The Footman (The Masqueraders Book 1)

by S. M. LaViolette

Stephen rode his horse slowly in the direction of Blackfriars, mulling over the disastrous end to today’s plans. It had been harder than he’d expected to stay away from her a full four days after returning from London. He’d hoped to build the tension between them and avoid her for a week, but, ultimately, he’d not been able to stand the wait one second longer.

  He told himself that was only because he was eager to commence his plans. Unfortunately, he lied better to others than he did to himself. Or at least he was more skeptical of himself than others were.

  “You are not only an idiot, but a weakling, a fool, and several dozen other loathsome things,” he told himself. Perhaps if he spoke the words out loud, he’d heed them and come to his senses. Not that it mattered if he and his senses had parted company forever. Even if he fell madly, blindly, passionately in love with the woman, it made no difference. He could not stop.

  He could not.

  No, Stephen had come too far and waited too long to change plans now.

  Chapter Eleven

  1817

  Cheltenham Minster had seen better days. Tucked away behind a large collection of new shop buildings that had sprung up over the preceding three decades, the church rarely attracted any visitors and was currently without a congregation because of a rather dangerous slate roof. But for Elinor’s purposes, the Minster was perfect.

  She glanced at the timepiece she kept pinned to her dress. It was teatime, another reason she could count on finding the old church deserted. Where was he? A loud creaking noise came from the vestibule and she twisted round in her pew and then stood.

  “I was worried you wouldn’t come, Marcus.” She’d only taken a few steps toward him when she saw the blue and brown marks on his jaw and temple. “What happened?” On instinct, she reached out to touch his face, surprised when he didn’t immediately pull away.

  “It’s nuffink,” he said, jerking his jaw from her hand.

  “What happened?” she repeated. She sat down in the nearest pew, grateful when he did the same. She could never be sure with Marcus. Even when he showed up to these little meetings he often chose to leave almost immediately. He was a complex mix of emotions; anger not the least of them.

  “I got me a lay as a milling cove.” He adjusted the collar of his coat—a rather gaudy brick-red specimen—in a showy fashion while cutting her a sly look.

  “Marcus, you know I cannot understand you when you speak such rubbish and I know how hard you must work to speak it. Please, in English.”

  “I’ve been doing a little pugilism,” he said, mulish rather than arrogant now.

  “Oh.”

  “I’ve been winning, too. Enough to give a bit to Lily and Esme.” His expression softened when he mentioned his sisters and made him look younger than his twenty years.

  Elinor didn’t like that he’d resorted to pugilism but how was it her place to say anything about how he made his living? Especially when she could give him so very little.

  “And how are your sisters? Are they doing well at Hempham’s?”

  He shrugged, his expression suddenly bored, as if he’d shown too much of himself. He looked remarkably like his father but Elinor tried not to let that bother her. After all, it was because he was Edward’s child that she’d begun helping him in the first place. Edward had done nothing for the boy; at least he’d done nothing pleasant or helpful. The only time she’d confronted her husband about his son—the last time she’d directly confronted him about anything—she’d not been able to get out of her bed for over a week.

  After that, Elinor had worked around Edward, rather than deal with him directly. That hadn’t been difficult. Unlike the threat he’d issued the day before their wedding—that he would breed her every month—he was often too busy in London with either his business or whores or both to bother. Months went by without seeing his face. Glorious, pain-free months.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Marcus’s irritated tone told her he’d repeated himself more than once.

  “I’m sorry, Marcus. You were telling me about Lily and Esme.”

  His eyes narrowed and Elinor could see he was torn between showing his displeasure at her inattention and his desire to talk about his sisters. “Esme is going to her first position in three days.”

  “Is she happy about that?”

  “Aye. She’s right tired of the rules at Hempham’s.” He shrugged, a mannerism he used often to express what he found inexpressible. “As for Lily, well.” He stopped and scratched his head, clearly baffled.

  “What is it?”

