Dedication
Nil penna sed usus
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Author Note
Acknowledgments
Announcement to A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
About the Author
Also by Cat Sebastian
A Letter from the Editor
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Alistair ran his finger once more along the neatly penned column of sums his secretary had left on his desk. This was what respectability looked like: a ledger filled with black ink, maintained by a servant whose wages had been paid on time.
He would never tire of seeing the numbers do what he wanted them to do, what they ought to do out of sheer decency and moral fortitude. Here it was, plain numerical proof that the marquessate had—finally—more money coming in than it had going out. Not long ago this very library was besieged by a steady stream of his late father’s creditors and mistresses and assorted other disgraceful hangers-on, all demanding a piece of the badly picked-over pie. But now Alistair de Lacey, eighth Marquess of Pembroke, could add financial solvency to the list of qualities that made him the model of propriety.
This pleasant train of thought was interrupted by the sound of an apologetic cough coming from the doorway.
“Hopkins?” Alistair asked, looking up.
“A person has called, my lord.” The butler fairly radiated distress. “I took the liberty of showing her into the morning room.”
Her? It couldn’t be any of his aunts, because those formidable ladies would have barged right into the library. Alistair felt his heart sink. “Dare I ask?”
“Mrs. Allenby, my lord,” Hopkins intoned, as if every syllable pained him to utter.
Well might he look pained. Mrs. Allenby, indeed. She was the most notorious of his late father’s mistresses and if there was one thing Alistair had learned in the years since his father’s death, it was that the arrival of any of these doxies inevitably presaged an entry in red ink in the ledger that sat before him.
And now she was sitting in the morning room? The same morning room his mother had once used to receive callers? Good Lord, no. Not that he could think of a more suitable place for that woman to be brought.
“Send her up here, if you will, Hopkins.”
A moment later, a woman mortifyingly close to his own age swept into the library. “Heavens, Pembroke, but you’re shut up in a veritable tomb,” she said, as if it could possibly be any of her business. “You’ll ruin your eyes trying to read in the dark.” And then she actually had the presumption to draw back one of the curtains, letting a broad shaft of sunlight into the room.
Alistair was momentarily blinded by the unexpected brightness. Motes of dust danced in the light, making him uncomfortably aware that his servants were not doing an adequate job with the cleaning, and also that perhaps the room had been a trifle dark after all.
“Do take a seat,” he offered, but only after she had already dropped gracefully into one of the chairs near the fire.
The years had been reprehensibly kind to Portia Allenby, and Alistair felt suddenly conscious that the same could not be said for himself. She had no gray in her jet-black hair and no need for spectacles. The subdued half mourning she had adopted after his father’s death made her look less like a harlot who had been acquired by the late marquess on a drunken spree across the continent some eighteen years ago, and more like a decent widow.
“I’ll not waste your time, Pembroke. I’m here about Amelia.”
“Amelia,” Alistair repeated slowly, as if trying that word out for the first time.
“My eldest daughter,” she clarified, patiently playing along with Alistair’s feigned ignorance. Your sister, she didn’t need to add.
“And which one is she?” Alistair drummed his fingers on the desk. “The ginger one with the freckles?” All the Allenby girls were ginger-haired and freckled, having had the great misfortune to take after the late marquess rather than their beautiful mother.
Mrs. Allenby ignored his rudeness. “She’s eighteen. I’d like for her to make a proper come out.”
So she wanted money. No surprise there. “My dear lady,” he said frostily, “you cannot possibly need for money. My father saw to it that you and your children were amply provided for.” In fact, his father had spent the last months of his life seeing to little else, selling and mortgaging everything not nailed down in order to keep this woman and the children he had sired on her in suitably grand style.
“You’re quite right, Pembroke, I don’t need a farthing.” She smoothed the dove-gray silk of her gown across her lap, whether out of self-consciousness or in order to emphasize how well-lined her coffers were, Alistair could not guess. “What I hoped was that you could arrange for Amelia to be invited to a dinner or two.” She smiled, as if Alistair ought to be relieved to hear this request. “Even a tea or a luncheon would go a long way.”
Alistair was momentarily speechless. He removed his spectacles and carefully polished them on his handkerchief before tucking them into his pocket. “Surely I have mistaken you. I have no doubt that among your numerous acquaintances you could find someone willing to invite your daughter to festivities of any kind.” The woman ran a monthly salon, for God’s sake. She was firmly, infuriatingly located right on the fringes of decent society. Every poet and radical, not to mention every gently born person with a penchant for libertinism, visited her drawing room. Alistair had to positively go out of his way to avoid her.
“You’re quite right,” she replied blithely, as if insensible to the insult. “The problem is that she’s had too many of those invitations. She’s in a fair way to becoming a bluestocking, not to put too fine a point on it. I hope that a few evenings spent in, ah, more exalted company will give her mind a different turn.”
