How he was going to do that without making a total clunch of himself was up for debate. The Bow Street Runner had come back with sufficient evidence that the lady was who she said she was. The ambitious detective had even attempted to interview the current Marquess of Effingham, only to be told he was away from home.
The few servants the Runner had managed to interview had all been new and of little help, but Lady Marian’s whereabouts had seemed to be common knowledge, and it had coincided with the truth. There was no evidence that the lady flirting with Darley now was anyone other than the daughter of the late Marquess of Effingham.
So Reginald was going to have to rely on his own abilities to unmask the lady’s character. It would be no easy task. She had shown no particular interest in his suit these last days, and for good reason, he supposed. He had no title and as a younger son, his wealth was suspect. The lady wasn’t so impractical as to fall for a pretty face. And she had already warned him away from her little sister. He could not fathom how he was going to play out this charade.
Feeling as if he were made of stone, Reginald made his way across the crowded room in the direction of the happy pair.
* * * *
With a graceful flourish of long, skillful fingers, a silver coin appeared behind the groom’s grubby ear. Lamplight glittered off the coin as the fingers bounced it lightly up and down, flashing silver against a gloved palm, until suddenly, it disappeared in mid-air.
“How’d you do that?” Suspicious, the old man in wrinkled livery glared at the smooth cotton of the now-empty glove.
“As I said, magic.” Propped against the carriage, O’Toole crossed his bottle-green-clad arms over his chest.
“ ‘Tis a trick. Show me how to do it.” The old man shifted his glare to the younger man’s grinning composure.
“It’s not a trick. It’s magic. One has to be born with the magic touch.”
The old man scowled. “If ’twere magic, you’d be living like a king instead o’ grubbin’ stables.”
O’Toole shook his head. “Magic cannot be used for one’s own profit. Greed destroys the power. Magic can only be used for the benefit of others.”
The old groom glared at him stubbornly. “Then make me rich.”
O’Toole laughed. “Your greed isn’t any better than mine. Besides, making you rich wouldn’t necessarily be for your benefit.” He glanced toward the tall mansion glittering inside and out with lamps and candles and the sparkle of jewels. “Look at them in there. They got more than we can dream of, but do you think they’re all happy?”
“Ought to be,” the old man grumped, easing his aching bones onto a mounting block. “But they ain’t all plump in the pocket. Some’s not worth a bean more than we are. They just put on a good show.”
“There’s that, I suppose.” The silver coin flipped in the air over O’Toole’s hand again as he uncrossed his arms. “There’s some that would leave the likes of us unpaid for years rather than give up their pleasures.”
“Not my ladies,” the other man answered loyally. “They do their own mending and the like so as to make sure we get paid every quarter day.”
“Out to find rich husbands, are they?” The coin twirled in mid-air, disappeared, and reappeared as a penny.
Trying not to be impressed by this flashy display, the old man adjusted his baggy breeches. “Way of the world, it is. The young miss is a bit of a shy ’un, but my lady has already found ’erself a viscount. Belowstairs is waitin’ a ’appy announcement any day now. The young gentleman is said to be generous with his pockets. We’ll all be well to grass soon enough.”
“Well, I’m sure congratulations are in order. Does the young lady seem happy with her choice? Not stuck with an old codger, is she?”
The groom shrugged. “ ’Appy enough, I’d say. ’E’s not a well set-up sort, but ’e’s young. There’s nothin’ to complain of.”
“That’s good. The young lady my master’s been seein’ has a devil of a tongue. She ripped up at him royally the other day.”
The groom chuckled. “My lady ’as a bit o’ temper too. She’s taken a friend of the viscount’s into dislike. ’Eard ’er out on the street once a’tellin’ ’im what she thought o’ ’im. And Simmons said as ’ow she threw a pillow at ’im the other day, near to knocked the tea from his ’and and into ’is lap. Mighty uncomfortable that would ’ave been, I wager.”