  “She don’t, er, doesn’t want to leave. She wants to be a teacher.” He gave her a look out of the corner of his eye and she could see he was almost bursting with pride.

  “That’s wonderful, Marcus. Will Mr. and Mrs. Hempham help her?”

  “They’ve already told her she’s to have a place at the end of two years if she learns good enough.”

  “That is truly wonderful news.” And for more than one reason. Elinor was worried about what Marcus might do if he was burdened for too long with two needy sisters. There was no use denying he would do illegal things if he felt pushed. She’d barely managed to purchase his freedom from the authorities the last time he’d been in trouble. And that had been when she’d still been receiving pin money from Edward. Now? Well, now she hardly had enough money to keep body and soul together for her small household.

  Marcus shifted on the hard pew, his handsome blue eyes moving around the dim interior of the church in a way that said he was ready to leave. Elinor reached into her reticule.

  “It would give me a great deal of pleasure if you would take this. Perhaps you could take the girls out for a treat the next time they have a free afternoon.” She handed him the small bundle of notes. He looked from her face to her hand before quickly snatching up the money.

  “I don’t understand you, my lady,” he said, his cheeks reddening as he stuffed the money into the pocket of his colorful coat.

  “What is there to understand? You are my husband’s child.”

  “Aye, but I’m not your child,” he pointed out, his eyes suddenly hard, reminding her that he’d spent the last two years in London, not a safe little village. Elinor flinched away before she could help it and he grinned.

  “I’m a man now, not a boy.” He swept her body with an insolent gaze. “We’ve not many years between us, have we, my lady?”

  “Why are you saying these things to me, Marcus?” she demanded, wanting him to see and hear the hurt he was causing.

  He shrugged one shoulder only, as though he could scarcely be bothered to do more. “I’m only sayin’ what’s in my head.”

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t. Perhaps you should consider what you say before you give your mouth free rein.”

  He laughed and the hard look slipped away from his eyes. “Aye, you’re right. My mouth gets me into trouble. You’ve been kinder to me than my own Ma. It’s just—”

  “Just what?”

  “The look you have sometimes it makes me feel . . . well, burdened is the only way I can think to put it.”

  “Burdened?”

  “Aye. Like you want something from me.”

  “But I don’t,” she protested.

  “No, nothin’ easy like money or a bit of jewelry. More like you want me to be something. Something else—something better. I dunno, I sound a fool.”

  “No, Marcus, you don’t.” Elinor stared at his darkly flushing face. Was he right? Was she burdening him with her expectations?

  He pushed himself up.

  “Wait,” she began.

  “I must be off,” he said, already halfway to the door. “Thanks for the blunt. I’ll be sure ta tell the girls the treat is on you.”

  The door creaked shut and Elinor was once again alone.

  ∞∞∞

  “He’s a bastard.”

  Stephen’s head jerked up from the list of figures he’d been studying. “What?”

  “The man Lady Trentham meets ever
y month. Although I suppose you’d call him a boy.”

  Stephen sighed and put down the list of investors and capital Fielding had brought with him from London. “Start from the beginning, John. He’s whose bastard? And who is he?”

  “Marcus Bailey, Bailey being his mum’s name. His mum was a whore before she died.”

  Stephen waited. “Is that it, Fielding? Bailey’s mother was whore before she died?” he demanded, irked. “That’s better than being a whore after she died, isn’t it?”

  Fielding made a choking noise that might have been laughter, not that Stephen could be sure as he’d never heard the man laugh before.

  “Whose whore was she?”

  “Atwood’s.”

  Stephen couldn’t have heard him correctly. “Lady Trentham meets Charles Atwood’s bastard once a month?”

  “Aye, Edward Atwood’s bastard.”

  “Ah, I see.” Although he didn’t. What the devil would the woman want with one of her dead husband’s bastards?

