How to Catch a Sinful Marquess

by Amy Rose Bennett

  Olivia tugged off her boots and placed them by the hearth. Ordinarily she’d try to placate Bagshaw. But not tonight. Consequences no longer mattered because by morning she’d be gone.

  “I had to take P-Peridot into the back garden.” She straightened and pushed a stray lock of hair away from her eyes. “And then I took her to the cellar. Lady Charlotte says she’s a good m-mouser.” It was the only vaguely plausible reason she could think of to explain Peridot’s absence.

  Bagshaw shut the door, then crossed her wiry arms over her flat chest. Her coal black eyes narrowed with suspicion, then darted about the room. “Is that so? If that’s the case, where is she now?”

  Olivia picked up the poker and stirred the fire. Good Lord, she wished the woman would leave so she could get on with packing. “She’s still down there, enjoying herself, I suspect. I think it’s rather c-cruel to keep a cat locked up in one room all day, don’t you?”

  Her gaze met the serving woman’s, and Olivia read undiluted antipathy in her expression. There was no mistaking Olivia’s meaning. The question was, would Bagshaw give her a box about the ears now, or slip her a vicious pinch later when she wasn’t expecting it?

  Keeping the poker in her hand, Olivia raised her chin and attempted to stare down the lady’s maid. For once, it was Bagshaw who was the first to look away.

  When Olivia crossed to her dressing table and began to pull the pins from her hair, Bagshaw watched. Her thin lips had flattened into an uncompromising line. “Make sure you ask before you take that cat anywhere next time,” she sniped. “And make no mistake, I’ll be reporting your transgression to Mrs. de Vere, first thing in the morning.”

  Olivia continued to take down her hair. “Of course. It would be remiss of you not to,” she said in a deceptively mild voice.

  Bagshaw pointed a finger that was as spare as a chicken’s wishbone in her direction. “You watch your tone, young missy. I’ll have none of your cheek. I’ve a good mind to take the key and lock you in.”

  Panic sparked, but Olivia refused to yield to this heady feeling of having the upper hand for once. “I don’t think Lady Charlotte Hastings, or her father, the Earl of Westhampton, would be pleased to hear Peridot was trapped in a chill cellar all night,” she said, catching Bagshaw’s gaze in the mirror. “Unless you’d like to fetch her. You can tell me how many mice she managed to catch.”

  Bagshaw’s abject dislike of rodents was only marginally stronger than her dislike for Olivia. As Olivia expected, disgust flashed in the maid’s eyes. “Just be quick about it. I expect you to be back in your room before the master and mistress return home.”

  “Of course,” said Olivia. She picked up her brush. “We wouldn’t want to get into any trouble now, would we?”

  The slamming of her bedroom door was Bagshaw’s only response.

  CHAPTER 4

  No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy, would have supposed her born to be an heroine.

  Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

  16 Grosvenor Square, Mayfair

  September 16, 1818

  Olivia was so abuzz with nervous excitement, she didn’t sleep a wink. She couldn’t afford to. Slipping out of the house undetected, under the cover of darkness, was a crucial part of her plan’s success.

  After Bagshaw’s abrupt departure, Olivia had locked the door from the inside—not only to prevent Bagshaw from bursting in while she packed but for her own physical safety. She didn’t trust Felix in the slightest, and if he decided he couldn’t trust her to stay silent about the fact that he was embezzling her money to fund his profligacy, the consequences didn’t bear thinking about.

  So it was with considerable trepidation that Olivia cracked open the door to her bedroom at a quarter to five in the morning. Just after midnight, the rain had stopped, and now a pale wash of moonlight spilled in through an uncurtained window above the main stairs. Although the light was dim, she ascertained the gallery was deserted. Indeed, all was still and silent except for the wild drumming of her heart, the harsh whisper of her rapid breathing.

  The servants would rise by six o’clock, so she needed to be certain she wouldn’t bump into anyone at all. After making sure her leghorn bonnet was secured tightly beneath her chin, she tucked Peridot’s empty cat basket beneath her arm and hoisted up her tightly packed valise. Her door closed behind her with a gentle snick, and then she was scurrying down the hallway as quietly as she could, wincing whenever she encountered a creaking floorboard, inwardly praying all would go well.

