How to Catch a Sinful Marquess

by Amy Rose Bennett

  “Aye. But your presence, and Peridot’s, has made a world of difference. I wondered . . .” He drew a steadying breath. “I wondered if you might consider granting me a favor.” He paused. “Two, in fact.”

  “Perhaps . . .” Her attention drifted to the clock on the mantelpiece, just behind his left shoulder. “I don’t wish to sound curmudgeonly, but it depends on what you have in mind. I’ll . . . I’ll be missed if I’m away for too much longer.”

  Hamish nodded. “Well, my first request is the simplest. Would you consider leaving Peridot here tonight? I think the cat eases Tilda’s distress.”

  Lavinia’s elegant brows dipped into a frown. “As I m-mentioned yesterday, she isn’t my c-cat, exactly. I’ve been looking after her for . . . for a dear friend. But I don’t see any harm in it.”

  Hamish smiled. “Excellent. Which leads me to my second request. Would you consider staying here—”

  “Oh.” Another bright crimson blush stained Lavinia’s smooth-as-cream cheeks as she stammered, “Oh, I d-don’t think that would be appro-appropriate, my lord.”

  Hamish had to bite his cheek to suppress a grin. “Och, lass. I know I have a wicked reputation, but you are not—” He’d been going to say that although she was as pretty as could be with an eminently desirable figure, she wasn’t really the type of woman he’d pursue. She was far too young and inexperienced. A chit practically out of the schoolroom. But he didn’t wish to cause offense, so he simply said, “I do not wish to harm yours. Rather, I hoped that you wouldn’t mind staying a wee bit longer to ask Tilda a few more questions. She seems quite taken with you, whereas I . . .” He gestured at his ruined face. “She probably thinks I’m some sort of terrible ogre. If I could glean a tidbit or two about her mother, or where they live, I might be able to help her. And there’s no way to confirm Tilda is actually my child unless I speak with the woman.”

  Lavinia nodded. “Of course, my lord. I’ll do my very best.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Lord Sleat has a child?

  Born out of wedlock?

  To say Olivia was taken aback would have been an understatement. Charlie certainly hadn’t known about that when she’d compiled a list of eligible bachelors—most of whom were rakehells—at the beginning of this year’s Season. She’d reasoned—and Arabella, Sophie, and Olivia had agreed—that rakes might be the only men in England willing to take any of them to wife given their considerably besmirched reputations following the “academy incident.”

  Although, it seemed Lord Sleat was also rattled to learn he might be a father. After he’d shown Olivia the letter penned by Tilda’s mother, she returned to the sofa and took one of Tilda’s small hands—still sticky with honey—in hers. This would not be easy, talking to the child about her mother. It would undoubtedly upset her. But it had to be done.

  “Tilda . . .” she began hesitantly. “I have to ask you a few questions. About what happened today. When you were left here with Lord Sleat.” She nodded in the marquess’s direction. He stood at a distance, by the fire with a glass of whisky in hand, watching the exchange intently. “Would that be all right?”

  The child nodded. “Mama left me,” she whispered. Tears brimmed in her eyes and slipped onto her cheeks.

  Olivia smiled and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Yes, your mama did. Do you . . . can you tell me her name? What do others call her?”

  Tilda frowned. “She’s Mama.”

  “Yes, that’s what you call her. But she has another name. I’m Oliv . . . Lavinia. And this is Peridot.” Olivia stroked the cat’s head. “And your name is Tilda. So, what is your mama’s other name? The one other grown-ups call her.”

  More tears fell, and Tilda’s bottom lip trembled. “I don’t know. She’s Mama. Just Mama.”

  “That’s perfectly all right if you don’t know, Tilda.” Olivia smoothed a soft brown curl away from the child’s tearstained cheek. “But perhaps you could tell me where you and your mama live? Do you know the address?”

  Tilda nodded. “Yes. London,” she said solemnly.

  “Yes, we are in London, but London is a very big place. Can you tell me the name of the street you live on, or is there something nearby like a church, or a park, or a market that you know of?”

  But Tilda shook her head again. “London.”

