Olivia, and she stumbled on the sweeping stairs leading to the main hall. Placing a trembling hand on the smooth oak bannister, she paused and attempted to control her rapid breathing, to quiet her panicked thoughts. She wouldn’t be able to search anywhere, if she fell down the stairs and did herself an injury.
As her breathing calmed and her racing pulse slowed, Olivia became aware of how remarkably still and quiet the house was. Nearly all the servants were at dinner—Bagshaw and Mr. Finch included—and her uncle, aunt, Prudence, and Patience had gone to see some melodrama or other at the Royal Coburg Theatre.
But not Olivia.
Not that she really minded all that much. There could be worse fates than lounging in her window seat as she read all about Miss Catherine Morland’s adventures in Northanger Abbey with a purring Peridot by her side.
Well, at least Peridot had still been with her when one of the maids arrived with Olivia’s dinner tray. It wasn’t until she’d finished her bone broth that she’d noticed the sneaky puss had yet again absconded from the room. As much as she enjoyed Peridot’s company, she would send the cat back to Hastings House as soon as she found her. For her own sanity and Peridot’s safety, she had to.
Crossing the parquetry floor of the main hall with rushed steps, Olivia headed toward the drawing room, quietly calling the cat’s name. The French doors led out to the terrace—
The murmur of voices followed by a low male chuckle floated across the hall.
Felix. Oh no.
Olivia recognized his horrid, mocking laugh immediately. And he was in the drawing room with someone else. Another gentleman, by the sound of it. She halted, torn between her need to find Peridot and the overwhelming desire to avoid her cousin.
Should she question him about whether he’d seen the cat? She didn’t want to, but if he’d done something to Peridot, she was certain he wouldn’t hesitate to gloat about it. He was an arrogant braggart after all.
But then again, there were other places to look.
She ducked down another hall. The door to her uncle’s private study was ajar, and all was silent now save for the uneven tattoo of her heartbeat in her ears.
Perhaps Peridot had slipped into the study. “Here, puss, puss,” she called softly as she pushed through the door into the apparently deserted room. “Here, P-Peridot.”
The soft glow of several lamps and the fire illuminated her uncle’s mahogany desk, a large glass-fronted bookcase, a pair of leather wingback chairs, and a window seat flanked by crimson velvet curtains.
But there was no sign of Peridot.
Olivia sighed. Of course, the cat might be hiding. She crossed the Persian rug to look beneath the huge desk. And then she paused, frowning. The green leather blotter was a mess, strewn with papers, which was . . . odd. Her uncle was quite particular about neatness. One might even say his standards were exacting. Olivia hoped Peridot hadn’t been in here and jumped upon the desk, but given the uncharacteristic chaos, she suspected the cat had.
She began to hastily gather the documents together to stack them in a neat pile when the heading on the topmost sheet leapt out at her.
BIRCHMORE HOUSE—GENTLEMEN’S CLUB
SOHO SQUARE
Bill for services rendered . . .
And then, as she read further, Olivia gasped in horror.
What on earth? Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that her uncle would visit a brothel, let alone take part in such bizarre-sounding and no doubt lurid activities. She could guess what a session of “birching” might entail, however the other “services” listed were quite beyond her.
But no . . . it wasn’t Uncle Reginald who’d been a customer at the bawdy house. It was Felix. And last night he’d apparently racked up a whopping bill of two hundred pounds for— Olivia shuddered and dropped the page. She didn’t want to read any more.
A glance at some of the other papers—all bills—revealed Felix’s account at a Bond Street tailor was in arrears for another massive sum. There was an invoice from George Hoby, boot maker, in the amount of—
“Once we’re done here, Thackery, what say we pay a visit to Madam Birchmore’s establishment again before attending the cockfights in Seven Dials? Or that new gaming hell in Covent Garden everyone keeps talking about. We can’t set foot in the Pigeon Hole again until I pay off that cursed vowel—”
Oh, God, Felix was coming! If he knew she’d been going through his personal papers . . .
Olivia tossed the bills onto the blotter and then bolted for the window seat. She prayed that the partially drawn curtains would hide her sufficiently—if she tried to close them, Felix might hear the rattle of the brass curtain rings or see the sway of the fabric.
Olivia curled up in the darkest corner of the shadowy alcove and held her breath as Felix entered with his companion. Through the narrow gap in the curtains she caught a glimpse of her cousin as he deposited himself in her uncle’s chair before taking a large swig from a glass containing a deep-ruby-hued liquid—probably her uncle’s prized port.
The other gentleman spoke. “Now if you’d just sign this banknote for three hundred pounds, de Vere. And then these two for one hundred and fifty apiece . . . It will be easier to hide withdrawals of smaller amounts from my father.”
Felix picked up a quill and dipped the nib in the inkwell. “It’s been several months since I forged my dear papa’s signature, but I trust this will do, Thackery,” he said as he signed the notes with a flourish. “I also trust your father’s eyesight is just as poor.”
The other man—presumably the junior Thackery—emitted a short snort. “Yes, it certainly is. Believe me, the old sod won’t notice anything’s amiss with your cousin’s account because I’ll adjust the bank statement he receives too. Exactly like last time.”
Olivia couldn’t suppress a startled intake of breath. Thackery! Of Norton, Lyle, and Thackery, the law firm? Because Mr. George Thackery was the trustee managing her inheritance. Only, it sounded as though his son and Felix were embezzling money from her account.
How . . . how dare they!
Anger and fear churned about inside Olivia, making her dizzy. There was such a loud buzzing in her ears, she had to close her eyes. As soon as her uncle returned from the theater, she would seek him out and tell—
The curtain was suddenly yanked open, and Olivia yelped.
Felix was staring down at her. And his face was contorted with rage.
“What the fuck are you doing, invading my father’s private stu
dy?” His voice was a low, savage growl. His blue eyes blazed with fury. “You’re supposed to be in your room.”
Olivia swallowed, opened her mouth, and then shut it again. Her lips, her tongue, her mind wouldn’t work.
“Christ.” Felix roughly grabbed her by the upper arm, hauling her out from the window seat. Pushing her against the oak-paneled wall, he then called over his shoulder to the bespectacled gentleman who was in the process of gathering up the scattered papers on the blotter and shoving them into a leather folio. “Leave us, Giles,” he barked. “I’ll meet you at Birchmore’s in an hour.”
Olivia shook her head. “N-n-n-no. I . . . I w-want him to—”
But Giles Thackery had already gone, closing the door behind him.
Ice-cold fear slid its fingers down her spine as Felix’s other hand closed like a vise around the base of her throat. “Now listen here. You will not breathe a word of what you just saw or heard. To. Anyone.” He pressed against her windpipe, and for one terrifying moment, Olivia thought he was going to choke her. His port-laced breath gusted across her face. “And if you do,” he continued in a silky yet thoroughly menacing tone, “I will hurt you in ways you cannot even begin to imagine.” His gaze skewered hers. “Do I make myself clear, c-c-cuz?”
Olivia forced herself to speak. “Y-you’re stealing my m-money. Right out from under your f-father’s nose and my trustee’s. And if that isn’t bad enough, you’re w-wasting it all on entirely dissolute pursuits . . . at horrid gaming hells and b-brothels. It’s not right. In fact, it’s indecent.” She swallowed and somehow hardened her gaze even though her heart was hammering erratically against her ribs. “I won’t m-marry you. I w-won’t.”
How to Catch a Sinful Marquess Page 3