Unmasked by the Marquess

by Cat Sebastian

  “Tell me about your mother’s salon,” Charity said later that afternoon. “What does one have to do to get an invitation?” Seeing the girl flush, she hastily added, “That’s likely crass of me, angling for an invitation so shamelessly. But after being marooned in Northumberland I have no conduct at all.”

  Miss Allenby tittered nervously. “You don’t need an invitation. But I’m not sure my . . . Lord Pembroke, that is, would approve . . . ah.” She cast her gaze desperately around the room, looking anywhere other than at Charity. “It’s a delicate situation, you see.”

  “You mean that your brother is very stuffy and might not like it if his protégés associated with his father’s mistress,” Charity offered. “Oh no. Now you’re blushing. I told you I have a sad lack of conduct.”

  “It’s not that,” she protested immediately. “Your conduct is simply lovely. But I don’t wish to displease Lord Pembroke.”

  Charity dismissed this concern with a wave of her hand. “My attending Mrs. Allenby’s salon can be of no importance to him. I won’t bring Louisa, not out of any benighted notions of propriety but because she’d be bored silly. Besides, Pembroke can’t object to my knowing your mother, when his own brother is so open about the connection.”

  They both turned their heads to look at the gentleman in question, who was at that moment deep in conversation with Louisa. Snippets of conversation drifted their way.

  “The issue is the quality of the manure,” Louisa was saying.

  “What do you know about drainage?” asked Lord Gilbert. He was writing in a small notebook he had withdrawn from his coat pocket.

  Miss Allenby shot Charity an incredulous glance. “Are they discussing agriculture?”

  “Likely so. Louisa’s had the running of the home farm for years.” Even before Robbie died, Louisa, still in pinafores and braids, had implemented improvements and economies. “I’d have left it all up to the steward but she has definite opinions on these things.”

  “How admirable,” Miss Allenby murmured, and seemed to mean it.

  “Now that Lord Gilbert has asked about drainage she’ll go on for hours. She has a passion for it.” Perhaps if Louisa hadn’t been such a beauty, she would have stayed in Northumberland and eventually married a farmer, and spent her days bossing him about regarding turnips and guano. Charity dismissed that thought as lunacy. The girl was going to make a brilliant match and lead a life free of worry.

  “I’m not entirely clear what drainage even is,” Miss Allenby confessed, “and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  They both giggled at this, and only stopped when they were interrupted by the butler announcing the arrival of Lord Pembroke.

  Every time she saw him, she was struck anew by how imposing he was, but here in their shabby little rented house, he seemed grander still. He was like a crystal goblet on a table filled with clay jugs. Too fine for everyday use.

  He had never visited them before. For a moment, he stood at the threshold of the room, presumably surveying the arrangements and finding them lacking. Charity watched as the briefest flicker of assessment crossed his face. The room suddenly revealed itself to Charity as being too small, the furniture too worn, everything a bit too dirty and sad-looking. She felt the inadequacy of everything she had worked for, the madness of the gamble she was taking. She had wagered her entire identity, her safety, her future, and come up with a few hundred pounds, a leased house, and some faded upholstery.

  But then his gaze met hers and he crossed the cramped room in two strides. All her concerns were swept away by the force of his nearness.

  After giving a desultory bow to Miss Allenby, he turned to Charity. “I had to see what the fuss was about,” he said in his customary haughty drawl. “It seems that half the ton has already visited. I thought I ought to make an appearance lest you think me remiss.”

  “As if such a thing were possible.” She snorted. “I’m sure you’ve never been remiss in your life.”

  “Well,” he said with a shrug, but didn’t deny it.

  She smiled at that show of arrogance. “Come see Louisa.”

  If he were dismayed to find his brother tête-à-tête with Louisa, he didn’t show it, but Charity had to guess that he wouldn’t want to see his brother make calf eyes at a nearly penniless girl from an unknown family. And Charity was confident that sensible, practical Louisa would allow her head to be turned only by someone with a bit more money and stability than Lord Gilbert.

