Unmasked by the Marquess

by Cat Sebastian

  Robin was thin, very thin. Of course Alistair had known that the lad wasn’t sturdy—that much was plain even through several layers of linen and wool. But with his damp shirt clinging to his arms, Robin appeared so slight as to be almost delicate, like he could blow away as suddenly as he had drifted into Alistair’s life.

  “I revise my opinion,” Alistair said. “Not nine stone.”

  “Pardon?” Robin turned his head, and Alistair could see that the man’s lips were blue.

  “You weigh eight and a half stone, at the utmost, and that’s including your wet clothes. You appear in need of a good meal.”

  Robin looked away, but not before Alistair could see the expression of hurt in those many-colored eyes. “Don’t make me feel self-conscious,” he said.

  “I didn’t mean—” Alistair stopped himself. “I’m sorry.” His second apology. He stood and made his way over to the fire, standing beside where Robin still knelt on the rug. “I worry,” he said after a minute.

  Robin stood and looked up at him, the towel draped around his slender shoulders. “I know you do. I wouldn’t have thought you had anything to worry about, what with all this.” He waved a hand around, indicating his surroundings. “But you’ve got this line here,” he reached up and traced a single cold finger along Alistair’s forehead. “I don’t know what you fret about, but I know you do it.”

  “I worry about everything,” Alistair confessed. And it was true. “I worry about Gilbert. I worry that somehow all the work I did to repair the estate will be undone. I have—” Was he really going to admit this? “I have a recurring dream that my father is still alive, plunging the estate further into decay.” He laughed, a bitter sound. “What a terrible thing, to dream that one’s father lives and to count it a nightmare.” Sometimes Alistair dreamed he was as bad as his father in every way and then some. That was even worse.

  “It’s not terrible.” Robin cupped Alistair’s cheek in his palm, stroking his thumb along the cheekbone like one might to do a confused child. No, like one might do to a lover. Alistair leaned into the touch. “It’s hard to be the one on whose shoulders these things fall,” Robin said.

  It was. It really was, and it was a relief to hear it spoken aloud. He turned his face and pressed his lips into Robin’s palm—not quite a kiss, but almost. “You know about that too,” he said, understanding dawning. Sometimes he forgot that other people had crushing responsibilities and fears and expectations. He was not alone, not in his burdens, not in his life, not in this house—not tonight, at least.

  “A little,” Robin said, not moving his hand. “I won’t tell you to stop worrying, that there isn’t anything to worry about, because that never works. And it’s never true. There’s always something to eat you up.”

  “You don’t seem to be eaten up.” He was always smiling, always laughing, charming everyone around him.

  “I’ve found the fears are there whether you fret or not. So I sweep them aside and try to enjoy myself while I can.”

  While he could? That didn’t make sense, but Alistair knew this wasn’t the time to ask. “That’s why calling you Robin sounds right,” he said, before he could reconsider the wisdom of what he was about to say. “You’re like spring. When you came here, when I met you. It was like . . . light, like the coming of spring, even though I hadn’t known it was winter.” Oh God, he had had too much to drink. Either that or he belonged in Bedlam. What a thing to admit out loud. “I’m afraid I’m a maudlin drunk.”

  Robin looked up at him for a long moment, his expression unfathomable, then pulled him into a hug, letting the damp toweling fall to the floor. “Hush,” he said, and Alistair knew it meant I’m here, and not Be quiet.

  Alistair felt Robin’s still-damp head settle beneath his own chin, as if it were the most unobjectionable thing in the world for the two of them to be standing here thusly. But Robin felt cold and smelled sweet, so Alistair wrapped his arms around his friend, the wet fabric of shirt and waistcoat chilly under his hands. He felt Robin let out a breath and sink against him, the younger man’s weight scarcely registering as a pressure against his chest.

  There was a sound in the hallway and Robin abruptly stepped back. Alistair could have told him it was only a housemaid refilling the coal scuttles and that nobody would disturb them in here.

