The Wild Marquis

by Miranda Neville

  Cain was torn between defending Juliana’s ability to stock good books and a fervent desire to keep everyone away from her poetry section. His instinct was to take carriage to St. Martin’s Lane without a moment’s delay and search her shop for further incriminating surprises. Whoever had planted the quarto, he thought with rising anger, wasn’t playing games. It was sheer luck that Juliana hadn’t already been accused of theft.

  “Mrs. Merton said nothing to me about any new acquisitions,” he said. “And we were discussing poetry only this afternoon. I fear the rumor is unfounded.”

  “Sadly, rumors so often are,” Tarquin said.

  “But,” Cain continued, “I would like to know how this tale began. It seems someone is playing a little joke on Mrs. Merton, and I do not believe that is kind to an unprotected lady.”

  He glared at Iverley. Not that he suspected him, but he suddenly resented the scruffy collector’s every disparagement of Juliana.

  His rage seemed to penetrate Iverley’s habitual abstraction. “I may not have much time for women, Cain, but I don’t go round playing ‘little jokes’ on them.”

  “Do you suppose the inebriated Mr. Newman invented the tale himself?”

  Iverley thought for a moment. “No. Someone else must have told him.”

  “Would he tell me who?” Cain was quite prepared to throttle the truth out of Mr. Newman if necessary.

  “If he knows. Newman never forgets a book and never remembers a name or a face.”

  Cain would stop at the Red Lion before he returned to St. Martin’s Lane. First he had a task to perform.

  His heavy coat brushed a tower of books on the end of one of the long tables where Matthew Gilbert was seated.

  “I do beg your pardon,” he said to the visibly irritated man, steadying the tottering pile by picking up several volumes and rearranging them so they lined up nice and straight.

  Childish, yes, but Cain hoped the pompous bookseller would be just a little embarrassed when the missing quarto turned up among them.

  “I’ve had two people come in and ask for poetry in the last hour!” Juliana almost dragged Cain into the shop and relocked the door.

  “I’m surprised it’s not more,” he said.

  She felt chilled when he told her what he’d discovered. The excitement of deciphering Cassandra’s code had driven the question of how the book got into her shop to the back of her mind. But as first one and then a second customer asked for poetry, she’d begun to panic, closed the shop, and started an organized search through her shelves. Books she hadn’t touched in months were dusted off to see what mysteries might lurk behind them.

  “Someone wants to get me into trouble,” she said. “But who?”

  “I couldn’t get anything out of this Newman fellow. Sebastian Iverley was right. Newman had no idea who told him the story about you.”

  “Who? What about why? What have I ever done to anyone? I cannot think of a single person who has even the smallest reason for a grudge against me.”

  Juliana actually found this fact depressing. There were no booksellers envious of her superior success, no disgruntled collectors whom she’d beaten out for an important purchase. The sad truth was, she’d done nothing even to ruffle a feather or two, let alone inspire spite and retaliation.

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” Cain said. “Whoever placed the book here knew it meant something special to you.”

  “I agree.”

  “And he seems to have been looking for something in the volume.”

  “Yes.”

  “We have no way of knowing if he found anything, but we certainly did. And that is too much of a coincidence for me. I refuse to believe that what the thief sought and what we discovered are unrelated to each other.”

  “Do you suppose the thief found the inscription too?”

  “My guess is not, or if he did he couldn’t decipher it. If my idea is correct, he would never let you get near the volume if he knew what it said.”

  Finally Juliana understood where Cain’s argument was leading. “You mean this person wouldn’t want me to know about my parents, about Cassandra and Julian.”

  “Exactly. I think he was looking for proof of their marriage. Perhaps he found something hidden in the binding, perhaps not. Either way, he then decided to get you into trouble by planting the book, a book that many people know you wanted, in your shop.”