The penny became two silver coins, then three, spinning and swirling in the lamplight between O’Toole’s gloved hands. He was grinning happily as he watched the coins.
“I daresay it would. Reminds me of the marquess I used to work for. Devil of a temper that man had. Wife was a quiet, pretty woman, didn’t quite know how to handle it when he went off on one of his rages. Never took them out on her, though. He’d ride his horse ‘til it came back lathered, apologize to the lads he’d combed over good, then go back to work with a smile as if all was well with the world again.”
The old man couldn’t help staring with widened eyes at the coins flickering silver in and out of the shadows. “That’s the way of my lady, all right. Do summit wrong, and she’ll scold until she peels the hide off your back, but do it right, and she gives you coins she ain’t got to spare.” He cackled softly to himself. “Teaches the young ’uns right quick to jump when they ought, it do.”
“Lady like that needs a strong man for husband, I would think. The young viscount come back at her when she wields her tongue?” The coins disappeared in the wink of an eye. O’Toole leaned over to remove one from the old man’s coat pocket.
“She ain’t ’ad cause to wield ’er tongue at ’im far as I ’eard. They get along like peaches and cream.” The groom began to surreptitiously search his other pockets.
“Odd.” A second coin appeared behind a horse’s ear. “The marquess used to yell at his daughter when she did something wrong, but then he loved her until she laughed after. When she got a bit older, she yelled right back. Sassy little chit. But anyone could see they adored each other. Seems like a lady with a temper ought to be that passionate about the one she is to marry.”
The groom shrugged and stood up as several footmen ran down the steps to search out requested carriages. “Ain’t fittin’ for a young lady to yell at a suitor, now, is it?”
As one of the footmen approached them, O’Toole disappeared his spinning coins. “Keep up the illusion until the vows are said, eh? Makes sense, that.”
He ambled off to his master’s carriage at a gesture from a footman. The old groom scratched his head and watched him go. The red-headed young man made an odd sort of groom with his fancy speech and all, but he was a good enough fellow.
Carefully, just in case, he searched his pockets one more time. The silver coin in his breeches pocket glittered just the way he remembered when he held it in the lamplight. Just for good measure, he bit it soundly. Real, not illusion.
* * * *
“Mama, I do not know how to bring him up to scratch.” Marian ignored her image in the mirror and turned to her mother, who was attempting to straighten the bow at her back.
“If only James were here, he would speak to him. This cannot go on much longer without an announcement being made. Perhaps I ought to say something to the gentleman.” This last came out with such doubt as to make the likelihood next to none.
Marian bit her bottom lip and turned around to examine the seed-pearl necklace at her throat. Mr. Montague had said the fake necklace would be ready in plenty of time for the ball. She tried not to think of her mother’s gentle admonition. She was devoting a great deal of time to Darley, at the expense of her few other suitors. If Darley never proposed, her reputation could be tarnished and she would never find another husband. It didn’t bear thinking about.
“I know it is all Mr. Montague’s fault,” she said out loud, then wished she’d bit her tongue. Hurriedly, she added, “I know Lady Agatha approves of me. Perhaps you could speak quietly of your concerns with her this ev
ening, and she will make Lord Darley see his duty.”
“She is rather a formidable lady.” The doubt was not as strong but still evident in Lady Grace’s voice as she stepped back to admire her handiwork.
Marian thought the lady quite congenial, but then, she was not prone to her mother’s diffidence. She had been told time and again that had she been a boy, she would be the spitting image of her father, and that evidently included her character, too.
The late marquess had been a neck-or-nothing type of man. She wished she could have known him better. It seemed a tragic fate that so vital a man could have been carried off by such a trivial complaint as an abscessed tooth that went neglected too long.
But with no father to press Lord Darley for his intentions, she was left to dangle at the viscount’s will. She would be angry with him, if she did not know Mr. Montague was undoubtedly behind her friend’s dilatoriness.
