The Footman (The Masqueraders Book 1)

by S. M. LaViolette

  “Now Trentham, I will tolerate no more of that kind of talk,” her father had belatedly—and rather weakly—interposed.

  The earl had turned on him like a mad dog, his urbane façade a distant memory by that point. “You will tolerate no more, Yarmouth? What about me? Am I to be satisfied with the sullied leavings of a servant?”

  Tears had rolled silently down her face as she’d watched her father’s feeble efforts to calm the almost demented man.

  “She shall be examined by a physician of your choosing, Trentham.”

  His words, so horribly mortifying to Elinor, failed to pacify the furious peer.

  “And what if she is not intact? Or what if she is increasing? What then? You have no other daughters; will you try to marry me to your son?” Spittle flew from his sneering mouth.

  Strumpet. Whore.

  The words had paraded through her mind the entire time the cold, judgmental doctor had prodded and poked at her. A procedure which had left her feeling exposed and eviscerated, like a corpse on an autopsy table.

  Elinor had wished she were dead when the doctor’s cool, alien flingers had invaded her, not stopping until she’d bled all over his hand and satisfied him, her father, and the man who would be her husband.

  The door to the sitting room opened and jerked her away from the nightmarish memory.

  Her mother stood in the doorway, the Earl of Trentham beside her, his sharp, handsome features arranged in an expression of weary ennui. He was unrecognizable from the vicious beast he’d been a few nights before. Except for his eyes, which were the same hard, pitiless pale blue.

  “His lordship would like a few minutes with you, Elinor.” Lady Yarmouth’s words were foolish, considering it had been she who’d put Elinor in this room a full two hours ago to sit and wait for him.

  Elinor rose on legs that felt too shaky to hold her and curtsied low as Edward Atwood gave her mother a barely civil nod and strode into the room. The door closed and Elinor sat. The earl took a chair some distance away.

  “I have acquired a special license.” His voice was clipped and cool. “We will no longer have the ridiculous ceremony your parents desired in St. George’s. That is all to the best, in my opinion.” He stopped and Elinor wondered if he expected her to say something. But then he continued. “We shall spend one night in Trentham House before you are removed to Blackfriars, where I will return every month until you are breeding.” His eyes flickered over her and he made no effort to hide his distaste. “You will remain in the country until such time as you have delivered two male offspring of mine, not the footman, groom, or stable boy. Is that clear?”

  Elinor’s face was unbearably hot, but she refused to look away from his contemptuous stare.

  “I am well aware what is required of me as your wife, my lord.”

  His pale eyes glinted like a lighthouse warning. “You would be wise not to employ such a tone with me ever again, my lady. You will find my household far less indulgent than your father’s. I will not hesitate to discipline you should you fail to obey me in even the smallest way. Is that understood?”

  His dispassionate threat was even worse than his rage.

  Elinor swallowed. “I understand, my lord.”

  He stood. “Very good. I shall see you on the morrow.”

  Elinor watched his slim, stylish form until the door closed behind him and then slumped against the settee, tears rolling down her face yet again. She couldn’t seem to stop them, and her weakness sickened her. She closed her eyes, but that only brought an even more upsetting vision: that of a handsome young face masked with shock, pain, and blood.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, as the footman’s face wavered in her mind’s eye. What would become of him? What had she done to an innocent man in a moment of carelessness?

  Chapter Six

  Village of Trentham

  1817

  Stephen was in a foul mood after a second unsuccessful attempt to catch Lady Trentham on her way back from the good doctor’s house. He was certain the woman had purposely thwarted him. He’d not been able to find her either in the small village or on the only road that led from the doctor’s to the Dower House. He could hardly pound on her front door and demand entry, so he’d finally admitted defeat and aimed Brandy toward Blackfriars.

  Stephen was not surprised when he cantered beneath the arched entry of the massive stable block and nobody came out to greet him. Indeed, he’d become accustomed not only to caring for his own horse, but most of his other needs.

