Redemption of a Marquess: Rules of Refinement Book Three (The Marriage Maker 7)

by Tarah Scott

  His attention shifted to the handsome gentleman. “You will not leave the parlor.”

  “Of course not.” The handsome gentleman smiled at her.

  She would have refused, but remembered the refreshments table on the other side of the room. An escort would be nice, not to mention, the marquess was likely not to let her go too far out of his sight alone. She rose, and the other men stood as the marquess pulled her chair out for her.

  Jeanine faced the handsome gentleman. “Oh, dear, I don’t know your name.”

  “That is my fault,” his lordship said.

  “You are going to allow Miss Matheson to-to go off with a man she hasn’t been introduced to?” Lord Gordon cried.

  “I don’t think it’s as bad as all that,” Lord Northington said. “A turn around the room isn’t ‘going off’ with someone. And I was about to introduce her to Mr. Westland. Mr. Westland, may I introduce my ward, Miss Matheson.”

  Mr. Westland grasped her hand and bent over her fingers. “An honor to meet you, Miss Matheson.”

  “You’re not angry that I beat you at cards?” she asked. “My cousins would get so angry when I beat them, they wouldn’t play with me for weeks. Eventually, they would need another player and be forced to ask me to play.”

  Mr. Westland smiled. “I am not at all angry.”

  She smiled. “Good. Otherwise, it would be awkward for us to walk together.”

  “Indeed,” he said with a laugh, then extended an arm. Jeanine laid her hand atop his as they started away, and behind her Lord Gordon said, “I must protest.”

  “At least he didn’t protest while pointing a pistol,” Phillips mumbled.

  The table went dead silent and Jeanine glanced over her shoulder.

  His lordship stared at Mr. Phillips, a strange smile playing on his lips.

  “Didn’t mean anything by it,” Phillips said.

  “Oh, but you did,” the marquess said.

  Jeanine faced forward.

  “I will be speaking with His Grace about this,” she heard Lord Gordon say.

  “Of course, you will,” his lordship said before she passed beyond hearing.

  Chapter Five

  Valan did not throw parties. But then, he’d never before had a ward.

  He spent the week out and about to ensure everyone knew about the upcoming party, whether they were invited or not. The spare moments of respite away from his once quiet household were spent at his club, where no one spoke above a murmur, even on days like today, when seats were in high demand.

  Valan read his newspaper in the quiet corner hear the hearth, but noted the approach of Baron Rosemund, who claimed an empty chair at the small round table to Valan’s right.

  “Kind of you to have brandy ready for me.” Brendan reached across the intervening space, lifted Valan’s decanter and filled the empty glass that sat beside Valan’s full glass.

  “I regret to tell you, that the brandy was not for you,” Valan replied.

  “I am wounded.” Brendan set the decanter down, picked up the filled glass, relaxed against his chair and rested the glass on his leg. “You are making quite a stir these days. Tell me the latest gossip isn’t true.”

  Valan perused the business section of the paper. “At the risk of sounding pompous, which latest gossip do you mean?”

  Brendan gave him a sideways glance.

  “Aye, it is true,” Valan said.

  Brendan sipped his brandy. “Is she beautiful?”

  “Some would say so.”

  “That is a new tack for you.”

  “She is my ward,” Valan said.

  “I know you too well to believe this isn’t something more,” Brendan said without rancor.

  Valan chuckled. “You bear quite a burden being my friend.”

  “A thankless task,” he replied with wry humor.

  Valan lowered his newspaper and looked at him. “I beg your pardon, that was a fine dinner we enjoyed last month in Inverness—at my expense.”

  Brendan lifted his glass in salute. “Many thanks.” He took another sip. “If you don’t have designs on the woman, what could possibly induce you to take her as your ward?”

  Twenty years dropped away, as Valan once again fitted his booted foot to the final rung in the trestle leading to Lady Victoria’s bedchamber window and grasped the window sill. He hoisted himself up and swung his feet over, then straightened in the dimly lit room. It wasn’t the cool metal of the pistol pressed to the back of his neck when he stepped deeper inside the room that bothered him—if he had an underage sister and a man had climbed through her window, he would’ve done the same—but the pistol Gordon held when he emerged from the dressing screen across the room.