She had two options: She could make Lord Darley see that his diffidence was hurting her, or she could rake Montague over the coals. Neither alternative seemed practical, but the latter would be exceedingly satisfying.
She could hear Lily answering the door belowstairs, and she hurried to tie her bonnet ribbons. Darley had been unable to attend the lecture with her today, but he had offered Montague in his place. Perhaps this was the opportunity she needed. Somehow, she would have to persuade the man that she was not the monster of deceit that he claimed.
As she ran down the stairs, she saw Lily speaking to a red-haired man at the door. He was wearing what ought to be a groom’s jacket, she supposed, but it appeared to be rather fashionably tailored for all that. He was young and not overly tall, and his gaze was a trifle too insolent as he glanced up at her arrival. She almost imagined laughter in his eyes as he appraised her.
He hastily made a subservient bow and extended his hand with a note in it. “Mr. Montague regrets that he is unable to keep his appointment, but he places his carriage at your disposal, my lady.”
Marian gave the note a hasty glance. She had no reason to recognize Montague’s writing, but the hasty scrawl possessed his character. Irritated, she glared at the note as if its writer could feel her anger through the paper.
“At my disposal?” Marian gazed consideringly from the note to the young groom, who shifted uneasily at her expression. “Then I shall take my maid.”
Lily hurried to fetch her bonnet. The groom appeared increasingly nervous at being left standing in the foyer, but he held his hat and managed to twitch only once or twice while waiting. Marian still regarded him with suspicion, but she had no experience at driving a carriage. She needed his help.
When Lily was up in the groom’s seat and the groom was wielding the ribbons, Marian settled back against the cushions with a sigh of satisfaction. “Now, take me to Mr. Montague.”
The groom looked startled and allowed the reins to fall lax. The horses shook their heads in impatience. “He says I was to take you to the lecture, my lady.”
“He says he places the carriage at my disposal. I have a word or two I wish to say to Mr. Montague. Now where is he? Gossiping at Boodle’s? Admiring horses at Tattersall’s? Perhaps he is swindling some poor unsuspecting collector out of his books?”
The young groom sent the horses into a slow walk. He gave the lady beside him a sideways glance. “Greek curiosities, my lady. He is to see a man about some Greek curiosities.”
“How lowering to be cast aside for Greek curiosities. Very well, then I shall have to see these curiosities, too.”
The groom ducked his head and muttered something that might have been, “Yes, my lady.” He clucked the horses to a faster pace.
It took only a few minutes to recognize they were heading in the direction of the proposed lecture and not of the shops where such things as Greek curiosities might be found. Marian gave the red-headed groom a sharp look. “Where are we going?”
“Where Mr. Montague said to take you,” the groom replied with a hint of stubbornness.
She should have known Montague’s servants would be as disagreeable as he was. The horses had picked up their pace and were now trotting neatly down Grosvenor. “Stop the carriage,” she ordered.
He sent her a surprised look. “At which residence, my lady?”
“It does not matter. Just stop. I wish to get out.”
The stubborn tone returned to his voice. “I cannot do that, my lady. A lady cannot walk unescorted through these streets. My master would have my position if I allowed that.”
“Your master will never know if you just do as I say. I have no intention of going any further with you. Either you stop the carriage or I scream.”
Behind him. Lily leaned forward nervously and whispered, “She will do just that. Please, do not cross her any more.”
The freckles on the groom’s nose wrinkled into annoyance as he glanced at the irate lady. “Give me time to come about. I will take you home.”
Marian clutched her parasol and glared ahead, conscious that the young man beside her was larger and stronger than she was. She had never before had a servant argue with her. She wished she could box his ears.
“I do not wish to go home, sir. I wish to speak to Mr. Montague.”
The groom brought the carriage around and headed it back the way they had come. Jaw set, he replied, “And just as your father wished his bad tooth would go away, you will not get your wishes, my lady.”
