The Footman (The Masqueraders Book 1)

by S. M. LaViolette

  One thing was certain, he’d run out of time to break her the way he’d hoped and now needed to adjust his plan accordingly. Trentham and Yarmouth wouldn’t wait forever and all the other pieces were in play. All except Elinor, the one who’d started this mess to begin with.

  For some reason, it was harder and harder to generate the wrath that had once come so easily when he thought of her.

  He looked across the room at the enormous mirror and frowned at his reflection. He forced away the image of a successful man and called up one of a frightened, broken, bleeding boy. If Lonnie hadn’t had enough money, he’d have gone to the gallows.

  It had been Elinor who’d flung herself at him that night. A bored, selfish aristocrat looking for entertainment with a servant, not caring who got hurt.

  Well, she’d certainly gotten what she was asking for and more. Little did she know she’d only seen the first half of the play. The second half had been a long time coming and Stephen wasn’t about to let his misguided conscience get in the way of business.

  This isn’t business, son. This is revenge.

  Stephen ignored Jeremiah’s voice. The old man was dead, and the restraint he’d exercised was gone with him. He’d waited fifteen bloody years to avenge the wrongs done to him and his uncle by Elinor and her family. He’d be damned if he stopped now.

  No, son. You’ll be damned if you do.

  Stephen hurled the empty glass across the room with all his might. The sound of crystal smashing against the mirror drew hurried footsteps from his bedchamber. His new valet, a middle-aged man with a bald head that reminded Stephen of an egg, gaped at him, his eyes flickering from Stephen to the shattered mirror and back again.

  “Is aught amiss, sir?”

  Stephen shoved his chair back so hard it toppled over and crashed to the polished oak floor. “Fetch my hat and cane, I need to go out.”

  Nichols darted back into the other room.

  “And Nichols?”

  His head popped though the open doorway immediately. “Yes, sir.”

  Stephen gestured to the shattered mirror. “Make sure there’s no sign of that mess by the time I return.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Village of Trentham

  1817

  Elinor was paying bills when Beth knocked on the library door.

  “Someone here to see you, my lady.” Her face was pinched and unhappy.

  Elinor laid down her quill. “Who is it, Beth?”

  A figure appeared behind her maid and gently elbowed her aside.

  “Hello, my lady.” Marcus wore a cocky smile and an even gaudier suit of clothes than he had the last time.

  Elinor stood, her hands already outstretched, a smile forming on her face. “Marcus!”

  He hovered in the doorway and she dropped her hands at his wary look. “Would you fetch some tea, Beth?” Elinor couldn’t take her eyes off the younger man. Her heart hurt to see him because she knew he wouldn’t have come for any good reason. He took her hand with a crooked smile, his eyes sliding away from hers before she could read the expression in them.

  “Have a seat,” she said, reluctantly releasing him and gesturing him to one of the big leather wing-backed chairs in front of her desk. Marcus ignored the offer, choosing instead to make a circuit of the room. His sharp eyes flickered over her possessions, making her realize how dowdy and threadbare the room and its furnishings had become—just like her.

  Elinor sat and watched him strut in his gaudy finery, the sight making her lips twitch. He’d always been a peacock, even as a little boy. The first time she’d seen him, he must have been no more than six, playing in front of his mother’s cottage, wearing a paper hat and red scarf and carrying a rough wooden sword.

  “Who are you, sir?” Elinor had asked, pulling her horse up when he’d stopped and stared at her mount with far more adoration than old Buttercup had received for years, if ever.

  “I’m General Wellesley,” he’d declared proudly, his eyes still on her horse.

  “Are you just back from battle, then?”

  He’d rolled his eyes at that. “Naw, I’m on a sekert mission to kill Boney!”

  An auburn-haired woman, still in her dressing gown, had come out then, drawn by the sound of voices. The look she’d given Elinor had been a mix of contempt and fear.

