“Yes, my lord.” He paused before turning away. “The auction house is organizing the packing of the painting. I’ll see it is sent to your townhouse.”
“Very good, but I shall wait to leave until I have the lady’s name.”
Just then Mr. Sotheby approached. “Name, my lord?”
“The woman who also bid on the Wilson.”
Mr. Sotheby smiled. “Lady Penelope Fisherton.” At Stephen’s raised eyebrow Sotheby added, “I’m not surprised you have not heard of her ladyship. She’s a widow and lives near Land’s End in Essex. She very rarely comes to town.”
Stephen knew immediately who she was. Eight years ago there had been a huge scandal. He’d been traveling in the Mediterranean at the time, trying to find his friend Alexander Bracken, the Duke of Bedford, but arrived home to the malicious gossip of the disgraced Lady Penelope Fisherton, the Duke of Sandringham’s eighteen-year-old daughter, who had eloped with Mr. David Carmichael, the third son of the Earl of Rotham.
He also knew Carmichael had died just over a year ago under suspicious circumstances. Found at the bottom of a cliff in Southend, Essex.
No wonder Lady Penelope never came to town and had kept her maiden name.
She must have really wanted that painting.
He wondered why. He knew why he was prepared to pay way more than the painting was worth but why would Lady Penelope? Even more intrigued, he made an instant decision. He would gift her the painting—but only if she explained why she wanted it so badly.
Mr. Sotheby added, “I am of course not one to gossip, but if your lordship is interested I believe Lady Penelope is husband-hunting. The rumor is she would like children.”
Stephen thanked Mr. Sotheby for the information, but it did not change his desire to seduce her. However, he was not looking for a wife. Mainly because a wife, as Lady Penelope Fisherton’s reason for getting remarried confirmed, would want children. He refused to have children. No child of his would be faced with his fate. To lose the gift of sight when in your prime was too great a punishment for any human to have to bear.
Nor would he wish to burden a wife and family with his blindness. He began to understand why his father had blown his brains out.
Although, why his father had been selfish enough to do it in the study of Clevedon Manor he would never understand. Walking in on the mess was burned into his memory. No, when his time came, he would rather jump off a cliff and hope his body was washed out to sea and never found. Or better yet, he’d jump overboard from one of his ships.
“How interesting that her ladyship has a similar taste in art to you.”
Mr. Sotheby’s words penetrated his macabre thoughts. The feeling of fate fast approaching crawled over his skin. There was still time to enjoy a woman’s beauty. He looked down at the man. “I don’t suppose you know Lady Penelope’s address while she is in town?”
Chapter 2
Penelope had almost given up hope that Lord Clevedon would call on her. She’d purposely not flirted with the man in the hope it stirred his interest.
So when her butler, Digby, handed her his calling card she sat tapping it against the arm of the chair, willing her racing heart to slow.
One week. She’d had to wait one whole week in London, a place filled with vipers and malicious supposed friends.
This was what she had wanted—Lord Clevedon at her door—and it was also the main reason she had bid on the silly painting. When the bidding first began and the Marquess had shown no interest, she’d thought for a moment that her information had been wrong. She’d been determined to win it in order to have some hold over Lord Clevedon. That had not worked out as planned. She had not expected him to pay so much for a painting by a relatively uncollected artist. Luckily, she’d seen the light of lust in his eyes when she’d stopped to talk to him, and a new plan formed.
One she should be repulsed by.
The test had been whether he’d be interested enough to ascertain her identity. She smiled to herself thinking back on the look on his face when she had not given him her name. Men were so predictable. A pretty face, an innate challenge, and men came running.
Over the past few months she’d learned everything she could about Lord Clevedon. He was the man the government sent to find things. He’d been a spy for them in the war with the Ottomans, so her brother let slip. Eighteen months ago he’d helped in the rescue of the Duke of Bedford’s wife.
Penelope needed a man with his reputation. A Marquess who, when he delivered his report, would be believed without question, or at least enough to cast doubt on Lord Rotham.
Originally, she’d thought to offer Lord Clevedon the painting if he helped her. He collected works of art as frequently as he collected women. For a hefty price Lord Denning had told her that the Marquess, on numerous occasions, had tried to buy the Wilson landscape from him privately, and was most annoyed when Denning would not sell.
She’d gone to the Sotheby auction knowing Lord Clevedon would bid on the painting.
Footsteps echoed on the stairs. Digby was escorting Lord Clevedon to her drawing room. For a big man the Marquess was light on his feet; she could only hear Digby’s heavy tread. She took a deep breath. She’d seen and dealt with handsome men before; hell, she’d been married to one. As a young girl she’d let handsome sweep her off her feet, freezing her intelligence, and she was not about to let that happen ever again. Once was more than enough.
“Lord Clevedon, my lady,” Digby announced.
His lordship entered the room as if he was visiting a close relative and was assured of his welcome. He approached and bowed low over her hand, and the rioting in her stomach grew worse. It was not caused by the handsome face smiling down at her, but at the audacity of her plan.
