The Footman (The Masqueraders Book 1)

by S. M. LaViolette

  “Elinor?” Stephen’s voice came from a long way off, and she was glad. She wanted to be somewhere else, somewhere far away from him. Anywhere. She stumbled past him, shaking off his hands and heading for the door.

  “Elinor, you come back here this instant.” Her father’s voice was sharp and high—and frightened. It worked like a match to a fuse and male voices erupted behind her as she flung open the door.

  Marcus stood in the hall, as though he’d been waiting for her. Elinor took two steps and collapsed against him.

  “Thank God,” she whispered into his shoulder. “Thank God you are here.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Stephen’s voice demanded behind her.

  Marcus’s body turned rigid. “I’ve come to give you back your money.” He held Elinor at his side while he fumbled in his coat pocket and pulled out a bulky pouch. He tossed it toward Stephen and it landed on the thick carpet with a heavy thud. “Take it, I don’t want it. I want no part of your dirty games.” He squeezed Elinor’s shoulder so hard it hurt. “Come on, Elinor. I’ll take you home.”

  She stared up at him, dazed. “You . . . you know him?”

  Marcus’s face was a dull red and his eyes refused to meet hers. “I’m sorry about this, Elinor. This is all my fault. I brought you here. I promise I will make it all right.”

  “But what about Esme? Is she safe?”

  His lips twisted into a scowl. “She was never in danger—you were. I was just too selfish and stupid to see it. Come on.”

  Stephen’s voice came from her other side, but she refused to look at him.

  “Elinor, you can’t trust him.” His voice was low and earnest. “He sold your secret for just—”

  “I lied!” Marcus screamed, his voice breaking. “Alright? I lied! It was me, not her. I’m the one who hit him. So you can bloody well turn me in for it. Come on, Elinor.” Marcus grabbed her arm and yanked her roughly down the hall. “The maid already packed your things and they are waiting for you in the carriage. I’ll take you home.”

  “I’m not finished with you, Bailey!” Stephen yelled behind them.

  “Marcus—” Elinor began, stumbling as she tried to keep up with his long strides.

  “I’ll explain it all to you on the way home.”

  Elinor didn’t tell him that she no longer had a home.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  London

  1817

  “Here .”

  Stephen looked up to find Fielding holding out a glass of brandy. He took it, drank it in one gulp, and handed it back. “Get me another.”

  Fielding gave one of his heavy sighs, the ones he thought were a substitute for actual conversation.

  “Just get me the damned drink, Fielding.”

  The next glass had twice as much in it.

  “So, that’s that,” Fielding said.

  Stephen drank half the glass, baring his teeth as the expensive liquid burned down his throat.

  “Yes, Fielding. That is that.”

  “How does it taste?” the big man asked, sounding curious. “Is it as sweet as you’d hoped it would be?”

  “You’ll find out for yourself soon enough, won’t you?” Stephen snapped, glaring up at him.

  Fielding’s scarred face was contemplative. “I want some time for myself.”

  Stephen snorted. “Oh, do you?”

  The other man refused to rise to the bait. “I’ll need a month.”

  “Take however long you please, I don’t need you.”

  Fielding nodded again. “Is there—”

  “Just get the fuck away from me, Fielding, before I discharge your big ass,” Stephen snarled, choosing at the last moment to hurl the empty glass at the dormant fireplace instead of his servant’s head.

  Fielding was a big target, but he was adept at dodging both fists and projectiles.

  Stephen heard the soft clink of glass on wood, a few footsteps, and the click of the door latch. He was finally alone and could savor his victory in private.

  He dropped his pounding head against the back of the chair. Whether he closed his eyes or kept them open, he saw the same thing.

  Gray eyes, wide and shocked and filled with horror and loathing.

  ∞∞∞

  Marcus knocked on Doctor Venable’s door and then turned back to Elinor.

  “I’m going inside with you,” he insisted, not for the first or even fifth time.