  “Well, maybe you could tell me how old you are. I’m twenty years old. Almost twenty-one, in fact. And you are . . .”

  Tilda dropped her gaze, and her bottom lip wobbled ominously again.

  “Maybe we could count with our fingers . . . Are you this many?” Olivia held up four fingers and counted out the number, but Tilda shook her head. She responded in the same way when Olivia showed her three, then five fingers.

  Olivia looked helplessly back at Lord Sleat, and he shrugged a shoulder. “Do not worry,” he mouthed. “You’ve done well.”

  There was a gentle tug on Olivia’s sleeve. “What is it, Tilda?”

  The little girl beckoned her closer, and when Olivia bent low, Tilda whispered in her ear, “Is the beast who lives in this castle really my papa?”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure,” murmured Olivia. “But in any case, Lord Sleat isn’t really a beast, and you mustn’t be afraid of him. He’s really a kind, handsome gentleman who’s simply been in an accident. That’s why he wears an eye patch. And you can trust him. Your mama wouldn’t leave you with someone she didn’t trust.”

  Tears welled in Tilda’s large blue gray eyes once more. “I want to go home.”

  “I know, dear child. I know.” Olivia stroked Tilda’s wild mop of silky curls. “We’ll find your mama.”

  She prayed that would be the case.

  Tilda snuggled against her side, and when Olivia glanced down, she could see the child’s eyelids had begun to droop. Lord Sleat continued to sip his whisky as he stared into the dancing flames in the grate. The firelight played over his handsome profile: his tousled sable hair masking the worst of his scars, the strong line of his nose, the sculpted contours of his jaw shaded by dark stubble. Charlie had once mentioned the marquess lost the sight in his left eye during the Battle of Waterloo. Such an injury to his face would have been agonizing, if not life-threatening. Olivia’s heart clenched to think Lord Sleat had endured such pain.

  He might be a rakehell, but beneath his roguish exterior, she sensed he was a good man.

  Someone she, too, could trust.

  For a moment, Olivia allowed herself to pretend that the marquess wasn’t just her rakish neighbor, but her husband, and the child and the cat sleeping at her side belonged to her too. That she was in love, and safe, and adored just like Sophie and Arabella, and before that, her own mother.

  That everything was perfect.

  The mantel clock gently chimed the hour, eight o’clock, and pulled Olivia from her musings. She’d been here far too long.

  Mr. Finch and Bagshaw could very well be scouring the streets by now.

  She’d be locked up in her room for a week. With Felix only a few doors away from her . . .

  Olivia shivered, recalling those fraught, terrifying moments when he’d pressed his hand to her throat. The threats he’d made. She didn’t want to return home, but she must. At least Peridot would be safe tonight. And in the morning, she could ask someone from Lord Sleat’s staff to take the cat back to Berkeley Square, just as she’d planned.

  She dropped a kiss on Tilda’s forehead—the child had succumbed to exhaustion and had fallen asleep—then carefully rose to her feet and retrieved her damp cloak from the back of the sofa. “I’m afraid I must go, Lord Sl—”

  She broke off at a soft knock on the drawing room’s wood-paneled doors.

  The marquess frowned and put his whisky glass down on the mantel. “If you’ll excuse me just a moment . . .” Rather than calling out—Olivia supposed he didn’t wish to disturb Tilda
—he crossed the room in swift strides and admitted an older, gray-haired man who had the look of a servant about him. The butler, perhaps.

  “What is it, MacAlister?” murmured Lord Sleat.

  The older man kept his voice low too. “Mr. Burke is still awaiting your orders, my lord. About whether you wish to leave tonight. Unfortunately, he’s discovered one of the horses from the four-in-hand team is lame, so he’ll need to organize a replacement. And that may take an hour or two.”

  Lord Sleat glanced back at Tilda. “Tell Burke I probably won’t be leaving until midmorning, so he has plenty of time. I’ll have to send word to my man of affairs about employing an inquiry agent to search for the wee one’s mother. And I’ll need to find a suitable nursemaid. I won’t be able to manage Tilda on my own, especially on the road to Skye.”