  He’d just finished filling Brandy’s feed bag when the sound of horse hooves on cobbles reached his ears.

  “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath. He’d managed to avoid Trentham’s annoying company since breakfast. It appeared his luck had run out. Grumbling, he went out to face the toad-eating aristocrat.

  But the huge back that greeted him did not belong to Trentham.

  “So, you’ve finally decided to return, I see.”

  John Fielding’s massive shoulders swung around in a remarkably fluid motion. For all his size, the man moved like a cat.

  His dour, hulking servant merely grunted. “Aye.”

  Stephen looked up a good two inches into eyes blacker than a Lancashire coal pit. He knew the single word was likely the only one his terse servant would freely offer until he was good and ready. Getting Fielding to speak was a lot like mining. But just like that laborious activity, it could also yield precious ore if a person had enough patience.

  A stable boy wandered into the covered yard and froze when he saw Fielding, his placid features rearranging themselves into a mask of terror.

  Fielding had that effect on people.

  “Here, lad, take Mr. Fielding’s horse.” Stephen said gently, nodding to the reins Fielding still held in one giant gloved hand.

  Fielding tossed the reins to the boy without looking at him and then unstrapped his bag from the saddle. The man’s heavily mud-spattered coat told Stephen he’d ridden through the rain that had passed through the area last night rather than taking shelter. His mount, an enormous dun-colored creature with a disposition to match his master’s, bared its teeth and lunged at the stable boy when he tried to take his bridle.

  “Enough!” Fielding snapped. The beast, whom Fielding had not bothered to name, stiffened at the harsh command, his posture offended rather than chastened. But he did allow the boy to lead him away.

  Fielding stood silently, bag in hand.

  “Have you news for me?” Stephen asked, turning toward the house, the larger man falling into step beside him.

  “Aye.”

  Stephen rolled his eyes. Had he really missed the surly bastard? “Come to my chambers after you’ve cleaned yourself up.”

  Fielding broke away without answering, making his way toward the servant’s entrance.

  Stephen cast off his coat upon reaching his chambers, wishing for the fiftieth time he’d taken the opportunity to engage a new valet when he’d last been in London. Now it appeared he would not be leaving for London at least until Trentham’s wretched ball.

  He was considering the possibility of sending Fielding back to London to engage a servant on his behalf when the man himself knocked and entered.

  Stephen looked pointedly at his watch. It had been less than ten minutes since they’d parted. Hardly long enough to clean up or change clothing and make himself presentable. Fielding ignored the not-so-subtle gesture.

  “Sit,” Stephen said, motioning toward the two ragged chairs that flanked his dormant fireplace.

  Fielding looked from one chair to the other before choosing the larger of the two. The man was enormous, his body a compact collection of muscles that made him appear almost as wide as he was tall. While he was only a few inches taller than Stephen, he probably outweighed him by at least three stone. He took the glass Stephen offered, his distinctive six-fingered hand dwarfing the cut crystal.

  Stephen took the chair across from him. “So?”

  Fielding thr
ew back the liquid and bared his teeth as it burnt a path down his throat. The grimace tightened the scars that radiated out from both corners of his mouth, deep cuts that would have required dozens of stitches to hold the wounds closed. John Fielding had been a handsome young man before he’d been carved upon. Well, Stephen supposed Fielding was still handsome, in a dangerous, terrifying sort of way—at least based on the number of women who fought to warm his bed. Fielding didn’t want for female company, although he never seemed eager to prolong any relationship beyond a few nights.

  Stephen had never asked the man how he’d come by such dreadful scars—a Cheshire Smile, as it was called among the members of the criminal class. No, theirs was not that kind of relationship. While they might be more than master and servant, they were certainly not friends. He supposed it would be most accurate to call them conspirators.

  Fielding fixed his perpetually sullen gaze on his employer. “Yarmouth has taken the bait. He’s also noised about it to anyone who bothered to listen and many who haven’t.”

