How to Master Your Marquis (A Princess in Hiding Romance)

by Juliana Gray

  “Because of them bricks, sir, I’m afraid. The bloke who delivered them, sir, he would only allow us half of what we ordered. I told him it was rubbish, that we was fully paid up, I would write him a draft that minute for the full amount. And the fellow, why, he scratched his head and said that there was a rumor about that we was in trouble here. That we hadn’t the blunt to finish the building, that we was all on credit, house of cards, that sort of thing.”

  “Nonsense. Our financing is perfectly secure. I’ve funded fully half of the building with my own capital, and I sat down with the bank manager just last week, as the final loan tranche was deposited into the company accounts. You were right there during the inspection. They were delighted with our progress.” Hatherfield spoke forcefully. In matters of finance, confidence was paramount.

  “That’s what I told him, more or less. And he agreed to deliver the rest of the bricks this week, once the draft’s cleared the bank.”

  Hatherfield’s blood rose high. “Once the draft’s cleared! By God! The cheek!”

  “What I thought, sir. But the point is, someone’s spreading rumors about us, sir. Someone with enough mouth to make it stick, if you follow me. So I thought you should know about it.” Brookside shrugged his shoulders and leaned against the bright white plaster, self-assured once more in the face of his employer’s righteous anger.

  Hatherfield’s skin itched against his clothes in the warm room. Behind him lay the kitchen, bright and white, fitted with a handsome range and piped hot and cold water, well drained and ventilated. He’d overseen the design himself; he had put everything into this project, as if it held the key to his own salvation.

  Someone with enough mouth to make it stick.

  “You did well, Brookside. Thank you.” Hatherfield replaced his gloves in short and angry tugs. “Obviously someone wishes to undermine our efforts. A competitor, no doubt. I assure you, I shall look into the matter with the utmost energy.”

  Like a ball of summer sunshine, the Marquess of Hatherfield burst through the doorway of the Worthington drawing room at three minutes to eight o’clock, just in time to save Lady Charlotte Harlowe from the receiving end of a faceful of Sir John’s best sherry.

  At the delivering end of the sherry, Stefanie’s arm lowered. “Why, Lord Hatherfield. We were beginning to think you’d found a better offer.”

  Lady Charlotte turned to the door, and her peevish expression transformed into a flawless china-doll smile. “Nonsense. There is nowhere in England where his lordship is more welcome than in this house. Isn’t that so, James?” She held out her hand.

  Hatherfield’s lips stopped just shy of the white Harlowe fingers. “Good evening, Lady Charlotte. Sir John.” He turned to Stefanie, and the old smile broke across his face in a sparkle of mischievous white teeth. “My dear Stephen.”

  “Your lordship.” Stefanie bowed stiffly.

  “Have a glass of sherry,” said Sir John. “You look as though you need it.”

  Hatherfield accepted the glass and tossed it down in an alarmingly thorough gulp. “I confess, it’s been a rather complicated day.”

  “Complicated?” said Lady Charlotte. “What an odd word to describe one’s time.”

  “No doubt it does sound odd, to a lady of complete and unremitting leisure, such as yourself, Lady Charlotte,” said Stefanie. “But those of us engaged in gainful labor will understand exactly what his lordship means by the term complicated.”

  Lady Charlotte raised her eyebrows in alarm. “But James isn’t engaged in gainful labor, are you, James?” As she might say premeditated murder.

  “Heavens, no.” Hatherfield shuddered. “Perish the thought. Labor, indeed. How you joke, Stephen. No, fate merely tossed me an unconscionable number of rather tedious errands today. Nothing a well-bred lady of elegant habits would bother her dainty head about, I hope.”

  “How wretched for you. Couldn’t you dispatch a servant instead?” inquired her ladyship. “I’m sure our Mr. Thomas would be happy to run messages about and that sort of thing, when he isn’t copying out Uncle John’s letters and dusting his desk.”

  Hatherfield sipped his sherry. “Alas, no. Much as I would have enjoyed Stephen’s personal attention to my own affairs, he was employed in court today. I had only the glimpse of the back of his head, from several rows away. No, I suffered alone. Hammersmith, of all places.” Another delicate shudder.

