Felix gave a derisive snort. “Well, I don’t particularly want to marry you, either, Livvie. Of course I could do away with you right now—no one really cares about you after all. But that would mean Father would inherit, and then I’d have to wait for him to fall off his perch, which probably won’t be anytime soon. So yes”—he leaned in so close, his nose almost touched hers—“I’m willing to saddle myself with an inarticulate, second-rate piece of baggage like you in order to get my hands on your indecently large fortune. As soon as we’re wed, dearest Papa and the trustee will sign everything over to me, and then I can do as I please. As long as you stay silent . . .” His gaze narrowed, and he pressed his fingers into her throat again. “But you haven’t agreed to do that yet, Livvie. What’s it to be?”
Olivia forced herself to nod. “I won’t breathe a word,” she rasped. “I promise.”
“Good girl.” Felix stroked her cheek, then released her from his vicious hold. “Now get out before I change my mind about not wringing your scrawny little neck.”
Her hands shook so violently, Olivia could barely grasp the door handle as she yanked it open. And then she fled down the corridor, into the main hall, and thence into the drawing room. She didn’t stop until she was in the back garden, sheltering beneath the beech tree.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
Olivia wrapped her arms around herself as nausea roiled. She couldn’t stop trembling. The misty rain was a chill touch on her face and bare hands, but it was nothing compared to the icy terror gripping her heart.
Felix, the man she was expected to marry, had threatened to do her unspeakable physical harm if she revealed to her uncle what she’d learned. Indeed, her cousin’s secret was a grenade that could end her at any moment. Because what if Felix changed his mind and decided he couldn’t trust her to keep silent before they wed?
Another frisson of fear skated down Olivia’s spine, raising gooseflesh as his terrible words echoed in her mind: I will hurt you in ways you cannot even begin to imagine . . .
If Olivia thought she was in an insufferable situation before, after tonight, she was in dire peril. If she and Felix became man and wife, she was absolutely certain he would squander her entire fortune in the pursuit of Lord knew what sorts of depraved activities, without a second thought. And how could she lie with an innately cruel man who not only threatened her, but habitually frequented houses of ill repute? Arabella had warned her about terrible diseases like the pox.
Her life would be a waking nightmare.
She couldn’t stay here. She wouldn’t marry Felix.
But what could she do? She had well-connected friends, but everyone was away on their country estates, and despite her vast wealth, she was virtually penniless. Her uncle controlled all the purse strings. She didn’t even have enough coins to her name to hire a hackney.
Dare she steal into her aunt’s rooms and search for jewelry that she could sell? But that would take time and a great deal of subterfuge. Sneaking out of the house and finding a pawnshop seemed like an impossible feat. It might take days to arrange.
And she wanted to leave now. Tonight.
Would that Charlie or Lady Chelmsford were here. Or Sophie and Arabella.
But even then, would they be able to protect her? She was only twenty, and as Uncle Reginald was her appointed legal guardian, he effectively controlled every aspect of her life. Even if she sought sanctuary with one of her friends, the courts would surely rule that she had to return to his care. She’d loved her father with all her heart, but he’d clearly been remiss in appointing his brother Reginald as her guardian.
She needed a place to hide, but she had nowhere to go.
Despair stole the air from Olivia’s lungs. There really wasn’t anything she could do.
A bullying gust of wind caught at her skirts and cloak and blew icy needles of rain into her face. Standing about in a dark, rain-swept garden wasn’t going to help. Besides, she needed to find Peridot.
She followed the gravel path to the end of the garden, all the while calling Peridot’s name, but the cat didn’t emerge.
Had she decided to explore the environs of Sleat House again?
At least she wouldn’t have to scale a wall to gain access to Lord Sleat’s garden this time. Olivia glanced back at her own house; light spilled from various windows, but she couldn’t see anyone. Thank goodness Bagshaw was still at dinner. Olivia estimated that she had at least another half hour up her sleeve.
After she’d pushed aside the curtain of dripping ivy, Olivia felt for the gate’s iron handle and tugged. To her surprise, it swung open quite easily. Perhaps Lord Sleat had asked his gardener to oil the hinges.
