How to Catch a Sinful Marquess

by Amy Rose Bennett

  At the end of the dimly lit hallway—heavy velvet curtains concealed the windows—Madam Birchmore stopped, and knocked on the last door. “Mistress Mia,” she called through the oak panels. “You have company. Two handsome-as-sin gentlemen, in fact.”

  “Coming.” A light, feminine voice Hamish immediately recognized floated out into the hall. And then the door opened to reveal Euphemia Harrington.

  At the sight of him, her blue eyes widened and she blanched. “Oh . . .” She pulled her loosely cinched silk robe about her near-naked body. “Oh . . . I don’t think . . .”

  Quick as a flash, she attempted to close the door with a shove, but Madam Birchmore jammed her foot in the narrow opening. She was surprisingly strong for such a tiny woman. “Mia, you’ll do as you’re told, girl, or you’ll be out on the streets.”

  The madam glanced back to give Hamish a tight, apologetic smile as she continued to wrestle with Mia for control of the door. “She’s relatively new here. But she’s not usually this skittish.” Turning back to Euphemia, she hissed, “What the bloody hell is wrong with you? Open the door at once.”

  “Mia, I’m only here to talk,” called Hamish. “About Tilda.”

  All at once Euphemia gave up the battle. Letting go of the handle, she shrank back into the shadows of the bedchamber.

  Madam Birchmore gave a huff of annoyance. “The next time you do that, it’ll be the butcher’s brush for you, my girl.”

  “It’s all right,” said Hamish. “Mistress Mia and I have met before, and I think the shock of seeing me again, so unexpectedly, rattled her a little.”

  The madam planted her small hands on her hips and glared fiercely at Hamish. “Here, you’re not one of those gentlemen who likes to beat women, are you? We do have some rules in place here, you know.”

  “No. No he’s not,” said Euphemia. “In fact, he’s just the opposite, Madam Birchmore. And what he says is quite true. I was simply a little shocked to see him after so much time.”

  “Hmph.” The madam snorted her skepticism. She lifted a small silver pocket watch hanging from a chain pinned to her bodice. “Between the pair of you, you’ve just wasted five minutes of the allotted hour. I’ll charge extra if you go over time.”

  “I assure you, we won’t,” said Hamish.

  “See that you don’t.” Clearly satisfied everything was in order, Madam Birchmore tripped off down the carpeted hall.

  “Won’t you come in, my lord?” murmured Mia Harrington. She pushed a glossy brown curl behind her ear as her gaze darted nervously to Max. “And your friend.”

  “Thank you.”

  The bedchamber was small but well-appointed, from what Hamish could see; it was barely illuminated by a branch of candles sitting upon the mantelpiece and a single candle atop a small dressing table. Although it was early afternoon, the velvet curtains were drawn; Hamish surmised it was to promote a dark, illicit atmosphere. The heavy scent of musk, sandalwood, and something vaguely floral hung in the air.

  Mia crossed to the large tester bed and sat upon the edge of the crimson damask counterpane. Her blue silk robe slid open to reveal long, pale, slender legs clad in silk stockings and ribbon garters.

  “So you found me,” she said on a shaky sigh. Her eyes glimmered with tears. “I don’t quite know how you did, but I suppose that doesn’t really matter now.” She gestured at a heavy oak chair with a padded seat by the window. “I’m sorry there’s only one place to sit.”

  “That’s quite all right. I don’t expect we’ll be staying long,” said Hamish.

  “Don’t mind me,” added Max as he prowled to the other side of the room and propped a lean hip on the dressing table. “Pretend I’m not here.”

  Hamish took up a position by the door. He didn’t want to draw too close to the bed; the last thing he wanted to do was intimidate his former mistress. “Let me just begin by saying that even though Tilda is missing you, she’s well,” he said gently.

  Mia pressed her lips together and nodded. “I knew you would take good care of her,” she whispered.

  “I know she’s not mine.”

  “No. She’s not . . .” Mia dropped her gaze. Her fingers twisted in her robe, and her tears began to fall. “I know you’ll have questions. And . . . and I know you’ll want me to take her back but . . .” She shook her head and dashed impatiently at her wet cheeks. “I can’t.” She gestured about the room. “I mean, look what I’ve been reduced to. This is no place for my sweet little girl.”