  “Of course, my lord.” The butler rested his gaze on Olivia for a moment before he returned his attention to his master. “It’s a pity Mrs. Foster is away at the moment, otherwise she would have been able to help.”

  “Aye.”

  The butler departed, and when Lord Sleat returned to the fireside, Olivia’s mind was ablaze with a mad, mad thought. Indeed, the idea was so wild, she was almost certain she wouldn’t be able to put it into words, let alone execute it.

  But she had to try.

  Her future happiness—perhaps her very life—might depend upon it.

  “Lord Sleat . . .” she said carefully, approaching him as if he were indeed the beast Tilda imagined him to be. “I . . . I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on your c-conversation just now. B-but it seems you are in need of a nursemaid for Tilda. And . . . and I would like to offer my services.”

  The marquess frowned. “I’m intrigued. Do you have any experience with this sort of thing?”

  Olivia swallowed. She couldn’t lie. Not about that, at least. “N-no. But I like children. Very much. Indeed, I’ve always wanted a family of my own one day. And even though I have a terrible sta . . .” She forced herself to say the hated word that had forever defined her. “Sta-stammer, I can certainly attest to the fact that I’m well educated. And patient. I can sew and sing lullabies—”

  Lord Sleat held up his hand, and the gold-and-ruby signet ring he wore upon his little finger winked at her. “Forgive me for interrupting, but won’t you be missed? You’re one of the de Vere chits, aren’t you? I can’t imagine someone from your privileged background would be content to work—let alone be permitted to work—as a nursemaid. Indeed, your family might have something to say about it. I’m certain they’d be none too pleased.”

  Oh, no. How silly of her not to realize he’d know at least something about his neighbors. But did he know anything of significance related to her? After all, he’d accepted that her name was Lavinia . . .

  She hated lying—indeed, she was woeful at maintaining any type of subterfuge—but in this instance, she had to.

  Olivia swallowed to moisten her dry mouth. “My lord, I am but a p-poor, orphaned relation of the family. A dis . . . distant cousin, employed as a lowly companion for the de Vere chits, as you c-called them. I have no great fondness for anyone in that household, and I can assure you, they have no regard for me and will not miss my company. At all. Indeed, I have been longing to find another situation for some time, and I can promise you that I will serve you and young Tilda well.”

  Lord Sleat studied her with a narrowed gaze over the rim of his glass before he swallowed the rest of his whisky. Did he believe her? Her sincerity and enthusiasm certainly weren’t feigned. And most of what she’d said wasn’t a lie.

  She prayed God would forgive her for the rest.

  “Miss Lavinia,” he began, then grimaced. “I don’t even know your last name. I assume it’s de Vere . . .”

  “N-no.” She would be safer if she chose another name. One that sounded completely different from de Vere. Something less distinctive. Something nondescript. Like the shade of her hair and her eyes. Lavinia Brown, perhaps?

  No. She was about to do something wild and adventurous like a heroine in a book. She could come up with a more interesting name than Brown. “My last n-name is M-Morland,” she said as the heroine of Northanger Abbey, Catherine Morland, sprang into her mind. “I’m Miss Lavinia Morland.”

  “Well, Miss Lavinia Morland.” Lord Sleat put his glass down on the mantel. His gray eye flashed with a considering light. “If you are certain your family won’t object, I will accept your offer. But . . . be warned. My home on the Isle of Skye is a long, long way from London—over six hundred miles, in fact—and it will take many days to get there. The trip will not be easy, by any means. In fact, it will be quite arduous. My business at home is urgent, so not only do I intend to set a rapid pace, once we reach Skye, we will need to ride on horseback. The roads, if one can even call them that, are not fit for coaches. Are you prepared for that?”

  She nodded. Even though the prospect sounded daunting indeed, she’d travel a thousand miles in a carriage and spend days on end in the saddle rather than live in fear of Felix. “Yes, my lord. I ride quite well.”

  He inclined his head. “Excellent. As I won’t be spending half my day looking for a nursemaid, I won’t need to delay my departure. We’ll leave before daybreak, at six o’clock. I’ll send one of my footmen around for your luggage.”