  Lady Charlotte’s scowl might have broken glass, had she hazarded a glance in the mirror. “I can’t imagine why.”

  “Oh, I assure you, only the most urgent of matters could have torn me from the side of my very dear friend.” Another smile at Stefanie, saturated with admiration. “But it seems some nefarious character has been spreading the most outrageous slurs on my character.”

  “Good God,” said Sir John, properly shocked. “Was this your business today?”

  Lady Charlotte clasped her hands. “Not a duel, I hope!”

  “No, no.” Hatherfield walked to the drinks tray and refilled his glass. The electric lamp winked provocatively on the facets. “Nothing so dramatic, I assure you. But these nasty sorts of attacks must be stopped in their tracks, don’t you think?”

  “Naturally,” said Sir John. “If the law may be of any assistance in the matter of redress, I shall be happy to assist you.”

  Hatherfield turned and leaned against the cabinet, glass in hand, his body arranged in elegant long lines. “I thank you, Sir John, but in these sorts of affairs, a face-to-face interview tends to have the best effect. Don’t you agree, Lady Charlotte?”

  She adjusted a fold of her lemon yellow dress where it lay about her on the sofa. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”

  “Quite sure?”

  She looked up sharply. “Quite. That is, I haven’t any experience in the spread of ugly gossip, but I daresay I should be ashamed to consult the law. Such needless public exposure to one’s private affairs.”

  Stefanie had been watching the exchange keenly. “May I ask the nature of this slur, your lordship?”

  His gaze continued to rest on Lady Charlotte: not at her face, but rather the top of her head, as if he were weighing whether to pop off the lid and examine the contents. He turned to Stefanie at the last instant before his reply. “A most outrageous attack upon my creditworthiness, dear Stephen. Of all things.”

  “But that’s nonsense,” said Lady Charlotte. “You’re the heir to a dukedom. How could your credit possibly be in doubt?”

  “How, indeed,” murmured Hatherfield.

  Dinner was called and eaten. Sir John, more than usually distracted with his current case, retired almost immediately after his first glass of brandy, leaving Stefanie alone in the dining room with Hatherfield. The instant the door closed, he moved his chair closer to her and slid her brandy out of her hand.

  “Not tonight,” he said. “You’ll need your wits about you.”

  She looked up at his face in amazement. His eyes were glowing; his mouth wore a small smile at the corner. “My sister!” she whispered.

  “Yes. Tonight. I’ll be waiting in the hansom on the corner of Cadogan Gardens at half eleven.” He took a long puff of his cigar. “Wear dark clothes. Well-worn and nondescript, if possible, so as not to attract attention.”

  “Oh, thank you. Thank you so much. You don’t know what this means to me.” She wanted to fling her arms around his neck; she contented herself with a small puff of her cigar and a gaze of unbridled adoration.

  “You don’t know what this does to me,” he said. “It’s against my better judgment entirely. I’ve done my damnedest to keep you clear of all this, to let Olympia do his bloody business without my interference, or yours. I nearly ripped up the note when it arrived at my flat, just before dinner. If it weren’t Ashland, I wouldn’t have considered it.”

  “But you did, and you’ll help me, and you’re . . . You’re an absolute darling, Hatherfield. I don’t know how I shall ever repay you.” She glanced at the closed door and let her finge
rs rest on his knuckles, in a way that explained exactly how she wanted to repay him.

  “Yes. Well.” He brushed her forefinger with his thumb and turned his attention to his brandy. “Never mind all that. I shall focus solely on getting you out of this encounter unscathed this evening. Your sister’s no longer in disguise; she may be followed. Do you perceive that? The danger of connecting yourself to her?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  “You must do exactly as I say, Stefanie. Exactly and without hesitation. If I say run for the bridge, you run for the bridge. If I tell you to jump into the river, you don’t pause to calculate the tidal pull. Do you understand me?”

  “Perfectly.” Her heart pounded happily in her chest. An adventure! Hatherfield was taking her on an adventure. At night. In dark clothes. In his hansom. To see her sister!

  “Good. Because if anything happened to you . . .” He stared at his brandy and shook his head. “Damn it all. You have me at your mercy, don’t you?”