  “Has he taken any steps to acquire money for the scheme?”

  “He’s not yet found anyone daft enough to loan money on his London property, but he’s generated a tidy sum from the lands that came to him on Lady Yarmouth’s death.”

  “As to that, did you ever find out anything more about her bequest to Lady Trentham?”

  “There was none.”

  Stephen blinked. “How unusual for a mother to leave her daughter nothing,” he mused.

  “Not in that family. Her father and brother behave as if Elinor Trentham died years ago.”

  “I know that, already, Fielding. Have you learned why?”

  “No. But I’ve a few lines in the water, I’ve just had no bites yet.”

  “You’ll let me know the moment you learn anything. Even the smallest thing.”

  Amusement flickered in the other man’s Hell-black eyes. “Aye, ‘course.”

  Stephen tamped down his irritation. Fielding was correct to find his desperate need to know even the tiniest detail about Viscount Yarmouth’s family amusing. Stephen was foolish to show his obsession to anyone—even his own servant. He would need to hide his emotions better.

  “Has Lord Yarmouth managed to attract any other investors?”

  “Aye. He’s roped more than few silly buggers into his scheme.” Fielding raised his hand and ticked off the names. “Lords Bryce, Fenwick, Stockton, Piermont, Leonard, Singleton, and—” he paused, saving his sixth digit for last “—the ailing Duke of Falkirk is said to be tossing a few bob his way.”

  “Falkirk? I thought he was too ill to be interested in such matters.”

  Fielding’s mouth twisted into a sneer and it was not a pretty sight. “Falkirk’s young pup has brought the matter to his papa’s attention.”

  “Lord Gaulton?”

  Fielding’s eyes kindled like burning coals at the sound of his legitimate half-brother’s name.

  Had Stephen been wise to tell Fielding about his relationship to one of the most ancient families in Britain, albeit on the wrong side of the blanket? Stephen was no longer so sure his decision had been a good one. The hatred he saw in the Fielding’s eyes was . . . worrisome.

  As if hearing his thoughts, doors slammed shut over the raging furnace in Fielding’s eyes and once again they became the flat obsidian wall he usually showed the world.

  Fielding shrugged his massive shoulders. “I daresay he’s eager to impress his father with his business acumen. Given the state of the Duke of Falkirk’s affairs, he cannot afford to lift his nose at commerce.”

  “That may be so, but I’d like to dissuade all but Fenwick, Piermont, and Stockton from sinking money into this venture. From what I know about those particular men they deserve whatever they get.” Indeed, given the stories he’d heard about the lecherous peers and the trail of suffering they’d left in their wake, it would be a pleasure to take their money.

  His giant servant seemed to double in size like some venomous jungle reptile. His muscles were taut and tense as his body expanded in the rickety chair.

  “I want Falkirk,” Fielding growled, giving him a look that said Stephen was something he would be picking out of his teeth soon if Stephen wasn’t careful.

  This was what the man must have looked like in a boxing ring before he dismembered yet another opponent.

  Stephen relaxed in his chair, crossing one booted foot over his knee. “Tell me, John, will you be able to keep your feelings about the Duke of Falkirk from interfering with my business?”

  Fielding rose, blocking the sun from the study window with his broad back and casting his face into shadow. “You may pay me, Worth, but you don’t own me. No man does. What I do on my own time is my own business.”

  “There’s no need to fly into a pucker, John. I’m not saying you may not play your little games.” Stephen put his half-full glass on the table and rose. He closed the gap between them, not stopping until he was close enough to see the subtle color difference between Fielding’s narrowed black pupils and the dark brown of his irises. “I may not own you, Fielding, but I have financed this endeavor—including freeing your wretched carcass from somewhere south of Hell, transporting you half-way across the globe, and giving you every goddamned thing you now call yours. Have a care your games do not interfere with mine. Are we understood?” Stephen didn’t bother to conceal his barely suppressed fury.

