Masquerading the Marquess

by Anne Mallory

  Continuing to the right was the baron whose features were as inscrutable as usual in his tanned face. The shadows concealed the lower portion of his face, but Stephen would have bet a five o’clock shadow had already appeared, the bane of his valet’s existence. The baron was a good friend and Stephen had always admired him for his ability to mask his emotions, a most useful tool for a spy.

  The only other non-titled gentleman, whom Stephen referred to as Mr. Righteous, looked faintly bored with the proceedings, a strange reaction considering the importance of the topic at hand. The man’s pinched features usually looked to be on the verge of shattering but today appeared less brittle than usual.

  Stephen wound down his presentation.

  "In Paris, are you sure?" The duke looked aggrieved.

  Stephen nodded.

  "But how would it come to be there?"

  "I believe—" Stephen hesitated as he looked at Holt, who was rolling a ring in his right hand, while stroking his chin with his left. The insignia design on the ring was a bird of prey.

  Stephen had seen a ring just like it the night before.

  "—it was moved two months ago. We still have time to eliminate it," Stephen continued, picking up his line of thought quickly. Dangerous thoughts were racing through his mind.

  Discovering Calliope Minton alive, the ring and the spy list, all within a matter of weeks. Stephen didn’t believe in coincidences.

  The men in the room continued to ask questions and plan strategy, as other questions circled through Stephen’s head.

  The old but clear memory of his mentor’s dying expression came rushing back and he had to fight the need to hurry home. It was imperative he reach his townhouse.

  Calliope’s maid bustled into the room. "Is there anything else, miss?"

  "No, Betsy, thank you. Have the others left?"

  "Yes, miss. The footman, Herbert and I are the last to leave." Betsy was bobbing and shifting her feet back and forth as if the floorboards had turned into hot coals.

  "Have a good night, Betsy. "

  "You too, miss." Betsy hesitated in the door- way. "Begging your pardon, miss, but I’d like to thank you for giving us the night off. Some of the others might think you’re a tad strange, but I think you’re an angel."

  Calliope coughed into her handkerchief to hide her smile. "Thank you, Betsy, that means a lot."

  "Good night, miss."

  Betsy turned and sprinted down the hall. Her footsteps echoed in the empty house. Calliope smiled in triumph. Stephen owed her a lemon ice. He had been so sure Betsy and Johnson, the driver, had a romance. Calliope had put her money on Herbert.

  There were two at least who were going to enjoy their free night. Hopefully Grimmond was having a good time too.

  Calliope applied the finishing touches on her makeup. Tonight she and Stephen were attending a small party given by an aging roué.

  She looked at the ornate clock on her table. There was still quite a bit of time before Stephen if would arrive. She picked up her sketchbook and started drawing.

  A sketch took shape. Thorny rosebushes hemmed in the background. A garden bench faced sideways. A debutante leaned back against the bench, attempting to get away from a foul-breathed old man leaning toward her. A young dandy had one foot on a globe and was pinching the debutante from behind. She knew exactly how the girl felt. Stephen’s laughing presence had saved her on more than one occasion from bloodying a nose.

  Some men were more difficult to handle than others. Although she had felt Angelford’s stare frequently in the past few days, he had refrained from approaching her outright. It was as if he had decided to end the cat-and-mouse game they had been playing for weeks. She wasn’t sure why the thought brought a stab of disappointment. Being away from his overpowering presence made it much easier to formulate sketch ideas. She flipped the page and moved her hand absently across the paper.

  Calliope checked the clock again. Little time had passed. Why was she so uneasy? She looked at the new page. She was alone in a ballroom and the walls were closing in. Calliope blinked. Where had the notion originated?

  A floorboard creaked. She whipped around, but no one was there. The silence of the house stretched. It was just the house settling, nothing else. Funny how one became so sensitive to noise. The Dalys’ house was always teaming with sound. From the younger boys bounding from room to room to the ragamuffin dog scurrying about, someone or something was always raising a fuss.

  Stephen’s servants usually bustled about, but now the house felt watchful. Calliope shifted in her seat. She would convince Stephen to stay in his room down the hall tonight.

  Maybe she should get a spot of tea to calm her nerves. She smiled. Tonight she could brew her own tea without receiving raised eyebrows and darting glances from the servants. Grimmond had nearly had apoplexy the first time she’d fetched her own drink.

  Poor Grimmond had been uncomfortable leaving the townhouse. Calliope had almost needed to resort to pushing him out the door and latching it behind him. She had finally hinted he could check on how things were faring at Stephen’s primary residence. Grimmond had never complained about his interim role, but she knew he worried about Stephen.

  She couldn’t wait to find out from Stephen how much bullying Grimmond had done in the few hours he’d been back.