  “Oh . . . oh that won’t be necessary,” she said quickly. The last thing she needed was one of the marquess’s liveried servants turning up on her aunt and uncle’s doorstep at the crack of dawn. They would never let her leave. “I shall be able to manage my own valise. I daresay it would be far simpler if I just meet you here.”

  Lord Sleat’s mouth twitched. “I daresay.”

  Panic fluttered inside Olivia’s belly. Was he already suspicious of her circumstances? Who she really was? He had good reason to be. But she couldn’t worry about that now. Not when escape was within her reach.

  “I . . . I do have one small favor to ask of you though.”

  Lord Sleat raised a dark eyebrow. “And what might that be?”

  “I do not feel comfortable leaving Peridot with my family. She is not their responsibility. And as much as Tilda derives comfort from her presence, I do not think it would be wise to transport a cat all the way to Skye. So I would humbly ask that one of your servants returns Peridot to her owner’s residence in B-Berkeley Square in the morning. There are staff there who will care for her.”

  Lord Sleat slapped his hand on the mantel in the manner of an auctioneer. “Done.”

  “Thank you.”

  With a lantern in hand to light the way, the marquess escorted her onto the terrace and to the back of the garden. The rain had stopped, but a chill wind tossed the branches of the trees and whipped Olivia’s hair into her eyes.

  When they arrived at the hidden gate, Lord Sleat paused. The flickering light from the lantern gave his face a strange, saturnine cast. “Before I bid you adieu, Miss Morland, there’s one last thing I need to mention.”

  “Yes . . .” Olivia held her breath as she waited for him to continue. She prayed he wasn’t having second thoughts.

  The wind tossed his dark hair, lifting it to reveal more of the angry scar on his brow. “We didn’t discuss your wages.”

  “Oh . . .” Olivia’s pulse quickened. She hadn’t even thought about that. And she truly had no idea what a lower servant like a nursemaid would expect to be paid. “Wh-whatever you decide, I’m sure it will be fair.”

  “I’m happy to pay you a good deal more than what you’ve been hitherto earning as a companion.”

  “Oh . . . as a member of the family, I don’t receive a wage. So there’s really no need—”

  “Of course there is.” He caught her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Never underestimate your true worth, Miss Morland. So think on it, and name your price in the morning.”

  Olivia nodded. “I will, my lord.”r />
  “Good.” He released her hand and parted the curtain of ivy. “Now go before it starts raining again.”

  “Yes, my lord. And good night to you.”

  “Good night to you, too, Miss Morland.”

  By the time Olivia reached her room without incident, her whole body was thrumming with excitement and terror.

  She was running away.

  Tomorrow morning, she would be free.

  If she could manage to stay hidden until she turned twenty-one, then she would no longer be subjected to her uncle’s tyranny. She would be an adult in the eyes of the law, even if she wouldn’t gain control of her inheritance money for four more years. Or she wed and her husband was awarded that power. But it would be to a man of her choosing. A love match.

  Not Felix.

  She threw her cloak over the back of her bedside chair, then proceeded to unlace her damp half boots. She had so many things to get done before her aunt, uncle, Prudence, and Patience came home. Or Bagshaw walked in.

  She would need to take the bare essentials with her, and that included shoes. If she set her boots before the fire, the leather would be dry by morning. Then she’d only need to pack one pair of kid slippers. A few wool gowns—it would be far cooler up north. Several chemises and petticoats. A spare set of stays and her flannel night rail. Of course, she’d also have to write to her friends about what she’d done so they’d know she was safe. But that could wait until she was well on her way to Scotland.

  Should she leave a note for Uncle Reginald and Aunt Edith? At least she could mention that they weren’t to worry about her, even if she didn’t reveal anything else—

  Her door flew open, and Agnes Bagshaw marched into the room.

  “And just where have you been, Miss Olivia de Vere?” she demanded. She planted her bony hands on her even bonier hips as her ire-filled gaze raked over Olivia. “Up to no good by the looks of you,” she added without waiting for an answer. “I’ve been searching for you for the best part of a half hour. Just wait till I tell Mrs. de Vere that you absconded from your room.”