  The door opened before Elinor could answer him. Doctor Venable stood in the opening, his normally impeccable person in a charming state of dishabille. He wore no sleeping cap and his dark thatch of curls corkscrewed out in all directions. His blue silk banyan was old and threadbare but of excellent quality.

  “Lady Trentham?” He blinked large brown eyes at her and Elinor realized he’d come to the door without his glasses. It occurred to her that it was a very good thing for the female residents of Trentham he kept such sensual eyes and lush lashes safely hidden behind distorting spectacles.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Doctor Venable, but I’m afraid it can’t wait.”

  He stepped back into the house. “Please, come inside. Are you ill?” His handsome face creased with concern.

  “No, I am well.” She gestured to Marcus. “This is Marcus Bailey, my stepson.”

  Venable nodded, his face going from concerned to impassive in a heartbeat. He would have heard of Marcus, there were plenty in town eager to spread gossip about the old earl’s bastard. “Would you like to come inside, Mr. Bailey?”

  Marcus ignored the doctor’s polite greeting and took her hand. “Look, Elinor—”

  “Please wait for me in the carriage, Marcus.”

  They had a long, silent staring match. In the end, he swore, clomped down the wooden steps, hopped into the carriage, and slammed the door so hard the two postilions jumped.

  Doctor Venable closed the door to his house far more quietly.

  “I should get dressed, Lady Trentham. Will you make some tea?”

  “Gladly,” she said, relieved to have something to do.

  Fifteen minutes later they were seated in Doctor Venable’s small sitting room with a pot of tea. The man across from her bore little resemblance to the one who’d opened the door a scant quarter of an hour earlier. He’d brutally restrained what she now knew to be unruly black curls and hidden his soulful eyes behind split-lens spectacles.

  “What can I do for you, Lady Trentham?” he asked in his usual cool, collected tone of voice.

  “Please, won’t you call me Elinor? We’ve met twice a week for years, you’ve proposed marriage, and I am about to beg a rather large favor.”

  One corner of his shapely mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Since you put it that way, please call me Jago.”

  “Ah, you are Cornish.”

  “I was.” Before she could ask him what he meant he repeated his question. “What can I do for you, Elinor?”

  “I need to leave Trentham, immediately.”

  His expressive black brows rose, but not much. He was almost eerily unflappable. His next question only served to underscore his preternatural calm. “Where do you wish to go?”

  Elinor laughed.

  His brows continued their upward journey and the corners of his sensual lips pulled down. “Did I say something amusing?”

  “I’m sorry, Jago. It’s just that I found your question rather unusual.”

  “How so?”

  “Most people would have asked me why, first.”

  “I see. Well, the ‘why’ is not my affair.” He hesitated, his eyes dropping to his still full teacup. “I would take this opportunity to renew my offer of marriage.”

  Elinor gave him a smile of genuine gratitude. “Thank you, but I must decline. What I need is someplace I can go—someplace far away from here. Somewhere I might be of use. You’ve spent almost four years teaching me, it is time I put my knowledge to use.” She had all the skills of a midwife and more; surely someplace would have need of her?
<
br />   He took a sip of tea and considered her request. “I have not much money, but I’d be—”

  “I have enough money. Well, I believe I will have enough if you can help me dispose of some jewelry. What I need is help finding a place to go—somewhere remote. A place the rest of the world has forgotten and left behind.”

  His full lips twisted into a resigned, bitter smile. “I know just the place for you, Elinor.”

  ∞∞∞

  Stephen had no idea what day it was, or even what week, he only knew he was out of brandy. He grabbed the bell pull and yanked so hard it came off in his hand.

  “Dammit.” He staggered toward the bedroom and almost tripped over the shards of a broken bust and the shattered remains of either this morning’s breakfast or last night’s dinner, or both.

