The Lady’s Lover

by Deb Marlowe

  Damn him.

  She considered it. He could see it. And in the end, she compromised.

  “I will tell you this much—it was Marstoke who left Beth outside Half Moon House. It was a move meant to show me for a fraud. To bring me down a peg or two or a hundred. He fully expected that I would not take her in—and in rejecting her, I would prove to myself and to the world, that I could not live up to the promises I made.”

  “The promises this house stands for,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “But you did take her in.”

  “Yes. I had to. It wasn’t easy. But truly, I have often thought I should thank Marstoke. He tested my convictions at the start, and I haven’t wavered since.”

  Stoneacre nodded. Clearly there were painful depths behind that scanty outline, but he considered it fair progress to have heard any of it at all.

  And then . . . he paused, on that thought.

  Running a measuring eye over her, he considered. Had she been any other woman, he would have counted this a victory. A crack in the armor that wrapped so tightly and thoroughly around her that every man in London and beyond knew it to be impenetrable.

  But this was Hestia Wright. She sat there, practically glowing in the morning light. She’d changed out of last night’s odd wardrobe, but she’d forgotten her eyebrows. They stood out, still red, a bold signal calling to him from an innocent frame. In a light pink morning dress embroidered with long, vertical tendrils of flowering vines, she looked ethereal again. Otherworldly.

  And yet, he knew with a sudden certainty that what she was, was . . .

  “Ruthless,” he announced.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It is what you are. Ruthless.” He sat straight up in his chair. “I’m willing to believe that it was happenstance that you found that poor girl abroad in the house when you returned home, but it wasn’t a coincidence that she stayed in your office this morning, was it?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” She was at her most regal.

  “Oh, yes, you do. What was the message that little scene was meant to convey? Was it a reminder that you might have been that girl? Had you been less strong? Less determined?”

  Anger flared behind her eyes.

  “Or was it just a general reminder of the darkness of Marstoke’s soul?” He gripped the edge of her desk. “Did you think I needed a refresher? Because I’m the sort of man to forget what that villain has done?” She started to speak, but he didn’t allow it. “No one knows the extent of his evil like you. No one. But I’m not new to this fight. I’ve already committed to it—and last night I committed to this partnership. As did you. Yet you continually question me. You throw that girl’s misery at me like some sort of test? Why, Hestia? Why do you continue to doubt my veracity?”

  She glared at him.

  “Let’s have it out,” he demanded. “All of it. Now.”

  “Very well.” Her chin lifted.

  He waited.

  “That kiss.”

  “Ah. I should have known. Yes. That kiss. Let me remind you that you kissed me.”

  “I did. As part of the role.”

  Still, he waited.

  “You enjoyed it!” It was an accusation.

  He laughed a little and threw back his head. “Yes. I am a man. I enjoyed it. Quite thoroughly.”

  “So I noticed,” she said sourly.

  “So did you,” he tossed back at her. He closed his eyes. “I admit. I did deepen the kiss. In part because that wretched porter was watching, and it fit the parts we were playing.” He opened his eyes, then, and gazed directly and openly at her. “But honestly, no red-blooded man could keep his equilibrium in the face of . . .” He gestured. “You.”

  She pressed her lips together. “It’s been clear for some time—”

  “Yes. I made my interest clear, when we first met. But you made your feelings clear too. And I have abided by your . . . coldness, avoidance . . . disinterest.” Sighing, he rifled his hands through his hair. “I apologize if I offended you with my enthusiasm. But you should know by now that I know how to act like a gentleman. There will be no need for regular reminders. In fact, I find myself insulted by the notion.”

  Standing, he went to look out the window for a moment before spinning on his heel to face her again. “In fact, why don’t we just address the issue right now?”

  “Haven’t we just?”

  “I’ll take it a bit further, if you don’t mind.” He spoke carefully, silently urging her to accept his sincerity. “Hestia, you are a beautiful woman, but that is not a tenth of what draws me to you. I like you. I like that you are smart and shrewd. I like that you act fearlessly, even though you know more than most how much there is to fear. I like that you are willing to get up to any damned thing if it gets you closer to your goal.” He sighed. “We’re already partners in this mission. Would it be such a stretch to count each other as friends?”

  Her gaze ran over him, searching his features. “Friends?”

  “Yes. I know a very few have been chosen for that honor. I’d like to be counted among them.”

  She sighed. “Because of the nature of this work,” she gestured around her, “many of the people in my life are . . . transient. We might have intense moments together, but most move on. With my encouragement, of course, and hopefully to a better situation than they’ve had before. My friends . . . my real friends, are the ones that stay, in some fashion or another.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he declared.

  She was reserving judgment. He could see it. But he wasn’t going to give up.

  “Very well. We will be friends.” She sounded as if she was testing the notion.

  “Yes, and as a token of our friendship, I’ll freely admit that I failed in my aim last night. I wasn’t able to discover where Molly Becks went to meet Marstoke. None of her people seem to know. But I did have an idea on the way over here. It came to me because of something my mother said, believe it or not.” He grinned and shrugged. “She mentioned insurance, and it made me remember a business associate of Marstoke’s. Someone I found through his papers. Someone he still works with, occasionally, from what I can tell. He might have gone to him for money. If we approach him—”

  She held up a hand. “No need for confessions, or for chasing down Marstoke’s associates.”