Her back stiffened and she stayed seated. Her eyes traveled up the length of him, and like a mouse eyeing the cheese in the trap, she sighed—the conversation to come was not a good idea.
“Lady Penelope Fisherton, thank you for receiving me. I realize we have not been formally introduced but you left the auction so quickly the other day, proper introductions were not completed.”
How like a man to ignore society’s rules and make it sound as if it was her fault.
“I must admit, my lord, I’m surprised at your visit. You won the painting so it cannot be about that.”
“May I?” he asked, indicating a chair.
“Of course, please sit. Digby, some tea for his lordship or perhaps you’d prefer a glass of brandy?” Brandy for the dandy her mother always used to say. Lord Clevedon did not look like a dandy. She shivered. He looked—it did not matter how he looked.
He sat in one smooth, gliding motion, like a sleek black panther prowling the undergrowth. His long legs, showcased in tight trousers and polished Hessians, made the chair look tiny. He touched his perfectly starched white cravat. Was he nervous? Her confidence surged.
“I’d prefer tea, thank you, lemon no sugar.”
Her mother had also told her never to show surprise. “Should I be flattered that you have tracked me down? I wonder what brings you to my door. Let me just say up front that I’m not looking for any kind of dalliance if you have found out about my scandalous past. I assure you it will never be repeated.”
He laughed and it sent a shiver over her skin. The sound brushed the fine hairs on her arms like a whisper. “Scandalous past? Hardly.” He looked her right in the eyes, holding her gaze. “I’m sure compared to my reputation the Pope would confuse you with a nun.”
Why did he have to be honest? In her experience most men bent on seduction did not broadcast their sordid reputations. A thought struck. Lord Clevedon had not been in England eight years ago when she’d made the biggest mistake of her life; perhaps he had not heard of her scandalous past.
She paused drinking her tea sure he would note her shaking hands. Eyes that were
framed with thick, dark lashes making the brown look almost black in color studied her intently. She wanted to shake her head to clear the vision of male beauty before her, but didn’t dare show any weakness.
Surely, he must have heard about her past because she had heard all about his from her one true friend, Lady Charlotte. If he had learned where she stayed while in London, he would also have been told her sorry, scandal-ridden tale.
Charlotte had shared the scandalous tales of Lord Clevedon’s life with her when they were making a list of men Penelope could approach. Charlotte also knew he was one of only a handful of men who had the skills and affront to help her.
She picked up her teacup, her mind locked steady. “Then perhaps you could share the reason for your visit.”
He gave her a smile that would melt snow, and probably most women’s hearts. “I’m here to gift you the painting.”
Excitement burst deep within her. This was her chance. “There are only two problems with your kind offer.” She put her teacup down again and tried to steady her shaking hands. “One, men bearing gifts to a woman such as me are looking for something in return, usually me in their beds, and that will never happen. Two”—and she sat back in her chair for this—“I don’t want the painting. I never did. Why would I need a painting of a sunrise when I see the most glorious sunrise from my bedchamber window every morning?”
The look of confusion that momentarily flashed across his handsome face was priceless. He sat up and uncrossed his long limbs. “Then why did you bid on it?”
She hesitated, her bravery vanishing like a fog as the sun rose. Finally, she gave herself a bit of a shake and uttered the words that would change everything. “Because I knew you wanted it.”
His mouth fell open before he quickly closed it. Eyes narrowing, he leaned forward. “And why was that important?”
She shrugged, trying to portray an air of nonchalance. “I needed something you wanted. Unfortunately, you seemed prepared to pay an exorbitant sum for the painting. I suspect you would have kept bidding regardless of the price. Why did you want the painting so badly?”
“It is beautiful, is it not? The way Wilson captured the sunrise.”
“I suppose, but it cannot compete with a real sunrise.”
“Can it not? Whoever owns the painting can view a spectacular sunrise every minute of the day. I can see it at night long after the real sunrise has died.”
How odd. “If one sees something on a continuous basis one often ends up taking it for granted. I love the idea that I have to take the time to admire the sunrise before it is gone.”
“Perhaps I’m greedy. I want to surround myself with beauty every minute of the day. Pulchritudo latet in omnibus.”
She had never learned Latin. “What does that mean?”
“Beauty lies in all things.”
She wanted to argue but understood it would be pointless. She suspected a young chimney sweep did not view the soot clinging to his clothes, hair, and skin as beauty. “Still, your pursuit of the painting means I have nothing I can use. I have nothing you want.”
He flopped back in his chair, the rakish smile back on his face. He gave a deep chuckle. “My lady, you most definitely have something I want.” His eyes indecently traveled over her as she sat in her chair pretending his presence did not fire up her body in ways she’d hoped would never be fired up again.
She rolled her eyes and said drily, “That is precisely why I needed the painting.”
His smile faded slightly, his bravado gone. “You want something from me? Marriage, perhaps? During the season, why else would you be here but to find a husband?”
This time it was she who laughed. He had been listening to the gossip. What other possible reason could a widowed woman have for coming to London? “Good God, no. I most definitely suit widowhood and have no plans to remarry—ever.”
“A child? You think because of my reputation I would happily impregnate you and walk away. Well, you’re wrong.”