  By the time she reached the main hall, her spirits were buoyed by the prospect of imminent success. She’d exit the town house via the drawing room—

  The sound of a door creaking somewhere nearby made Olivia jump with fright, and she nearly tripped over her own feet as she scuttled into the dark drawing room. Within moments, she was unlatching the French doors and ducking through the velvet curtains onto the empty terrace.

  She wouldn’t look back. Only forward. Picking up the skirts of her woolen traveling gown, she hurtled down the stairs, then across the sodden lawn, heading for the darkest shadows.

  No one called out to her, but when she reached the bottom of the garden and dared to glance back, her heart nearly stopped altogether.

  Someone was in the drawing room.

  A candle flame flickered in the gap between the curtains. Then the glass-paneled doors rattled. A pale oval—someone’s face—floated like a malevolent moon above the candlelight.

  Bagshaw!

  Oh, God. Would she be caught by that terrible woman when freedom was literally only a few feet away?

  Her heart crashing against her ribs, Olivia pushed past the ivy and wrenched the hidden gate open. As soon as she was through, she rammed it shut, then flung the bolt home.

  For one long minute, she sagged against the cold, damp wood. Her valise and the cat basket lay in the wet grass at her feet, but she didn’t care; her knees had turned to water, and she was breathing so hard, she sounded like she’d run a mile.

  And all the while, one particular thought galloped through her mind, in time with her racing heart: I’m safe, I’m safe, I’m safe.

  Sleat House, Grosvenor Square

  Coffee. He needed strong black coffee. And lots of it.

  Hamish yawned, and rubbed his eye, which felt as though it were full of grit, as he summoned a footman to the drawing room.

  What a hellish night he’d just spent. Who would’ve thought a scrap of a bairn like Tilda could create such chaos? The wee banshee had woken when Daniels tried to install her in a pallet bed in the library next door; Hamish had been working on a letter for his man of affairs, Walter Faraday, and wished to keep a watchful eye on her. The end result was that between eleven o’clock and two in the morning, he’d been trying to coax the child back to sleep.

  After she’d stopped crying—around midnight—Hamish plied her with warm milk and more honeyed crumpets as Miss Morland had done. He escorted her to the water closet several times—thank goodness she seemed to be able to manage that particular business on her own—and had tasked Daniels with the job of digging out a book or two that would entertain a young child.

  However, the engravings in Bewick’s ornithological volumes on land birds and waterbirds, and Ehret’s colorful drawings of flowering plants in Plantae Selectae only kept Tilda mildly entertained for a very short period of time. In the end, Peridot and the tie from his silk banyan had come to the rescue. Tilda even smiled and giggled as she ran around the library, taunting the cat with the tasseled end of the sash.

  The activity had eventually tired her out, and she’d fallen fast asleep on the pallet with the cat in her chubby arms. Thank God.

  But Hamish had stayed steadfastly awake, attending to neglected correspondence and other business matters until it was time to dress for the day ahead. He’d reasoned that there wasn’t much poin
t in sleeping when he had so much on his mind. Besides, he had days to catch up on slumber on the road to Skye.

  However, his valet, Hudson, had sent him a baleful look as soon as he entered Hamish’s dressing room and discovered his master had taken it upon himself to shave without assistance at four o’clock in the morning. But the man—who’d once served as Hamish’s batman when he was in the military—knew from experience it was best to hold his tongue about his master’s appalling sleep habits. Or lack-of-sleep habits, to be more precise.

  The coffee arrived, and after Hamish poured himself a steaming cup of the black bitter brew, he wandered over to the French doors and tossed back the thick velvet curtains. The reflection in the darkened glass revealed his drawn and disgruntled expression. He sighed. He’d have to wake Tilda soon and help her to get ready for the day ahead.

  At least Miss Morland would be here soon to take over those duties.