  He waited, brow raised questioningly.

  “I know where they are going.” She didn’t look happy about it. “I know where Marstoke is meeting them.”

  Chapter 5

  Within these pages you’ve read of my own faked marriage. This is a favorite gambol of Lord M—’s. As he did at my own erstwhile wedding, he often masquerades as the vicar, performing an invalid ceremony—and taking the place of the groom at the wedding night.

  --from the Journal of the Infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  * * *

  Saints and angels and sweet baby cherubs, but she was tired.

  Perhaps it was because she was growing older. Perhaps she just did not have the stamina, any longer, to direct a devious night’s work, to skip sleep and still carry on with all that must be done.

  More likely it was because of the shock she felt at being so thoroughly seen. How had Stoneacre done that? Spotted so clearly what she’d only half-admitted to herself? When was the last time a man had seen past the surface of her intentions? How hard was she going to have to work, while they were entangled in this process, to keep her mask firmly in place?

  The mere thought of it exhausted her. Right now she longed for a bit of peace. For a few moments to drop the masquerade entirely, to eat something hot and sweet and starchy and just lie back and let all of her cares go for an hour or two.

  She wasn’t going to get any of that until Stoneacre had gone. And they both needed to make ready for this next part of their hunt.

  That thought exhausted her more than any other.

  “What have you discovered?” he asked quietly.

  “I sent one of o
ur boys into Mrs. Ledger’s stables. Most of her people there were as woefully ignorant as Molly Beck’s. But one groom had been sent to hire the carriage for the madame’s trip.” She dropped her gaze to the desk. “A carriage to take her to Somerset.”

  “So far?” His surprise showed and his lips pursed as he absorbed the implications. “Very well,” he said after a few moments. “I will scour the papers from his office. Surely there will be a link—”

  “No need,” she repeated, interrupting him. She drew a deep,, bracing breath. “If Marstoke is in Somerset, then I know where he will be.” She did not look at him. Instead she drew out a sheet of paper and poised her quill above it.

  “Hestia.” He spoke softly. She glanced up to find his gaze fixed on her quill.

  She’d forgotten to ink it.

  “Oh.” She laughed a little. “Lists. I’ll have to makes lists and arrangements aplenty, but I can be ready by late this afternoon.”

  “Perhaps I should—”

  “No.” It emerged more harshly than she’d intended, so she gentled her tone. “No. We are partners in this. We will both go.”

  She looked up. He loomed there, so large and capable. He’d changed this morning, too, into the buff breeched and blue-coated ideal of English masculinity. Except—he wore a look of kind concern instead of the sneer so often directed her way. She could smell that faint bay scent—and it brought on a sudden desperate wish to burrow into it, to let him wrap her in against that strong, broad chest while she closed her eyes, just for a moment. . .

  She snapped to sudden attention, aghast. Good heavens, clearly she was overtired.

  “Can you be ready?” she asked briskly.

  “Of course.”

  “Good.” She stood. “Well, then, I have preparations to make, as I’m sure you do.”

  “Hestia,” he began again.

  But a knock sounded at the door and Isaac poked his head into the room. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but something’s happened.”

  The old, familiar alarm wrenched her gut. Mercilessly, she pushed it aside and stood. “What is it?” She held on to her studied calm with an iron grip.

  “Somebody tried to snatch Molly. Tried to grab her and stuff her in a carriage.”

  Hestia immediately stepped from behind her desk, heading for the door. “Is she all right?”

  Isaac moved out of her path. “Yes. She got away. Just.”

  Hestia moved quickly and knew Stoneacre followed. She could hear the commotion coming from the entry hall. She stepped out into the space and found Molly there, surrounded by a gaggle of concerned, angry and frightened girls. Some of the staff mingled there too, offering comfort and exchanging solemn looks. Molly, in the middle and talking fast, caught sight of her and abruptly burst into tears.

  Hestia went and gathered her in her arms. She held her tight and let her cry. “There, now. You are safe. You are home,” she said as the sobs began to subside. She looked over Molly’s head to where Stoneacre lingered at the edge of the crowd. “Perhaps we could delay our departure until tomorrow?”

  He nodded. “Of course.”

  “Early?” she asked.

  With another nod and a sympathetic look, he slipped away.

  Stoneacre marched straight to Carlton House. It was still early and he knew it would be best that he make his report directly to the Prince Regent. He found him just awakened. While His Royal Highness made ready for the day, Stoneacre answered a multitude of questions, endured another rant on Marstoke’s perfidy and fended off the insistence that they should take a brigade of soldiers with them. As soon as possible, he took his leave and went to the cramped office he’d been granted in Whitehall.

  He sent off a courier with a note for Hestia, and once he received her reply, he spent time making arrangements for their departure and journey. For a bit, the flurry of traffic in and out of his office held steady, but at last the plans were set and he was left alone, his thoughts far away as he sat holding Hestia’s note and enjoying the faint scent of her drifting from the paper.

