“Many gentleman callers. A Mr. Kendicott, in particular.”
Marissa wasn’t familiar with Mr. Kendicott. “And he is . . .?”
“Wealthy. He owns most of the land to the west of Brushbriar. New money. His family isn’t distinguished in any way. Father was a pig farmer. Kendicott married a wealthy heiress who, to his great fortune, died barely two years after their marriage. The talk in Buxton is that he is courting Lady Whitfield.”
Marissa placed a finger against her lips in thought, cradling the whisky in her free hand. There would be only one reason Catherine would ever consider lowering herself to attach herself to a man like Kendicott. Money. Simon’s debts had to be enormous if Lydia meant to sacrifice her daughter to the son of a pig farmer. The stack of markers Marissa had acquired thus far were only further proof.
A pity Catherine wouldn’t have to suffer the indignity of becoming Mrs. Kendicott.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Tomkin, that Kendicott will need to be apprised of Lady Whitfield’s other gentleman callers. A shame. But we can’t allow Kendicott to be married under false pretenses.”
“No, my lady.” The right side of his mouth tipped up.
“I assume, and forgive me for being indelicate, she is being attentive to one gentleman more so than the others?”
“Yes, a handsome gent named Doren. Works as paymaster for a local quarry.”
What an odd coincidence to have one of Catherine’s lovers in Haddon’s employ. “Have you matters in hand, then?”
“Two of the maids at Brushbriar, a footman and a groom are all in my pocket, my lady. According to the footman, whom she has also dallied with”—he coughed—“Lady Whitfield favors a particular spot in the gardens for her . . . activities. I can arrange for her and Doren to be stumbled upon by Kendicott, with your permission.”
This was excellent news. “You have it, Mr. Tomkin.”
“If I may?”
“Pray, continue.” Tomkin had more than earned his whisky. She made a mental note to have several bottles sent to him.
“Lady Whitfield, when not entertaining callers, took many of the more expensive furnishings of Brushbriar to Castleton where the entire cartload was sold at private auction. Blue John, my lady, most taken from Lady Pendleton’s private sitting room. The auction was by invitation only and the source of the objects not disclosed, though I’m certain those bidding knew the items came from Brushbriar.”
Marissa sipped her whisky. This was a cause for celebration. Not only was Lydia driven to accept a man like Kendicott as a son-in-law, but she was also willing to part with her precious Blue John, which Marissa suspected was far more dear to Lydia than her own daughter. Brushbriar was garnished with lavish displays of the mineral, carved vases, ornate eggs, windowsills, candy dishes and the like.
All things Lydia and her husband had murdered Reggie for.
“A terrible shame, to have to sell such precious items.” A smile played at her lips. She could not be more pleased her efforts were bearing such immediate fruit.
“Indeed, my lady. And there is one other bit of news. Lady Pendleton is in London.”
Marissa sat up in her chair. “Is she?” This was highly unusual. Lydia rarely left Brushbriar.
“Yes. I watched her coach depart Brushbriar and then passed her again on the road. She arrived at Pendleton’s house late last night.”
The only reason Lydia would ever have come to London was to ensure Simon married an heiress of her choosing, one wealthy enough to wipe clean the yawning hole of debt Lydia had driven the family into. And she would not have left Brushbriar unless she was assured Catherine had bagged Kendicott.
Poor, poor murdering Lydia, to have her old bones jostled in the carriage along the bumpy road to London. She’d probably stayed drunk the entire trip and doubtless hadn’t felt a thing. Marissa covered her mouth to stifle the giggle that bubbled up. She only wished she could see Lydia’s face when she heard the news that Catherine wouldn’t be marrying Kendicott after all.
“You’ve someone watching Pendleton’s home?”
Tomkin made a small sound of offense. “Of course, my lady. And two inside.”
“Forgive me for questioning your thoroughness, Tomkin. I know you’ve planned well. I wish to know what events Lady Pendleton will be attending and if her son escorts her. Another glass?” Tomkin, bless him, had thought of everything. The man was a treasure.