  Hamish’s gut twisted. “Mia, I don’t know what happened to you since we parted ways, but I’m here to help. I firmly believe Tilda should be with you, not with me.”

  Again she shook her head. Her fisted hands crushed her robe. “You can’t help.”

  “Why not?”

  “You just can’t.”

  Hamish and Max traded a glance. The young woman’s distress was palpable.

  “Are you in some kind of trouble, Mia?” asked Hamish gently.

  A harsh laugh escaped her. “Aside from the obvious?” She shook her head again. “No.”

  “Are you sure? Because Tilda mentioned there was recently a man in your life that both of you were afraid of. She called him ‘the baron.’”

  Mia Harrington’s swallow was audible. “She’s a child. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “She’s a very bright child and you know it.” Hamish took a step closer. “Who is he, Mia? The Duke of Exmoor and I can both take care of him if he’s bothering you.”

  “I can’t say a word,” she whispered. Her blue eyes were glassy with terror. “If he finds out I gave you his name—” She broke off and drew a shuddering breath. “He’ll hurt Tilda. That’s why I left her with you. He wouldn’t dare do anything to her while she’s living under your roof. You’re a marquess, whereas I . . . I’m nobody.”

  Anger seared through Hamish’s veins. “What has he done to you already? According to my inquiry agent, up until a few weeks ago, you were living in your own fine town house, courtesy of your arrangement with the Earl of Livingstone. Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what happened? Answer me truthfully.”

  Mia nodded. “Lord Livingstone was a most generous man. And yes, he did gift me a town house. He also provided me with a carriage and the most beautiful jewels. And I had such lovely plans. I was going to sell it all and move to the seaside with Tilda after the earl and I parted ways toward the end of the Season. I was going to pretend to be a widow who’d lost her husband at Waterloo. But then . . . then I got greedy.”

  A shadow passed across Mia’s face. “Another gentleman of the ton I met at a soiree at the end of July offered to become my next protector. He pursued me with such vigor, like a man who was smitten, that I ignored some of the whispered rumors I’d heard about him . . . But it turned out the rumors were all true and the man was the devil himself. Everything he said to me was a lie. The jewels he gave me were paste. And what’s worse, he then stole everything I owned. I signed over my house and its entire contents to him. I gave him my carriage, the horses, my jewelry, and even the contents of my wardrobe, because if I didn’t, he said he would take Tilda away and sell her to—” She broke off and shook her head. “I can’t even say it. Suffice it to say, I was terrified, and I still am. I had to give up Tilda to save her.”

  “Miss Harrington, you have to tell us who this man is.” Max’s voice was low, the menace in his tone unmistakable. “If he’s a peer of the realm, he needs to answer for his actions.”

  “I dare not.” Mia’s mouth twisted with anguish. “He’ll kill me. I know he will. You don’t know what he’s like. What he’s capable of . . .”

  Hamish’s knuckles cracked as he clenched his fists. “Mia, we’ll be able to work out who this man is by simply making more inquiries.” And when I find him, I’ll rip him to pieces.


  All color drained from the woman’s face. “No. Please don’t. I beg of you. Just let it go. And I know I have no right to ask you to continue caring for Tilda, Lord Sleat, but she can’t live here with me. Not in a place like this. And I truly have nowhere else to go other than the streets.”

  “Miss Harrington, I might have a solution for you,” said Max. “You mentioned before that you wished to live by the sea. Well, I own a small seaside property in the north of Devon that requires a housekeeper. Every summer, my elderly aunt, her daughter, and a paid companion visit to take the sea air. My aunt isn’t fond of the bustle of any of the other larger seaside towns, so Lynton Grange suits her perfectly. I must warn you though, the house is quite isolated, and dashed difficult to find. But if you would like to take up the position . . .”

  Hamish stared at his friend in surprise. “I must say, that’s awfully generous of you.”

  Max shrugged. “I need a housekeeper, and Miss Harrington needs a safe situation. It seems like the perfect solution. There’s a caveat though, one that I’m sure Lord Sleat will insist upon too . . .” The duke’s gaze settled on Mia.

