The Lady’s Lover

by Deb Marlowe

  There she is. The whisper came from his soul. At last.

  It shook him. She pulled away to stare over his shoulder and he let her go.

  Frowning, she looked again. “He’s gone,” she whispered. “The footman. When? How long since he left?”

  Stoneacre shook his head, more than a little disgusted with himself. He hadn’t noticed. He’d been completely caught up in that kiss.

  “Let’s go,” she breathed, turning away—and the shout went up.

  “Here, now! Where are they? Find them!”

  Footsteps. Opening doors. Questioning voices.

  “Here! Here now!” The footman’s shouts sounded frantic. “They must be found!”

  “This way.” Stoneacre pushed her in the direction that the footman had gone, but stopped before a baize door in the middle of the corridor. “Servant’s door. Let’s go.” He pushed her in and pulled the door shut behind them.

  A stairwell, narrow and dimly lit. From below came the murmur of voices and the clink of dishes.

  She nodded. “Out through the kitchen.”

  The moved quickly and quietly, stepping carefully past another door on the landing below. Their eyes met as a shout sounded behind it, too, but they didn’t stop. They both slowed, however, as they neared the bottom of the stairs. It emptied just at the entrance to the servant’s dining hall. Several footmen and a couple of maids sat there, laughing over a card game.

  “Steady,” Stoneacre said, low. “No hurry. We’ve all the time in the world.”

  They rounded the last stairs and passed the kitchens on their left. Ahead lay a long passage with a door at the end. “The door to the yard, presumably?” he whispered. “Let’s go.”

  They were halfway there when the door opened on the landing they’d just passed.

  “Malcolm! Georgie! Come up! We’ve lost some toffs!”

  Groans from the dining hall.

  “Malcolm! Georgie! Now!”

  A door popped open just ahead of them. A woman in black peered out. “Who is shouting?” She eyed him and frowned at Hestia. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the milkmaid.” Hestia shot her a grin as she grabbed his hand. “He’s the squire. He means to toss my skirts up over the fence post.”

  The woman rolled her eyes.

  They kept going.

  “Wait!” the woman called suddenly. “We’ve got no fence posts out there!”

  “We’ll make do!” Stoneacre answered, and then they’d reached the door and they were out, racing past the privy and a small kitchen garden to the mews.

  “To the left!” Hestia insisted. At a jog, she led them through a maze of back alleys until they emerged onto a main thoroughfare. A coach sat just ahead, silent and waiting.

  “Yours?” Stoneacre said, and marveled at her confirmation. “Well done!”

  “We’re not finished, though. We need to find out where those payments are to be made,” she answered, ignoring the driver, who had climbed down to hold open the door. “There’s a mount hitched to the back.”

  He pulled up short, then just laughed. “You never cease to amaze.” Unfortunately, there was no time to contemplate her brilliance. He moved to the back and began to unhitch the animal. “Where is Molly Beck’s? I’ll see if I can beat young Charlie.”

  She gave him directions. “Shall we meet back at Half Moon House once we’ve found something?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He mounted up, both reluctant to leave her and anxious for a moment away, so he could gather his thoughts. “You’ll be all right?”

  She laughed. “Yes. I’ll be fine. You be careful. Molly has some wicked brutes in her employ.”

  “Good,” he said grimly. “I’ll see you soon.” He set off, feeling as if a bit of violence would not come amiss. Perhaps Molly Beck’s brutes would let him work off some of this . . . heat.

  Hestia stood for a long moment, staring into the dark, after he left.

  Trouble. This was going to lead to trouble.

  “Come on out,” she said, eventually.

  A young boy slipped silently from inside the coach. “You know Mrs. Ledger’s grooms?” she asked him. “Her coachmen?”

  “Aye.” He yawned. “I’ll watch and listen. Find out where she’s gone.”

  “I’ll wait at the Spotted Dog,” she told him. “Go in the back when you’ve something to report. I’ll see that it’s worth your while.”

  “Aye.” The urchin grinned. “Ye always do.”

