The Lady’s Lover

by Deb Marlowe

  He was going to count that as another victory.

  “There you are.” Lady Cartweld emerged from the doorway, another lady on her heels. As I said, Mrs. Reeves, here they are.” The baroness made the introductions and the other woman looked intrigued at meeting Hestia—and flushed at making his acquaintance.

  “Now, Mrs. Reeves, these two have an interest in Mr. Denton Coombs and I’d like you to tell them your story.”

  Denton Coombs? That name, it triggered something. He looked to Hestia, but she nodded for the woman to begin.

  “Well, and I’d like to know what you want of the man, for I believe he’s more than a bit of a rogue, myself,” the lady said indignantly. “First there was all the ruckus over the Stokes girl—and such a nice, sweet young thing she was. We all thought him a good match for her, a stable, older businessman—until the pair of them up and disappeared.”

  Ah, now he understood. And her words sparked his memory. He’d found a mention of Denton Coombs in Marstoke’s papers.

  “It near to killed her mother,” the lady continued. “The girl going off without a word. And then the mother and her other, older daughter just left town, too, with no more of a by-your-leave. Shady dealings, if you ask me. But this morning I caught sight of Mr. Coombs.”

  “Here in Bath?” Hestia asked. “Today?”

  “This very morning.” She sniffed. “I was driving by that rattletrap, the Red Fox, and there he stood, large as life and red as my cook’s pickled beetroot. Shouting right there in the street.”

  “Who was he shouting at?” asked Stoneacre.

  “I didn’t know him. A clerk, perhaps? A young man, in any case, standing hang dog and taking it while Coombs rang a peal over him.” She lifted both hands. “I stopped my carriage of course.”

  “Of course,” Lady Cartweld said encouragingly.

  “Well, I did wish to have word of the Stokes family. Lovely women, all of them. I called out to the man. Shouted his name, almost. He never turned or acknowledged me in any way.”

  “Could you tell why he was angry?”

  “No. Not really. He was going on about someone. She was to be fetched. But then he stopped shouting, snapped at the porter strapping luggage to his coach, climbed inside and left.”

  “Left? Left town?”

  “I do believe so, my lord.”

  Stoneacre glanced at Hestia and found matching frustration in her expression. “Did you happen to hear where that coach was heading, Mrs. Reeves?”

  “No. They just wheeled off without another word.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Hestia pressed her hand. “We do appreciate your help.”

  “I’m happy to give it, my dear. And if you find that rascal, please discover what you can of the Stokes family, will you? Lady Cartweld will pass along any news, I’m sure.”

  Hestia smiled. “I can put your mind at ease right now, ma’am, for I am well acquainted with all three of the Stokes ladies and they are quite well.”

  “Well, that’s a relief!”

  “And I can tell you that Miss Laura Stokes, the eldest girl, is the Duchess of Rothmore now. So they are all quite safe.”

  The woman’s eyes grew as big as saucers. “A duchess? Laura Stokes?”

  “Indeed.”

  Mrs. Reeves put a hand to her chest. “And the youngest girl? Married?”

  Hestia grew serious. “No. But I think you will agree that that is for the best. She is well protected and happy now, and if anyone asks, that’s all I hope you will say.”

  “Of course! My word. A duchess! Well, please pass my felicitations to them all, if you will.”

  “I will be happy to do so. Thank you again for your help.”

  Mrs. Reeves nodded, bobbed a curtsy and wandered back inside, still looking stunned at such news.

  “Thank you,” Hestia said to her friend.

  “We should still check out the Red Fox,” Stoneacre said. “We might discover where he was headed.” He raised a brow. “Or what he was doing there.”

  “A good notion, but there is no ‘we’ to be had in the idea,” Lady Cartweld said smartly. “Ladies do not frequent that particular inn.” She chuckled. “Vixens, perhaps, but not ladies.”

  “I’m no lady and you know it,” Hestia told her.

