Tempting the Marquess

by Sara Lindsey

  “Well, Charles,” Jason said as he followed him into the small sitting room. “What’s all this about? Don’t keep me in suspense any longer. What grave secret have you been keeping from me?”

  Charles had begun to pour out two snifters of brandy, but he jumped at Jason’s words and the liquid sloshed over the sides of the glass. He fumbled in his pockets for a handkerchief, but before he could find one Jason was already mopping up the mess with his own.

  Jason eyed his brother-in-law. “Jesus, man, you look like you’re about to be sick. Sit down and put your head between your knees.”

  “No. I—I’ve got to get this out before I lose my nerve. I should have told you years ago. I—” He brushed the back of his hand across his forehead, swiping at the beads of sweat that had gathered there. “Lord, I knew this would be difficult, but it’s even worse than I feared. How did I let Olivia talk me into this?”

  “Olivia! What does she have to do with this?”

  “I don’t suppose you would be willing to forget I mentioned her name?”

  “Not on your life,” Jason replied with grim determination. Then he slapped his palm against his forehead. “She told you about our disagreement, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “That little witch doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone. I warned her to stay out of my affairs, but did she listen? No, she kidnapped my son—”

  “But Edward admitted he—”

  “—and now she is trying to destroy this family with unpleasantness better left buried. Lord, I am sorry you had to find out like that. I had hoped to keep it from you. Or was that what you wanted to tell me? That you’ve known all along?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Just sit down and take your time, Charles. If it’s waited years, I’m sure it can bide a few minutes longer. Besides, whatever it is, I doubt it’s as bad as you believe.”

  Jason strolled to the window, hoping a bit of distance between them would ease the other man’s nerves. What in God’s name could he be hiding? There had been real remorse in Charles’s face and a genuine glint of fear in his eyes.

  Jason’s thoughts were diverted by the sudden tumult taking place where a crowd had gathered on the street below. A Runner was wrestling to take custody of a young man, little more than a boy from the looks of it. Two of the hotel porters were holding on to the lad, whose attire, black from head to toe, gave away his criminal occupation.

  “I do believe they’ve caught a burglar out there,” Jason remarked. The thief was wriggling and jerking about, trying desperately to free himself, but he was no match for the larger men.

  Charles got up and came over to take a look.

  “He’s putting up a good fight for such a small fellow,” Charles said admiringly.

  Jason frowned. There was something about the boy that didn’t add up. He didn’t have the lean, underfed look one usually associated with street urchins. His coat had ridden up during the scuffle with the porters, revealing a most nicely rounded—Jesus, what was wrong with him? Was he really still so hard up from his encounter with Olivia that he needed to ogle any arse that came into view?

  He turned from the window and walked across the room to the brandy. He picked up his glass but, on second thought, he set it back down. He’d clearly already had too much to drink if pederasty was beginning to appeal to him.

  Christ.

  The lad’s posture was wrong, too. Even in disgrace, it was dignified, erect. The kind of posture trained into aristocratic children from birth. And there was something about the arrogant tilt of the boy’s head, the way he stuck his chin in the air, which seemed horribly familiar.

  A very, very bad suspicion took root in the pit of Jason’s stomach.

  “Charles, tell me quickly, does this important matter you have to discuss with me concern Olivia?”

  “Yes, in a way. I already let it slip that she was the one who talked me into meeting with you.”

  “And did she know we were meeting here?”

  “I suppose so. She was listening in the drawing room when we were discussing our plans for the evening. Why?”

  “I think she tried to listen in here, too.” Jason strode back to the window. The police cart was gone. Damn. He braced his shoulder against the frame and heaved the window open.

  “Hey, you there,” he called out to a peddler woman. “Can you tell me what happened just now? There’s money in it for you.” He drew back a moment and instructed Charles to fetch some coins.

  “They caught a thief,” the old woman said. “A Runner come an’ took ’im off. Only ’im what were the thief said ’e weren’t an ’e at all but a she.” The crone’s cackle revealed a mostly toothless grin. “An’ she said she were the daughter of a lord, no less. They’ll be takin’ ’er, I mean ’im, or whate’er it was straight to Bedlam if’n they knows what’s good for ’em—”

  “Charles?” Jason held out a hand.

  “I don’t have anything smaller than a crown,” he complained.

  “Then I suppose it is this woman’s lucky day.” He took the coin and tossed it down to her. He didn’t wait to hear her thanks; he was already shutting the window.

  “Get your coat,” he told Charles, “and be quick about it.”

  Charles looked at him with horror. “She couldn’t mean that the thief who was taken off was . . . It’s not possible, I tell you. It’s just not possible. It’s like something out of one of those cheap novels Olivia is always—Oh. Oh, no.”

  Jason’s expression was grim. “My thoughts exactly.”

  Olivia was furious. And cold. And, though she hated to admit it, a bit frightened. She had never thought the truth might be thought so outlandish as to be impossible. Surely, she had pleaded with the constable, one or two young ladies of respectable upbringing had been caught sneaking about the streets of London. Meeting a lover, perhaps. He had allowed this to be true, though never on his watch, but a lady of quality would never, he intoned, roam about dressed like a boy.