  He melted into the shadows and with a sigh, she climbed into the coach.

  Chapter 4

  Many of you have heard the rumors about Lord M—. Heard the whispers of cruelty, of bribery and threats, even of treason. They are all true. You may be surprised, dear reader, to know that they are the least of his sins.

  —from the Journal of the Infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  * * *

  Stoneacre yawned as he left his set of apartments. He hadn’t rested yet. Not truly—as he refused to count the ten minutes he’d fallen asleep in the tub. But he’d scrubbed the blood away—Molly Beck’s bullies had indeed proved useful at allowing him to release some tension—and now he had to face Hestia and tell her that no one at that seedy brothel had known where their employer had gone to meet Marstoke.

  He struck out onto Piccadilly, cursing the wicked marquess for scaring his subordinates into such unshakable secrecy and wondering if he was going to be able to find a hack this early in the day. And mostly, dreading delivering bad news to Hestia.

  He wouldn’t shirk his duty. Would never lie to cover his failure to find the information they needed. But he meant to do better. Had to do better. Bad enough that she wasn’t interested in him as a romantic partner. At the very least, he meant to dazzle her with his abilities in their mission. She’d certainly dazzled him. She’d planned brilliantly last night, seen to every detail, anticipated every snag—except perhaps . . . he rather thought she hadn’t predicted that kiss.

  That kiss. He still felt stirrings in places that should have long gone quiet. Likely because he kept reliving it. Couldn’t get the shock of it out of his head. In fact, he’d—

  He’d just started to cross Bond Street when he heard someone call his name. Stopping, he craned his neck. To his shock, he saw his mother hanging from the window of her carriage, beckoning him. Every pleasant, lingering, carnal recollection promptly gave up the ghost and popped out of existence. Fighting off a wave of annoyance, he went to meet her as the coach pulled to the side of Bond Street.

  “How fortunate that we were passing at the right time,” his mother called as he drew near.

  He paused. We? Cautiously, he approached.

  “Good morning, Stoneacre.” His mother spoke casually, as if she conversed out of the carriage window on a daily basis. “We are just heading to an appointment with Madame Dumont. I am in dire need of a sturdy bonnet before we set out for Wiltshire.”

  “We? Surely you have not dragged Father out to your milliner’s? And so early.”

  “Don’t be absurd. Your father has not emerged from behind his newspapers. Miss Chisholm is accompanying me.”

  So he could see, as his mother leaned back. The girl leaned forward in her turn and smiled brightly. “Good morning, sir.”

  “Good morning to you both, ladies. I had no idea that milliners opened so early.”

  “Of course they do,” his mother said with a wave of her hand. “What else should they do, lay abed all morning?” She lowered her tone, as if someone might hear. “It is always best to get in early. One arrives before the rest of the ladies and I do like to have the Madame’s full attention.”

  “Well, do not let me delay you.” He touched his hat with a nod.

  “Not so fast, sir.” His mother pointed to the door latch. “Would you be so good as to hand me down? I would speak privately with you, for just a moment. That errand we discussed, don’t you know.”

  Stoneacre sighed, but did as he was bid. “Do excuse us,” he said to the girl. “W
e won’t be but a moment.”

  “Of course. I will be content enough, right here.”

  “Such an accommodating girl,” his mother said as he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and walked a few paces away.

  “Really, Mother? Have you resorted to lying in wait for me in the streets?”

  “Don’t be absurd.” She rolled her eyes. “I merely arranged to be here at such a time as when you might be passing.” Pointing a finger, she chided, “I would not have to resort to such tricks if you would only come to call on me more often.”

  “I would perhaps call on you more often, if I could see you alone,” he countered.

  “Yes, well, I must make hay while the sun shines with you, sir.”

  He laughed. “How bucolic of you, Mother.”

  “How aggravating of you, sir, to force me to such tricks.”

  “Why don’t we throw caution to the wind, then, and just come right out and say what we mean?”

  She gaped at him. “Have you spent too much time abroad in service to the Prince? That is not the English way.”