  “You have me at yours.” She reached up and touched his cheekbone with her finger. “Thank you for this morning. I don’t think I said that properly. It was beautiful, you were beautiful . . .”

  He put his hand atop hers and held it there, against his warm cheek. His eyelids lowered. “No, I wasn’t. I was an ass, and I won’t . . .”

  The door swung open.

  Stefanie jumped back, nearly overturning her chair. Hatherfield stood slowly, lifted his cigar to his lips, puffed out an insouciant cloud of smoke, and said, “Why, Lady Charlotte. Aren’t you supposed to be tucked up snug in your maidenly bed at this hour?”

  Stefanie, remembering herself, stumbled to her feet. “Your ladyship.”

  “Why, hello, James. I thought you’d left.” Lady Charlotte’s voice rose a key or two higher than usual. Her face seemed a little pale, but then she was naturally pale, a true alabaster English beauty. “I wanted to have a word with our dear Mr. Thomas.”

  Hatherfield stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray and swallowed the last of his brandy. “Jolly luck. As it happens, I was just leaving. Most grateful thanks for a lovely dinner. Your cook has a delicate way with a bombe glacée.”

  “You are always welcome at our table, James.”

  He took her hand. “Good evening, your ladyship. I’ll see myself out. Stephen, my dear. Au revoir. Don’t forget my instructions.” He waggled his fingers at Stefanie and prowled from the room.

  Lady Charlotte watched him leave, until the last glint of his golden hair disappeared into the darkness of the hallway. She turned to Stefanie with a bright smile. “How droll he is! Did you ever in your life meet anyone so droll, Mr. Thomas?”

  “Once or twice, perhaps.”

  “Instructions, indeed. Whatever sort of instructions could he have for you? Some sort of trifling errand, I suppose?” Her fingers curled around the back of a chair.

  Stefanie shrugged her well-padded shoulders. “Nothing to concern you, your ladyship.” How strange. She felt powerful suddenly, a drinker of brandy and puffer of cigars, a member of the rarefied masculine world, a speaking part on the great stage of life. What a lovely feeling. No wonder the men protected it so passionately.

  “No, I suppose not,” said Lady Charlotte. “Tedious things, errands. What trouble it must be for you, keeping yourself at the beck and call of others. I am so dreadfully sorry for you.”

  Stefanie spread her hands. “One must accept one’s lot with good cheer.”

  “Indeed.” She ran her fingertip along the edge of the dining table. “Do you know, Mr. Thomas, though we’ve lived under the same roof for months now, I often feel as if I hardly know you. Your history, your troubles. The misfortunes that have brought you to such a lowly position in life, so thoroughly dependent on the charity of others.”

  “I’m afraid it’s a long and tangled tale, of very little interest to your ladyship, and certainly not suited to our present surroundings.” Stefanie gestured with her cigar to the walls of the dining room, the empty chairs, the cloth already removed. The void of attendants, which in itself contained a titillating element of the forbidden. In all propriety, the two of them might only stay alone together in the room a few cordial minutes.

  “How I feel for you, Mr. Thomas. I should very much like to help you, in whatever way I can. I have my own troubles, you know, and it gives me great sympathy for the trials of others.” Lady Charlotte pressed one hand against her lacy heart.

  “No doubt it does.”

  “Lord Hatherfield, bless his dear and affectionate heart, takes such a close and fraternal interest in you. It gladdens my heart, to see the two of you so close. Sharing each other’s company in such an intimate fashion.”

  Stefanie bowed.

  “I don’t suppose . . . perhaps you might tell me . . . does he ever speak of me?” Lady Charlotte’s smile was rigid on her face; her eyes fixed on Stefanie, bright and hard.

  “Speak of you?” Stefanie said slowly.

  “As his friend. Perhaps you have heard him mention my name, or perhaps . . . perhaps he has allowed you into his confidence.” Her hand wound tight around the back of the dining chair.

  “If he has, your ladyship, I certainly would not betray anything he might have said to me there.” She saw, too late, that Lady Charlotte’s eyes were a little too shiny, a little too bright.

  “I see. You will not tell me. You don’t trust me.”

  “Your ladyship . . .”