  Olivia wished she could tell the man that stealthy business was much better conducted in breeches than skirts, but she doubted it would help her cause.

  This was all Charles’s fault. He must have known she’d want to listen in, and he’d gone and set the meeting at his bachelor’s quarters, that wretch! Didn’t he realize he wouldn’t be speaking to Jason at all if she hadn’t clued him in to what was going on? Excluding her was the very height of rudeness!

  If there was one thing Olivia hated (well, there were a lot of things she hated; forty-seven, according to the last list she’d made), it was being excluded. She’d been excluded by her parents and older siblings for being too young, and she’d been excluded by the younger ones for being too old. She’d been excluded because she was female, and she’d been excluded because she was unmarried.

  She’d decided that this time she wasn’t going to stand for it. Not when her future happiness hung in the balance. She needed to know how Jason responded to Charles’s confession. She felt she couldn’t trust Charles’s observational skills with a matter of this delicacy and importance, and she really hadn’t wanted to wait for those observations until the following day. And, foolish though it might be, Livvy needed to be close to Jason when the blow fell. He wasn’t the sort of man to admit he needed comfort, but she wanted to be near enough to provide it all the same.

  She’d vowed to spy on the men and listen in on their conversation if it was the last thing she did. And it might be. Stealing was a hanging offense, and the constable interrogating her thought she was a thief.

  Olivia wanted to bang her head against the wall, but it looked dirty and sort of . . . crawly. She shivered. When she’d slipped Jason’s pocket watch into her jacket, she’d thought herself remarkably clever. She would be able to keep track of the time and, heaven forbid she found herself in trouble, she’d have an expensive bargaining chip. Now it might be the noose around her neck.

  “Now, missy,” the constable said sternly, “e
ven if I did believe you were out to meet a lover, which I don’t, there’s still the matter of this watch.” He pulled it out of his pocket, where he had placed it for safekeeping, and inspected it in the dim light. “You’ve confessed to it not being yours.”

  “Of course it isn’t mine. What use would a woman have for a gentleman’s pocket watch? But I didn’t steal it.”

  “Then how did it come into your possession, eh?”

  “Well, that’s a bit more complicated, but if you would just see reason, you would realize I could not have stolen Lord Sheldon’s watch from the hotel because he isn’t staying there.” Olivia gave the constable her most winning and, she hoped, convincing smile.

  “So the watch belongs to this Lord Sheldon, does it?”

  “Yes,” she agreed, wondering if she was digging herself into a deeper hole, “but the marquess isn’t staying at the hotel—”

  “The marquess? Odsbodlikins, an’ this could turn into a fine mess! And how would you know where he’s staying? Been tracking the cove’s movements, like?”

  The constable’s speech, Livvy learned, deteriorated when he was upset. Of course, she had been watching Jason, but she decided the good constable didn’t need to know that. She shook her head emphatically. “When he is in London, Lord Sheldon resides in Mayfair. As I told you earlier, my aunt was married to the current marquess’s father, and I have been staying with her at Lord Sheldon’s town house.”

  “Well, an’ if that’s the case, I should see you home. We’ll go pay a call on her ladyship right now, shall we?”

  Olivia shook her head violently, horrified by this suggestion. Her reputation would be ripped to shreds if anyone saw her being hauled like a common criminal before the front door of the town house. And someone would see her, no matter the late hour. The residents of Mayfair thrived on scandal, and so did their servants. Within minutes a crowd would be gathered to witness her disgrace. Come to think, that had already happened once tonight but, by the grace of God, she hadn’t been recognized.

  If word of this escapade got round she would never be able to hold her head up in Society, not that she would ever again be allowed out of her room once her mother caught wind . . . She swallowed hard at the thought.

  The constable smirked. “Changed your mind, have you?”

  “Not for the reasons you suspect,” Olivia sniffed. “I don’t wish to bring scandal down upon my family, and your presence in Mayfair would cause nothing but trouble. It doesn’t follow that I came by the watch dishonestly.”

  “Aye, and I suppose you’ll next be telling me that the marquess himself made you a present of it.”

  “No. Not exactly.” The situation was so ridiculous, hysterical laughter began to bubble up inside her.

  The constable frowned. “This isn’t a laughing matter, miss. What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?”

  A nervous giggle escaped her. Then another. “I’m terribly sorry,” she trilled. “The marquess did not give me the pocket watch.”

  The constable scribbled something in his notebook.

  “His son, Edward, presented me with the piece just this morning. It was a small token of his affection in light of our betrothal.”

  “Now see here. Are you telling me you’re engaged to Sheldon’s son?”

  “No,” Olivia sighed, “I am afraid not. Lord Bramblybum decided we wouldn’t suit, no matter how good my bedtime stories were.”

  The constable closed his notebook with a sharp slap. “If you think I’ll be gammoned into some Banbury tale about a Lord Bumblebun—”

  “Bramblybum,” Livvy corrected.

  “I don’t know what game you think you’re playing at, miss, but it’s my guess that a night here won’t do you any harm and will make you a mite more cooperative and inclined toward making sense.”