  “Do you really?” Fielding asked, his scarred face curious. Yet another emotion Stephen had never seen his impassive servant display before. Not only that, but the normally terse man wasn’t done speaking. “I confess I’m betwattled as to why any woman would want to spend time with her dead husband’s by-blow. Maybe you could explain it to me?”

  Stephen’s eyes narrowed at Fielding’s curious expression. “I’m paying you to give me information, not so that I might explain things to you,” Stephen pointed out. “Just how old is this boy?”

  “He’ll be twenty-one on his next birthday.”

  Stephen didn’t need to think about that too long before deciding it wasn’t to his liking. Elinor Trentham had secret meetings with a man of twenty-one? She was thirty-two, a little over a ten-year difference.

  “Do you think—” Fielding began and then stopped when Stephen looked up.

  “Do I think what, Fielding?”

  Stephen couldn’t discern even a flicker of emotion on the other man’s face. “Nothing, sir.”

  Stephen ground his teeth while he considered Fielding’s silence and what it might mean. “Where does the boy spend his time when he is not meeting Lady Trentham?”

  “He stays in London, mostly. Here and there, he’s got no fixed abode. He fancies himself a bit of a milling cove.” Fielding shrugged. “I’ve seen him fight, he’s not too bad.”

  “Are you considering a return to your old profession, John?”

  “He’s a flyweight, sir.”

  “Doesn’t really seem like a fair match, does it?” Stephen mocked, childishly pleased when the other man sighed and shook his head. “What else did you learn about him?”

  “He’s got two sisters, both in some religious school.”

  “Atwood’s brats as well?”

  “I don’t think so, although they seem quite close to their brother.”

  Stephen leaned back in the ancient leather chair and stared at the rib-vaulting above his head. It was a lovely ceiling, but terribly damaged by damp and neglect. He was itching to own this property and bring it back to its former glory, a thing he could not do until he’d driven the earl all the way into a corner. He sighed and looked at his employee. Fielding was watching him with the same speculative look Stephen had seen on eagles and hawks. He knew the expression was nothing more than a defense mechanism, but that didn’t make it any less irritating.

  “Get the boy’s attention,” he finally said.

  Fielding arched one brow. “Do you care how I go about it?”

  “No, just make sure that he is in my pocket—or close to it—when the time comes.”

  “And is that time going to be soon?”

  “Why? Are you in a hurry, Fielding?”’

  “Should I be, sir?”

  Stephen snorted. “Get your ass back to London. Yarmouth is still short of money. Make an offer on his collection he won’t be able to refuse.”

  “From you, sir?”

  “He’d hardly believe it came from anyone else, would he?” Stephen shot back. “How are things going with Lady Elinor’s brother, Stuart?”

  “I’ve managed his tables well-enough that he’s been doing nothing but winning and winning and winning.”

  “Good. Now I want you to see that his luck takes a turn for the worse. When the viscount learns his heir is in the basket it will encourage him to sell his collection. It will also encourage him to leverage his properties and take the plunge in my little scheme.” He paused, considering a question he’d been avoiding. “What have you learned about my uncle?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  Stephen let out a string of foul words. “How can that be? You’ve thrown around more money than a bishop in a whorehouse.”

  Fielding nodded. “And then some. Still, nobody seems to have heard anything from him since the night you boarded The Liberty.”

  “He said nothing to any of the other servants?”

  “Only the butler and cook remain from that time.”

  Stephen rubbed his jaw, recalling the stiff old butler from all those years before. “The butler will be no help. The man hated my uncle. You’ve not located the two footmen from that night?”

  “Not yet.”

  Stephen couldn’t imagine his uncle had been able to have much of a life after his nephew had been accused of raping a peer’s daughter. It was difficult to obtain a new position without a reference, and his uncle wouldn’t have been able to secure one without Lord Yarmouth. Uncle Lonnie had been literate, but not enough to generate a convincing set of employment letters.

  Stephen realized Fielding was still waiting and nodded abruptly. “You can go.”