Had she just suggested that her own associates were too serious-minded for a young girl? It was almost laughable. But not as laughable as the idea that Alistair ought to lend his countenance to the debut of any daughter of the notorious Mrs. Allenby, regardless of whose by-blow the child was. “My dear lady, you cannot expect—”
“Goodness, Pembroke. I’m not asking for her to be presented at court, or for vouchers to Almack’s. I was hoping you could prevail on one of Ned’s sisters to invite her to dinner.” If she were aware of what it did to Alistair to hear his father referred to thusly, she did not show it. “The old Duke of Devonshire acknowledged his mistress’s child, you know. It can’t reflect poorly on you or your aunts to throw my children a few crumbs.”
So now, after bringing his father to the brink of disgrace and ruin, she was an expert on what would or would not reflect poorly on a man, was she? The mind simply boggled.
“Of course I wouldn’t expect to attend with her,” she continued.
He reared back in his chair. “Good God, I should think not.”
Only then did she evidently grasp that she was not about to prevail. “I only meant that
I would engage a suitable chaperone. But I see that I’ve bothered you for no reason.” She rose to her feet with an audible swish of costly silks. “I wish you well, Pembroke.”
Alistair was only warming to the topic, though. “If I were to acknowledge all my father’s bastards I’d have to start a charitable foundation. There would be opera dancers and housemaids lined up down the street.”
At this she turned back to face him. “You do your father an injustice. He was not a man of temperate desires, but he and I shared a life together from the moment we met until he died.”
“I feel certain both your husband and my mother were touched to discover that the two of you had such an aptitude for domestic felicity, despite all appearances to the contrary.” Mr. Allenby had been discarded as surely as Alistair’s mother had been.
Was that pity that crossed the woman’s face? “As I said, I’m truly sorry to have bothered you today.” She sighed. “Gilbert is a regular visitor at my house. I mention that not to provoke you but only to suggest that if you’re determined not to acknowledge the connection, you ought to bring your brother under bridle.”
She dropped a small curtsy that didn’t seem even slightly ironic, and left Alistair alone in his library. He felt uncomfortable, vaguely guilty, but he knew perfectly well that he had behaved properly. His father had devoted his life to squandering money and tarnishing his name by any means available to him: cards, horses, women, bad investments. And he had left the mess to be cleaned up by his son. Alistair, at least, would leave the family name and finances intact for future generations.
He paced to the windows and began pulling back the rest of the curtains. It annoyed him to admit that Mrs. Allenby had been right about anything, but the room really was too dark. He had been working too hard, too long, but even now with all the curtains opened, the room was still gloomy. The late winter sun had sunk behind the row of houses on the opposite side of Grosvenor Square, casting only a thin, pallid light into the room. He went to the hearth to poke the fire back to life.
His plan had been to double check the books and then go out for a ride, but the hour for that had come and gone. He could dress and take an early dinner at his club, perhaps. Even though the Season had not quite started, there were enough people in town to make the outing worthwhile. It was never a bad idea for Alistair to show his face and remind the world that this Marquess of Pembroke, at least, did not spend his evenings in orgies of dissipation.
As he tried not to think of the debauchery these walls had contained, there came another apologetic cough from the doorway.
“Another caller, my lord,” Hopkins said. “A young gentleman.”
Alistair suppressed a groan. This was the outside of enough. “Send him up.” He inwardly prayed that the caller wasn’t an associate of Gilbert’s, some shabby wastrel Alistair’s younger brother had lost money to at the gambling tables. He glanced at the card Hopkins had given him. Robert Selby. The fact that the name rang no bells for him did nothing to put his mind at ease.
But the man Hopkins ushered into the library didn’t seem like the sort of fellow who frequented gambling hells. He looked to be hardly twenty, with sandy hair that hung a trifle too long to be à la mode and clothes that were respectably, but not fashionably, cut.
“I’m ever so grateful, my lord.” The young man took a half step closer, but seemed to check his progress when he noticed Alistair’s expression. “I know what an imposition it must be. But the matter is so dashed awkward I hardly wanted to put it to you in a letter.”
It got worse and worse. Matters too awkward to be put in letters inevitably veered toward begging or blackmail. Alistair folded his arms and leaned against the chimneypiece. “Go on,” he ordered.
“It’s my sister, you see. Your father was her godfather.”
Alistair jerked to attention. “My father was your sister’s godfather?” He was incredulous. There could hardly have been any creature on this planet less suited to be an infant’s godparent than the late Lord Pembroke. “He went to church?” Really, the image of his father leaning over the baptismal font and promising to be mindful of the baby’s soul was something Alistair would make a point of recalling the next time his spirits were low.
“I daresay he did, my lord,” Selby continued brightly, as if he had no idea of the late marquess’s character. “I was too young to remember the event, I’m afraid.”
“And what can you possibly require of me, Mr. Selby?” Alistair did not even entertain the possibility that Selby was here for the pleasure of his company. “Not an hour ago I refused to help a person with a far greater claim on the estate than you have.”