“Regretfully no, my lady. I’ve business to see to.” He reached inside his coat pocket and brought forth a small packet. “Everything’s here. I’ve a man whom I trust handling things at Brushbriar for me. When he’s sure Kendicott is no longer interested in Lady Whitfield, he’ll send word to me.”
“Very good, Mr. Tomkin. I’ll have the funds deposited in your account. I hope you’ll keep things just between us?”
Tomkin sat his now empty glass down on her desk and stood. “You may be assured. I will contact you when I have more information on Viscount Pendleton.”
“Not a word to the duke,” Marissa cautioned, her voice steely. Tomkin held her in healthy respect, but he was afraid of her nephew. Most people were. Sooner or later, Nick would find out what she was up to, but she hoped to be nearly finished by the time he did.
Tomkin bowed. “No, my lady. You may rely on my discretion.”
After Tomkin took his leave, Marissa poured herself another glass of whisky and wandered back down the hall to the drawing room. The vase of roses and peonies wasn’t quite perfect yet.
Marissa paced across the rug of the drawing room, taking in the spray of flowers from various angles. Humming to herself, she strode back and forth, sipping at her whisky and wondering if Simon had received word yet from their solicitors that in addition to contesting the ownership of the mine and freezing all the current assets, she was also insisting that if the survey map was deemed an original, which it would be, that all the previous profits of the mine be reverted back to the estate of the Earl of Morwick.
Brendan had sent her a letter just the other day asking what the bloody hell she was up to because a court appointed overseer had taken over the mine.
Marissa had declined to answer. She’d tell him soon enough when he arrived with Petra for the holidays.
How fortuitous Lydia was now in London She would be able to hear the news about the freezing of her assets from Simon firsthand. Marissa hoped the news would send Lydia to bed for a week. Murderous bitch.
A rush of grief and anger filled her. Reggie.
The pain, while not as acute as it had once been, was still there, lingering on the edge of her heart. Reggie had not deserved to be murdered and left to die in a cave, shot by a man he considered his best friend. Alone. All so that Lydia could have an entire staircase made from Blue John. She hoped when every piece of the miserable stuff was sold, Lydia lost a piece of her soul.
I’m so sorry, Reggie.
Marissa slapped the table so hard the vase shook. One of the peonies fell out. Shoving the bloom back into the vase, she marched over to the couch, clasping the whisky between her hands. In her pique over Haddon’s non-visit today and Jordana, along with the arrival of Mr. Tomkin, Marissa had nearly forgotten. Or perhaps she intentionally didn’t wish to think about it.
She’d dreamt of Reggie last night, something she hadn’t done in years, not even after the discovery of his remains. They’d been in bed together, laughing at a joke he’d made, his back to her. Curled up behind him, her fingers had trailed over his shoulders before pressing her lips to the base of his neck.
Marissa tossed back the remainder of the whisky, her hand unsteady.
When Reggie had rolled over in her dream, fingers threading through Marissa’s hair to pull her down for a kiss, it wasn’t her long-dead husband’s face she saw.
It was Haddon’s.
8
Trent looked out the window at the trees, most bare of leaves, as his carriage neared the park. Marissa was bound to be surprised when she saw that he had accompanied his daughte
r today. She wouldn’t be expecting him.
Good. Marissa could do with a few surprises now and again.
Stubborn.
She was testing the limits of Trent’s patience, and considering he had four daughters, that was considerable indeed.
Challenging.
Trent had known the moment he took her in his arms and danced with her at Brushbriar, lifting her chin as if daring him to charm her, that they would be lovers. He’d sensed her vulnerability, well-hidden behind a sparkling wit, concealed nearly as well as the ruthlessness flickering in her sapphire eyes.
Clever.
The conversation between them had never lagged. Much to his surprise, Marissa was not only well-informed on a variety of subjects, but her opinions were her own. His late wife had barely ever expressed an independent thought, nor had any of his previous lovers ever espoused their views. Marissa was an intelligent woman. One who, given her family’s reputation, would be unwise to cross.