  Abruptly, he shook himself back to matters at hand. He dragged out his files and for hours he pored over the stacks of Marstoke’s confiscated papers. Though he scoured his notes and searched everywhere he could think of, he could find only a couple of mentions related to Somersetshire. A card for the Red Fox Inn in Bath and a name; Mr. Denton Coombs.

  On a hunch, he also searched for anything significant located in the surrounding counties, but only turned up a rope-maker’s address outside Bristol.

  The sun hung low when he finished and the shadows deepened as he walked home. Why Somerset? What mischief was Marstoke brewing there? He still wracked his brain as he entered the courtyard outside his building. As his key turned in the lock, he tensed. A step sounded close behind him. His hand crept toward the knife in his boot as he turned.

  “No need, lad. It’s just me.”

  “Father?” Stoneacre relaxed, but only for a moment. He must have truly upset his mother for her to set his father upon him.

  “Damned porter would not allow me to wait in your rooms,” the Marquess of Woodbury complained.

  “Yes, the rules are strict here, sir. You’ll have to alert me in advance, I’m afraid, for you to enter without me.”

  “Advanced notice? From your own father? From me?”

  Stoneacre shrugged and let his father pass into his darkened rooms before him. “Security is necessary, I’m afraid. The Privy Council insists upon it. Wait here a moment, sir, and I’ll light the lamps.”

  “Why don’t you have servants for that?” his father fretted. “You are an earl, for God’s sake.”

  “Yes, but I’m an earl with an utterly erratic schedule, which tends to drive servants a bit mad.”

  His father sniffed.

  “I make do with a man who comes in to tidy up a couple of times a week. He takes care of my wardrobe as well, and otherwise, I’m fine looking after myself.”

  “I was inclined to think your mother was exaggerating, but now I begin to wonder.” The marquess poured a drink and sat in the seat before the empty fire. “What have you done this time, to set her off in such a tizzy? She’s wailing about your work and I cannot decide if she thinks the Prince Regent is driving you too hard or if she thinks he’s become an unhealthy influence on you.”

  “She believes both, I’m sure.” He poured his own brandy and took up a stance at the mantle.

  “What’s set her off this time?”

  “My refusal to consider the latest candidate for child-bride.”

  His father said nothing, and merely took another drink.

  “What?” Stoneacre gaped. “Now you are in league with her?”

  The marquess shrugged. “I’ve met the Chisholm girl. I suppose I thought you might be interested.”

  “She’s barely out of the schoolroom.”

  “Yes, she’s young, but pretty. I detect a hint of intelligence there, too, so that she might eventually become interested in things beyond her next ball gown or tea party.”

  “Just in time to become obsessed with getting her offspring married off, perhaps?”

  “I give her, perhaps, a little more credit than you do.”

  “Do you?” Icy shards of irritation roughened his tone. “Well, I’d tell you to have a run at her, but you already have a wife with whom you have nothing in common.”

  Strictly, that was not true. His parents did have a certain level of artifice in common. A concern with appearance that did not extend to actual substance. But he could not throw such a truth at his father.

  Yet, neither would he bend himself into a shape that would reflect their idea of perfection.

  “Don’t be vulgar,” the marquess chided. “Your mother is right about one thing. It’s time you thought about your duty to the title.”

  “The title is in no danger. My cousin Edwin is a perfect heir presumptive. A fine, upstanding gentleman of good character and a nursery already filling with boys.”

  “
It’s your birthright, son. You cannot just hand it off to a cadet branch of the family.”

  Stoneacre said nothing. He merely met his father’s imploring gaze with a steady one of his own.

  His father blinked, then groaned. “Damnation, but she’s right. This work has ruined you. And it is all my fault.” He covered his eyes and slumped in his chair.

  Stoneacre sighed. He felt the pull of it, the old desire to conform, to please his parents and win the approbation of Society. But he’d learned long ago how hollow it all was. How shallow and unfulfilling.

  “The work has nothing to do with it.”

  “But if I had not . . . If you had not had to go to all of that trouble . . . the Privy Council would never have tagged you for these sort of undertakings.”

  “You know I already felt differently about things before all of that, Father. If I hadn’t been tapped by the Prince Regent, I’d likely be abroad now. And wouldn’t Mother have hated that?” The corner of his mouth twisted. “I might have brought home a foreign bride and where would she be, then?”

  “A foreign girl of good family and noble birth? At least one of your mother’s worries would be assuaged.”

  Anger reared fast and ugly from his core. So, his comment had his mother running scared, did it? Good. He set his glass aside and gestured toward the door. “I am leaving London in a matter of hours, sir, and I need to pack. But you may tell my mother that I will choose my own bride and I will be looking for a woman of true character and substance—for we all know how deceiving appearances can be.”

  His father stood. “I deserved that. I know it. But you will remember your duty, son. I know you will.” He gave a nod and departed.

  Stoneacre stared after him. Closing his eyes, reminded himself of the truth that he’d learned the hard way. His father’s need for perfection was a well that would never be filled.

  Eventually he turned away to drag out a portmanteau.

  Chapter 6