The fellow had the grace to blush, at least. “My sister and I have no claim on you at all. It’s only that I’m in quite a fix and I don’t know who else to turn to. She’s of an age where I need to find her a husband, but . . .” His voice trailed off, and he regarded Alistair levelly, as if deciding whether he could be confided in. Presumptuous. “Well, frankly, she’s too pretty and too trusting to take to Bath or Brighton. She’d marry someone totally unsuitable. I had thought to bring her to London, where she would have a chance to meet worthier people.”
Alistair retrieved his spectacles from his coat pocket and carefully put them on. This Selby fellow didn’t seem delusional, but he was speaking like a madman. “That’s a terrible plan.”
“Well, now I know that, my lord.” He smiled broadly, exposing too many teeth and creating an excess of crinkles around his eyes. Alistair suddenly wished that there was enough light to get a better look at this lad. “We’ve been here a few weeks and it’s all too clear that the connections I made at Cambridge aren’t enough to help Louisa. She needs better than that.” He shot Alistair another grin, as if they were in on the same joke.
Alistair opened his mouth to coolly explain that he could not help Mr. Selby’s sister, no matter how good her looks or how bad her circumstances. But he found that he couldn’t quite give voice to any of his usual crisp denials. “Have you no relations?”
“None that suit the purpose, my lord,” Selby said frankly. This Mr. Selby had charming manners, even when he met with disappointment. Alistair would give him that much—it would have been a relief to see Gilbert develop such pleasant ways instead of his usual fits of sullenness. “Our parents died some years ago,” Selby continued. “We brought an elderly aunt with us, but we grew up in quite a remote part of Northumberland, and if we have any relations in London, we’ve never heard of them.”
Northumberland? Now, what the devil could Alistair’s father have been doing in Northumberland? Quite possibly he had gotten drunk at a hunt party in Melton Mowbray and simply lost his way home, leaving a string of debauched housemaids and misbegotten children in his wake.
That made something else occur to Alistair. “There’s no suggestion that your sister is my father’s natural child?”
“My—good heavens, no.” Selby seemed astonished, possibly offended by the slight to his mother’s honor. “Certainly not.”
Thank God for that, at least. Alistair leaned back against the smooth stone of the chimneypiece, regarding his visitor from behind half-closed lids. Even though there was nothing about Selby that seemed overtly grasping, here he was, grasping nonetheless. There was no reason for this man, charming manners and winning smile, to be in Alistair’s library unless it was to demand something.
“If you want my advice, take her to Bath.” He pushed away from the wall and stepped towards his visitor. Selby was a few inches shorter than Alistair and much slighter of build. Alistair didn’t need to use his size to intimidate—that was what rank and power were for—but this wasn’t about intimidation. It was about proximity. He wanted a closer look at this man, so he would take it.
Selby had tawny skin spotted with freckles, as if he were accustomed to spending a good deal of time outside. His lips were a brownish pink, and quirked up in a questioning sort of smile, as if he knew what exactly Alistair was about.
Per
haps he did. Interesting, because Alistair hardly knew himself.
Alistair dropped his voice. “Better yet, go home. London is a dangerous place for a girl without connections.” He dropped his voice lower still, and leaned in so he was speaking almost directly into Selby’s ear. “Or for a young man without scruples.” The fellow smelled like lemon drops, as if he had a packet of sweets tucked into one of his pockets.
For a moment they stood there, inches apart. Selby was ultimately the one to step back. “I knew it was a long shot, but I had to try.” He flashed Alistair another winning smile, more dangerous for being at close range, before bowing handsomely and showing himself out.
Alistair was left alone in a room that had grown darker still.
“What did he say?” Louisa asked as soon as Charity returned to the shabby-genteel house they had hired for the Season.
“It’s a nonstarter, Lou,” she replied, flinging herself onto a settee. She propped her boots up onto the table before her. One of the many, many advantages of posing as a man was the freedom afforded by men’s clothing.
“He turned you away, then?” Louisa asked, looking up from the tea she was pouring them.
“Oh, worse than that. He asked if his father had gotten your mother with child, then advised me that if I allowed you to stay in London, you’d end up prostituting yourself.”
Louisa colored, and Charity realized she had spoken too freely. Louisa had, after all, been raised a lady. “Oh, he didn’t say that last thing quite outright, but he dropped a strong hint.” She hooked an arm behind her head and settled comfortably back in her seat. “Besides, what does it matter if he thinks we’re beneath reproach? He’s never even heard of us before today. His opinion doesn’t matter a jot.”
“Maybe he’s right, though, and I shouldn’t stay in London.” Instead of looking at Charity, she was nervously lining up the teacups so their cracks and chips were out of sight.
“Nonsense. As soon as these nobs get a look at you, you’ll take off like a rocket.”
Unmasked by the Marquess Page 1