She was the most fascinating creature Trent had ever encountered. And his determination to have her, as evidenced by the hardening of his cock before he’d even kissed her that night, had only increased tenfold.
Shy.
When at last he’d pressed Marissa down on the bed in her room at Brushbriar, Trent’s heart had ached at the sight of her. She’d been so lovely with all her dark hair spilling about the coverlet like a halo. Marissa had blushed as he’d untied the robe she'd worn, begging him, with no small amount of embarrassment, to please douse the candle.
Her inhibition had surprised him, as had the unexpected rush of protectiveness for her filling his chest.
Trent had taken the greatest care, wanting Marissa to weep his name as he bedded her, as he knew he would hers. This was no mere tryst, as the shaking of his fingers when he touched her had informed him. He’d traced the small lines radiating from her navel, proof she’d borne her two sons, then bent and trailed his tongue along each one, despite her protests.
Battle-scarred.
Nibbling at her warm, vanilla-scented skin, feeling her surprise as she climaxed at the mere brush of his thumb, Trent had breathed in Marissa. When he had finally settled between her thighs and thrust deep inside her, she’d cried out, her inner muscles clasping him so tightly, Trent had felt his heart stop.
“I’m sorry,” she had whispered. “I’m—well, I haven’t—it has been some time. Several years at least.” A small laugh had escaped her. “I don’t make this a habit.”
“I don’t either,” he’d confessed, pressing a kiss to her open mouth, stopping her protests. Trent hadn’t been with a woman in nearly two years before Marissa. Sex had ceased to be important to him, as meaningless as the act had become.
It was frustrating as hell she refused to acknowledge what was between them.
Which was why Haddon had been forced to use Jordana to keep Marissa close. She had offered to help his daughter, though Haddon had barely heard her at the time. He had been too entertained with running his tongue up the underside of one of Marissa’s breasts.
The woman had a magnificent bosom.
Just the thought resulted in his cock thickening. He hoped he could get through their walk in the park without pulling her behind a tree to ravish her as he was sorely tempted to do. Overwhelming Marissa with sex would be far too easy.
I want all of her.
“I don’t want to be late, Papa. Lady Cupps-Foster doesn’t tolerate tardiness, especially since she kindly made time for me after rearranging her schedule. I promised to meet her at the spot where the path begins along the river.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll be right on time.”
“I’m not sure why you’ve come.” Jordana eyed him with suspicion. “Don’t make her angry as you did the other day.”
“I thought I would take a moment to assure Lady Cupps-Foster that she must send any bills for your outings and purchases to me. She is my friend as well. And I fail to see how I made her angry the other day.”
“She wasn’t happy you left me to take tea with her alone even after I told her you’d a previous appointment which could not be avoided.” His daughter gave him an innocent look.
Trent was, it seemed, surrounded by clever females.
“I’m glad you two have got on so well.” He’d known they would. Marissa had wanted to refuse him, but she was far too kind not to assist a young girl in need.
Generous of heart.
Jordana did need guidance. But she could have waited until Trent’s sister arrived in London with the rest of his girls. He’d brought Jordana with him purposefully, thinking his eldest daughter would enjoy the experience of life in town. And be of help if Marissa decided to be difficult.
Which she had.
Christ, he could read her like a book.
Trent knew she was older than he was; should he forget, he had no doubt she would remind him of the fact. He’d taken to making references about her age just to watch her reaction. Leaving her with the wallflowers and elderly matrons at the Cambourne ball had been inspired. The look on her face had been priceless.
No more than she deserved. Trent had turned forty at his last birthday. He wasn’t some schoolboy. Couldn’t the bloody woman see she could have been sixty and it wouldn’t have mattered? His heart didn’t care how old she was.
“Here, Papa.”
Trent reached up, rapping on the roof to alert the driver.
He had given Marissa the space she’d needed after her late husband’s remains had been discovered. It had pained Trent that she didn’t send for him or reply to any of his notes. But when news reached him that Marissa had fled back to London, without so much as telling him goodbye, Trent had taken a bottle of whisky to his study and thought long and hard about a woman whom he desperately wanted but who didn’t seem to want him.