Picking up her skirts, she rushed across the damp lawn through the rain, heading toward the soft golden glow of candle and firelight emanating from the drawing room’s French doors. Peridot didn’t respond to her calls. The panic that had been drowned by fear for her own safety returned full force. She prayed with all her heart that Peridot was all right.
Although it was bordering on improper, it certainly wouldn’t hurt to question Lord Sleat—if he was in, of course. She trusted he wouldn’t mind the intrusion. Failing that, his staff might be able to lend assistance.
Once Olivia gained the terrace, she could clearly see the sumptuously decorated drawing room, as the curtains hadn’t been drawn.
All the beautifully carved oak chairs were upholstered in silk damask or dark brown leather. The floor was carpeted with a fine Turkish rug, and a gilt clock and Derbyshire Spar vases graced the veined marble mantelpiece. But not a single thing caught her attention as much as the unexpected tableau of domestic bliss by the fireside. For there, upon a wine-colored sofa, sat Lord Sleat and a sleeping child—a girl with spun-sugar curls and rosy cheeks.
And resting on the girl’s lap, looking as content as could be, was Peridot.
Even though giddy relief whooshed through Olivia, she couldn’t help but mutter a curse. “Little minx.”
CHAPTER 3
O, what a tangled web we weave
When first we practice to deceive!
Walter Scott, Esq., Marmion: A Tale of Flodden Field
Sleat House, Grosvenor Square
Hamish’s shoulders rose and fell on a heavy sigh. Praise be to God for the next-door neighbor’s curious cat.
Wee Tilda had been well-nigh inconsolable for hours . . . until the tortoiseshell puss wandered onto the terrace as evening fell. As soon as the girl laid eyes on Peridot—at least Hamish thought that was the cat’s name—her distraught sobs had quickly turned into sniffles. Indeed, her tears all but dried up when the cat sidled up to her and rubbed its cheek against the child’s chubby forearm. In fact, Tilda had been so comforted by the simple presence of the animal, she eventually fell asleep beside him on one of the drawing room sofas.
To say that Hamish was grateful would have been an understatement. Leaning back against the sofa’s cushions, he studied Tilda’s bright cap of curls; in the light of the drawing room fire, they shone like the amber brown stones at the bottom of a sunlit burn.
Was she really his daughter?
He had no bloody idea. He’d been going over the list of women he’d bedded four or five years ago, but it was a fruitless, frustrating exercise; there were far too many to count. And it was hard to think when suffering from a megrim. The pain persisted, but like Tilda’s crying, it, too, had abated to a dull ache rather than a thought-robbing throb.
What hadn’t abated was his indecision about what to do: stay in London to hunt down Tilda’s financially distressed mother, or return to Skye to deal with a heartbroken Isobel and her brazen, entirely unsuitable suitor. Aside from the fact that Isobel was apparently prostrate with grief, Hamish couldn’t be entirely certain that Master Brodie MacDonald—an unscrupulous fortune hunter, no doubt—wouldn’t strike again. Angus had done an admirable job warding
off disaster, this time. But Hamish was the head of the family, and looking out for Isobel’s welfare was his responsibility.
Perhaps he could bundle both Tilda and Peridot into a carriage with one of the maids-of-all-work that his housekeeper had previously hired, and cart them all off to Muircliff as a stopgap measure. Except Peridot didn’t belong to him, and he had no idea if any of the maids would actually make a suitable nurse—to him, they’d all seemed a trifle coarse. He needed someone with a gentle manner. A compassionate, kind soul who could ease the distress of this poor, abandoned child—
The French doors rattled. No, it wasn’t a rattle. It was a light tapping sound.
Hamish’s gaze swung to the doorway and he frowned . . . until he saw who it was, and the corner of his mouth kicked into a smile. The thoroughly charming, delightfully artless young woman from next door stood on his terrace.
Damn. His frown returned. She’d come to fetch her cat.
When Tilda awoke and discovered Peridot had gone, she’d be sure to bring the house down with her cries.
It just wouldn’t do.