  The rest of the staff thought her a trifle odd; Betsy’s well-intentioned appreciation had confirmed Calliope’s suspicions. Giving them the night off had only increased their perception of her as peculiar. Peculiar, maybe, but every one of them, bar Grimmond, had disappeared as soon as their shift was complete.

  The servants’ perceived notions of hierarchy excluded her from joining them. She had scoffed at how the nobility treated their servants. Yet her servants had not allowed her to treat them any differently. She poked her pen into the inkwell. She’d redouble her efforts to win the servants over. She wasn’t part of the nobility; the servants would eventually relate to her.

  She sighed. She missed the camaraderie of the active theater atmosphere. But loneliness could be kept at bay. The endless parties and ideas were what she had wanted. And they were what she had received.

  Calliope looked down at her paper. The walls had gotten closer and there were faces in the windows.

  Tea. Go get some tea, you ninny.

  The floorboard in her room creaked again, and suddenly the kitchen seemed a long way off.

  Calliope gathered her remaining courage and descended the stairs to brew a cup and wait for Stephen.

  * * *

  The man gazed at the slim shaft of light coming from the townhouse window. The little filly was probably getting ready for a big night out. He spat on the sidewalk, and a snarl curved his lips. Fancy men and their fancy pieces. He had no use for the first, but the latter might make a fun bit of sport when this assignment was over. A wicked gleam lit his eyes. A fun bit, indeed.

  Footsteps interrupted his thoughts. A young lad ran up the path toward the house. The man pulled out a baton and held still. The lad moved just past his hiding spot. Thunk. The boy crumpled lifelessly to the ground. The man stepped over the slight body and rifled through the boy’s pockets.

  Picking up an envelope, he ripped it open and scanned the contents.

  Cal, leave the house immediately. Take the carriage to the Dalys'. I will explain when I reach you.

  Stephen

  Good, the man thought. Very good. He looked up at the weak but steady stream of light from the window. No rush here. Nothing to tip the gal off. He could take his time dealing with Chalmers and finish here later. He rifled through the rest of the boy’s clothes, pocketing some loose bills and a most likely stolen pocket watch, and then he lifted the inert body and melted into the shadows.

  * * *

  Stephen backed against the cold railing. He was outnumbered. The rotten stench of the Thames drifted up to the bridge, but couldn’t quite mask the odor of the ruffians surrounding him.

  They rushed him, and he manage
d to lodge a few damaging blows before the sheer number of hands beat him to the ground. Then their feet took over. He felt a heavy object hit the back of his skull and the ground became fuzzy.

  "Enough." A tall man advanced to the front. His voice was low and masked like his face and hair. He was obviously in charge.

  The attackers backed away, and Stephen gasped for air. He hauled himself up against the bridge railing. The pain in his head was excruciating and his chest seared. His insides felt like collapsed dominoes.

  Stephen searched the small, blurred crowd and found no help, only bloodlust.

  "Where is the ring?" The tall man asked.

  Stephen reached behind him and felt the other side of the railing. He grunted in pain. "Go to hell, traitor."

  "Too bad that’s your attitude, Chalmers. I believe we could have done business together had you been willing to be more cooperative. However, under the circumstances . . ." The man shrugged, and the gesture confirmed his identity. Stephen had spoken with him no more than five hours earlier.

  The puzzle was solved. Stephen finally had answers, but it was too late. He coiled his remaining strength.

  The tall man gestured to a burly ruffian wielding a club. "Leonard, y0u know what to do."

  Stephen waited for the thugs to make a swath large enough for the man called Leonard to advance, and then he launched himself over the railing.

  "Bloody hell!" he heard from the street above before he plunged into the cold, dark waters of the Thames. His last thought before all went black was a prayer that Calliope had left the townhouse, and that James had received his hastily scrawled message.

  Calliope began to worry. It was growing late, and Stephen hadn’t arrived or sent a note. Normally, he was annoyingly punctual, so when he hadn’t arrived at nine she had to wave off a feeling of unease. When he hadn’t shown by ten she began pacing. When he hadn’t arrived by eleven she was ready to go searching.

  The mantel clock struck midnight.

  Anxiously, she peered through the front window but could see nothing amiss. The street looked empty. The nearly moonless night made it difficult to see. A prickling on the back of her neck made her close the drapes. If she weren’t feeling so skittish already, she would have sworn she was being watched.

  Things hadn’t gone as planned, the man reflected as he watched the pretty face disappear from the window. His employer hadn’t been pleased with the outcome. Who would have thought Chalmers would be crazy enough to jump?

  The man shrugged. Let the others search for Chalmers in the filthy waters. He alone would find the ring and be rewarded.

  A hard, cold-eyed smile crossed his harsh features.

  He would find it right after he found out if the lady knew its location. He hoped she did. The spirit he had glimpsed in her would serve him well. Dragging the information out of her slowly would be quite pleasurable.