  “If someone came in they might get the wrong idea,” Robin explained, not quite meeting Alistair’s eyes. He was fiddling with the hem of his waistcoat.

  “Would they, now?” Alistair retorted. If this hypothetical intruder concluded that the Marquess of Pembroke was behaving like a lovesick swain, he would be quite correct, damn it.

  Robin blushed but didn’t plead ignorance or make any move to change the topic, or do any of the other things he might have done if he didn’t know exactly what Alistair was talking about. “As a man who prides himself on his correctness,” Robin said patiently, as if Alistair were five years old and not particularly bright, “it wouldn’t do for you to be seen in the arms of another man.”

  Suddenly Alistair felt furious. Not at Robin, not even at himself, but at everyone who gave a damn whose arms he was in. “I’m the bloody Marquess of Pembroke and I’ll do what I please with my arms, thank you very much. I’d like to see anybody stop me.” He knew he sounded infernally arrogant, he knew those very words had likely been spoken by his own father in justification of his exploits, but he didn’t care.

  “Besides,” he continued in a calmer tone, “I haven’t done that sort of thing since school.” He straightened his cravat, as if that would restore his dignity. “With a man, I mean.” He was deliberately opening a door that didn’t need to be opened, and he was going out of his way to do so.

  Robin turned to him with a startled grin. “Neither have I, for that matter.”

  Only after Robin left did Alistair realize they had both forgotten the book.

  Chapter Five

  Charity knew she ought to refuse Pembroke’s offer to let her have the use of one of his mares. He framed it as a favor: the animal was very skittish, his new groom had not yet proven himself trustworthy, and so forth. But she had known it was a sham. She had stupidly mentioned that she missed the morning ride she had become accustomed to taking in the country, and he had maneuvered her in such a way that she couldn’t refuse.

  And this from a man who said he never acted out of benevolence.

  What would happen when Louisa was married and Robert Selby disappeared? Would Pembroke wonder why he had been so suddenly dropped? Or—worse—would he make an effort to find her? When Charity had planned and schemed all those months ago, this sort of entanglement had been the furthest thing from her mind. But now she felt like she was mourning her own death, mourning the death of Robert Selby all over again. Mourning things she had no right even to think of.

  “I’ll race you to the Serpentine,” Pembroke called over his shoulder. It was only eight o’clock and the park was almost empty.

  Without answering, she spurred the mare, passing Pembroke and effectively giving herself an unsporting head start. She heard the hooves of Pembroke’s stallion approaching behind her, and crouched lower in her saddle. His mount was undoubtedly faster, but she was so much lighter. She tucked her hat under her arm, not wanting it to blow off, and nudged the mare faster. The horse, she guessed, was enjoying this unexpected freedom as much as she was. A chance to test her limits, a chance to let herself go.

  She reached the Serpentine a full length ahead of Pembroke.

  “Scamp.” Pembroke was breathing heavily. “Scoundrel and cheat. You little wretch.”

  “Guilty as charged.” She placed her hat back on her head at a rakish angle.

  “You ride hellishly well. Do you ride to hounds in Northumberland?”

  “We have a hunt somewhere nearby, but I don’t ride in it.” How could she? The local gentry would know she wasn’t the real Robert Selby. She had to hole herself up at Fenshawe, only venturing out for solitary, early morning rides.

&n
bsp; “Who taught you to ride? Was it your father? Or was it a groom? If so, I ought to steal him away. Now, why the devil are you blushing? You’re a damned fine rider and that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “It was a friend who taught me.” It had been Robbie, of course. He had taught her to ride, she had taught him Latin and arithmetic and geography. A number of other things they had simply worked out together, in the way healthy young people often will when living under the same roof with scarcely any supervision. There was no way to think of those things in the presence of this man without blushing.

  “A friend,” Pembroke repeated, and Charity realized he was considering that information in light of what she had implied the other day about not having dallied with a man since her school days. That had been no more than the truth, even if it had been misleading.