Rising carefully from the sofa so he wouldn’t disturb Tilda, he then crossed the Turkish rug to admit Miss Lavinia, the lass with the doe brown eyes and shy yet disarming smile. She hadn’t shared her last name with him, but when Hamish had made an idle inquiry over breakfast about who resided next door, MacAlister had informed him that the very wealthy de Vere family was currently renting the neighboring town house. She might be a “Miss de Vere,” but he shouldn’t make assumptions.
“Do come in, Miss Lavinia,” he said in a low voice. The beguiling violet scent he’d noticed yesterday when he’d lifted her from the wall wafted around him, tempting him to sweep the comely lass into his arms again. But he didn’t, simply adding like a gormless lad with nothing pithy to say, “It’s rather a miserable night to be out, wouldn’t you agree?”
She nodded and stepped into the room. “Yes, m-my lord,” she said softly, her volume matching his. When she took in his informal state of attire—leather slippers, loose linen trousers, an open-necked cambric shirt, and blue silk banyan—she blushed, and her gaze flitted to the sofa. “My s-sincerest apologies for the intrusion, b-but it seems my cat has developed a terrible tendency to roam and has invaded your home yet again.”
“Aye, she has indeed.” Hamish’s appreciative gaze drifted over her. Her rich brown hair was damp, hanging in limp ringlets about her pale face and slender shoulders, and beneath her dark blue woolen cloak, her sodden muslin skirts had molded to her generously curved hips and long, slender thighs . . .
Good God, those thighs. To think he’d had his hands about her slim waist and neat ankle yesterday too. Hamish swallowed and dragged his attention upward to her pretty face again. He could at least pretend to be a gentleman. “It seems you’ve been out in the rain too long, lass. Would you like to take a seat before the fire? I could ring for tea . . .”
If he could get her to stay long enough, he might be able to persuade her to let him keep the cat, at least until morning.
To his disappointment, the girl shook her head. Her expression grew wary. “I thank you for your kind offer, my lord. But I will be missed if I d-don’t return soon.”
Was it his imagination, or had a shadow of apprehension passed across the lass’s face? Of course, she could just be concerned about being here, alone and unchaperoned with a hardened rakehell. She’d admitted yesterday that she’d heard of him. Which wasn’t surprising. His name appeared in the Beau Monde Mirror and other gossip rags often enough. Her reputation would be ruined if word got out that she’d been alone with him, especially at night in his own home.
But he needed that cat. For Tilda’s sake.
For his own sanity.
“Of course,” he said. “I understand perfectly. However . . .” He sighed. He had to convince Lavinia to leave Peridot here. But how? If she was a member of the de Vere fold, offering her money would be useless. So what would a wealthy young woman like her truly want? What did she need? Could he simply appeal to her better nature? Her compassionate heart?
Beg her to take pity on him?
As he turned over several options in his mind, a whimper and then a high-pitched, wince-inducing wail shattered the silence.
Hell and damnation, Tilda had woken up. Unsurprisingly, the fluffy ball of feline fur in Tilda’s lap transformed into a tan, black, and white streak; the cat shot to the floor before disappearing beneath the sofa.
Hamish closed his eyes and mentally muttered several curses that would definitely fall into the category of “not for the ears of young ladies or children.”
“Oh, dear,” murmured Lavinia. “The poor mite. Is . . . is she unwell?”
“No.” Hamish sighed. “It’s . . . the situation is rather complicated.”
“I see.” Lavinia’s frown deepened. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Making the same sort of hushing noises his footman had, Hamish approached the couch and reached for Tilda, but she shrank away from him, clinging to the back of the sofa. The howling intensified along with his increasing sense of inadequacy. “Perhaps if you could coax your cat out. The wee one seems to like her.”
Lavinia dropped to her hands and knees. By the time she’d managed to retrieve Peridot, Tilda had buried her face in a pile of cushions, resisting any and all of Hamish’s ineffectual attempts to offer comfort. He didn’t doubt for a minute that his facial scars, eye patch, and brutish size terrified the “poor mite,” as Lavinia had so aptly called her. Though for a “poor mite,” she certainly had a decent set of lungs.