So he did have some morals; a twisted compass, perhaps, but she admired him for it nevertheless. He was known for his indulgence in all things of vice—gambling, dueling, if rumors were to be believed, pirating, and of course, womanizing. There were stories abounding of his penchant for sexual relations with multiple women and for, of all things, watching.
He loved to watch women with women, other men with women; thank goodness he did not seem to be perverted toward children. He seemed similar in perversions to her dead husband, yet already, having spoken to him for less than ten minutes, she would wager her life that he was nothing like Carmichael.
Lord Clevedon did not strike her as a man who would lie, manipulate, or blackmail to get what he wanted.
No. She shivered. He’d openly seduce.
Her laughter faded. “No. I may be eccentric but I would never abuse a child by having one out of wedlock, so childless I must remain.” The pain struck deep in her chest as it always did. No children. It seemed far too high a price to pay for one silly mistake.
He spread his arms wide. “Then I am at a loss as to why you had to have something I want. Perhaps you should enlighten me.”
“It seems pointless explaining when I have nothing you want—that I’m willing to give, that is. You have no need of money, I’m sure.”
“Perhaps you should tell me why you needed something I wanted and we shall see.”
She slowly nodded and sat back in her chair. “I need you to prove that my husband’s death was an accident. His brother is trying to implicate me in his death and take everything my husband left me in his will, the majority of which was mine to begin with—my house, money, and lands.”
“Carmichael left everything to you?” he asked in surprise.
“You sound just like his brother, Lord Rotham, as the will was read. It made me the prime suspect.”
“I thought it had been judged an accident.”
“It was until the will was read and then Rotham declared it was murder and insinuated I had something to do with it.”
“Did you?”
Penelope steeled herself for her answer. “I did not personally push my husband off the cliff, although there were many times I wished I could.”
Lord Clevedon nodded. “I can understand that. From what I heard there was no love lost between you and Carmichael.”
“When I was all but a child of seventeen, he seduced me for my lands and money and title, then treated me no better than a common courtesan. As nothing we owned was entailed, I told him I would never give him an heir unless he made a will leaving everything to me. The good-for-nothing bastard agreed, vanity rolling the dice in my favor.”
“And yet you have no child.”
Pain engulfed her. “No. Perhaps it was God’s way of punishing me for my pact with the devil.” She’d had to put up with monthly beddings for seven long years and all she’d ever had was pain.
He briefly leaned forward again. “I’m sorry.”
She quickly wiped away a tear that threatened to run down her cheek. “The past is the past, but my brother-in-law won’t let it stay buried. He has men investigating and I would not put it past him to fake evidence against me. Rotham is in trouble financially and needs my assets.”
“You seem very well informed.”
“I make it my business to know my enemy.” She banged a fist on the arm of the chair. “After everything I endured because of Carmichael, I will not lose any more. Rotham will not take my home, money, or life from me.”
“Why choose me?”
She was expecting his question. What to tell him? Because of his reputation for investigating? He’d worked as a spy for the crown when a young man. She had learned from her brother that he had quite the reputation for uncovering secrets.
“Don’t be shy now, Lady Penelope. You’ve obviously learned enough about m
e to set up this plan. I’m not sure I like that, although I’ve never tried to hide anything about my life.”
She almost wished she’d poured the brandy for herself. “Secrets are too expensive. They provide too much leverage.”
“Very true. So why is it you think I can help you? I would have thought Bow Street Runners were called for.”
“Rotham has the Runners in his pocket. I need a man of high social standing who society, and the law, will listen to. I need a man who is honest, knows how to investigate, and is not afraid of a man like Lord Rotham.” She leaned forward. “Rotham is dangerous. People who oppose him often disappear.”
“What happens to your money if you were to disappear?”
She leaned back in her chair and a smile replaced her frown. “If something should happen to me, everything goes to the Duchess of Lyttleton for her orphanages.”
She watched as his knee jiggled. She wanted to assure him that no one wanted her dead.
He seemed impressed. “Clever. Rotham can’t kill you to get the money so he has to prove you guilty of murder.”
“If I’m found guilty the will would be voided, and Carmichael’s relatives would inherit. Hence why I am so worried. He’ll do anything to get his hands on what is mine.”
She sat sipping her tea thinking how surreal this conversation was. Here she was confiding in a stranger. A lord more powerful and just as ruthless as the Earl of Rotham, but who, given his lifestyle, still held to a certain code of honor. Her leg began to jiggle too. Would he help her?
“Why come to me?”
She should have expected the question. “A mutual friend suggested you. Her Grace, the Duchess of Bedford.”
“Hestia?”
“She is a good friend of a friend. Lady Charlotte, the lady with me at the auction. You must remember her? I think you both flirted with each other. I trusted her recommendation once we had completed a thorough investigation.” She gave a sly smile, not believing how easily flirtation came back to her, and she wished she had never been good at it in the first place. She also didn’t wish to dwell on why she suddenly wanted to flirt with this man. “All of us were quite fascinated by your…peculiarities.”
Drawn to the Marquess Page 2