As if he’d fathomed what—or rather who—was on Hamish’s mind, Max said in a low voice, “MacQueen, are you certain you really want to let your wife go when she eventually inherits? I know your marriage was born out of necessity . . . but from what I’ve seen and heard of Olivia, she’s a dashed lovely girl. I think it would be a shame not to give it your best shot.”
Hamish sipped his whisky, relieved he wouldn’t have to maim his friend to prevent him from having an affair with his wife. While Max knew he had nightmares—his friends Nate and Gabriel did too—none of them were aware how dangerous he became when he was in the midst of one. Or that his tainted bloodline precluded him from having a child. Aloud he said, “I never thought I’d see the day when the devilish Duke of Exmoor would be dispensing marital advice.”
Max bared his perfect teeth in a wide grin. “Ah, you mistake my motives, my friend. It’s within my best interests that you stay happily wed. You see, now that Nate and Gabriel are also well and truly leg-shackled, there’ll be less competition when I go on the prowl.”
As long as you don’t go prowling anywhere near my wife, thought Hamish.
But then, one day in the not-too-distant future, some other man would be prowling around Olivia. And how would he feel then?
Hamish swallowed another mouthful of whisky to hide a snarl of frustration. The lass’s twenty-first birthday was but a week away, and in a few days’ time, he was due to meet with his own solicitor, Olivia’s uncle, and her trustee, a certain Mr. George Thackery from the law firm Norton, Lyle, and Thackery. If Hamish could secure Olivia’s money for her sooner, she could be free of him within a few short months. Perhaps even weeks.
With all his heart, he wanted to give this marriage his best shot, but at what cost to Olivia?
For her sake, it was a price he wasn’t willing to pay.
* * *
* * *
It was so quiet now that Tilda had gone, Olivia swore she could hear the ticking of every longcase and mantel clock throughout Sleat House. The little girl had bid her a sticky, tearful farewell along with a grateful Mia about an hour ago. Apparently, Hamish’s friend Max had arranged a private carriage to ferry them to Lynton Grange, one of his properties in Devonshire, because Mia would be taking up the housekeeper’s position there.
While Olivia would miss Tilda terribly, she was also profoundly happy for her and Mia. After their departure, Hamish had disclosed that Mia had been in such desperate circumstances, she’d been forced to work at Birchmore House, the same infamous brothel that Felix sometimes frequented. To think that both she and Tilda would now have a safe and happy life, thanks to Hamish and his friend, warmed Olivia’s heart immeasurably.
Less heartwarming was the fact that Hamish had also quit Sleat House a short time ago. Olivia had no idea where he’d gone or when he’d be back. She assumed he might have decided to visit one of his clubs, but she couldn’t be sure. Charlie had once mentioned that her father, Lord Westhampton, and her brother Nate—before he wed Sophie—often spent entire evenings in such places.
She supposed she would dine alone in her room once more with only her books for company.
As Olivia trailed up the wide mahogany staircase to head for the bedrooms, she buried her nose in the small bunch of lavender she’d just picked. Hamish had told her that he didn’t think chamomile tea or scented posies could cure his poor sleep and bad dreams, and while she tended to agree, there also wasn’t any harm in continuing to use them if they provided some degree of relief, no matter how small.
Once she reached Hamish’s bedchamber, she knocked on the door; she assumed Hudson might be about, tidying up, or polishing Hamish’s boots, or doing whatever it was valets did for their masters.
When the middle-aged servant opened the door a minute later, he greeted her with a warm smile and a courteous bow. “Lady Sleat, how are ye this evening?” His gaze fell to the posy in her hands. “And I see you’ve brought some lavender fer his lordship.”
“I’m well,” she replied. “And yes, I picked some fresh from the garden. I-I’ve been meaning to dry some—the smell will be stronger—but it will take a few weeks.”
“Would you like to pop it under his pillow?”