  Louisa was perfectly, blandly civil, but Charity could tell that she did not like Lord Pembroke. So after Louisa had poured out tea, Charity took him by the arm. “Now come meet your actual hostess.”

  “Oh—it can’t be.” He had a wicked gleam in his eye. “Am I finally to meet the aunt?” He had several times now asked where the Selbys were keeping the aunt who served as their nominal chaperone.

  “Yes.” She squeezed his arm in reproof. And if she enjoyed the feel of his muscles rippling under her touch, then what of it? “Try to contain your delight.”

  “This reminds me of the first time I met the king. Do I look all right?” he teased, making a great show of smoothing his lapels.

  “Oh, shut up.” She led him to the corner of the drawing room, where Aunt Agatha was dozing behind a potted plant. Agatha Cavendish, Louisa’s great aunt from her mother’s side, was of course in on their deception. When told about the entail, she had responded that entails were precisely the sort of thing she’d expect men to come up with, Selby men in particular, and had promptly gone back to sleep. She was exactly the chaperone they needed for this trip: she paid no attention to anything that happened in the house and scarcely ever ventured outside it.

  “Aunt Agatha, may I present Lord Pembroke?” Charity spoke loud enough to wake the old lady.

  “Eh?” Aunt Agatha answered, momentarily startled. “Oh, so you’re the marquess. How nice for you.” And then she closed her eyes.

  Charity looked up at Pembroke’s face to gauge his reaction, but his face was impassive.

  “Precisely like the first time I saw the king, in fact,” he said dryly. “He, too, asked if I was a marquess and then fell back asleep.”

  Charity let out a bark of laughter.

  “But seriously, Robin, she can’t be your sister’s chaperone. Find someone more . . . alert, will you?”

  She was taken aback. “I most certainly will not, not that it’s any business of yours.”

  “Like hell it isn’t. Your sister—”

  “Is a woman of sense. She doesn’t need some interfering busybody she hardly knows hovering over her.” Surely she ought to be more diplomatic to the man who was serving as their sponsor into London society, but she’d be damned if she’d allow Pembroke or anybody else to freely criticize her household.

  Pembroke straightened his back, putting some distance between the two of them. When he spoke his voice was frosty. “I’m less concerned about your sister’s behavior than what people would say if they discovered she was scarcely supervised.”

  “Well, you can stop being concerned because it has nothing to do with you. It was gracious of you to give Louisa an entrée into society, but that doesn’t mean you can muddle around in our lives.” Charity took a deep, steadying breath. “She’s my sister, and I have the situation in hand. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve left Miss Allenby on her own for too long now.”

  It was all lies, of course. But she didn’t need Pembroke—in his magnificently tailored coat and glossy boots, so very splendid that he made these surroundings even drearier by comparison—to tell her so.

  Was he supposed to apologize? Was criticizing one’s choice of chaperone the type of insult a man had to atone for? Alistair was not accustomed to making apologies of any kind, let alone over this sort of triviality. Especially since he was most obviously in the right. Nobody with eyes and ears could suppose that ancient lady asleep in the corner to be capable of chaperoning a girl in her first season. But Robin had seemed put out, and Alistair didn’
t want a rift between him and his new friend.

  Even thinking Robin and friend in the same sentence gave him a pleasant thrill. He wasn’t used to thrills being pleasant rather than unsettling.

  For that matter, he wasn’t much used to friendship.

  Surveying the room, he saw Gilbert very cozy with the beautiful Miss Selby. He didn’t like that one bit, but he wasn’t enough of a fool to do anything about it. If he suggested to Gilbert that perhaps he might want to chase after a girl in possession of more than two shillings to rub together, the pair of them would likely fall madly in love. So Alistair didn’t even let his gaze linger on the couple, instead turning his attention to where his half sister sat with Robin.

  He didn’t like that either, oddly. They were looking at a new translation of something or another, and their heads were bent conspiratorially together over the open book.