  Miss Morland. What a conundrum she was. Well-spoken despite her stammer and apparently guileless. Truth be told, he also sensed she wasn’t being completely honest with him about her situation. The last thing he wanted was a wealthy family breathing down his neck because he’d taken the girl from the family bosom, even if she was a penniless relation.

  However, given his situation, he really couldn’t afford to harbor any second thoughts. He needed Miss Morland. It was as simple as that. It wasn’t the first time in his life that he’d been ruthless in his decision making. And he was certain it wouldn’t be the last.

  A movement on the lawn caught his attention. Someone was outside.

  Miss Morland? Yes, he recognized her slight figure even though it was partially obscured by a voluminous cloak and weighed down with luggage.

  Hamish put down his coffee and threw open the doors. “What the devil are you doing here so early?” he said, hastening forward to help her with her valise and basket. “It’s pitch black and colder than a witch’s ti—I mean, it’s freezing,” he amended, ushering her inside. “I said we’d depart at six, not five.”

  “I . . . I know,” she said, removing her bonnet and cloak as she crossed to the fireplace. “But I thought it would be better to arrive well beforehand. I can . . . I can help with Tilda. She’ll need to wash and get dressed.”

  Hamish couldn’t argue with that. Closing the door with a booted foot, he put down her luggage, then offered her coffee, which she agreed to with alacrity.

  “Are your family early risers?” asked Hamish mildly as he picked up the silver coffeepot.

  “Oh, no. N-not at all,” said Miss Morland. She dipped her head and focused on the intricate pattern of the Turkish rug beneath her neatly booted feet, but she couldn’t hide the blush rising above the collar of her plum-hued traveling gown. “I bid them all adieu last night as I didn’t want to disturb them this morning.”

  “And they don’t mind that you’re leaving without a last goodbye?” Hamish handed her a china cup filled to the brim with coffee.

  Miss Morland blew on the hot liquid before she took a small, dainty sip. “Per . . . perhaps a little. But I don’t expect them to m-miss me for long. In fact, even though it wasn’t expressly stated, I’m certain they’ll be glad to see the back of me.”

  As Hamish studied her, he decided Miss Lavinia Morland was a terrible liar. But again, he pushed aside his reservations. After all, it wasn’t really any of his business. He recalled the lass stating she was almost twenty-one, and if she was but a poor relative, she might not have an officially appointed guardian. In any case, he was of the opinion that she was old enough to make her own decisions. Aloud he said, “Well, your family sounds very foolish to me.”

  Another delightful pink blush colored her cheeks. “That’s kind of you to say so, my lord.”

  His mouth quirked with a wry smile. “As I informed you the other day, Miss Morland, I’m not generally regarded as ‘kind’ by those who know me.”

  “Well, I’m grateful all the same,” she rejoined softly, and Hamish suddenly experienced a flash of heat across his cheekbones. Good God. Was he actually blushing?

  To hide his discomfiture, he hastily turned away to refill his cup. Never in all his life had a woman—indeed anyone at all, for that matter—put him to the blush. And he really didn’t wish to examine the reason why. Especially not now.

  When Tilda stirred, Miss Morland hurried into the library to help the little girl get ready for the journey ahead. After they repaired to an upstairs bedroom, Hamish added a note to the letter for his man of affairs. Despite his resolve to secure Miss Lavinia Morland’s services as a nursemaid come what may, he wanted to know more about her and her situation. The inquiry agent he was employing to search for Tilda’s mother could quite easily check into the young woman’s background and verify her claim that she was indeed a poor relative who would not be missed. Then he could dismiss this niggling sense that something wasn’t quite right with Miss Morland’s story.

  * * *

  * * *

  The longcase clock in the grand entry hall of Sleat House was striking six o’clock when Olivia reluctantly bid farewell to Peridot with a final cuddle. Tilda’s bottom lip wobbled ominously as she helped to place the puss in her wicker basket; fortunately, the child seemed to accept Olivia’s word that there would be more cats for her to pat—or perhaps a dog—at Lord Sleat’s castle on the Isle of Skye. At least, Olivia trusted there would be. The marquess was absent from the hall at the time so she couldn’t confirm if her pronouncement was indeed true.