She’s afraid.
He’d seen the way the sapphire of her eyes warmed when he’d approached her at the Cambourne ball. The way her luscious form bent in his direction whenever he was near, whether she realized it or not. Her jealousy over Lady Christina Sykes which she was incredibly poor at hiding. And the blushing. If he didn’t know better, Trent would assume Marissa was constantly feverish.
She was not unaffected by him. The intensity of the attraction between them blazed stronger than ever. If it didn’t, Trent would have already retreated. He’d had the misfortune of running into her youngest son, Morwick, in Buxton, shortly after Marissa had returned to London. Before Morwick had nearly taken his head off with his fist, he’d warned Trent to leave his mother alone.
“She’s damaged, Haddon. Can’t you see that? Find another woman to bed.”
Marissa was terrified to fall in love again. Specifically, with him.
I need to be careful.
The carriage rolled to a spot just above the river path. Not another vehicle was in sight though there was a group of early morning riders ahead of them. Several pairs of young ladies walked the path, maids trailing behind them. A young boy escaped his nanny, stirring the leaves on the ground as he sped by, sailboat clutched in his hand. Trent saw no sign of Marissa.
“Are you sure this is the spot?”
“Yes, Papa. I’m sure. And should you inquire in the future, I much prefer the park to the torturous task of tea with Lady Christina Sykes and her mother.” Jordana shot him a mutinous glare from across the carriage. “I hope taking her riding the other day will keep her from feeling the need to call again.”
Trent stepped out of the carriage and held out his hand. “It was one time, Jordana. I thought it lovely she and Lady Stanton called on us. Perhaps you’d like to join us next time we ride in the park?”
Jordana made a face of abject horror at the mere mention of spending time with Lady Christina. “Please tell me you aren’t seriously considering her, Papa. As a wife. I thought you said you’d never remarry.”
His daughter detested everything about London but especially pouring tea and making small talk with a young lady of Lady Christina Sy
kes’s ilk. Jordana’s interests lay more in the direction of following about Dr. Choate, the local physician. Or helping the village midwife. When she was nine, he’d found Jordana assisting the head groom with the birth of a foal.
“Lady Christina is a lovely girl,” Trent said, intentionally not denying her claim he was considering her as a wife.
“The Haddon Hellions will devour her in a matter of moments, Papa. She wouldn’t survive a fortnight.” Jordana hopped out of the carriage.
Trent smiled at Jordana’s show of arrogance, though she was probably right. He adored his girls and never regretted leaving the lifestyle he’d cultivated for so many years to raise them himself. But it was possible he’d overindulged them, mostly out of survival.
Trent knew when he was outnumbered.
“May we go to Thrumbadge’s tomorrow?” Jordana asked, taking his arm.
The only other place in all of London his daughter remotely cared about, besides the park, was Thrumbadge’s book sellers. Not for the rows of romantic novels, where most young ladies tended to linger, but for Thrumbadge’s vast selection of medical books. Anatomy was currently a particular favorite of hers. The bookseller possessed a small collection of tomes for sale regarding how to treat female maladies. And childbirth. Something Jordana insisted most physicians cared nothing about.
“I believe we can manage a trip, though I’m not sure where these interests are leading you, Jordana.”
But Trent did know when the curiosity and desire to help had taken root. Jordana had witnessed firsthand the agony her mother had gone through to bring Delphine into the world. Not long after, she’d assisted the midwife when the wife of one of Trent’s tenants had bled to death giving birth, weeping for days because she hadn’t been able to help the woman.
Another mutinous look shot from the pair of silver eyes so like Trent’s own. “To my future.”
Jordana was highly intelligent, brilliant, if he were being honest. But despite the aptitude she displayed, Trent knew of no medical school in all of England that would admit her. The most she might be able to accomplish would be learning the skills of a midwife. But even so, such an occupation for a girl of her station would be frowned upon.
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