Lavinia sat on the sofa beside the distraught child, Peridot in her arms. Now that Tilda’s cries were somewhat muffled, the cat seemed calm enough. “What is her name, if you d-don’t mind my asking, my lord?”
“Tilda,” he replied. “I don’t know her last name.”
Lavinia blushed and dropped her gaze from his, and he wondered if it was because she hadn’t shared her last name with him either. She would be well aware of the breach in etiquette. Curiosity nipped. Why hadn’t she divulged it?
But he had enough to contend with at the moment. After all, it really wasn’t any business of his if she’d decided not to reveal too much about herself.
Lavinia reached out a hand and placed it on the child’s back. “Tilda,” she called gently. “The puss is back. If you’d like to hold her again, you’ll have to sit up.”
Thankfully, Tilda’s crying began to ebb once more. Hamish retreated to the fireside, just out of her line of vision, and watched with more than a little bit of awe as Tilda wiped her nose on her sleeve and then held out her arms for Peridot.
When the cat was safely installed on her lap, Lavinia sent a glance in his direction. “Do . . . do you have a kerchief, my lord?”
“Of course.” He approached the sofa cautiously and held it out to the lass.
“Perhaps you should ring for tea after all,” she said softly with a small smile as she took the square of linen. “And warm milk and b-buttered toast.” Turning to the child, she added, “Would you like that, Tilda?”
Tilda sniffed, then nodded. And Hamish nearly fell over.
Good heavens, the woman was a miracle worker. The whole time Tilda had been here, the child hadn’t responded to a single question. When Lavinia asked her if she’d like to wipe her eyes and blow her nose with the kerchief, again the child nodded.
At least Tilda could understand simple questions, even if she hadn’t spoken yet.
Hamish rang for a footman, and after he’d issued a request for tea and a supper tray, he turned back to discover Tilda was whispering something in Lavinia’s ear.
Lavinia caught his gaze. “My lord . . . it seems we might need to . . .” A furious blush washed over her face as she continued in a low voice, “We need to attend to the call of nature. It’s rather urgent.”
“Oh . . . of course.” Good Lord, why hadn’t he thought of that? He gave her brief directions on how to reach the newly installed water closet at the back of the house.
When Lavinia returned, Tilda’s hand in hers, the tea things, toast, and crumpets were laid out upon a low table before the sofa. After passing a glass of warm milk and a honeyed crumpet to Tilda, Lavinia removed her cloak, then dispensed tea for Hamish and herself with swift efficiency.
Even Peridot was provided with a saucer of milk.
Hamish claimed a leather wing chair by Lavinia’s end of the sofa. Tilda studied him warily with her large blue gray eyes as she nibbled on her crumpet. At least she hadn’t burst into tears again. If the child felt comfortable enough to speak to Lavinia, perhaps she would answer certain questions. Could Tilda provide her mother’s name? Or where she’d been living? How old she was?
Any information, even a scrap, might prove useful in helping him to reunite mother and child. And then he could depart for Skye.
When Tilda had finished her crumpet and milk, and Peridot was back on her lap, Hamish beckoned Lavinia to the fireside. “I have a confession to make,” he murmured. “One that might shock you. So I hope I can count on your discretion.”
Lavinia nodded. Her brown eyes were solemn. “Of course, Lord Sleat.”
Hamish held her gaze. It was an effort not to get distracted by the way the firelight illuminated mahogany strands in the thick, tumbling mass of her hair. “You see, Tilda was left on my doorstep this afternoon with a note—apparently written by the child’s mother—that stated she is my daughter. But I have no idea who the woman is. Or if she’s even telling the truth.”
Lavinia’s eyes widened, and her hand rose to her throat. “Oh . . . oh, my g-goodness. That’s . . . that’s dreadful. Not that you m-might be her father . . .” A fiery blush stormed across Lavinia’s face, and her gaze skipped away from his. “I mean p-poor Tilda. No wonder she’s so distraught.”
How to Catch a Sinful Marquess Page 4