  Despite prolonged efforts, Valan never learned how Gordon had discovered that Valan’s father had shot himself only hours before, leaving Valan a pauper. The only thing his father hadn’t lost in that card game was their ancestral castle on the Isle of Mull. Valan hadn’t visited the castle since.

  As if on cue, Lord Gordon entered the sitting room. Valan reached for his glass of brandy and directed his attention back to the paper. Three heartbeats later, Lord Gordon entered his peripheral view. An instant later, he stopped in front of him. Valan kept his attention on his paper.

  “Rosemund,” Gordon said with a curt nod to Brendan, then to Valan, “A word with you, Northington.”

  Valan kept his gaze on the paper. “Of course.”

  “In private, if you will.”

  “I have no secrets from Brendan. Say what you will.”

  A moment of silence passed, then Gordon said, “At least do me the courtesy of giving me your full attention.”

  Valan lifted his gaze from the paper. “Forgive me. Will you sit? I can call for a chair and another brandy glass.”

  “You can call for— I can have a chair brought, if I so choose,” he snapped. “I do not need you to command one of your lackeys.”

  “I would hardly call Brummell’s servants ‘lackeys,’ and they are not my lackey’s, at any rate.” He sipped his brandy, then stared, waiting.

  Gordon drew himself up as if for battle. “I have appealed to Duke Roxburgh to intervene on Miss Matheson’s behalf.”

  “I expected nothing less. Pray, sit. I am distressed that you stand while we sit.”

  “I am satisfied to stand,” he said. “I demand you return Miss Matheson to Lady Peddington’s school.”

  “Return her? You speak as if she is property. You credit me with far too much influence. First, Brummell’s servants are my lackeys, now I own Miss Matheson. I admit that a lady has her pleasant uses, but I am enlightened enough to know that I do not own a single one.” He thought of Jeanine’s desire to marry a wealthy old gentleman with one foot in the grave. That young lady had no intention of ever becoming property.

  “You know full well the child has no comprehension of your intentions,” Lord Gordon said. “She sees you only as a generous benefactor.”

  Valan smiled. “An intelligent female, to be sure.”

  “An innocent in the clutches of a man who charms women for nefarious purposes,” Lord Gordon snapped.

  “I am indeed guilty of that. But perhaps not in this case.”

  “I am giving you the opportunity to do the right thing before it is too late,” Lord Gordon said.

  Valan laughed. “You never cease to amuse. You, of all people, know it is far too late for me to do the right thing.”

  “I warn you,” Gordon said through tight lips.

  “You are overset, my dear,” Valan said. “A brandy would do you good. Are you sure—”

  “Nae, I do not want a damned brandy,” Gordon nearly shouted.

  Glances came their way. Gordon sent a withering glare to a man seated at a nearby table, then whirled and stalked from the room.

  “I believe you,” Brendan said.

  Valan looked at him. “I am gratified to have your trust, but to what do I own such an honor?”

  “Your ward--what is h
er name…Miss Matheson--is safe from your masculine clutches.”

  “I have many faults,” Valan said, “but lying is not one of them.”

  “You simply say nothing,” Brendon said.

  Valan shrugged.

  “It’s been twenty years,” Brendon said. “I thought you’d forgotten.”

  Valan offered a wistful smile. “Then, Brendan, you don’t know me as well as you thought you did.”

  * * *

  Valan entered his library and went straight to the sideboard to pour himself a brandy.

  “There you are.”

  He glanced right as Miss Matheson hurried into the room with Miss Stone following at a sedate pace.

  He replaced the decanter’s top, crossed to his desk, and sat down. “Good afternoon, Miss Matheson. Miss Stone.”

  Miss Stone halted before his desk, hands clasped in front of her.

  Jeanine sat in the chair opposite his desk, then jumped to her feet. “We need a chair for you, Miss Stone.”

  “I am content to stand,” she said.

  Jeanine’s eyes lit on the chairs that surrounded the gaming table.