  “Well, you are dressed like one, and if you accompany Lord Stoneacre, you will attract attention and prevent him from discovering anything at all. Let him go and you come home with me. If you’ll recall, the last time we spoke, I said I would try to find a list of business contacts—ones that my erstwhile fiancé claimed? I’ve found some leads. Some were fictitious, but others live and breathe in Bristol.”

  “Business contacts in Bristol? Marstoke’s?” Stoneacre couldn’t deny that could be invaluable. He looked to Hestia.

  She nodded. “Very well.”

  He turned to the baroness. “My lady, if you will, please see Hestia safely delivered to the Queen’s Crown after your visit.”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you. It was a very great pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He bowed and then turned to Hestia. “I shall meet you at the Queen’s Crown in an hour or two.” He didn’t bother to hide the promise in his tone.

  “I will see you then.”

  He strode off, wishing his errand finished already.

  Chapter 15

  Though women are the most numerous and harshly used of Lord M—’s victims, the Great Game leads some of Society’s finest young gentlemen into his dangerous reach.

  --from the Journal of the Infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  * * *

  Hestia scanned the names on the baroness’s list. She didn’t know any of them, but she knew they might prove to be invaluable in their investigations. She looked up as a servant entered with a tea tray. “I’m a little surprised your father shared this information.”

  “Oh, he refused when I asked.” Her friend poured tea and handed her a dish. “So I went to the family solicitor myself. He refused too, on the grounds of client privilege and privacy.”

  “How did you get it, then?”

  “I hired the man myself, at twice the price. And I told him, as the main party nearly ruined by the marriage settlements he arranged with an imposter, that I wanted to know about the business practices and recommendations that had tricked him into it.”

  “Ah, guilt is often an excellent motivator,” Hestia said with a tip of her teacup. She picked up the list again, suddenly struck. “You haven’t spoken to any of them, have you?”

  “Heavens, no. I’ve no wish to spook them. And I’ve nothing specific to ask them, in any case. I meant to leave all of that to you.”

  “As you should. You’ve risked enough. But I thank you.”

  “You are quite welcome.” The baroness leaned forward in her chair. “And I will take payment in gossip. Tell me about you and Stoneacre.”

  Belatedly, Hestia reached for her mask. She’d forgotten it. Grown comfortable without it—and that thought alone set her nerves to jangling. She couldn’t allow Amelia to see what came to mind—and to heart, gut and various other interesting bits—when she thought of Stoneacre.

  “Hestia!” The baroness’s eyes widened. “Are you blushing?”

  “Of course not,” she answered crossly. “As for Stoneacre, you can blame Prinny for that.” She distracted her friend with the tale of her meeting with the Prince Regent.

  “So, we’ve come to the endgame,” Amelia mused when she’d finished.

  “Yes. One way or another, it will all be over soon.”

  “Marstoke will be over,” Amelia said decisively. “And then you can figure out how to fill your free time.”

  “There will still be plenty of work to do.”

  “Yes, and you can start by working on Stoneacre.” She raised a hand. “Don’t bother to deny it. I saw the pair of you. Just because it’s been a while since I had the chance to act on such . . . stirrings . . . doesn’t mean I don’t recognize them when I see them.” Sh
e sat back and set her fingers in a steeple. “I did consider Stoneacre as a potential husband once, you know.”

  Shock rattled her and Hestia set down her cup and saucer. “Did you?”

  “Yes. I saw him at a country assembly in Wiltshire once. There is no denying his looks,” she said with a sigh.

  She held herself rigid and silent.

  “It was the family that decided me against him as a candidate, in the end.”

  “Stoneacre’s family?”

  “Yes. They are . . . stiff. The lot of them. I thought I’d have the same sort of fight with them that I already had with my own family. Do you know what I mean?”

  She nodded. She knew a good bit more about Stoneacre’s family than anyone might suspect.

  “The father seems a tough enough nut to crack, but the mother, I think the mother is the real dragon there. And Stoneacre seemed solicitous of her.” She raised a brow. “Not that you could not best her. I’d never bet against you, dear. But I thought you might like to know what you would be up against.”