  “Nichols,” he bellowed, flinging open the bedroom door. His valet was hiding in the dressing room; Stephen could see the toes of his shoes. “I can see you, Nichols.”

  Nichols stepped out from behind the door, his shoulders hunched and his bald head shining with sweat. “Yes, sir?”

  “Get your ass downstairs and tell them I want a new room.”

  “Very good, sir. Er—”

  “What?”

  “When would you like to move?”

  “Yesterday, dammit.”

  “Very good, sir.” He turned and darted toward the door.

  “And Nichols?” The room tilted sickeningly and Stephen pressed his knuckles to his pounding temples.

  The valet froze like a startled hare, his narrow shoulders rigid as he spun on his heel. “Yes, sir?”

  “Tell them to send up a whore.”

  Nichols flinched back, as though Stephen had tossed a rabid ferret at him.

  “I’m not sure the management provides that sort of service, Mr. Worth.”

  “Well, find me one yourself. What the hell am I paying you for, man? Certainly not to keep my clothing neat.” Stephen spread his arms out, displaying his rumpled, stained, and torn clothing for his valet’s inspection.

  “About that sir, wouldn’t you like—”

  “No, I bloody well wouldn’t. Brandy and two whores, Nichols, and I want all three within the next hour or you can find yourself another damned job.”

  A loud knock on the door interrupted whatever platitude his valet was about to utter.

  “Answer the door on your way out,” Stephen muttered, flopping face down on his bed, his head pounding so loudly it sounded like the rickety dancefloor of a country inn.

  An amused voice spoke from the doorway. “Well, look at this.”

  Stephen struggled up onto his elbows and peered over his shoulder at the door, his eyes grainy and dry. “You back already, Nichols?” he asked, blinking until he could make out three figures in the doorway: a short, bespectacled figure flanked by two other figures. Figures that looked far too large to be whores. Unless Nichols had hired stevedores from the docks as retribution for Stephen’s dreadful treatment.

  “I’m not Nichols.”

  Something about the shorter man was familiar. Stephen squinted until his vision was less blurry and immediately wished he hadn’t.

  “Christ,” he groaned, “If I’m going to hallucinate somebody I bloody hell wish it would be a naked female.”

  Two of the three figures laughed.

  “Sorry, but I’m no hallucination.”

  All three of the figures came closer.

  “Powell?” he said, not really needing to ask.

  “Hello, Iain.”

  The big men stopped beside the bed but Stephen kept his eyes on the smaller man as the room swayed and tilted.

  “What did you say?” Stephen asked.

  “These men are here for you—for Iain Vale.”

  Stephen stared harder, as if he would be able to hear better if he could see better.

  The larger of the two figures spoke.

  “’E says you’re Iain Vale—the same man what escaped fifteen years ago from The Steele. Is that right?”

  Stephen looked from the big man to Powell, who came close enough that Stephen could finally see his face. His features, always rat-like, were even more shriveled and vindictive than usual. But for once, the little man was smiling. He actually looked . . . happy. “I’ve got you now,” he said with a demented grin. “You’re going to be so very, very sorry you ever crossed me.”

  “You’re too late, James. I’m already so very, very sorry.” Stephen laughed. And once he started laughing, he couldn’t seem to stop.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  London

  1817

  Newgate Prison was nothing like Coldbath Fields, at least not as Stephen remembered it.

  He threw his linen napkin onto his plate and took a drink of wine. It was amazing; a man could get everything inside prison that he could get on the outside. If he had enough money.

  The hatch in his door opened.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Mr. Worff, but there’s a gent here to see ya.”

  Stephen hadn’t invited anyone, but he knew the person must have paid the guard well and denying a visitor would snatch money from the man’s hand and make him unfriendly. Right now Stephen needed all the friends he could get.

  He slid down in his chair, holding his cut crystal glass between negligent fingers. “I believe I’m at home to visitors, Mr. Marley.”

  The guard laughed at his weak jest and his keys rattled in the door.