Uncertainty gripped Olivia as she glanced past the valet’s shoulder into Hamish’s bedchamber. This was the first time she’d seen his room since they’d arrived. A fire and several lamps illuminated the enormous oak tester bed; the furnishings were all in various shades of burgundy, deep gold, and rich brown. She wanted to go in, but she also felt as though she’d be trespassing.
Heavens, what a sad, sad thought.
Returning her attention to Hudson, she summoned a smile and offered him the posy. “Perhaps you should do it.”
“Of course, my lady. But I’m sure his lordship wouldn’t mind.” The valet stepped back so that she might enter Hamish’s room. “I’ll have Mrs. Foster order some chamomile tea from Fortnum and Mason’s as well,” he said as Olivia tucked the lavender beneath one of the plump white pillows. “They’re sure to have some.”
“Thank you, Hudson. I appreciate your support,” she replied. Unable to resist temptation, she smoothed her fingertips over the richly embroidered silk counterpane. Was it her imagination, or could she detect a hint of Hamish’s cologne? Sandalwood and musk, and exotic spices blended with the fresh scent of the lavender. If Hudson weren’t in the room, she would have crawled into the bed and buried her face in the pillows.
“No, it is I who should be thanking you, my lady,” the valet said gently. He stood on the other side of the bed and wiped a nonexistent speck of dust off the highly polished bedside table. “I hope you’ll forgive me fer speaking candidly,” he continued after a moment, “but I just wanted to say you’ve done wonders fer his lordship.”
Olivia felt a hot blush steal across her cheeks. “I don’t think I’ve done all that much. But thank you all the same.”
“’Tis true though.” The expression in the valet’s blue eyes was earnest as he added, “If there’s anything at all I can do to help you, my lady, please let me know.”
Olivia frowned. What was Hudson really suggesting? Should she ask him about her husband’s purported tendency to lash out during bad dreams? There was only one way to find out if the valet would be willing to relay his side of the story.
Inhaling a deep breath, she decided to take the plunge. “Actually, Hudson. I rather w-wondered if you could tell me a little about the night you were hurt . . . by my husband. He told me that you once tried to wake him when he was having a particularly bad nightmare . . . and that it did not end well.”
“Aye.” Hudson’s expression grew solemn. “I’m happy to tell you what I ken, my lady. ’Tis true his lordship injured me, but he was not in his right mind. I do not hold him accountable for what happened. Indeed, it was partly my fault . . . And in hindsight, I should have known better than to try and rouse him under the circumstances. In my defense though, I was worried he might split his stitches around his eye and worsen his wounds.”
Olivia nodded. “Hamish mentioned the incident occurred after he was injured at Waterloo.”
“Aye, my lady. In fact, it happened in this very room. After Lord Sleat returned to London, I helped nurse him back to health. At least in a physical sense. As you can imagine, he was in a significant amount of pain, and his physician prescribed laudanum to help him cope with the agony, which was terrible indeed. The tincture of opium was verra strong and helped his lordship fall asleep. But it also made his nightmares that much worse. In fact, I suspect the drug made him hallucinate.”
“Oh, my goodness,” whispered Olivia. Arabella, who possessed a singular knowledge about all manner of medical subjects, had once warned her about the dangers of taking too much laudanum. “Do you think he was hallucinating when he attacked you?”
“Aye, I do,” said Hudson grimly. “I hate to say it, but it seeme
d as though Lord Sleat wasna in his right mind that night. When I came into the room, he was thrashing violently and shouting like a lunatic. Tearing at his bandages like a man gone mad. And when I got too close, he hit out at me. His fist connected with my face, and I don’t recall much after that.” Hudson gestured to the opposite side of the room. “I remember flying backward, but then I was knocked unconscious. I suspect I hit my head on that oak chest—that one behind you—on the way down as there was blood on the edge of it. But I dinna blame Lord Sleat. It was an accident, pure and simple.”
Olivia was breathless as she asked, “And have you seen any behavior like that since?”