  “Mr. Thomas.” Lady Charlotte smiled. “You may address me more familiarly, if you like. We are living under the same roof, after all. We have the same interests at heart, don’t we?”

  Stefanie stubbed out her cigar in the tray, right next to Hatherfield’s. “Perhaps your ladyship will be pleased to speak plainly. What is it you want of me?”

  “Ah. Yes. I do admire directness, Mr. Thomas.” She took a step closer, and another, until she was only a foot or two away from Stefanie’s chest, and Stefanie could smell the scent of perfume in the soft dark hair near her nose. Lady Charlotte tilted her beautiful face upward, as if asking for a kiss, and spoke in a husky voice that was very close to a whisper. “I shall be frank. You will forgive me, I hope, because a woman in love must be forgiven anything, don’t you think?”

  “Almost anything.”

  “I am in love, Mr. Thomas. I know it’s improper to say so, but I don’t care. I will not be denied. I am in love with Lord Hatherfield—yes, I admit it—madly and faithfully in love with him, and I would do anything at all to secure his affection. Do you understand me? Anything at all. You cannot conceive the strength of love I bear for him. I love every bit of him, every dear atom of his generous mind and his active person. I would defend him with my every power. I would die for him, Mr. Thomas.”

  “Your ladyship speaks passionately.”

  “I do. I am passionate, Mr. Thomas. I am a tigress in defense of whom I love.” She placed her little hand on Stefanie’s arm, as gently as a bird might nestle on a branch. “What I hope is that I may count on your support, Mr. Thomas. Your goodwill.”

  “Why, my dear Lady Charlotte. My goodwill toward you is as strong as it has always been, I assure you.”

  She showed her teeth. “What a great relief, Mr. Thomas. I do dislike to be thwarted. I am as fervent in my friendships as in my enmities. Do you understand me? With all my heart, I hope I may count on you to help his lordship understand how happy he would find himself in my love. How rich in everything such a man requires. I can give him money, position, assistance, and advice in his ambitions. Children, to carry on his noble line.” She cast a quick eye up and down Stefanie’s body. Her soft breath caressed her chin.

  “Do you really believe Hatherfield wants all this?”

  Lady Charlotte laughed and stepped away. “Of course he does. We would make a perfect match, he and I, so beautifully suited in every way. Surely you agree? He must love me, eventually, when all the scales have fallen away from his eyes and he sees the truth of it. I would live to make him happ
y.”

  Stefanie felt a curious pain in her ribs, as if Lady Charlotte had placed her two hands inside and wrung her heart to dry. She groped for her snifter of brandy. A flush was rising in her cheeks; she felt its heat like the draft from a fire.

  Lady Charlotte lifted her chin and placed her hand on the doorknob. “You’re a fine fellow, Mr. Thomas. With many sterling qualities, I’m sure. But I beg you to remember who you are. You’re nobody, you’re the son of nobody, and I am the daughter of an earl.”

  Stefanie crashed the brandy glass to the table. The contents of the room spun about her. “Are you, then? Well, I myself . . .” She checked herself just in time.

  “Yes, Mr. Thomas?”

  Stefanie, the notoriously impulsive princess of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof, counted to ten in slow beats of her red-misted mind.

  Remember who you are. Remember whom you are meeting tonight.

  The blood receded, drop by drop, from her flushed cheeks. The spinning room ground to a careful halt.

  She made a sweeping bow before Lady Charlotte’s haughty nose. “I am at your service, your ladyship. As always.”

  Her ladyship smiled and opened the door. “Excellent, Mr. Thomas. I really feel as if we understand each other. Don’t you?”

  SEVENTEEN

  Old Bailey, London

  Early August 1890

  Even in mourning, Lady Charlotte Harlowe maintained her impeccable sense of drama. She waited until she had settled herself in the witness box before lifting her elegant black veil, and her beauty—pale, fragile, almost skeletal—caused an audible gasp to suck the air from the courtroom, a whoosh of veneration that she acknowledged with the merest tilt of her pointed chin.

  Stefanie had not been the one to suggest calling Lady Charlotte to the stand. If she had been in charge of the case, instead of merely acting as Mr. Fairchurch’s clerk, she would have banished her ladyship from Old Bailey and its surrounding streets for a solid five-mile radius.