  Leaning against the wall, he watched them. Was this a romance? If so, why did it make him want to hurl his teacup against the wall? Surely it would be just deserts for Mrs. Allenby to see her eldest daughter wed to a minor Northumberland landowner whose income—according to the solicitors Alistair had charged with the task of looking into the Selbys’ background—amounted to less than two thousand pounds a year. Alistair ought to be delighted.

  As he watched, Robin pushed that infernal hair off his forehead. Never in the history of polite society had a man so badly needed a haircut, and never had Alistair been so grieved at the prospect of a man’s hair actually being cut.

  He knew that what he felt for young Selby was a kind of desire. And he knew himself well enough to understand that he felt this kind of desire for men as well as women. Thus far, he had been able—for the most part—to ignore this inconvenient urge when it applied to men. And so he would ignore his desire for Robin. Therefore, he assured himself, it could have no bearing on his distaste for the idea of Robin being married to Amelia Allenby or anyone else.

  But when Gilbert rose to take his leave, bringing Miss Allenby away with him, Alistair felt a surge of relief.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Louisa said, dropping a curtsy, “I need to speak with Cook about dinner.”

  That left him alone with Robin.

  “I’m sorry,” he said as soon as the door shut, while the urge to make things right was still stronger than his sense of rectitude. “I shouldn’t have said anything about your aunt. Even though I’m right. But it’s your decision. A bad decision, but yours to make.”

  For a moment Robin was silent, regarding him with an expression Alistair couldn’t read. “That’s your idea of an apology?” he said finally.

  “Did I not do it right?”

  “No, Pembroke. No, you did not.”

  “Well, I’ve never done it before, so perhaps I want practice.”

  “You’ve never—” he shook his head in disbelief. “I’m honored to have been your first, then.”

  And damn it all to hell, but Alistair felt his cheeks heat.

  “Your horrible apology is accepted,” Robin continued, finally smiling. One of his eyeteeth was crooked, and he had a small gap between his front teeth. Alistair couldn’t figure out which imperfection he liked more.

  “Thank you,” Alistair managed. He took a step closer. “Miss Allenby’s mother—my father’s mistress, of course—was no older than your sister when she met my father.” Why the devil did he have this compulsion to air his family’s linens in front of Selby? “I may have exaggerated notions of what protection is required by young ladies.”

  Robin watched him for another moment, his eyes boring into him. “Understandable.”

  “I meant no insult to your sister by comparing her to Mrs. Allenby, of course.”

  Another pause, and Robin moved a step closer, close enough so that Alistair could discern the maze of freckles on his face, close enough that he could see that Robin’s eyes, which he had at first supposed to be gray, now appeared to have flecks of every color. The closer he got, the more glimmers of blue and green and amber he could discern. And he wanted to get a good deal closer.

  “I didn’t think you did,” Robin said.

  “Why does she not like me? Your sister, I mean.”

  Robin opened his mouth, and for a moment Alistair thought he meant to deny it. “Louisa thinks I’m overawed by your rank, that I do whatever you say because I’m cowed by all your wealth and consequence.”

  A month ago, Alistair would not have been dismayed to learn that an acquaintance was impressed with his standing. In fact, he would probably have thought it his due. Hell, it was his due. But the idea that Robin Selby was humoring him, accepting his weak apology, listening to his shameful explanations of his father’s disgrace, for no reason but to ingratiate himself? That made his heart sink.

  “Is it true?” he asked.

  Robin regarded him steadily with those disconcerting eyes. “Do you want it to be?”

  “No, of course not. Besides, if you’re toadying up to me, you’re doing a mighty poor job of it. I’ve seen nothing but cheek and impertinence from you.”

  Robin laughed, a single mirthful crack that seemed to warm the room by several degrees, and Alistair found himself smiling in return. Here, in this shabby room, he was happier than he could ever remember being.

  “I have in the new novel from the Minerva Press, if you care to take a look,” Alistair said as casually as he could manage.

