Regency Romp 03 - The Alabaster Hip

by Maggie Fenton

  It probably helped that Uncle Ashley was sober only when he slept, though Marlowe suspected that even that was a rare occurrence.

  Marlowe silently congratulated his uncle for taking the wind out of the earl’s sails so thoroughly with his entrance. Perhaps he was not so cross with Uncle Ashley’s presence after all, for at least he distracted the earl. Feeling magnanimous, he poured his uncle some port—without bothering to ask if the earl wanted the same.

  The earl just glared at him and resumed his diatribe. “Your influence over Elizabeth is entirely unacceptable. I will not allow you to ruin her the same way you have your own daughters.”

  Marlowe delivered his uncle’s port and tried very hard not to punch his father as he returned to his seat. “Elizabeth came here of her own volition and without my foreknowledge. And if by ruin, you mean protecting her from a ridiculously unsuitable marriage to the Duke of Oxley, then, by damn, I am guilty. She’s sixteen, Father.”

  “Poxley Oxley!” Uncle Ashley blustered into his port, turning toward the earl with his eyes popped wide. He looked like a startled toad. “The devil you say!”

  The earl glared at his brother impatiently. “You were there when the banns were read, Ashley.”

  “Was I?” Uncle Ashley said, his face screwing up thoughtfully as he searched his memory. It didn’t seem to work, for he eventually shrugged and took another sip of port. “Don’t recall it at all.” Which was hardly surprising, considering Marlowe had never seen his uncle stay awake during a Sunday service in his life. “Last I heard about Poxley, he were run out of a nunnery in Soho for nearly killing one of ’em. Can’t say as I like the thought of him marrying our little Betsy.”

  Marlowe had also heard that same tale—and so had the earl, judging by his promptly dismissive snort and wandering eyes. “Lies, I’m sure. Besides, what care I for some tart?”

  “No, you care only for the duke’s deep pockets,” Marlowe muttered.

  The earl’s scowl deepened. “The marriage contracts have been signed. I won’t have you cocking things up in the final hour, Marlowe.”

  “If you’re short on funds, all you need do is ask me for a loan,” Marlowe returned silkily.

  When Marlowe was ten, the look the earl gave him at that moment would have sent him into fits of terror, as it usually presaged a backhanded blow at the very least. Now Marlowe just quirked an eyebrow and smiled at his father, daring him to do his worst.

  The earl seemed determined not to lose their battle of wills, however. He changed tack. “The duke informed me of your rather rude behavior at Almack’s. He’s not best pleased with his future wife at the moment. I’ll not have him calling off the arrangement, so I have invited him over to dine tonight.”

  “Have you indeed?” Marlowe drawled boredly while inwardly seething. And he’d thought the day couldn’t possibly get any worse.

  “We must salvage the mess you have made as best we can.”

  “Must we?”

  “Don’t play the fool with me, my boy,” the earl bit out. “You’ve not a leg to stand on, and you know it. Elizabeth will marry Oxley, and that is an end to it.”

  “Your compassion for your daughter is touching, Father.”

  The earl waved a dismissive hand. “She’ll be a wealthy duchess. Far more than the strumpet could ever hope to achieve otherwise.”

  Marlowe was glad Betsy had not left her rooms yet, so that she might be spared the words out of her father’s mouth. “I’m sure the fathers of Poxley’s three dead wives thought the same thing,” he murmured.

  “You are the last person who should cast stones on account of rumor and innuendo,” the earl pronounced.

  “The moral high ground suits you even less than it does me, Father,” he said pleasantly. “But by all means, let us have the fellow over to dine. Shockingly, my appetite fled the premises not long after you arrived anyway. Though I’m sure Uncle here will have no trouble with his digestion.”

  Uncle Ashley slapped his belly and gave Marlowe a wry grin. “You know me too well, nephew. My belly’s survived this long in this family; a little meal with Poxley ain’t going to put me off my feed. I shall enjoy the spectacle, I’m sure.”

  The earl transferred his wrath in his brother’s direction, but Uncle Ashley merely finished off his port in response.

  “I hope I don’t fail to entertain, then,” Marlowe murmured, for if Uncle Ashley wanted a spectacle, he’d damned well give him one.

  On his list of things he’d rather not inflict upon himself, dining with Poxley Oxley rated just below stabbing himself in the eyeball with a dessert spoon, but if his father was playing his hand now, Marlowe was more than ready to play his own. He’d thought he’d have a little more time to finesse his ammunition against Poxley, but he could work with what he had.