  “Come here, Marcus. What are you doing? I told you to stay by the house if you want to stay outside. And now I see you on the road. Get in the house.” She’d given the boy a rather brutal shove, her eyes never leaving Elinor.

  “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I lured him out to talk. I am Lady Trentham.” Her smile and friendly words hardly caused the other woman to thaw but she came a few steps closer, her shapely body swaying in a feminine, sensual manner that Elinor had never quite mastered. “You are new to this cottage? I don’t believe I’ve seen anyone here before.”

  “We’ve a right to be here. Just ask Lord Trentham.” The woman had turned shrill, her blue eyes narrow and guarded as she thrust out her not unsubstantial bosom, yet another thing Elinor had never mastered.

  “I’m sure you have, Mrs. . . .?”

  “Bailey. Lydia Bailey.” She dropped a grudging curtsey and glanced toward the house. “I’d better get inside; Marcus is more mischief than a barrel of monkeys.”

  Elinor looked across at Marcus now, as he prowled the room. His tawdry clothing spoke of a young man eager to project a certain image to a group of peers Elinor doubted were worth impressing. In many ways he was still that little boy, full of mischief.

  Beth opened the door, her face like an open book. She’d not liked Marcus since the incident with Elinor’s jewelry three years prior.

  “You can put the tray here, Beth.” She gestured to the low table between the two chairs. “Thank you.”

  Marcus waited until the door closed behind her before dropping into the seat beside Elinor. “Well, that old witch hasn’t changed.”

  “Marcus.” She cast him a quelling look before fixing his tea. “Still two lumps and milky?”

  “Aye.” He reached out to snatch a biscuit from the tray. Elinor handed him his cup and nudged the tray of sweets toward him.

  “Have you been ill, Elinor?” He sipped his tea, his watchful eyes on her over the rim of his cup.

  She smiled. “Thank you, Marcus—do I look it?”

  He grinned in return. “I’m not such a smooth talker as I think, am I?”

  They chuckled together, but the tension between them remained high. Why was he here? He hated Trentham and the people of the small village hated him. Elinor couldn’t blame either side. Marcus had stolen from people and destroyed the reputation of more than one daughter. The villagers and farmers had never touched him, far too afraid to meddle with the Earl of Trentham’s only son, no matter that he was a bastard.

  “This is a bit of a grim shack, isn’t it?” His lip curled as he looked around her library.

  “It is home.” She refused to let him draw a rise from her.

  “It seems the old man left you as badly off as he did me.” He laughed, but there was no mirth in it.

  “Why are you here, Marcus?”

  “What? You’re not glad to see me?”

  “You know I am, but I can’t help wondering why you’ve come back to a place you hate.”

  “Bloody hell, Elinor! Does there always have to be something wrong?” He put the cup down with a clumsy clatter and a tan, milky stain spread across the tray. He jumped to his feet and resumed his pacing, shoving his hand through his dark hair repeatedly, until it stood up like a rooster’s comb. He swung around. “It’s Esme, she’s in some trouble. Bad trouble.”

  Elinor set down her own cup. “What kind of trouble?”

  “She’s in a bawdy house and I don’t have the dosh to get her out.”

  “But . . . I thought she was going to be a teacher?”

  His harsh laugh made her feel ill. “Aye, so did I. Seems she caught the wrong man’s attention and those high and mighty He
mphams tossed her arse onto the street. She didn’t come to me first, she— He glanced down at Elinor’s waiting face and shook his head. “Never mind what she did. Suffice it to say she’s in a right bind.”

  “Do you need money?” The question was stupid. Why else would he be here?

  He nodded.

  “How much, Marcus?”

  He said a figure that made her eyes close.

  “Dear God.” Elinor’s mind raced as she thought of what she could sell to get the money. There was nothing left. At least nothing that would fetch the kind of money Marcus needed.

  She looked up to find his eyes on her, an expression of agony on his face.

  “I don’t have the money, Marcus, but I know somebody who does.”