  “Now only fifteen minutes, mind,” Marley said to somebody Stephen couldn’t see.

  The door opened and Marcus Bailey stepped into dimly lighted room.

  Stephen was genuinely surprised. “Well, well, well. Who would have believed that you would pay to see me, Bailey? Indeed, who would have thought you’d even have the money to do such a thing?”

  Marcus nodded sourly. “Aye, go ahead and laugh—I deserve your scorn, and more besides for what I did.”

  The smile slid from Stephen’s face at the other man’s words.

  “Is she alright?”

  Marcus shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Stephen sat up straight. “What do you mean, ‘you don’t know’?”

  “Just that—I don’t know. She’s gone.”

  “Gone where, you bloody fool?”

  “I don’t need to stay here and listen to that.”

  Stephen rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’m sorry I called you a fool. Where is she, Mr. Bailey?”

  “I said I don’t know. She just up and left.” He scowled at Stephen. “She said the house wasn’t hers anymore.”

  Well, Stephen shouldn’t have been surprised. He must have been out of his right mind to believe she’d take a gift from him after what he’d done. “Where did she go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  It was all Stephen could do not to leap over the rickety table and throttle the younger man. “Tell me the whole story, without leaving anything out.”

  “And what’s that worth to me?” Marcus asked, his eyes narrow and sly.

  “I’ll give you the same as I did before.”

  “More.”

  Stephen snorted, his hands itching to grab the young bastard and squeeze his neck. “Why should I pay you anything, you little weasel?”

  “Who else is going to tell you what happened that day?”

  Stephen gave the question some consideration; Bailey had a point.

  Stephen had stupidly given Fielding all the time away he wanted and now he had no idea how to reach the man. Thus far he’d managed to get Nichols to do his fetching and carrying, but the man was limited, to say the least. He’d paid off jailers, magistrates, and anyone else who might move his case along. Stephen knew his money would hold out forever, but he didn’t know how long their greed would protect him from Yarmouth and Trentham, both of whom were baying for his blood.

  “Fine, Bailey. How much do you want?”

  “I read in the paper you’re worth over two million pounds—you, not the bank.” Marcus spoke softly, as if the
words themselves were somehow rich and powerful.

  “What of it?”

  “The paper said you were nothing but a footman when you raped her.”

  Stephen gritted his teeth. “I did not rape anyone.”

  Marcus shrugged, as though that fact was immaterial when compared to everything else.

  “You made all that money yourself, after you went to America?”

  Stephen sighed and topped up his glass. It appeared he’d have to answer some of Marcus’s questions before they could get to his. Well, it wasn’t as if he was going anywhere.

  “Yes, Marcus. I was a humble footman here and then I went to America and made pots of money. Is that what you wanted to know? Or perhaps you want me to tell you that you, too, can be rich if you go to America? Would you like me to buy you a ticket on the next ship headed to Boston?”

  Marcus frowned at his nasty tone. “All the money in the world won’t save you if they find you guilty of raping an aristocrat.”

  Stephen took a swallow of wine. “Thank you for the legal advice. Now, why don’t you tell me something I don’t know, like what happened with Elinor?”

  “Ten thousand pounds.”

  Stephen waved his hand. “Fine. Now talk.”

  Marcus looked stunned, and not a little chagrined—as if he should have asked for more.

  “I kept some of the money you gave me,” Bailey admitted.

  “How shocking.”

  Marcus half-stood, his face a mask of frustration, fury, and pride. “I don’t need to suffer this abuse from you!”

  Stephen stretched out his legs, took a big drink, and smiled. He knew men and he knew greed. He’d promised the man ten thousand pounds. He’d need a bloody pry bar to get him out of the cell.

  Marcus tried to stare him down before slumping into his chair. “You’re one cold bastard, aren’t you?”

  Stephen ignored both the boy’s question and his grudging admiration. “You’d gotten as far as your confession. What happened next?”