  “I’m not up against anyone,” she said curtly. Even though it wasn’t strictly true. Her friend’s words were kindly meant, but it was a warning, nonetheless. One she would never need, she sternly reminded herself. She already knew how dangerous Stoneacre’s mother could be.

  They spoke of other things, then, but Hestia could not focus. As soon as she could, she took her leave.

  “I wish you luck against Marstoke,” Amelia told her, gripping her hands. “And if I can contribute in any way, just ask. I’ll do anything you need.”

  “Thank you,” Hestia said, truly grateful. Impulsively, she squeezed the baroness tight for a moment. “You are a good friend. And heaven knows I need one.”

  Amelia grinned. “I’m a good enough friend to tell you I think you should take your chance with Stoneacre.” She squeezed her back. “Live a little, my friend. What else is all of this for?”

  Hestia refused the offer of a carriage. She needed to walk. Ignoring the footman Amelia sent to see her safely back, she strode out ahead of him, her mood plummeting with each step.

  Why could not this one thing be simple? She’d wanted this . . . detached . . . time with Stoneacre. She’d made it clear that it was strictly temporary.

  It had to be temporary. Nothing else would work, not once they’d returned to London and their duties and the people in their lives. She shivered in the cooling air. It had been so wonderful, though. She’d felt like she was coming alive once again, under his hands. Music wafted, sang and soared in her blood again, after years of silence and dust. How could she blame him for wanting more when she craved it too?

  He did want more. She’d seen it in his eyes, felt it in the graze of his fingertips. He’d even said as much, talking of ideas and plans and designs.

  He should know better than to ask. No good came of yearning for what you couldn’t have. She’d learned that at her father’s knee. And he’d learned to ask for better at his father’s. His family would demand the best for him, and in their eyes that meant a girl with family, fortune and a good name.

  The footman left her when she reached the inn. She stalked in with thunder echoing in her empty heart and darkening her expression. The clerk at the desk nodded to her as she passed.

  “Oh. Ma’am! Excuse me?” Lost in her thoughts, she did not realize he was addressing her until she’d taken the first step and he reached out to touch her arm. It was a reflex to jerk away and turn, snarling.

  “Oh! I beg your pardon. I did not think you heard me.” He held up a letter. “It’s just . . . this was delivered for your husband.”

  She ignored the wrench at his words. “Thank you.” Woodenly, she took it and turned to continue on.

  “And ma’am?” he called to her again. “I just wanted you to know that the letter—that is the condition in which I received it.”

  Pausing, she looked over her shoulder and he nodded at the paper in her hand. There was a lantern mounted on the wall in the first landing. She climbed up to stand next to it and held the letter up. She frowned. There was an extra, thin lip of wax on the seal. It might have come from someone lifting the seal with a hot knife.

  She nodded at the clerk and he returned to his post. Sighing, she held the paper up to the light to look again—and saw something else.

  Time stopped.

  Shock and sudden horrid awareness raised gooseflesh all over her.

  There it was. Even through the folded paper she could make the image out.

  She sank down onto the step. Hands shaking, she turned the paper all around. No name. It wasn’t addressed to anyone. Steeling herself, she took a deep breath and cracked the seal.

  One sentence.

  Bring her to Clevedon.

  The words didn’t steal her breath away. It was the image. A chess piece. A tall, elaborately crowned king piece, standing tall amid a collection of much smaller, toppled pieces.

  Marstoke’s mark.

  The image he sent only to his top lieutenants. The mark that conferred the highest urgency to his commands.

  No.

  She sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. No. No. No.

  Not Stoneacre.

  She refused to believe it.

  “Ma’am? Is something wrong? Are you ill?”

  She looked up. The clerk was back. He puzzled up at her from the bottom of the stairs. “There is no name on this letter.” Her voice didn’t sound right. “How did you know to deliver it to my husband?”

  “A messenger boy brought it. He described you both to an inch.” He frowned, suddenly apologetic. “I am sorry. Have I erred in passing it to you?”

  “No. It’s fine. When did the messenger come?”

  “This afternoon, ma’am. Very soon after you departed.” He took a step up. “Are you well? Shall I help you to your room?”

