The Lady’s Lover

by Deb Marlowe

  “And to customers at an inn? Will you deliver to them?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Very well, then.” Stoneacre cast her side-glance. “Will you deliver half a dozen to . . .” He paused. “Where did your brother recommend that we stay, my dear? The Red Lion? No, the Red Cub—The Red Fox!”

  “Yes, I believe that was it, dear,” she said with a twist of a grin.

  But the boy tugged his cap off, his expression wary. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but the Red Fox is no place fit for the likes of your lady.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yessir. You should take rooms at the Queen’s Crown. It’s on Henry Street, not too far from here. It’s just right for a real lady and they already have a standing order for our buns in the morning. You’ll get them hot and fresh.” He gazed admiringly at her and Hestia smiled at him.

  “Thank you for the recommendation,” she told him as Stoneacre nodded and handed him a coin.

  He blushed and wheeled off in a hurry.

  “Another conquest?” Stoneacre laughed.

  “A useful one, perhaps. Shall we take his advice?”

  “I believe we shall. Let’s see the Queen’s Crown, then we’ll find your friend—and then, we shall see what is to be found at the Red Fox.”

  Chapter 14

  The Great Game is Lord M—’s greatest passion. He plots to meddle in the affairs of crowns, royal families and nations. He longs to maneuver himself into a place of even more wealth, privilege, and especially, power.

  --from the Journal of the Infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  * * *

  Laughter and conversation and music bubbled up toward the ceiling of the Pump Room. The room was light and airy and big, and it all conspired to make one think that the famous waters might taste like sparkling wine. It did not. Having tried it before, Stoneacre had no inclination to taste the warm, heavy, mineral-laden stuff again.

  He led Hestia aside as they entered, out of the general flow toward the marble vase of waters and their flanking fireplaces. They strolled along one long wall while she searched the crowd.

  “There she is.” Hestia indicated the direction with a nod of her head. “Lady Cartweld. Dark hair and a forest green gown.”

  He studied her friend. The woman stood across the room, near the musician’s dais. She had a small crowd gathered around her, but there was an open space between them and the rest of the chattering socialites. A bit of snobbery in action, that.

  The woman was pretty, but in a different way. Her beauty had a sharp, precise nature to it. She looked all angles and points, from her fine nose to her thin shoulders, to the long, slender fingers wrapped around a glass of the waters. Just then, her entourage broke out into fits of laughter at something she said. True laughter, not the false, polite tittle so often encountered at the ton’s social events.

  He rather thought he might like Lady Cartweld.

  “I’m surprised Marstoke hasn’t tried to take some sort of revenge upon her,” he told Hestia. “He’s certainly followed a path of vengeance after you.”

  “She doesn’t defy him the way I do. And her father never admitted her role in unmasking him.” She tilted her head. “It’s only a bit of justice then, that the baronness believes that Marstoke has tried to avenge himself on her father. His business suffered several unexplained losses of cargo over the years. There were other, mysterious mishaps, and someone scuttled one of his coastal schooners. But when I tracked the lady down and shared Marstoke’s true identity, she did pass the information on to her father.”

  “What happened?” He was fascinated with the whole of this tale.

  “One of Marstoke’s biggest warehouses in London burned down almost immediately afterward. I am not aware of how the message was passed as to its cause, but Lady Cartweld said the mysterious attacks on her father’s business ceased thereafter.”

  He laughed. “A formidable family.” He glanced toward the baroness again. “Does she have much contact with them now? Her family?”

  “Not much. Her father still disapproves of her independent ways.”

  He made a sound of disgust.

  She cast a curious look up at him. “Why do you ask?”

  “I just . . .” His shoulder lifted. “I suppose it feels similar to my own experiences with family.”

  Curiosity shifted into surprise. Her brow furrowed and she started to ask—

  “Hestia!”