Hudson shrugged. “Of course Lord Sleat has bad dreams fairly regularly. And yes, he does call out and toss and turn a bit. But not with the same intensity as that night three years ago. Even though he made me promise never to enter the room again when he’s in the throes of a nightmare, I sometimes do. To make sure he’s safe. But even at his worst, I havena seen him go berserk the way he did when he took laudanum. Suffice it to say, he has no’ taken the drug since. He hates the stuff, in fact.”
“So you don’t . . . you don’t believe my husband is dangerous?”
“No, my lady,” Hudson said. Sympathy lit his blue eyes. “I do no’. Not at all.”
Olivia sighed heavily. “But he thinks that he is.”
“Aye . . .”
There was something about the valet’s expression that gave Olivia pause. It seemed that Hudson might prove to be an ally in her fight to save her marriage. However, there was only one sure way to find out. Ignoring the telltale blush currently marching its way across her entire face, Olivia drew a deep breath and said, “You would have noticed that Lord Sleat and I . . . that I’ve never spent the night in his bed. And he’s never visited mine.”
“Aye . . .” Hudson’s weathered cheeks reddened, too, but he didn’t look away. “I have, my lady.”
“And the reason is . . . he’s terrified he’ll accidentally hurt me if he falls asleep beside me. I haven’t quite worked out a solution to our particular problem as yet—and perhaps I might never find one that will satisfy Lord Sleat. But I wondered if . . . Do you think you could see your way to helping me? Even if it’s in a small way? After hearing you say that you don’t believe my husband is dangerous, I think I might be able to come up with a plan that will help Hamish to recognize his erroneous thinking. I know I’m putting you in a very difficult position. And you are free to say no. But you see . . . I love him. And I want him to be happy.”
“For what it’s worth, Lady Sleat,” said Hudson solemnly, “I want his lordship to be happy too. And I believe he might find that with you. Indeed, I’ve noticed a change in him already. He’s less . . .” The valet frowned as though he was trying to find the right word. “He’s far less grim and moody. He smiles more, and his expression lights up whenever you’re in the room. And even though he willna readily admit it, the chamomile tea and the lavender do help him to sleep more soundly. So yes, I will do what I can.”
For the first time in such a long time, Olivia felt a glimmer of hope deep within her chest. And she smiled. “Thank you.” With a little help and the power of a sound, logical argument on her side, she might yet win her husband over.
CHAPTER 24
My notion of things is simple enough. Let me only have the girl I like, say I, with a comfortable house over my head, and what care I for all the rest? Fortune is nothing.
Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey
Sleat House, Grosvenor Square
October 8, 1818
What do you mean, thirty thousand pounds of my wife’s fortune has been siphoned off?” Hamish slammed his fist down on his library desk and glared at the sheaf of papers his man of affairs, Walter Faraday, had just handed him. “How in God’s name could her trustee—who is he again?” Hamish scoured the letterhead. “This George Thackery. How could he have allowed such a thing? I thought Norton, Lyle, and Thackery was a highly reputable firm of solicitors.” Of course, Olivia had told him that Felix de Vere had been pilfering small amounts here and there. But nothing in the vicinity of thirty thousand.
“I know, my lord. It is a most shocking state of affairs,” said Faraday in his usual dry, unflustered fashion as he pushed his spectacles farther up his nose. Accustomed to Hamish’s outbursts, he hadn’t flinched at all at his employer’s display of temper. “When I met with Mr. Thackery at his firm’s offices, he was most rattled too. It appears that his son”—Faraday scanned his notebook and tapped at a line of spidery script—“yes, his son, Giles Thackery, who was an articled clerk at the firm, has indeed been helping your wife’s cousin to embezzle her inheritance money, just as you reported. Up until recently, the sums withdrawn were trifling—also just like you said. One hundred to five hundred pounds at the most, amounting to five thousand in total. And the occasions were few and far between.” Faraday referred to his notes again. “But apparently a week ago last Monday, Giles Thackery withdrew a lump sum of twenty-five thousand pounds from Coutts. Again, a banknote, presumably signed by Reginald de Vere, was presented. And Giles hasn’t been seen since.”
Hamish wiped a hand down his face. “Has there been any sign of Felix de Vere since the twenty-five thousand pounds went missing? I assume you’ve had my inquiry agent, Kent, tracking both men?”