  She lifted her chin. “And what’s that, Your Grace?”

  “You must take your daughter with you.” Beneath the sweep of his dark blond hair, he quirked a brow. “What do you say, Mrs. Harrington?”

  “I . . . I think it sounds perfect,” she whispered, and tears filled her eyes again. “Look at me. You’ve both turned me into a watering pot. Thank you, Your Grace.” She wiped her cheeks with trembling fingers. “And Lord Sleat.”

  “Think nothing of it, Mia.” Hamish fished a kerchief from his jacket pocket. “Now dry your tears. I estimate that you have about forty minutes to get dressed and pack your things before the formidable Madam Birchmore comes back and starts demanding more money or whacking someone with a butcher’s brush, whatever that is. The duke and I will wait outside, and then we’ll all repair to Sleat House, where Tilda awaits with my wife.”

  For the first time since they entered the room, Mia smiled. “I’ll be ready in ten.”

  CHAPTER 23

  No fairy forms, in Yarrow’s bowers,

  Trip o’er the walks, or tend the flowers.

  Walter Scott, Esq., Marmion: A Tale of Flodden Field

  Sleat House, Grosvenor Square, Mayfair

  Olivia sat on the flagged terrace of Sleat House watching Nurse Swan play with Tilda in the enclosed garden. The pair were currently looking for fairies among the lavender bushes lining the wall, and Tilda was giggling at something the warmhearted Scots nurse had said.

  How odd to think that she’d only met Hamish a few short weeks ago in this very same garden—well, while she was stuck upon that ivy-clad wall. And all because of a mischievous cat.

  Her mouth curved into a small smile at the bittersweet memory.

  So much had happened since then, Olivia could barely comprehend it. In some ways, it all seemed like a dream. Or she’d magically become the heroine in someone else’s book.

  But she was yet to find her happy ending. A sigh escaped her as she picked up her cup of tea from the wrought iron table. She and Hamish were as estranged as ever, sleeping in separate bedchambers at opposite ends of Sleat House. They’d traveled in separate carriages to London and had slept in different rooms at each inn where they’d stayed. Most of their exchanges were polite but inconsequential.

  Thank goodness her family didn’t know this marriage was a sham. Of course, Olivia didn’t want it to be. As her dear Scots friend Arabella would say, if wishes were horses . . .

  Olivia’s gaze drifted to the back of the neighboring town house. It felt especially odd knowing she was now the Marchioness of Sleat and no longer beholden to Uncle Reginald, Aunt Edith, any of her cousins, or even the odious Bagshaw anymore. When she’d arrived in London two days ago, Olivia had half expected her uncle or Felix to come and pound on the front door of Sleat House, demanding her return. But no one had.

  Olivia wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, but she suspected Hamish had something to do with Uncle Reginald’s and Felix’s conspicuous absence.

  She gave an involuntary shudder thinking about Felix. At some point, she would like to retrieve the remainder of her belongings from her old bedroom next door, considering her current wardrobe was limited—she still only had the clothes she’d packed in her valise and some of Isobel’s castoffs in her possession. Considerate as always, Hamish had recommended she send her lady’s maid, Eliza, over with Sleat House’s housekeeper, Mrs. Foster, and several footmen to collect it all if she didn’t want to go herself. He’d also suggested she visit a modiste or two and order an entirely new set of garments. But Olivia just didn’t have the heart to go shopping yet. Perhaps when some of her friends returned to town. She rather hoped they might come back to help her celebrate her twenty-first birthday in a week’s time.

  She was wearing one of Isobel’s castoffs now—a lovely light green gown of sprigged muslin trimmed with lilac ribbons and a matching spencer. As always, Eliza had arranged Olivia’s hair beautifully. Not that Hamish ever seemed to notice his wife’s efforts to look as attractive and as elegant as possible.

  The sound of voices drifted onto the terrace, and Olivia turned in her seat to regard the drawing room behind her. Since their return, Hamish had been so busy—either meeting with various gentlemen in the library or quitting the town house altogether and disappearing for such long periods—she’d barely seen him. She suspected that a great deal of his time was taken up with looking for Tilda’s mother, Euphemia, and she was in two minds about how she felt about that. She’d grown terribly fond of the little girl, but deep down, she understood that Tilda belonged with her own mother.