  The air left Olivia’s lungs in a whoosh.

  “No, please, I’m sorry. Edward did give me the watch this morning, truly he did. And he really is Lord Bramblybum. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. I was at the hotel tonight because I wanted to eavesdrop on a conversation between the marquess and his brother-in-law. I know I must seem stupid to you—indeed, I wonder at my own foolishness—but it is very difficult being shut out of things, and these sorts of plots always seem to work in books. I used to know where the stories in books ended and real life began, but lately everything seems so confused that I can’t quite tell the two apart the way I ought.”

  She was so miserable, so utterly appalled at the situation she’d got herself into, she put her face in her hands and began to cry. The night had started out so exciting. As she’d sneaked out, dressed in a motley ensemble of dark clothing she’d somehow cobbled together, Livvy had thought how she was more like her older sister than she had imagined. She was supposed to be the rational sister. The one who planned and made lists. And to some extent she still was, since she could have easily made a list of all the reasons why she shouldn’t be doing what she was doing, but she was still doing it. Caution and common sense had deserted her.

  At least Izzie’d had an excuse when she’d sneaked out. She’d done it to save James’s life. Livvy’s only excuse was morbid curiosity. Izzie had also been going from their home in the country over to the neighboring estate, while Livvy planned to set off into London.

  Charles’s quarters were in a fairly fashionable neighborhood, so it wasn’t as if she was heading into a slum, at least not if she didn’t get lost, but there was no arguing that the city was a far more dangerous place. Her sister’s purpose—seduction—had smacked more of impropriety than Olivia’s plans to eavesdrop but, perhaps because she was acting on selfish curiosity, Livvy had felt what she was doing was a little more . . . wicked.

  Jason Traherne seemed to have that effect on her.

  Of course, the more Livvy had thought about everything that could go wrong, the more tempted she’d been to abandon the plan and spend the evening safely curled up with a novel. But even if she could have trusted Charles to give a good account—which she couldn’t—and even if she had been certain Jason would not need consoling—which she wasn’t (she was only certain he wouldn’t be vocal about his needs)—Olivia believed she had the right to be present at this meeting . . . or to listen in, at the very least.

  She had come too far and had given too much of herself to sit quietly while someone else decided what to do. For the first time in her life, instead of reading about heroines, Livvy had been determined to finally act like one and see her adventure to the end. In hindsight, she would have done well to remember the discomfort and despair heroines experienced for the better part of each book.

  Disappointed in love? Yes.

  Raw nerves? Most definitely.

  Sense of impending doom? Absolutely.

  In all truth, she didn’t want to be a heroine . . . or a thief, for that matter. She just wanted to be Olivia Jane Weston. She fumbled around in the pockets of the jacket. “Oh, bother,” she hiccuped. “I should have known he wouldn’t keep a handkerchief in his pockets.” She looked up at the constable, allowing all her emotions to show on her face. “A man with no feelings wouldn’t have need of one, would he?”

  “You’re telling the truth, aren’t you?” The constable handed her his handkerchief. “At first it was too ridiculous to be the truth, but now it’s too complicated to be anything else.”

  Olivia nodded.

  “Look, Miss—”

  “Weston,” Olivia supplied.

  “Look, Miss Weston, I’m willing to let you go, but—”

  “You will?”

  Oh, thank heaven! There was still time for her to get back home before anyone realized she wasn’t actually in bed with a headache.

  “But I don’t like the thought of you going about on your own. It’s late and the streets are no place for a lady.”

  There was a loud crash in the outer room and a man began to shout.

  “See what I mean?” he said. “London is full of ruffians. Heaven only knows what this on
e’s done. Better stay back, miss.”

  Livvy gulped. She knew that shout. . . .

  “I’m afraid that’s not a ruffian, sir,” she told the constable. “It’s a marquess.”

  Chapter 16

  “These most brisk and giddy-paced times.”

  Twelfth Night, Act II, Scene 4

  Jason was frantic with fear as he burst into the police office. He was absolutely furious, too, but he would deal with that once he knew Livvy was safe. He and Charles had gone straight to Bow Street, but Olivia wasn’t there. The magistrates and constables on duty had been greatly amused by their tale, but their laughter had faded when Jason had given one of them a black eye. He had never in his life been so glad to be the Marquess of Sheldon. It had been the only thing preventing them from locking him up.

  He and Charles decided it was possible that they had beat Olivia to the magistrate’s court, but after a time it became clear that she was not going to show up. Jason had been sick with worry. Had she managed to get away and was now wandering the streets of London? Had the Runner who’d taken her realized who she was and decided to hold her hostage? Scenarios flashed through his mind, each more gut-churning than the next. He’d sent Charles back to the town house to wait for a ransom note.

  He didn’t know what else to do. This feeling of helplessness was becoming distressingly familiar. As he got up to leave, one of the constables approached him.

  “What?” Jason snapped, perfectly willing to hand out another bruiser to the next person who thought the situation funny.

  The man, a dark, wiry chap, was not cowed by Jason’s foul temper. Of course, given his profession, that was likely a good thing.