  She was doing her best to be honest with him despite the essential lie underpinning everything. Surely there was some way she could be her true self—whoever that even was—in spite of all the things she could never be honest about. She didn’t know if that was the right thing to do, or if right was even an option in this situation.

  “What happened to this friend?” Pembroke continued, shooting her a sidelong glance.

  “He died a little over two years ago.” She looked away when she saw a flash of sympathy in his dark eyes. The last thing she could accept was any sympathy about Robbie’s death, not when she had taken such shameless advantage of it. “We ought to get these horses back to your stable,” she added before he could say anything kind.

  They rode to Charity’s house first so Pembroke could pay his respects to Louisa and Aunt Agatha. He seemed determined to win them over, which Charity found both endearing and hopeless.

  Charity was surprised to find a man standing on the pavement, looking up at the street number and then consulting a piece of paper, as if confirming that he was at the right location.

  “Can I help you?” Charity asked as she drew the horse up.

  “That depends,” the man said. He was about fifty, with gray hair and a plain brown coat. “I’m looking for Robert Selby. My name is Maurice Clifton.”

  Charity fought the urge to run inside, to slam the door behind her. But cowardice wasn’t on her long list of sins. “I’m Robert Selby,” she lied, smiling brightly. “And you must be Cousin Clifton.”

  Now, why should the lad look like a startled rabbit? What kind of monster was this Clifton fellow for Robin to be looking at him that way? Alistair wanted to exert all his authority, send Clifton packing, and whisk Robin away from here. Instead he assumed a stony, watchful silence. That was his greatest asset as a marquess—simply existing, like a loaded and cocked pistol.

  He watched Robin shake off that fearful look and manage a tolerable imitation of his customary lighthearted cheer. “Forgive me for not recognizing you, sir. I think I only met you once, when I was eight or nine.”

  “Quite right, quite right, young Robert. No matter. I scarcely recognize you, myself. I didn’t expect to find you in town, Cousin. What brings you so far south?”

  “My sister wanted a season. To be honest, so did I.” He smiled broadly, and Alistair wondered what Clifton had to be made of not to be susceptible to such a grin.

  But the man remained unmoved, his mouth set in a grim line. “I wouldn’t have thought Fenshawe yielded sufficient income to support this sort of indulgence.”

  No, that was simply too much. Strangers, no matter whether they were related, did not question one another’s finances. Alistair coughed.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot. How could I! Lord Pembroke, this is my cousin, Maurice Clifton of Dorset.”

  The cousin looked suitably impressed to be encountering a marquess. Good. Let him remember that if he thought to cause Robin any unpleasantness.

  Alistair took his leave, parting with a cool nod for the cousin and a warm handshake for Robin, passing the mare’s reins into the hands of the groom who had followed them from the park.

  Desire was one thing—bad enough, really. But this urge to rescue Robin, to prevent him from experiencing even the slightest inconvenience—that was something new. Something unsettling.

  He felt protective of Gilbert but that had more to do with hoping his brother found some purpose in life and didn’t take after their father. There wasn’t a lot of affection or warmth between them. Alistair didn’t have a lot of either quality in his life and never had. Until he met Robin he hadn’t thought it possible.

  He wanted time to turn this over in his mind, to discover what these unaccustomed feelings meant, but when he returned home he found Gilbert waiting for him in the library.

  “Gilbert,” he said, ringing for tea. “Did we have an appointment?”

  “No, I didn’t think I needed—” Gilbert shook his head. “Never mind. I wanted to see you. I have a question and could use your advice.”

  Alistair prayed that it did not involve a pregnant opera dancer or an investment scheme. He sat in a chair. “Go ahead,” he prompted.

  Gilbert squared his shoulders and set his jaw, looking like a man about to send his horse over a wall he knew to be too high. “How much money would I need to marry? I have four thousand pounds.”

  “You can’t marry on that,” Alistair said immediately. Too immediately, perhaps, because his brother looked like he had been slapped.