  ***

  Padgett’s was a new hotel and Elinor had never been in it before. The luxurious establishment made her realize just how shabby both Blackfriars and the Dower House had become. Every surface sparkled and shone. Dark wood and cut crystal glinted richly in all directions. Thick woolen carpets muffled the sound of commerce, making the grand entry hall of the hotel seem more like one of the big houses she’d visited as a child than a place of business.

  Elinor knew it was horrible of her, but she couldn’t help being glad she’d persuaded Marcus to wait in the hackney. He’d changed into traveling clothes that were even worse than his other suits. Elinor did not suppose she was all that much better, but her lavender carriage costume drew far less attention than Marcus’s canary yellow waistcoat and royal blue cravat.

  “How may I help you, madam?” The man behind the large mahogany desk was dressed far better than Elinor. He reminded her of her parent’s town butler, Givens, who’d always made Elinor feel as if she had as smudge on her cheek. She presented one of her cards—a yellowed relic from another life.

  “I am here to see Mr. Stephen Worth.”

  The man’s eyebrows descended a few notches as did his nose and chin. The room seemed to warm up several degrees as he read the name on the card.

  “Ah. Perhaps her ladyship would prefer to wait in the private parlor while I see if Mr. Worth is in?”

  Elinor would have smiled at his sudden about face but that would have ruined her haughty pose.

  “That will serve.” She used the tone her mother had used on pushing cits or misbehaving servants.

  The parlor was every bit as lovely as the entrance, but blessedly private.

  “Shall I have tea brought, Lady Trentham?”

  Elinor unbent enough to smile. “Thank you, no. If Mr. Worth is not here, I shall leave my card. I have several other appointments that will not wait.”

  Her not-so-subtle hint to make haste sent the man quickly from the room.

  Elinor opened her rather shabby reticule and checked its contents, as if her paltry bundle of notes might have grown larger since she put it in there; it hadn’t. She closed the bag and went to stand before a huge gilt-framed mirror. She grimaced at her haggard reflection and tucked a few stray strands of hair under her hat. The lavender smudges beneath her eyes matched her dress and her face, always thin, now appeared positively gaunt. She looked as though she’d been starving herself. Or pining.

  Elinor turned away from her unhappy reflection and scratched at what looked to be an egg stain on her best pair of cotton gloves.

  “Drat,” she muttered, touching her tongue to the stain in the hope a little moisture might help it come loose. Naturally the door chose that moment to open. Elinor looked at the glass and saw her reflection, her tongue still touching the thumb of one glove, with Stephen in the doorway. She dropped her hands and spun around, her faced scalded.

  “Lady Trentham.” He strode across the room, both his expression and tone unbelievably warm considering the last time they’d parted. He took her hand and raised it to his mouth, his eyes never leaving her face. “I must say this is a very pleasant surprise.”

  He released her hand and Elinor saw it was the one with the egg stain. She covered it with her other hand.

  He gestured to a settee. “Please, won’t you have a seat? Shall I ring for tea?”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Worth. I am not hungry.”

  His warm green gaze swept over her face and a wrinkle of concern formed between his eyes. “You look as though you have not been eating well, my lady.”

  Elinor flushed at his scrutiny and the meaning beneath his words. “Please, sir. I must tell you first and foremost that this is not a social call. I am here on a matter of some urgency.”

  “Is that so?” He sat forward, his big body coiled and tense.

  “I’m afraid I’ve come to ask you for money,” she blurted.

  His eyebrows rose a fraction. “May I inquire what is the matter?”

  She squirmed under his kind, concerned gaze.

  “I would rather not have to explain. I am asking for a loan, but I cannot honestly say I will be able to repay it with any celerity. I understand if you do not feel you can loan me the money under such uncertain circumstances.”

  “How much do you need?”

  She glanced down at her reticule, suddenly horrified at what she was about to do.

  “Two thousand pounds.”