  Valan rose. “Sit, Jeanine. I will fetch the chair.”

  She smiled. “You are gallant.”

  “Hardly,” he replied. “I fear you will topple and break your neck if you try to carry the chair.” He carried the chair to the desk and set it to her left. “Miss Stone, you may sit.”

  She obeyed and he returned to his seat. “Do you need something?” he asked.

  “We don’t need anything,” Jeanine said. “Well, unless you count answering a question as needing something.”

  “Ask the question and we shall see.” He sipped his brandy.

  “Are we allowed to invite guests to the party?”

  “Who are the guests?”

  “My friends from Lady Peddington’s school.”

  “Aye,” he replied. “You may invite them.”

  She beamed. “See, that wasn’t so difficult, now, was it?”

  “It was not.”

  “Have you invited everyone you wanted to invite?” she asked.

  “For the most part.”

  “Who have you invited?”

  “I doubt you know most of them.” He paused in lifting the glass to his lips. “Where are you from?”

  She giggled. “How funny that you made me your ward and you never asked where I lived.”

  “I believe I did ask you that night at Lady Peddington’s ball, but you wouldn’t tell me.” he said, and drank half the brandy.

  “You’re right, of course.” Jeanine regarded him. “Why did you make me your ward?”

  “It is polite to answer the question you were asked before you ask one,” he said.

  Her eyes twinkled. “I am from Perth. Now, why did you make me your ward?”

  “To aid in your quest to find a husband.”

  “That is silly.” She looked at Miss Stone. “Isn’t that silly, Miss Stone?”

  “You are fortunate that his lordship has taken an interest in your well-being,” she replied.

  Jeanine waved a hand. “Oh, I know that. But that doesn’t change the fact that he didn’t have to take an interest. What kind of food will there be at the party? Please don’t say pheasant. Everyone serves pheasant.”

  “I have no idea what is on the menu. You may speak with Mrs. McPhee, if you wish.”

  “Will there be dancing?”

  He nodded. “Aye.”

  “I love to dance. You can dance with me—and Miss Stone, as well.”

  “There will be many young bucks anxious to dance with you and Miss Stone.”

  She shook her head. “Miss Stone may dance with them, of course. But you know I am not interested in a young buck.”

  His mouth twitched. “You would rob them of the pleasure of your company?”

  She snorted. “They do not care about my company.”

  “Mr. Westland seemed to enjoy your company at the luncheon. Did you not find him charming?”

  “He is charming.” She cast a sideways glance at Miss Stone. “He would enjoy Miss Stone’s company much more, however.”

  “I could never replace you,” Miss Stone said.

  “Of course, you could,” Jeanine said. “Did you notice Miss Stone’s hair, Grey? It is my creation. She is lovely, isn’t she?”

  He started. “What did you call me?”

  She smiled. “Grey.”

  “I believe I said that you were to address me as ‘sir’ or ‘my lord.’”

  “You did, but when we are alone, that is too formal for a family.”

  He lifted a brow. “Family?”

  She nodded enthusiastically.

  “We are not alone,” he pointed out. “Miss Stone is present.”

  “Isn’t Miss Stone a part of our family?” Jeanine asked.

  “I suppose she is.” Valan lifted his glass to Miss Stone. “My condolences, Miss Stone.” He finished the sherry and started to rise, then paused when Baldwin entered.

  “Pardon the interruption, my lord, but there is a problem with a delivery.”

  Valan frowned. “What can that possibly have to do with me?”

  “Mrs. McPhee is arguing with the deliveryman and I fear they will come to blows.”

  “If that happens, then we must pity the deliveryman. What is the argument?”

  “Mrs. McPhee insists the delivery is too much. The deliveryman swears that this is the amount ordered for the party.”

  “You are the steward,” Valan said. “Deal with the matter.”

  Mrs. MacPhee’s voice rose in the hallway. A man’s muffled reply followed.

  Valan pinned Baldwin with a horrified stare. “Is a deliveryman actually headed for my study?”

  “He is quite determined, my lord,” Baldwin said.