  The shocked call came from across the room. “My darling!” Lady Cartweld approached, cutting through the crowd like a clipper under full sail. She marched right up, embraced Hestia and kissed her on both cheeks. Both women were laughing with pleasure, even as the ladies and gentlemen around them cast sly glances and whispered behind gloved hands.

  Stoneacre stiffened, but made himself relax when Hestia turned to him with a smile. “Lord Stoneacre, if I may present my friend? This is Lady Amelia Cartweld.”

  He bent over her hand. “A pleasure, my lady.”

  She curtsied and smiled up at him. “The pleasure is mine, meeting a fine gentleman brave enough to show up here with Hestia Wright on his arm.” She turned to Hestia. “And today of all days.” She leaned in. “I had every intention of writing to you today.”

  “Oh?” Hestia glanced between them.

  “Indeed. For just today I’ve heard talk of our old, mutual friend, seen here in Bath.”

  “That is exactly why we’ve come to you, my dear.” Hestia pressed her hand. “What is the news?”

  “I’ve heard only a secondhand whisper. I’d expected to see the lady who told the original tale here this afternoon.” She craned her neck. “Let me make the rounds and see if I can find her. I’ll bring her over and we’ll see what she has to say.”

  The baroness started to move away, but Hestia stopped her with a hand on her arm. She looked around meaningfully. “She may not care to make my acquaintance.”

  Lady Cartweld tossed her head. “There are more than a few nose-up, high sticklers in Bath. They might try to cut you, my dear, but Virginia Reeves is not one of them.”

  Hestia glanced about again. Some of the surrounding people watched them with avid curiosity. Others, mostly ladies, had pointedly turned their faces away.

  It made Stoneacre’s lip curl. Hestia was worth ten of any one of them.

  “Nevertheless,” Hestia said with determination. “I’ve no wish for the lady to feel reluctant or uncomfortable.” She glanced up at him. “We’ll take a stroll just outside and you can bring the lady to us there.”

  “Very well,” Lady Cartweld sighed. “You are not in a hurry, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Give me a moment. I’ll strive to bring no untoward attention to any of us.”

  Stoneacre took a good, long look around the room. He was thorough about it, taking particular notice of those who watched with sneers or disdain, and letting them know he saw it, too. Then he offered Hestia his arm and escorted her outside, away from all the superficial snobs.

  Torches burned high, just outside the pedimented entrance. Hestia leaned against one of the columns, but Stoneacre walked on, pacing across the uneven flagstones in front of the building, his fists clenched. He could feel Hestia’s gaze resting on him.

  “It’s nothing, Stoneacre,” she said softly when he came stalking back.

  “It’s not nothing!” he snapped. “It’s everything.”

  “Don’t let it bother you so.”

  How could he not? Fury and frustration coiled around each other in his gut. He wanted to go back and blacken the eye of every hypocrite inside. He wanted to take Hestia in his arms and shield her from such boorish behavior forever.

  He could do neither of those things.

  He kept pacing, instead.

  “I think you are reacting to more than just a few raised brows in there,” she said, the next time he came close.

  “There were more than raised brows and you know it, Hestia,” he growled.

  S
he waited.

  “I know you likely face all that and more when you move in Society, but it infuriates me. And the censure with which they looked at your friend, as well.” He wanted to hit something. “It’s the hypocrisy of it all that makes me so damned frustrated.” He flung out a hand. “One of those women who faced away from you—she has a son widely known to be the seed of a Royal Duke, instead of her husband. Another keeps a fleet of handsome footmen busy, year round. Half the men in there keep a mistress. The other half gambles or drinks indiscriminately. One removed the housekeeper from his ancestral home and set her up with her own house in London.”

  She shrugged. “Their sins are hidden in a cloak of respectability. Mine are out there, defiantly in the open.”

  “But still, the sins exist! And they presume to judge!”

  “It’s the way of the world.”

  “Yes, hypocrisy makes the world go ’round! As I well know!” It emerged, bitterly. A curse.