  And then Olivia saw the drawing room door open, and Hamish entered in the company of the exceedingly handsome Duke of Exmoor—Olivia had met the nobleman a few months before at Lord and Lady Malverne’s wedding. But it was the pretty young woman with light brown curls and bright blue eyes on the duke’s arm who snagged her attention.

  It had to be Euphemia Harrington. There was no mistaking the resemblance between Tilda and her mother.

  Olivia rose from her seat, her pulse quickening in anticipation. “Hamish,” she murmured as he stepped onto the terrace with the duke and Mia Harrington. “You found her.”

  “Aye.” He grinned. “I did. My lady wife, allow me to introduce—”

  He got no further as Tilda squealed, “Mama,” and then Mia was flying down the terrace steps onto the lawn and catching her daughter in her arms. “Oh, my baby girl,” she sobbed, and sank to her knees with Tilda clinging to her as if she would never let her go.

  Olivia’s vision blurred. What a glorious, beautiful moment. Never in her life had she been so affected. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she watched Mia smother her ecstatic daughter’s face with kisses.

  It seemed everyone else was similarly moved by witnessing the reunion of mother and child. Nurse Swan, her hands clasped beneath her chin, was openly crying, and when Olivia glanced at Hamish, he was brushing a tear from his cheek too. Even the Duke of Exmoor’s blue eyes were suspiciously bright.

  Hamish drew close, and to Olivia’s surprise, he laced his long fingers through hers.

  “You’ve done a wonderful thing today, Hamish,” she murmured, her heart swelling with pride for the man she couldn’t help but love.

  “And I would never have found Euphemia if it weren’t for you.”

  “And Nurse Swan.”

  “Perhaps . . . Olivia, I . . .”

  Olivia looked up into her husband’s face, and her breath caught. The longing in his gaze was unmistakable. Dare she hope that he’d say something, anything, to indicate he’d changed his mind about her and their marriage? That he wanted to have children with her?

  But when he spoke next, it was clear that he hadn’t.

  “You’ll make a wonderful
mother when you wed again one day—” he began, but Olivia cut him off.

  “Don’t, Hamish.” She couldn’t hide the bitterness in her voice as she let go of his hand. “Just don’t. You once said, in this very garden in fact, that I should never underestimate my true worth. Well, I’m tired of you doing exactly that whenever it comes to me.”

  And then she descended the stairs and crossed the lawn to introduce herself to Mia.

  * * *

  * * *

  She was wrong. Hamish knew the precise worth of his lovely wife.

  The problem was, he didn’t deserve her. That’s what he told himself as he watched Olivia walk away from him.

  Max drew closer and clapped him on the shoulder. “I think it’s time for a celebratory brandy, old chap,” he said. “Or whisky if you have it.”

  “Aye. Whisky it is.”

  “And when things settle down”—Max nodded toward Mia, Tilda, Nurse Swan, and Olivia—“I’ll pay my respects to your new wife. It’s been a while since I met her at Nate’s wedding in June.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know that you’d already been introduced.”

  Max shrugged. “I’m sure I mentioned it the other day when you were telling me all about your own wedding.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Hmm. It must have slipped my mind.”

  As Hamish poured the drinks, his gaze strayed to his friend. Max slouched in that negligent way of his against the French doors, watching the women fuss over Tilda. Or was it Olivia in particular he observed?

  Hamish’s gaze narrowed as he joined his friend and handed him his whisky. Yes, Max was paying particular attention to Olivia. He couldn’t say that he blamed him—a man would have to be blind or on his deathbed not to notice how pretty she was.

  So why was he, Hamish, suddenly experiencing this unexpected flash of jealousy?

  He’d already told Max an abridged version of how he’d come to wed Olivia over the anvil. Of course, for Olivia’s sake, he hadn’t divulged all the messy details, but Max knew their marriage was ostensibly one of convenience until they divorced. He trusted his devilishly handsome, silver-tongued friend didn’t have designs on Olivia . . .