  “No. I’m fine. No.” She climbed to her feet, feeling unsteady. “Thank you. Good evening.”

  She made her way to the rented room. Sank down on the bed.

  Eyes unfocused, she stretched a hand out across the coverlet. It was not possible. She liked Stoneacre. She was an excellent judge of character. He could not have fooled her so thoroughly.

  You will never see it coming. The final blow approaches.

  This wasn’t what that cryptic note had meant, back in London. She could not believe it.

  She’d spoken of this mark. Told Stoneacre about it herself. He hadn’t known about it. She hadn’t described it. He had not asked. He hadn’t seemed especially surprised, either.

  It meant nothing.

  He was close to the Prince Regent. He would have known about the request from Miss Smythe, perhaps even before the Prince saw it himself. He could have leaked her true identity. He would have known how dangerous she could be to the Regent and the monarchy.

  Her mind kept ticking off facts, even though she didn’t want to think about them. Face the possibility.

  He hadn’t known their destination the night that they invaded Mrs. Ledger’s brothel, and the staff there had been unprepared, hadn’t had an inkling they were coming.

  He had known they aimed for Bradford-on-Avon, and anyone working with Marstoke would have guessed they were heading for the priory. And Marstoke had expected her, prepared for her arrival.

  Stoneacre had known about the Red Fox Inn and Marstoke had been there as recently as this morning.

  Almost against her will, her mind ranged back, months ago, back to the time when they’d actually caught Marstoke. He’d been locked up in Newgate while the crown dithered, scurrying to discover the extent of his crimes and trying to decide what to do with him. Stoneacre had been a frequent visitor, as he tried to decipher the marquess’s coded records and convince him to cooperate with the crown’s investigations. No one knew how the Wicked Marquess had escaped. She recalled how cold and broken she’d felt when she heard. She recalled how furious Stoneacre had been.

  She recalled that he had been Marstoke’s last registered
visitor.

  A great, forlorn shiver went through her.

  She stood. Seizing the grief and crushing disappointment that welled higher with every second, she crushed it, used it, and coalesced it into anger and purpose.

  Sticking her head out of the door, she hailed a maid down the passageway, carrying an armful of linen from a room. “Send to a livery and have a horse saddled for a lady and waiting in the courtyard. Fifteen minutes. No more.”

  Moving swiftly, refusing to think of anything except speed and escape, she stripped off her finery and donned her serviceable, dark traveling clothes.

  She couldn’t go back to Amelia’s. That was the first place he would look.

  But, where?

  It didn’t matter. She had to go.

  It took only twenty minutes before she mounted up and headed out of Bath.

  Stoneacre lurked in a narrow stairwell at the back of the Red Fox Inn. Below, in the basement, two men worked, shifting crates and barrels.

  “Damn that man, straight to hell,” one of them rasped. “Who in bleedin’ hell does he think he is? The only smuggler in Bath lookin’ for storage?”

  “Why bother wit’ him, then?” the other asked. Derision filled his tone. “He’s naught but a toff.”

  “Naught but a toff?” the first repeated, incredulous. “And here’s ye, askin’ every week why I don’t hand the place over to ye? And then you up and just bleat out somethin’ so damned ignorant?”

  “Ignorant? Why?”

  “If ye think he’s just a toff and not the most vicious whoreson you ever met, then ye don’t deserve to empty dustbins, let alone run my business.” The first man spat audibly. “Now move those casks closer to the stairs. I’ll put the crates over here and we’ll leave the whole wall open for him.

  The other man grumbled again. Stoneacre didn’t make out the words.

  “Aye. Aye. Just stay on his good side, ’tis all we gotta do. Hell’s bells, at least we ain’t transformin’ the whole place, like old Geordy Tieck. Damned fool should know better than to go all in with a man like that.”

  The sound of rolling casks drowned out the rest, but Stoneacre had heard enough. Damned if Hestia hadn’t predicted exactly this development. It must be Marstoke they spoke of, and now he had storage for his opium and perhaps even a functioning den on the way, if he’d interpreted that last exchange correctly.