  “Do you need it in notes, or would a bank draft suffice?”

  Her head whipped up. “You mean you will just give it to me?”

  He flashed a smile that cut her heart to pieces and made her body ache to touch him.

  “It would please me to be of service to you, my lady.”

  Elinor only realized she was crying when she saw the look of horror on his handsome face.

  “Please—God, please don’t cry.” He raised his hands slightly, as if to shield himself from something overwhelming, and the motion was oddly vulnerable.

  Elinor sniffed and dove into her reticule. A blinding white square of linen appeared.

  “Please, take it,” he begged.

  She gave a watery laugh at the abject terror in his voice and dabbed the cloth to her eyes. She’d not cried since her second miscarriage, a memory that worked to freeze the tears before more could fall. She swallowed and looked up, her face hot with shame. He was watching her tensely, as if she might dissolve at any moment.

  “That was all. I promise. I am not a watering pot—at least not for many, many years. You are very kind and I guess—well, it surprises me after the things I said to you.”

  He sat back and his body lost some of its tension.

  “I wouldn’t be much of a man if I let a few words stand in the way of helping you.” His lips curved in a self-mocking smile she’d never seen before.

  On impulse, she reached out and took his hand. “You have a very kind nature.” She squeezed his hand once before releasing him. “You are a good man, Mr. Worth.”

  He shifted and looked away, an expression she couldn’t read on his handsome face. “Where are you staying?” he asked abruptly.

  Elinor pursed her lips. How could she tell him she’d not wished to spend any of her paltry savings on hotels?

  It turned out she didn’t need to say anything.

  He gave her a wry look. “You have nowhere to stay, do you?”

  “I thought I would find a place after I’d contacted you. But there were delays with the mail coach and we lost several hours fixing a wheel. It was almost dark when we reached the city.”

  “We?

  Elinor’s flush deepened.

  “The friend I am helping. I don’t feel comfortable sharing more than that. It is a rather delicate situation. As well as quite urgent.”

  He took her meaning and stood. “This sounds like it requires notes rather than a bank draft.”

  “Yes, I suppose it probably does. Is that a problem?”

  “No. I have enough in my safe. Are you sure I can’t offer you any help other than money?”

  She shook her head. “My friend would be most unhappy.”

  “You will go with your friend to do . . . whatever?”

  Elinor paused. Would she? She could
not imagine that her presence would help in a brothel. “I don’t think that would be helpful.”

  “Then I shall have a room made ready for you and—”

  “Oh no, please, you mustn’t. I’m sure this hotel is well beyond my touch. I will find something more suitable.”

  “Let me describe how this argument goes, Lady Trentham. You will say no, and I will have to accompany you all over town to find a room you can afford because I refuse to leave you unattended. I will miss my dinner and become quite cranky. You will doubtless encounter damp sheets and Beth will have to sleep on the floor. Shall we leave all that undone and merely get you a room here?”

  She laughed. “You’re very good at getting your way, aren’t you?”

  His nostrils flared slightly. “I can only recall one time in recent memory when I didn’t.”

  Elinor looked away, stunned by the desire in his eyes. She studied her old, ragged reticule. “I would be grateful for your help, Mr. Worth.”

  “Excellent. Now tell me where Beth is waiting and I shall fetch her before I get the money.”

  “I didn’t bring her.” Elinor glanced up when he didn’t answer.

  He was staring down at her with a look of fierce disapproval, and something else she could not decipher.

  “I see. You were indeed in a hurry. I will engage a maid for you as well. Shall I get your money first or book your room?”

  Elinor’s face heated with embarrassment. “The money, if you please. I might then give it to the person who is waiting.”

  “I shall return directly.”

  Elinor collapsed on the settee. Good Lord. What had she gotten herself into?

  ∞∞∞

  Stephen waited until one of the hotel staff had escorted Elinor to her room before summoning Marcus Bailey upstairs to his suite.