  “No, of course not. What I mean is, how much would a girl need to have for me to be able to keep her comfortably?”

  “Six thousand.” He had run over these figures many times. “You could live respectably but only in the country.”

  Gilbert swallowed. “But what if I used my four thousand pounds to buy a small property—”

  “No.” Alistair held up his hand to stop his brother. “It’s not safe.” Did the man not read the papers? “Crop prices—”

  “But wouldn’t a good-sized farm provide enough income to keep myself and a wife?”

  “And what of your children? What is to become of them? I hardly need to remind you that our own father is an example of what happens when a man fails to provide for his children. That’s why we’re having this conversation in the first place. By all rights, you ought to have money of your own.” And not a paltry four thousand pounds, either. “But father squandered your inheritance.”

  “I’m not sure about that.” Gilbert shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “A lot of that money he spent went to the care and keeping of the Allenby girls, and they’re his children too.”

  Alistair had no response to make to such nonsense. The entire point, as far as he cared, was that one ought not to have children one could not provide for. He tried a different tack. “If you took up that living in Kent, you’d have the rectory and a comfortable income. If you kept your four thousand pounds safely invested, that would, in due course, provide for your children.”

  This was precisely what he told himself whenever he considered Gilbert’s future—that with the living and the investment, there would be just enough for Gilbert to have a respectable, comfortable future, and he was not going to countenance his brother’s throwing that away.

  Gilbert nervously picked at the seam of his gloves. Today’s visit, Alistair realized, had not been about a hypothetical question. He knew he ought to ask if Gilbert was all right, if he needed any immediate assistance—advice or a bit of money or even an excuse to leave town for a fortnight. But he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. If he opened his mouth, what would come out would be a litany of criticisms—against their father, against young men who would not take holy orders and settle in new-built Kent rectories, against all the moving pieces of the universe that did not comport themselves in an orderly and proper manner.

  So he sat silently, until finally Gilbert gave up and left.

  The clock chimed, and then after a while it chimed again, and Alistair still sat alone in his library.

  “I don’t think it’s as disastrous as you do, Charity.” Louisa was calmly sewing a flounce onto the hem of a wal
king dress. “He came to Fenshawe once, maybe twice, and Robbie was only a child. Your coloring is similar enough to Robbie’s for nobody to remark on a difference.”

  Charity paced back and forth in the cramped drawing room. “But he looks like Robbie. How can that be? I don’t recall your father looking much like either of you. It was so unsettling, Louisa.” It was like seeing a ghost, an especially cruel sort of spirit, showing her what Robbie might have looked like if he had been allowed to grow old.

  Louisa glanced up, a moment of concern flickering across her perfect brow. “I can see that it would be. I hope I don’t have to meet him.”

  So did Charity. She hoped neither of them had to meet him again. But they would. Of that she was certain. A man didn’t go out of his way to find relations and then not follow up on the connection. He likely thought he was being kind by renewing the relationship. “I felt like a thief. Fenshawe ought to be his. That’s thousands of pounds that should have gone to him, and instead—” She stopped herself when she saw Louisa’s frown deepen. They had undertaken this entire charade to secure Louisa’s future, and Charity didn’t want her to feel responsible, especially since the girl hadn’t even been sixteen when they had come up with this scheme. But all the same, they could both swing for it if it came to that.

  “I thought he never went to London,” Charity said with a renewed sense of panic. “I thought he stayed in Dorset.”

  “That’s what Aunt Agatha told us.” Louisa resumed her sewing, calmly smoothing the fabric into identical gathers.

  Aunt Agatha. What a fool Charity had been not to find out for herself if the old woman’s memory was correct. “Perhaps we ought to leave. We could go to Bath after all,” she suggested.

  “No!” Louisa cried, dropping her needle.

  “All right, all right,” Charity said, falling to her knees to find the needle. “I only suggested it because you had seemed keen on the notion a few weeks ago.”