  The voices neared, and Mrs. McPhee burst into the room with a short, stalky man close on her heels. He appeared small beside her stout frame.

  “There ye are, my lord.” Mrs. McPhee hurried to his desk and halted near Miss Stone’s chair.

  The deliveryman stopped beside her.

  “I have had enough of this miscreant,” the housekeeper said.

  “I am no miscreant,” the man growled. “I only want to be paid for my delivery.”

  She narrowed her eyes on him. “I will not pay for something I didn’t order.”

  The deliveryman shook a piece of paper in her face. “I cannae sell the fresh vegetables anywhere else. They will rot.”

  “That is your mistake,” she said.

  The man opened his mouth to rebut, but Valan stood and said, “May I ask who ordered the, er, vegetables, is it?”

  The man thrust his paper toward Valan. Valan took it and scanned the list. He looked at Mrs. McPhee. “Who wrote the list?”

  “That is Brenda’s handwriting.”

  “Brenda?” Valan searched his memory. “She assists in the kitchen?”

  Mrs. McPhee nodded.

  “Then you did order the vegetables,” he said.

  She shook her head. “If ye look at the amounts, they have been scratched out and larger portions written in. This man is trying to cheat us.”

  “I never cheated anyone in my life,” the deliveryman burst out.

  Valan looked at the list again. “Is this the first order of vegetables for the party?”

  “It is,” replied Mrs. McPhee.

  “In fact, it doesn’t seem to be enough for the two hundred and fifty guests we invited,” he said. “I expect at least fifty more spouses and friends to accompany the invited guests.”

  “I told ye that you needed more,” the delivery man interjected.

  “I will not buy more vegetables until I am sure we need more,” Mrs. McPhee shot back. “His lordship doesn’t like to waste money.”

  “While I appreciate your consideration, Mrs. McPhee, I do, in fact, waste money, and quite often,” Valan said. “This does not seem to me an exorbitant amount to spend on vegetables.”


  “We cannae trust a man who tries to bilk us,” she insisted.

  The man swung to face her squarely and was forced to look up at her. “I willnae have my honor called into question.”

  “Honor?” she cried. “Thieves have no honor.”

  The man stepped closer. Mrs. McPhee drew back a fist and drove it into his jaw. He jerked left. Valan glimpsed Miss Stone’s slippered foot shoot out right before the man tripped over her foot and flailed backwards two steps. Jeanine leapt to her feet. The deliveryman crashed into the game table. Wood splintered and game pieces flew everywhere. Valan took three steps and stopped beside him.

  “He’s broken your table,” Jeanine cried.

  “So he has.”

  The man sat up and gave his head a shake. He started to push to his feet.

  “I suggest you stay down,” Valan said. “Mrs. McPhee outweighs you by at least two stone.”

  The man looked up at him and blinked. “What?”

  “As you may have guessed, Mrs. McPhee does not back down from a fight,” Valan said.

  The man’s dazed eyes slipped past him. His face reddened and he struggled to his feet. “I demand my money.”

  “Why you scoundrel,” Mrs. McPhee muttered darkly.

  “Baldwin,” Valan said, “pay the gentleman and see him safely out the door.”

  The deliveryman kept his glare fixed on Mrs. McPhee, who deigned to cast only a cursory glance at him as he passed. Valan looked at his game table and sighed before returning to his seat. Miss Stone, he noted, sat primly in her seat, hands clasped on her lap.

  “Mrs. McPhee,” Jeanine said a little breathless, “I have never seen anything so courageous. How did you manage to hit him so hard? Doesn’t your hand hurt? I once punched Willy, my oldest cousin, and my hand hurt for days.”

  “I use my right hand to pound bread dough,” the housekeeper replied with pride. “My right hand is stronger than the left.”

  “Perhaps I should start pounding bread dough,” Jeanine said.

  “Not if you intend to punch someone,” Valan said.

  Mrs. McPhee drew herself up. “The man deserved everything I gave him.”

  “A man almost always deserves what a woman gives him,” Valan said. “However—” He broke off when a maid came skidding into the room.