  “Do you really?” Robin asked brightly. They were lurking near the back wall of Lady Pettigrew’s music room, whispering like schoolboys, while a Swede imported specifically for this occasion performed on the cello. Alistair usually attended his aunt’s entertainments out of obligation mingled with something like mortification of the flesh, as if he might invest himself with virtue by enduring a night of tedium. But with Robin for company, he hadn’t been bored once.

  “It arrived in this month’s shipment from the bookseller.” He omitted to mention that the bookseller had sent the novel only because Alistair specifically asked for it, which he had done after overhearing Robin and Miss Allenby discuss their shared love of Gothic novels. “I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet, but you’re welcome to borrow it. I’ll send a footman with the book in the morning.”

  “Do you mean it?” His eyes lit up. “Don’t bother with the footman. I’ll come by your house tonight, after I bring Louisa home. If that’s all right, that is.”

  “You’re more than welcome. The place is all at sixes and sevens in preparation for the ball, but the library has so far been spared.”

  Robin hadn’t been to Pembroke House since the day he had come begging for favors. That seemed like years ago now, and Alistair felt strangely giddy and nervous to think of Robin in his house.

  Perhaps that was why Alistair had that extra glass of brandy. And then the one after that.

  By the time he arrived home, he was in a state of nervous anticipation. He found himself puttering around the library like the worst kind of housemaid, stacking and restacking piles of books and papers, lighting a branch of candles, stoking the fire until it blazed.

  And all this for the visit of a man who was of no consequence, a lad of four-and-twenty whom nobody had ever heard of before last month.

  He poured himself another glass of brandy and drank it in one gulp.

  When the butler announced Robin’s arrival, Alistair was in the state his father had called “pleasantly well-to-live.” This, according to the late marquess, who anyone would have to concede was an expert on all matters related to drink, was a state of intoxication somewhere in between “a trifle disguised” and “outright foxed.” Alistair, who rarely drank more than a single glass of brandy or wine, only knew that his insides felt warm and his mind mercifully clear of his usual cares.

  This, he suspected, was how everyone else felt all the damned time.

  “Good evening, Pembroke!” Robin called cheerfully as he entered the room. He was dripping wet.

  “What the devil happened to you?” Alistair’s voi
ce sounded thick and remote to his own ears. “It looks like you’ve been thrown into the Thames.”

  “I brought Louisa home and sent the hackney on its way, thinking I’d walk here. But by the time I reached Oxford Street it had started to rain, which of course meant there wasn’t a single hackney to be had.”

  “Take off that coat and give it to Hopkins,” Alistair ordered. “And come sit by the fire.” A footman, who had no doubt been alerted to his lordship’s guest’s alarming state, was already standing by with a sheet of toweling.

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” Robin said. “There’s no sense in my drying off and warming up when I’m only going to get soaked again on the way home.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. You’ll take my carriage.”

  Robin still hadn’t taken off his dripping coat. “It’s only water. It rains in Northumberland too, you know.”

  “I’m certain your constitution is admirable, but my book is less hardy, and if you intend to bring it with you, you’ll do so in my carriage.” He used the tone that brooked no disobedience, precisely how he’d command a stable boy to do as he was bid. He would not stand in his own house and allow Robin to go off and catch a chill. “Moreover, the carpet you’re standing on didn’t need to be doused this evening, so kindly remove that dripping garment, let Hopkins restore it to some semblance of correctness, and sit down by the hearth immediately.” Alistair knew he was being overbearing, but Robin was shivering.

  With a great show of reluctance, Robin peeled off his sodden coat and handed it to the butler, promptly wrapping himself in the towel and kneeling by the fire. Alistair stayed where he was, a safe distance half a room a way, too far to reach out and attempt to dry Robin’s dripping hair or make any other foolish mistake. There were so many foolish mistakes that he’d make if only given half a chance. Robin had been sent from his dreams—or maybe his nightmares—to tempt him into making every single one of them.