  They didn’t call him Curdle for nothing.

  Calliope walked to her wardrobe, intent on packing her overnight things and heading to the Dalys’. She sensed something was wrong, could almost taste it in the air. She had a number of things out and ready to pack when she heard another squeak. The creak in the front door hadn’t been fixed yet, and she was suddenly glad. Her glance flew around the room and settled on the beautiful gold and mahogany cane she always kept nearby. She grasped it and padded softly to the bedroom door, her stomach clenched tightly. She heard footsteps ascending the stairs. She wiped her cold brow.

  A door opened down the hallway and closed half a minute later. Another door was opened and closed. Her door was next.

  Calliope raised the heavy rod above her head as the door to her room slowly opened. A man’s boot was thrust into the doorway, and the rest of his body followed.

  She pulled the cane down with all the strength she could muster, but the rod was easily caught in his hand. She pulled the cane back to jab the intruder in the side, but he yanked her forward.

  Calliope found herself hauled unceremoniously against the hard chest of the Marquess of Angelford. He looked down at her, expressionless. Her mouth hung open, she panted slightly. His eyes turned molten and suddenly she was brilliantly aware of every place where his body pressed against her. He continued to melt her with his eyes and for a wild moment she thought he might kiss her. Instead he roughly picked her up and dumped her on the bed.

  Her voice came out a little more shrill than usual. "What do you think you’re doing? Are you trying to frighten me to death?"

  "The next time you want to do harm, might I suggest you employ the second technique first? Sidestepping an unseen jab is more difficult than catching a falling object."

  Her heart started to beat at regular intervals again and her initial relief gave way to anger. "And might I suggest that simply calling out a greeting or knocking at the door, which is the proper way to enter one’s house, might save us both the trouble?" She caught her breath and puckered her brow. "Why are you here in the first place?"

  He ignored her question and looked around her room. "Going somewhere?"

  She resisted the urge to bean him with the cane, not that she would succeed in inflicting any damage to his stone head. "That is none of your business. I repeat, why are you here?"

  "Where is Stephen?"

  She threw out her hands. "I don’t know. He’s not here."

  Angelford remained silent, but his narrowed eyes continued to scan the room. Her emotions were so riled she couldn’t quite separate all the feelings, but she recognized irritation. She jerked the coverlet on the bed. "Not here." She stomped over to the closet and yanked it open. Sarcasm dripped from her voice. "Not here either. "

  He walked over to a chair and sat. She couldn’t credit his gall but decided humoring him a bit might speed up his late, uninvited visit.

  "Would you like some tea, my lord? Crumpets, cakes, sandwiches?"

  She thought she might have seen the beginnings of a smile, but it was a fleeting impression.

  "I need to find Stephen as quickly as possible. Your help would be greatly appreciated." His voice was soft but direct, a voice used to being obeyed.

  Calliope was suddenly weary. "My lord, Stephen was supposed to arrive here at nine but hasn’t shown. l don’t know where he is, and quite frankly I’m worried."

  James surveyed the room. "Why are you packing?"

  Calliope couldn’t explain the irrational drive to leave the house as soon as possible. "It seemed a good idea."

  James strode to the window and looked out at the street. "Have you had any other visitors tonight?"

  .

  "No, you are the only unwanted guest this evening."

  This time she was sure she caught a brief glimpse of a smile.

  "Where is your staff?"

  "I gave them the evening off. "

  He frowned. "Then I will leave my man with you. Don’t be so foolish again."

  He strode from the room, forcing her to run to catch him. "Excuse me? I didn’t ask for your assistance or advice. So you can take 'your man' with you."

  He ignored her, and she felt like a small dog nipping at the heels of a mastiff. They reached the front hall. A giant of a man with a scar running down the left side of his face stood at the entrance.

  "Finn, stay with—" He looked back at her."—Miss Esmerelda tonight."

  She sputtered as he walked out the door.

  Calliope looked at the burly man who strongly resembled a tree trunk. "I don’t suppose I can convince you to leave?"

  Finn’s only response was a raised brow.

  The weight she had carried since nine o’clock lifted from her shoulders. Damn Angelford. She shook her head. "Well, might as well get you settled. Would you like something to eat?"

  Curdle swore.

  He had just managed to melt back into the shadows when the carriage arrived. A fancy and a bruiser had gone inside. Only the fancy had come out. He decided to leave the bruiser unchallenged for the lady and the ring. Patience was not his strong suit, but h
e would not be able to secure help tonight.

  There would be another time.

  Soon.

  James poured two fingers of scotch and settled into his favorite leather chair. He frowned and took a drink. He had been vaguely uneasy all night, sensing something was wrong. He had been at the club half-heartedly taking money from the other card players when Stephen’s cryptic note appeared. James’s senses had gone on alert.