  “Tell me,” she said simply.

  He walked away again. He’d never spoken of it, to anyone. He had to be careful . . . But she’d bared some of her darkest secrets. How could he do less? And if he ever had a hope of anything lasting coming of this . . .

  He came back and stood before her, waiting until a departing couple passed by. “I thought it was just my family, for the longest time,” he said at last.

  She looked surprised, but said nothing.

  “I grew up, often in despair, thinking I could never do it. I could never do enough, be enough, to meet my parent’s expectations. I am the heir. I am to uphold the accomplishments of generations, bear the weight of their history, their names and reputations. Go away to school? No. I had to stay at home where my father, who did not want the work of educating me, nonetheless required frequent reports of my progress. Flawless French. Letter-perfect Latin. A thorough knowledge of the classics, of estate matters, of the workings of parliament and the government. I wished to learn science? On my own time, if I must. I wished to learn archery? Fencing? Very well, but I must practice until my aim is perfect and my every thrust hits home. I must excel. I must be the most accomplished of my acquaintance. I must remember that I am an earl and a future marquess. Always, always, I must look, speak and act the part. And remember that my actions reflect on my father and family.”

  “It does sound exhausting,” Hestia admitted. “But I can tell you that no expectations can be as damaging as too many.”

  “I do know that to be true. And in all honesty, part of me is grateful for the pressure, for the opportunity and for all that I learned.” His mouth twitched. “I’d be far more grateful if I hadn’t discovered it was all a sham.”

  She blinked.

  “It started with my sister’s betrothal. My father arranged it. He chose Sayer Cunningham, the heir to Viscount Sydham. I did not approve of him. He is . . . oily. Sly. The sort who always speaks decisively, and yet somehow you know he always means the opposite of what he says. I did not like the match and I told my father so.”

  “He didn’t listen?”

  “Why would he? To the world the man looked a perfect match. He had the title, a vast number of acres in Yorkshire, and pots of money. I knew he gambled actively and often, but so do many other men of means. Still, I just did not like it. But my parents did not care that the man beneath the surface might be lacking, when the outside was so very shiny.”

  “It sounds like a great many matches I’ve seen, but the lack can go both ways.” She shrugged. “It’s the way of the marriage mart. It’s often made me glad I had no part in it.”

  “All true. And my sister was content to go along with it. My father seemed unduly excited. It wasn’t until later that I learned why he was so eager for the match to go through.”

  He sighed. “Cunningham is a . . . schemer. An enthusiastic investor in mostly bad or doomed business plans. But he managed to not only hide his failings, but to persuade my father to go along with them. They first suffered large losses investing in a played-out Scottish coalfield. Then Cunningham sold my father on the idea of a gun manufactory. He knew that the British had pledged to help rebuild the Portuguese army and that the number of promised men, arms and money kept rising. He convinced my father that the gun manufacturer could not produce muskets, pistols and carbines fast enough. They could not lose money backing him.”

  Stoneacre stared up, into the flames of the torch mounted above them. “I tried to caution my father, urged him to look into the contracts and the men who made them, but he insisted all was well. At first he appeared to be right—until he accidentally discovered that the reason their profits were so high was because the manufactory was compromising the quality of the guns.”

  Hestia’s eyes rounded. “But that’s—”

  “Yes,” he said shortly. “Providing British and allied troops with substandard provisions can be construed as treason.”

  “Good heavens.”

  “My father was in complete distress. I’d never seen him so upset.” He closed his eyes. “The worst part was that he was not horrified by the danger in which he’d placed good British soldiers and our allied brothers. He didn’t think about the deaths he might have caused or the military losses that might have occurred. No. He was worried about people in society finding out. About the stain on his reputation. What his friends would think. How it would affect his name and how it would look to the rest of the beau monde.”

  “Oh,” she breathed.