  After one of Lord Sleat’s footmen had promised to deliver Peridot to the Berkeley Square address Olivia provided—along with a note for Lord Westhampton’s housekeeper briefly explaining her need to return Lady Charlotte’s cat—she took Tilda’s small hand in hers and followed MacAlister, the butler, out the front door.

  Even though there was only the faintest flush of dawn in the east, a nearby gas lamp and the light spilling from the open doorway revealed not one but two very fine four-in-hand carriages in front of Sleat House. Numerous male servants were assembled outside—half a dozen footmen, two drivers, and a pair of mounted outriders, but it was Lord Sleat himself who stood by the open door of the second carriage, apparently waiting to hand her and Tilda in.

  Olivia’s gaze darted nervously to the entrance of her uncle and aunt’s town house as she descended the stairs with Tilda, but nothing and no one stirred, thank the Lord. In any case, her bonnet, her voluminous cloak, and the darkness should conceal her identity sufficiently. At least she prayed it would be so.

  “I thought it would be best if you and Tilda traveled separately,” said the marquess as his large, warm hand enveloped her gloved fingers.

  “Oh, y-yes. Quite,” replied Olivia, trying to ignore the jittery race of her pulse and the sinking feeling in her heart as she negotiated the carriage steps and took a seat beside Tilda. Given the terrible way her parents had died, Olivia didn’t relish the idea of undertaking a long journey by any means, but she really had no choice. And while she enjoyed the marquess’s company—and no doubt she would find his presence reassuring—it was only natural that he would want a carriage to himself. She was only a lower servant after all. Aside from that, she was a single young woman. Lord Sleat might be her employer, but he was wise to maintain a veneer of respectability. Not that it was a veneer. While the marquess flirted with her a little during their first unconventional meeting, he’d behaved exactly as a gentleman ought to on each subsequent occasion.

  “There are warm bricks for your feet, plenty of blankets, and a basket of food,” added Lord Sleat. “It’s stashed beneath the seat opposite you along with a few books to keep you and the bairn entertained.”

  Olivia smiled. “That’s . . . that’s very considerate of you. Thank you, my lord.”

  “It’s the least I can do, Miss Morland,” said the marquess, with a slight tilt of his head. “As I mentioned last night, we shall be setting a cr
acking pace, but if you need anything at all—even if Tilda needs a comfort break—just alert the driver.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The door closed, and Olivia helped settle Tilda into a corner of the carriage, wrapping a large tartan blanket about the tiny child to keep her warm. Tilda’s stuff gown, flannel petticoats, nankeen shoes, and velveteen cape were of decent quality, but the morning was chill, and Olivia didn’t want the girl to catch cold. Even by the feeble light of the exterior carriage lamps, Olivia could see her breath misting within the close confines of the coach.

  Leaning back against the squabs, Olivia cast a last look at the front of her family’s town house as the carriage pulled away. What would Aunt Edith, Uncle Reginald, and Prudence and Patience make of her abrupt departure? How would Felix react?

  No doubt there would be a good deal of anger and outraged consternation. She’d left a note upon her dressing table, explaining her desire for independence, the burning need to strike out on her own, even if it was without the blessing of her uncle and aunt. She’d urged her family not to worry about her. And, of course, they wouldn’t be concerned for her welfare. No, they only cared about her money. She supposed Uncle Reginald would assume she’d eloped with some ne’er-do-well fortune hunter. Felix would suspect she’d decamped out of fear—which would be an entirely correct assumption. Aunt Edith would suggest she’d run off to Gloucestershire, seeking sanctuary with Charlie, Sophie, or Lady Chelmsford. As soon as it was practicable, Olivia would write to her friends to assure them she was safe and well.

  Olivia didn’t believe her family would make an enormous to-do about her escapade. Uncle Reginald might be moved to employ an inquiry agent or two to undertake a discreet search rather than making a hue and cry on the Bow Street Runners’ doorstep. Aunt Edith in particular would be leery of creating any public scandal, especially after the “academy incident”—she wouldn’t want it to have an impact upon her daughters’ chances of securing advantageous matches next Season.