  “Humor me, Mother. I prefer not to play games with those that I care for.”

  That softened her. A bit.

  “Very well. There isn’t truly an errand.”

  He raised a brow. “You shock me.”

  She drew to a stop and pierced him with a sharp look. “I wish for you to come to dinner tomorrow.”

  “I’m sorry.” He frowned. “I fully expect I’ll be out of Town by then. My work is becoming—”

  “No.” She glared. “Your work can go to the devil. It is time you addressed your duty to the family.”

  Mothers were to be given leeway. Every man knew it. Mothers worried. They fretted. Evidently, they plotted. But they also knew how to wound. And even knowing it didn’t stop the bitter rush of indignation and anger that rose up and tightened his throat. “I think I’ve more than proved my loyalty and devotion to the family, ma’am.”

  “You have.” Her tone did not gentle. “But you are not done.”

  “Nor am I done with the work that came out of the whole fiasco. The Prince Regent has given me orders.”

  “And what is he thinking, to send you off on dangerous quests when your succession is not secured? Really, he should be attending to his own affairs in that department and leave you to yours.”

  “I don’t disagree, Mother. But I must obey.” He cast a sardonic glance back at the coach. “You will have to content yourself with Miss Chisholm’s company. No doubt her invitation has already been extended.”

  “And what if it has? You should look closely at her, sir. She is young and pretty and quick-witted. Still malleable, too. And her sister has borne Pollonsby four sons already.”

  “Good breeding stock,” he murmured.

  “Yes. Not only an heir but insurance in the way of three more sons,” his mother said approvingly.

  Unbidden, an image of his friend Lord Truitt rose up in his head—a picture of how Tru looked when he entered a room and found his wife there before him. He bore a mixed-up, nearly foolish look of joy and lust and intense satisfaction and utter relief, every time.

  Every time.

  Just like that, craving and a fierce, heated want powered up Stoneacre’s spine. That, that was marriage. Not malleable young misses with good, wide hips.

  “And don’t you think to scorn such a consideration. Nor should you be ignorant of the fact that one of Miss Chisholm’s best qualities is the fact that she has not written you off as a marriage candidate.”

  “Good of her.” He managed not to sigh, but he did turn them back toward the carriage.

  “Others have, you know. It’s been said that you are too old, too pre-occupied and unlikely to show a wife the right sort of attention and appreciation.”

  “Should I choose the right sort of wife, then none of that should be a worry.”

  “Well, it is a worry, and to some of the most appropriate of the girls,” she fretted.

  “Then perhaps I shall turn an eye to some inappropriate candidates.” He almost winced. What had made him say such a thing? He knew. He knew exactly.

  “John!” He’d shocked his mother into using his first name. “How could you say such a thing?”

  “Don’t worry overmuch, Mother.” He kissed her hand and helped her to retake her seat in the carriage before he leaned in close. “The inappropriate women aren’t interested, either.”

  He slapped a hand to the side of the coach. “Walk on,” he called to the driver.

  “Good day to you, my lord!” Miss Chisholm called.

  “Good day, ladies.” He lifted his hat and turned on his heel and headed off toward Craven Street.

  “She p . . .p . . . put a l . . . log on the fir.” The woman paused. “Fire. She put a log on the fire.” She looked up at Hestia, shining with triumph.

  “Very nice, Beth. I can tell you’ve been working hard.” Hestia smiled at the woman’s delight and suppressed a sigh as she bent back over her book.

  All mask, that smile. In truth, Hestia was tired. She’d come home when it was still dark this morning, as the farm carts began to roll into the city, and she’d found Beth wandering the halls, clutching her primer. As she’d just sent a note summoning Stoneacre, she’d offered to help Beth with her reading until he arrived.

  They’d settled at the desk in her office. Or, to be precise, Beth had done so. Hestia was feeling decidedly unsettled.

  Because of that kiss. That encounter. Unwise, the whole of it. No matter that it had been necessary. Successful. It had been foolish.

  Her eyes closed. It had been a pleasure, if she was to be honest. The heat. The softness of his lips. The touch of his hands—large, elegant, but rougher than an earl’s should be.