He set the carriage to a fast pace, leaving Marian to stare at him in stunned silence.
* * *
Chapter 10
The fellow was, above all, insolent. You did say the carriage was to be at my disposal, did you not?” Still enraged and a trifle fearful of the encounter, Marian swirled about the drawing room, her skirts fluttering around her as she paced. She had excused the groom’s knowledge of the circumstance of her father’s death as common gossip. She couldn’t excuse his behavior.
Reginald tried to hide his amusement. “I did not say it was to be used to track me down so you might ring a peal over me. O’Toole is a bit of a character, though, I’ll admit. It would not surprise me to discover that he is not at all what he is said to be. But I cannot complain of his work, and I applaud his actions of yesterday. He did exactly right. You could not be left to walk home by yourself.”
Marian clenched her fists and swirled around to glare at her grinning nemesis. “Did you come just to gloat? Or had you some other reason to be here?”
“I have had word that your necklace will be ready on the morrow. I wish to be certain that you are still desirous of pawning it. I can handle the transaction in confidentiality and bring you the sum as soon as it is concluded, if that is your wish.”
Marian stared at the elegant gentleman lounging in the gilded chair. She had sent Lily off to fetch tea. They had only a few minutes for this discussion. She wished she could think faster. He was all that a gentleman should be, from the cropped curls at his brow to the polished toes of his Hessians. The only exception to his character was the laughter in his eyes and the tone of cynicism in his voice. She really ought to smack him for both.
He knew her dilemma. She did not wish to lower herself to dealing with those types who would loan money on a lady’s jewelry, yet she could not trust him to return with the entire sum. Her necklace might be lost forever if she did. She had heard the terrible worth of the necklace and knew she could never obtain such a sum as a loan, but she did not know precisely how much she could expect. It would be simpler to sell it outright and live on the proceeds.
Marian did not have time to voice her decision. The door swung wide and her mother entered, waving a heavily sealed letter. “It’s from him!” Her voice was breaking with excitement and trepidation.
“From whom?” Marian tried folding her hands calmly together as her mother entered, entirely ignoring the gentleman rising from the chair behind her. Lady Grace was not generally excitable. Marian sent Mr. Montague an uneasy look, but there was no simple way
he could disappear.
“From the marquess! He has asked us to attend him at the manor. The note is from his secretary. It seems the marquess is something of an invalid. I cannot believe it! After all these years, why would he write to us now?”
Marian noted their visitor’s frown. Knowing Montague was a great deal more informed about the ton than they, she took the letter from her mother’s hands and scanned it carefully. Without comment, she handed it to Mr. Montague.
He raised one expressive eyebrow at the contents, then returned it to her. “It’s been my understanding that the marquess had not been in England until recently. It is possible that he merely wishes to make your acquaintance.”
Lady Grace nervously twined her fingers. “It has been nearly twenty years. He could have sent some acknowledgement sooner than this. I don’t believe I shall go. I do not wish to go back there.”
Marian clenched the heavy vellum and tried not to scream a protest. She had only been three when her father died and her world turned inside-out. She had very little memory of the manor house to which she had been born. She would dearly like to see it again, to find if it jogged any memories of her father. But if the visit would be painful for her mother, she could not object.
Reginald gave her white-faced expression a thoughtful look before turning to Lady Grace. “The gentleman does not ask only for your company. He merely says he will send a carriage for your convenience. Perhaps you could return his note suggesting that you would prefer to bring your own escort? I am certain Lord Darley would be happy to accompany you, as would I. It might make ...” He hesitated, in search of a proper word. Finding none, he continued vaguely, “... things a trifle easier for all concerned. After all, the marquess is the nominal head of the family.”
Stunned at this realization. Lady Grace looked at the letter as if it were a snake that might bite. She met Marian’s eyes, and the knowledge gradually sank in. If Lord Darley were to make an offer, it would most properly have to be made to the marquess first.
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