  Juliana’s head reeled. Since she had spent her entire life believing herself baseborn, the possibility of discovering her father’s identity and her parents’ marriage was enough to take in for one day. Add a conspiracy to have her branded a thief and Cain’s theory of how the facts were connected, and she felt her composure unravel.

  “It’s all nonsense, Cain. You’re making this up to suit your own goals. You want to marry me to save you the trouble of finding a young woman of your own station. Who else would even care whether my parents were married or not? No one, that’s who. No one!”

  She stared at the ground, avoiding meeting his eyes. Something cold and wet nudged her hand. She sank to her knees and buried her face in the bulldog’s brindled neck. Quarto was a safe source of consolation.

  “Juliana?” Her name was a caress close to her ear. Looking up she found Cain squatting beside her, his blue eyes deep and kind. To her relief he made no attempt to touch her. She didn’t want to find herself weeping in his arms again. She didn’t want to rely on Cain for her peace of mind.

  “Juliana, my dear, you are upset. Hardly astonishing under the circumstances. What has happened today is not about me and my wishes. You are the center of this story. At the very least there is a mystery to solve concerning your birth, and it seems only too likely that someone else is interested in the truth as well.”

  His words comforted and calmed her. She took a deep breath, and the chance of succumbing to a fit of the vapors subsided. “There’s no sense to it. It’s not as though my legitimacy would make me heiress to a fortune.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  Her abating distress was accompanied by a commensurate awareness of Cain’s proximity: the sleek planes of his face with a hint of afternoon shadow on chin and jaw; the faint, clean masculine scent; muscled thighs brushing her skirts where she knelt on the dusty wooden floor; his intent gaze fixed upon her face.

  She stood up and stepped back. “I told you. My grandfather…My God, he really was my grandfather! My grandfather died in debt.”

  “But the estate that went to your cousin? Would your mother have inherited it?”

  Juliana shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t believe so. There was never a question of my having it, so I never asked. I do know Frederick complained bitterly about having to find a thousand pounds in the estate for me. It was one of the excuses he gave for not letting me keep any of the books.”

  “Did you ask him for the Romeo and Juliet?”

  “Many times. He said I didn’t deserve another penny.”

  “So Frederick Fitterbourne knew the book was significant?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “He did.”

  “I think a conversation with Cousin Frederick is in order.”

  “He’s in Wiltshire,” she said stupidly.

  “I shall leave tomorrow.”

  “You’ll leave tomorrow?”

  “No! I’m not leaving you here. We’ll go together.”

  “What has it to do with you?”

  “Listen to me,” he said. He caught her shoulder and turned her, then took her face in his two hands, forcing her to look at him. What she saw there was new to her, an expression of deep concern and gravity. There was no trace of the cynicism, defiance, or even the humor that usually dressed Cain’s features.

  “Listen, Juliana. My supposition about what is going on may be completely mistaken. But you are in trouble, perhaps in danger. And I am not going to leave you to face this alone. I take care of my friends.”

  Chapter 16

  His final argument persuaded Julian
a. “I need a place for some of my servants to stay for a few days,” he said, couching it as a favor to him. “They can guard the shop and feed the dog.”

  She said yes, thank God. Cain wasn’t prepared to leave her in London without him, not even with half a regiment for protection. He could scarcely bear to leave her for the night. He sent for Tom and Peter, his youthful footmen, to set up camp downstairs, but he would have felt better—in a number of ways—if he shared her bed.

  Together they planned a discreet departure from London. Cain’s personal traveling carriage, he assured Juliana without cracking a smile, was a very ordinary-looking equipage, a chaise painted a sober black. With the use of hired horses and postilions from the very beginning of the journey, no one would penetrate his disguise. Lord Chase would disappear to make way for Mr. John Johnson, a merchant of awful propriety and a most suitable second husband for a widowed bookseller.