“Yes, my lord. Mr. Kent believes they both might be headed for the Continent. It also seems several creditors have been chasing Felix de Vere and the younger Thackery. Apparently they’ve both accrued some rather large gambling debts of late. Perhaps they’ve decided to lie low for a while to escape paying up.”
Hamish shook his head in disgust. “Well, I hope Kent can flush the weasels out. And”—he rose from his seat and threw on his superfine jacket—“given that my wife’s inheritance has been appallingly mismanaged, it only strengthens my argument that Reginald de Vere and the senior Thackery should sign everything over to me. At once.”
“Yes, I completely agree with you, my lord.” Faraday closed his notebook and pushed to his feet too. “In fact, I’ve almost finished drawing up the contract. It should be ready tomorrow.”
“Excellent. And good work, Faraday,” said Hamish as he walked his highly competent and efficient man of affairs to the door. “I trust that by Lady Sleat’s twenty-first birthday, the entirety of her fortune will have been deposited into my account for safekeeping.”
“Yes, indeed. That’s what we’re aiming for, my lord.”
Once Faraday had departed in a hackney coach, Hamish took a moment to adjust his cravat in the entry hall mirror. His overly long hair was nicely ruffled and his expression suitably severe for his coming interview with Reginald de Vere. There was nothing like a glowering marquess with the scarred visage of a pirate and the physique of a Highland warrior to elicit fear in a man.
At least that strategy had worked when he’d confronted Felix de Vere in the King’s Head Inn in Springfield. And if Hamish encountered that particular piece of vermin again, he wouldn’t think twice about eradicating him.
As Hamish descended the stairs of Sleat House with purposeful strides, he was glad that Olivia was currently out on a shopping excursion with two of her good friends—Nate’s wife, Sophie, Lady Malverne, and Nate’s sister, Lady Charlotte—so she wouldn’t see where he was going. He’d been heartened to see a genuine smile on her face this morning before she quit Sleat House.
It was Hamish’s fondest hope that after he’d made short shrift of her uncle Reginald and George Thackery, she’d have even more to be happy about in the coming days.
* * *
* * *
The stony-faced butler of 16 Grosvenor Square, Mr. Finch, eyed Hamish warily as he took his card. “The Marquess of Sleat, you say?” he said with a sniff, as if he didn’t quite believe Hamish could possibly possess such an illustrious title. “And you wish to see Mr. de Vere. But you haven’t an appoi
ntment . . .”
“Aye,” said Hamish, pinning the officious sod with a narrow look. “I don’t. But according to my wife, Olivia, Lady Sleat—who also happens to be your employer’s niece—it’s her money that’s currently being used to pay your wages as well as the rent on this property. So I rather think Mr. de Vere will be quite amenable to seeing me at such short notice. Don’t you?”
The butler paled visibly. “Quite,” he said in a clipped tone and stepped back to admit Hamish into the vestibule. “If you’d like to wait here”—he gestured at a nearby pair of bergères by the foot of a wide, highly polished oak staircase—“Mr. de Vere will receive you shortly.”
“Quite,” replied Hamish. Flipping out his coattails, he then sprawled with deliberate negligence in one of the chairs as if he owned the place. Well, technically, he did.
While he’d been in Scotland, he instructed Faraday to find out who owned the town house and to then purchase it on his behalf. The sale went through a few days ago, so Hamish was now officially the new landlord of 16 Grosvenor Square. Of course, that meant his wife was now technically paying him rent, but that was neither here nor there at the moment.
He’d sort that particular detail out when he’d secured the rest of Olivia’s money.
Finch was true to his word, and within a few minutes, Hamish was being led into a study of some sort toward the back of the house.
Reginald de Vere was a heavily built man of middling age with a balding pate. When Hamish was announced, Olivia’s uncle closed the leather-bound ledger he’d been reading with a decided snap. A thunderous scowl marred his brow as he rose to his feet.
How to Catch a Sinful Marquess Page 29