  The big man’s hand was on the doorknob when Stephen thought of one last thing. “And Fielding?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Bring back a selection of wedding rings when you return.”

  Fielding didn’t turn a hair at his request. “Rundell and Bridge, sir?”

  “If they are good enough for Prinny, I suppose they are good enough for me.”

  The door closed behind him and Stephen took off the spectacles he used for reading and rubbed his aching eyes. Seducing the woman was proving more difficult than he’d planned. It was time to close the net and the only way to do that was to offer marriage.

  Chapter Twelve

  Blackfriars

  1804

  Elinor hesitated outside the study door and bit her lip and dithered. On the one hand, she did not like to interrupt Edward—or even speak to him, really—even at the best of times. On the other hand, she could not withhold the news from him any longer.

  She knocked before she lost her nerve.

  “Enter!”

  Elinor opened the door a crack and saw that Edward was seated at his desk, his man of business, Mr. Franks, standing stiffly on the carpet before him. Elinor could almost smell the tension between the two men.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord. I did not realize you had somebody with you. I can—”

  “Come in, Elinor.”

  She swallowed and closed the door behind her.

  “Take a seat. Mr. Franks and I are almost finished with our business.” The earl turned his cold blue eyes back to Franks, whose face was the color of a poppy. “I will give you two days. That is when I must make my announcement to the other members of the consortium.”

  “Two days? But, my lord—”

  “Two days, Mr. Franks. Return with Pangborne’s agreement in your hand by that time. Understood?”

  Franks nodded, his jaw clenched so tight it must have hurt.

  “You may go,” the earl said. He turned to a small stack of papers, placed them inside a larger portfolio, and locked the documents in his desk before giving Elinor his attention.

  “What can I do for you?” His tone was no different than the one he’d used on his employee.

  Elinor couldn’t help marveling that this cold stranger had been inside her body nineteen times. He hadn’t come to her every month as he�
��d threatened to do. Nor had he coupled with her every time he’d come to Blackfriars. Sometimes he stayed away several months in a row. Sometimes he came to her bed but could not perform. Those had been the worst times. Worse even than the quick, brutal sessions which left her raw and humiliated.

  The first time he’d been unable to come into her he’d merely slapped her face. “Don’t ever look at me while I am in this room. In fact, cover your face when I come to you.”

  The next time it happened, some months later, she’d not only pulled the double drapes to mask the light of the moon but also worn her darkest veil—the one she’d worn at Mama’s funeral. It did not seem to matter that he could not blame his condition on her appearance. Rather than spare her, it had only increased his wrath.

  Doctor Reynald, the old physician who’d served Trentham for fifty years, set her arm the following day. Elinor had made Beth wait until Edward left for London to summon the doctor.

  “You must be more careful, Lady Trentham,” the old doctor had cautioned while splinting her arm. He would say the same thing several months later when he set her wrist.

  Elinor looked from her crooked wrist to the architect of her pain. “I am with child, my lord.”

  A muscle jumped in the earl’s jaw. “How far along?”

  “Three months.”

  His mouth twisted and she could see it did not take him long to perform the necessary math. It was the last time he’d come home. He’d been unable to complete the act. The first time.

  Rather than beat her, he’d simply left. Elinor had wept with relief and then fallen into a fitful slumber, only to be awakened several hours later when he’d returned wielding a quirt. He’d taken her three times that night and four times the next, the only visit when he’d come to her two nights in a row.

  Beth had cried at the marks on her body but Elinor had not shed a tear—the days of crying over anything Edward did were over. Or so she’d thought then.

  “It is past time you are breeding,” Edward finally said, his tone saying her lack of fertility was yet another way in which she was a disappointment. “We will tell your father the happy news when he arrives on Friday.” He rose and came around the desk. Elinor hastily stood. He took her hand for the first time in years. “You have pleased me, Elinor,” he said, an openly hungry glint in his eyes as he lowered his mouth to her naked hand.