  The next morning found him waiting at Charing Cross. Following the principle of hiding in plain sight, he’d agreed to meet Juliana at one of London’s busiest corners. The furtive nature of their departure for Salisbury was as much to protect Cain’s reputation as Juliana’s. Now was not the time for him to be jaunting around the countryside in company with a female. None of the citizens going about their affairs paid the least attention to him, clad as he was like a man of little consequence.

  She was late. Mel was supposed to have arrived at St. Martin’s Lane with the carriage an hour ago. Cain pulled his topcoat closer and huddled his shoulders against a stiff breeze. He wouldn’t have expected the efficient Juliana to keep him waiting, but Mel, once she got started, could talk the hind legs off a donkey. He occupied the time imagining the discourse between that unlikely pair. And fighting the urge to run the few hundred yards to the bookshop to fight off murderous book collectors armed with…whatever murderous book collectors wielded.

  Frederick Fitterbourne might be the obvious candidate for their villain but he was in Wiltshire. Whoever broke into the shop and hid the book was in London.

  At last he recognized his traveling carriage passing the King’s Mews, making slow progress due to the frequent stops of other vehicles in the busy commercial thoroughfare. Tired of delay, he crossed the street and met it as it reached the corner of the Strand.

  “You’re late,” he said, slamming the door.

  He settled into the front-facing seat, next to Juliana, and felt his chest expand with relief and anticipation.

  It felt good to get out of London. Esther was safe at their aunt’s, and the law proceeded at its customary treacle pace. So he’d exhumed the garments he’d worn before he inherited his fortune, told his aunt and household he had business at one of his estates, and disappeared.

  His spirits soared at the adventure ahead of him. And his company on the quest.

  “I had to show Mrs. Duchamp everything,” Juliana explained. “And change my clothes.”

  “Are you warm enough? Why don’t you take off your pelisse? I’d like to see the gown.”

  He’d sent Mel around to the ever-obliging Mrs. Timms for garments suited to a widowed tradeswoman traveling to visit relations, accompanied by her affianced husband. He’d absolutely insisted that his “betrothed” not be dressed in black.

  “I like the color,” he said, with a slight frown. “And the cut too. It suits you, but it’s still too sober.” The revealed traveling dress in blue wool was distressingly decent. “I wonder if Mrs. Timms is changing her clientele.”

  Juliana liked her new dress and loved the compliment. Her blush was caused by the knowledge that it fastened behind, as did her new stays. She wasn’t sure she could manage them alone.

  She’d worry about that later.

  Meanwhile, she decided, she’d have her adventure. Though she didn’t share Cain’s optimism about the outcome, she could at least enjoy the opportunity to travel out of London for the first time in four years. And in such comfort.

  “By the way, Cain.”

  “Yes?”

  “You told me your carriage was quite undistinguished.”

  “It’s black, plain and unmarked.”

  “And quite roomy.”

  “I had it specially made.” His lips widened the merest twitch and his eyes began to twinkle. “According to a Russian design. I’ve never seen why one should travel in discomfort.”

  “The upholstery is velvet again.”

  “What other kind is there?”

  “I’ve never seen red velvet seats.”

  “I like all my carriages to match my book bindings.” He reached forward and tugged on a handle under the seat in front of them. A panel opened up to reveal a hidden compartment. “May I offer you a bite to eat? Or a glass of brandy, if it isn’t too early.”

  By the time they reached Andover the evening was well advanced. They might have spent the night at Basingstoke, where they’d stopped to dine, but Cain appeared as eager as she to press on. They’d spent hours of the journey discussing recent events and the light Frederick Fitterbourne might be able to cast on them. Between the two of them there were plenty of theories, but their speculations only left them in desperate need of more information. The sooner they reached Salisbury the better.

  Juliana had barely considered that she was about to spend the night with Cain in an obscure inn, chosen because it didn’t cater to the gentry.

  “A room for myself and my wife. The name is John Johnson.”

  Unable to disagree with the statement without causing a scandal, Juliana simmered her way upstairs in the landlord’s wake.