  “I was disgusted. Sick. I railed at him. What use is his good name if corruption and rot lies beneath it?” He sighed. “But I knew my duty. I started investigating. I discovered what compromises were being made and by whom, and how they would affect the use of the products. I found who knew about them and who did not. I gathered papers, contracts, letters and testimonies of men involved in all aspects of the deals. I proved to myself that my father truly had not known of the cheating practices going on—and then I forced him to confront Cunningham and the others involved.”

  “I can guess how that went.”

  “I’m sure you can. They refused to change anything and tried to threaten my father into silence. And once he knew the real faces of the men he was in business with, I made him go to the Board of Ordnance.”

  “Cunningham knew, then?”

  “Yes. But it was kept quiet. All of it. In some circles my father was lauded a hero for coming forward. But he knew. And there are some canny men in the government. They knew, too. And some of them knew what I had done to protect him. One of them is a member of the Privy Council. I was summoned before them and questioned. And then I was told that my father and brother-in-law would suffer no consequences if I were to consent to do the same kind of work for them—unofficially, of course.”

  “Ah,” she sighed. “I had wondered how you wandered into that role.”

  “Honestly, I didn’t mind. As I grew, I’d so looked forward to getting away from home. I thought Society would be different. Less focused on artifice.”

  She made a sound that was not quite a laugh.

  “Yes.” He shook his head. “Instead I just found more of the same. An entire community of people concerned with appearance over substance. I had been planning to go abroad, hoping to find something . . . meaningful. So, when I was more or less commanded to dig into the council’s work, I decided to find meaning in the job.”

  “And you have,” she said warmly.

  “I have,” he agreed. “I feel confident that I have contributed something to my fellow man. Not in the same way you have, Hestia. Hell and damnation, you put every well meaning Englishman to shame.”

  She snorted. “Tell that to the crowd inside.”

  “I wouldn’t waste my time. And in case, they know it, deep down. It’s too much, however, for them to face the truth.” He dismissed them all with a roll of his eyes. “I’m content with what I’ve managed to accomplish. I still find value in the work.” He stepped closer. “But for months, I’ve felt unsettled. As if I’m missing som
ething yet.” His heart began banging against his ribs. “Do you not ever feel that way?”

  Her eyes looked huge in the firelight. He’d thought she might avoid the question, but she kept a steady gaze upon him. “Yes.”

  Just the admission was a step forward. A triumph. She was so damned lovely. Her heart was pounding too. He would wager anything on it. He held her gaze, allowing the trust and partnership they’d shared, the passion they’d acknowledged, to fill up the space between them. It wasn’t a fair move. He didn’t care. He’d use every weapon he had to bind her to him.

  She looked away first. “But that aspect of my life is better now,” she told him, almost defiantly. “I have my son, returned to me by that sprite of a girl who stole those papers, years ago. And now she is my daughter. And I have Brynne and Aldmere. Callie and Tru. Isaac and the girls at the House. We’ve created our own community. Our own family.”

  He was going to get himself included on that roll call.

  “You deserve every bit of it—and more.”

  She tossed her head. “I don’t need more.”

  A lie. She knew it as well as he did. He was going to prove it—and prove himself to her. He would bewitch her if he must, tempt her with pounding blood and sweet kisses and burning caresses—and with truth and trust and caring and love. Everything they were both missing and could find—gloriously—with each other.

  “We are going to finish Marstoke,” she reminded him. “And this will be over. My family will be free. I will be free.”

  Heat curled from him to her and back again. An invisible swirl of awareness—and so much potential. “You will be free,” he agreed. “Free at last, to do exactly what you wish.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “Don’t get any ideas, Stoneacre,” she warned.

  He laughed. “Oh, I have ideas. Ideas and plans and designs.” He reached out to touch the curl that lay along her nape. “And propositions.”

  She didn’t flinch. But there was no anger in her. Her blue eyes were filled with uncertainty and with more than a bit of longing.