  The real danger, though, had been the chaos he had set off in her brain. The tempting little melody that had touched her too deeply.

  For years she had held tightly to her calm. She was no longer accustomed to chaos. Not used to being rattled.

  “Li . . . li . . . What is this word?” Beth asked with a frown.

  Hestia leaned forward. “Light.” She glanced toward the window. “Light—like the sun is bringing us now.”

  She jumped a little as Isaac knocked and stuck his head in. “He’s here,” he warned.

  She nodded, feeling nettled. Jumping at a simple knock—in her own home! Rattled, indeed.

  “Ask him to grant me a moment?” She smiled at the woman seated across from her. “One more sentence, Beth, than I must get to business.”

  “Get to business,” Beth echoed.

  Hestia nodded and smiled at her.

  “The light ch . . . ch . . . cher . . .” Sudden understanding lit up her face. “The light cheered her.”

  The door opened. Isaac stood there, but Stoneacre hovered close behind him. Beth, getting to her feet, caught a glimpse of them. She made a strangled sound of fear and dropped the book. Backing up, she hit the desk. She didn’t turn. She never took her eyes off of the men at the door, but inched over and then moved back until she came up against the wall.

  Hestia held up a hand to prevent Stoneacre from coming further.

  “Beth, you know Isaac. Isaac is your friend. And behind him is my friend, Lord Stoneacre. Can you greet him?”

  The girl had put her chin down and glued her gaze to her feet. She stayed pressed to the wall, but managed a credible curtsy. “Good day, my lord,” she whispered.

  “Lord Stoneacre is a friend, Beth,” Hestia repeated. “He is here to help. He is going to come in and sit at my desk, just as you did.” She gave the earl a significant look. “When he’s seated, then why don’t you run along to the kitchen and see what cook is putting together for breakfast?”

  The girl nodded. Stoneacre, thankfully, did as he was bid, moving carefully, and once he reached the chair she’d just left, Beth darted past both men and out into the passageway.

  Shaking his head, Isaac withdrew and closed the door.

&
nbsp; “I apologize.” Stoneacre reached down and picked up the primer, setting it on the desk. “I should have stayed back. I had an idea and only wished to share it.”

  “No need for apologies. Beth is skittish. Honestly, that was a mild reaction.” Hestia took the book and filed it on a shelf before she sat down to face him.

  “Is she new to the house?” he asked delicately.

  “No.” Hestia raised her chin. “To the contrary. Beth was one of the first to come to us after we opened our doors.”

  He didn’t bother to hide his surprise. “I didn’t think you kept the girls so long. I thought you found them new places, new starts.”

  “We do, whenever we can.”

  “I’ve been in and out for a while now,” he mused. “I’ve seen the girls change, noticed that some stay a bit longer. Molly stands out,” he said with a grin.

  “That she does,” Hestia laughed. “She keeps us laughing.”

  “But in all that time, I’ve never noticed Beth.”

  “You wouldn’t. Like a mouse, our Beth hides in the corners and shadows. Only when all lies calm and quiet does she venture out.”

  “So, not often,” he said wryly.

  “Exactly.” Pursing her lips, Hestia gazed at him for a long moment. “Beth’s story is quite entangled with my own,” she said abruptly.

  She immediately regretted it. Cursed herself silently and thoroughly in her head. What did she mean, blurting something like that out?

  “Ah.” Stoneacre merely leaned back in his seat and wisely said no more.

  Her mind was racing. “I’m not sure why I said that,” she admitted.

  “Your story is your own,” he said easily. “You may share if you wish. Or choose to keep it to yourself.” He speared her with a direct look. “You can be sure, of course, that whatever you tell me will be kept in the strictest of confidence.”

  “Will it?”

  His expression darkened. “Do you doubt me? Still?”

  Hestia heaved a sigh. “No. I don’t believe I do.”

  And that might be part of her problem.

  He sat, silently waiting for her to decide. Exactly as she might have wished, had she foreseen this conversation.