  When planning the journey they’d agreed to present Cain to Frederick Fitterbourne as her betrothed, though not under his true name. It was far more likely that Frederick would agree to reveal the truth to her future husband than to Juliana herself. Cain hadn’t broken the news of their changed marital status on the road.

  Once alone with him in a small but clean room, Juliana folded her arms and glared. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to tell the landlord we’re married?”

  “I thought you’d object.”

  “Wrong question,” she said through gritted teeth. “Why did you say we’re married?”

  “You need help with your buttons. Probably your stays too.” Trust him to have noticed that.

  “I can call for a chambermaid,” she said frostily.

  Yet a nagging voice in her mind asked what she was making such a fuss about. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t already shared a bed with Cain, and enjoyed it.

  The slightly shabby coat and breeches he wore detracted not one whit from his appeal. He looked just as good as he did in fashionable pantaloons and figure-fitting tailoring. He still held himself like a great, sleek cat: slender, strong, and flexible as a whip. She knew with what pleasure that body could affect her own.

  She’d thought him in one of his teasing moods, the blue eyes dancing with laughter. Then his gaze darkened. It wasn’t the color that altered, but the mood.

  “We may have been followed,” he said. “I thought you were safe out of London but I’m not taking any chances. You can argue all you like but you are not staying alone in this room.”

  She began to speak.

  “I’ll sleep on the floor,” he interrupted, “and that’s my best offer.”

  She’d been about to give in, to agree to sleep with him. But that was not, apparently, what he wanted. He hadn’t even asked. She felt a little foolish. She’d believed he’d come up with an elaborate excuse to get her back into bed, but apparently he was only concerned for her safety.

  Which was gratifying.

  Highly gratifying.

  Of course, being a man he’d probably lie with her if she offered. But regardless of what had happened, no matter that she was hugely grateful for his assistance, all the arguments that made her refuse to be his mistress still applied. As for his continuing whim about marrying her? The notion wasn’t worth serious consideration.

  It was a very good thing he wasn’t really interes
ted.

  What a fool he was! He could have had her.

  He could now be drifting into sleep, pleasurably tired. Juliana could be curled up in his arms, her sighs of satisfaction fading to the deeper breath of slumber.

  She was enjoying slumber all right. And he was miserable, his body wound up after a day in the carriage, longing for movement and exercise.

  He didn’t understand his restraint where Juliana was concerned. Why the hell didn’t he just seduce her, as he had countless women? He knew he could and he knew she’d enjoy it. She already had. Even now he could slide into bed beside her, caress her to wakefulness, and arouse her to passion.

  He cursed his own scruples and tried to find a soft spot on the rough wooden floor. A pillow, a single blanket, his topcoat, and Juliana’s cloak were not enough to make an acceptable bed. The room wasn’t warm either. Damn it, unselfishness went only so far. If he had to control himself, let him at least do it in comfort.

  She murmured but didn’t awaken when he joined her in the bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. He lay on his back for a while, staring at nothing in the dark room, Juliana’s warmth and light violet scent tickling his senses.

  A rustle of bedclothes, movement, then the warmth was no longer two feet away but tucked against his body. It was just as well he was clothed. He turned onto his side and gathered the sleeping woman close, nestling her head under his chin.

  Cain smiled to himself ruefully. One of London’s most noted libertines in bed with a beautiful woman, and letting her sleep. He hugged her a little tighter.

  Strangely enough, he felt quite content.

  Chapter 17

  The following afternoon Cain visited the village of Fernley. Since Juliana would be recognized by the local people, Cain went alone to discover what he could about Frederick Fitterbourne’s current circumstances before they called on him.

  It didn’t take many minutes in the public house to learn that George Fitterbourne hadn’t been highly regarded among his neighbors and tenants. The application of Cain’s purse to the beer supply turned polite but reserved conversation into freely expressed opinion.