  The muscles in Fielding’s jaw were so taut Stephen swore he could see the individual striations. The nostrils of his once patrician, but oft-broken, nose flared. After what felt like twenty years, he lowered his eyes and took a tiny step back. “Aye. I understand.”

  Stephen felt almost light-headed with relief. He’d not stood chest-to-chest with a man in many years, and never against one who unsettled him as much as John Fielding. Stephen was pleased to learn he still had the stones when necessary.

  He sauntered back to his chair and dropped into it, picking up his glass. “Good. Now, get the hell out of here and find me a damned bed that doesn’t leave me a bloody cripple every morning, even if you have to tear the house apart.”

  Chapter Seven

  Coldbath Fields Prison

  London

  1802

  Iain struggled for breath, the heavy burlap bag as easy to breathe through as mud.

  “Quit yer squirmin’!” the guard hissed above him. “I’ve a mind to dump yer worthless arse right ’ere.” The rickety gurney tilted to one side to illustrate his intentions.

  “Oye,” his partner said, “mind ye wait ‘til we’ve got the blunt, first.”

  “Shut yer gob. ‘Course I’ll get money in ’and first.”

  The two bickered in loud whispers while they lugged Iain’s bagged corpse across the cobbled prison yard.

  “What have ye there?” a voice called from someplace farther afield.

  “This one ’as got the cole-er-ah. We’re taking ’is rotting body straight to the ’ole.”

  A grunt of assent was all the answer they received, making Iain wonder just how many prisoners died in this wretched hellhole. And how many escaped.

  So far the journey from the oakum shed had been relatively easy, with the exception of the suffocating burlap that covered him from head to toe. The evening had gone exactly according to plan. Iain had begun wailing just as the moon reached its zenith and the guards had come not long after. John had left his side earlier in the evening, when Iain had tried, yet again, to convince him to accompany him.

  “Stop yer whitterin’ or I’ll smack you myself,” the bigger boy had growled before going to sit with the same men he’d pounded earlier.

  Iain had remained alone after that.

  The gurney came to a sudden halt and Iain heard the distinctive sound of the creaking of rusty hinges.

  “Tssst!” one of his captors hissed. “You there?”

  “Aye, I’m here,” Uncle Lonnie’s calm, low voice called back.

  Iain began fumbling with the burlap at t
he sound of his uncle’s voice. A hand like a vise grabbed his shoulder. “Oye! Not ‘til we sees the dosh.”

  “I’ve got your money.” Iain heard the dull jingle of coins. “Now let him go.”

  “Give us the money.”

  “Not until he’s standing beside me.”

  The air was heavy with violence, making it even more difficult to breathe.

  “Fine.” The man holding the foot-end of the gurney released his end abruptly and the wooden handles hit the ground with a crack. Not surprisingly, the head-end was quick to follow.

  “Whadja do that fer?” the other guard demanded. “Ye near broke me back!”

  Iain groaned and rolled to his side, shrugging off the reeking burlap in the process. Threads of rotting fiber and flakes of mud and dust clung to his eyelashes and stung his eyes. He blinked hard, peering frantically through tears and haze. A hand hovered in front of his face.

  “Take my hand, Iain,” his uncle said calmly.

  “The money, now.”

  “Here’s your money.”

  Iain heard the sound of coins striking cobblestones, followed by rapidly retreating feet and cursing.

  “Come on, boy, there’s no time to waste.” Uncle Lonnie pulled Iain to his feet and then kept on pulling. “Run, son. Run as fast as you can.” He shoved Iain roughly ahead of him.

  They then proceeded to run for what felt like miles. They ran, and ran, and ran, stopping only for a few seconds now and then to regain their breath, and then they ran some more. It was too dark to tell what direction they were headed, but the streets seemed to become wider and less dangerous looking, until eventually they spotted a hackney cab.

  “Do you know where The Liberty is berthed?” his uncle called up to the driver.

  “Aye, but that’s a goodly way and she’s set to sail on the tide. Happens ye’ve already missed ’er.”