  In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of dining with Oxley, since it meant less effort on his part to run the bastard to ground. Better men than the duke—much, much better men than the duke—had run screaming for the hills after dining en famille with the Leightons.

  And just in case that wasn’t enough, Marlowe knew just who to invite tonight to rid himself of Poxley forever. Thank hell that little tip from Sebastian had panned out the way it had. He was going to enjoy every minute of this evening. And with any luck, he’d have the lot of them—Poxley, Barming, the countess, and even Uncle Ashley (if he could fit)—out of his house by morning.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  IN WHICH THE VISCOUNT HOSTS A DINNER PARTY

  THE LAST TIME Minerva had been asked to dine at the table of her employer had been when Lady Blundersmith had needed her to even out the numbers. Minerva had had to endure an entire evening talking about furuncles with an eighty-year-old hypochondriacal lord. It had been one of the most painful conversations of her life, but worse still was knowing that if she’d put a foot wrong in front of Lady Blundersmith’s company, she’d have been out on the streets by morning.

  She hardly feared the same happening now, since the viscount, owing to some perversity of character, seemed to like her best when she was being insubordinate. The black mood that had descended over the household the moment the earl had descended upon the townhouse did nothing to assuage her nerves, however—or the knowledge that the Duke of Oxley was to be in attendance as well. She could only hope that the viscount had found some way around his sister’s predicament. Of course, the likelihood of the viscount successfully disentangling his sister from the arrangement over the soup course was very low, but stranger things had happened since she had joined the household.

  Minerva suspected that the night would be an interesting one, if nothing else.

  Armed in the sapphire gown, she entered the drawing room that evening to find it empty of all but Marlowe, his sister, and a weak-chinned woman who could be none other than the Countess of Barming. One look at the countess, and Minerva knew that all of Lady Elizabeth’s complaints about her mother had been accurate . . . and that Lady Elizabeth had been fortunate to inherit her handsome looks from her father’s side of the family.

  The countess sat on the edge of her seat with the rigid posture of someone who had been forced to balance books on her head during most of her childhood, peering out at the world through her lorgnette. She seemed to be trying to make up for her lack of chin and poor eyesight, however, with the obscene amount of gold and diamonds gilding her gown. The glare was nearly blinding in the candlelight.

  From the way Marlowe’s eyes were half closed, he was either trying to protect his vision from the glare or was bored out of his mind by the countess’s monologue on why her modiste was the best in London.

  Minerva suspected the latter, knowing him. Or both. It was a very powerful glare.

  However, for a woman who was remarkably oblivious to the true reason the earl had brought her up from West Barming (she seemed to be under the impression it was so she could shop on Bond Street, from what Minerva could glean from her chatter) and almost blind, the c
ountess amazingly recognized Minerva before Marlowe could get through his languid introductions.

  “Why, aren’t you Belinda’s girl?” the countess said, scrutinizing her from top to toe through her lens.

  Minerva’s heart sank at the name as she rose from her curtsy.

  The viscount perked up visibly at this. Apparently, she was more interesting than modistes.

  “Belinda? Who’s Belinda?” he asked with poorly concealed delight.

  “Lady Blundersmith,” the countess said. “A dear friend of mine.”

  Marlowe looked Minerva over with a bemused expression, obviously waiting for further explanation. Minerva quirked an eyebrow at him and said nothing, just to see what he would do. His bemusement quickly gave way to a peevish frown when he realized she wasn’t going to give him any answers.

  The countess, however, seemed more than happy to air all of Minerva’s secrets. She waved her lorgnette at Minerva. “You’re the one she sacked, aren’t you, gel? Whatever are you doing here?”

  “She’s my governess,” Marlowe said briskly. He turned back to Minerva. “What does she mean, you were sacked? And what the devil were you doing working for old Blunderbuss, Miss Jones?”

  “Earning a living, my lord,” she said without bothering to hide her irritation. She might have been infatuated with him—Lord knew why—but that didn’t mean she’d let him tease her in front of mixed company. “I was Lady Blundersmith’s companion for five years before I went to West Barming.”

  “Five years,” Marlowe breathed, looking both horrified and grudgingly impressed. “How are you not in Bedlam?”

  She’d often wondered the same thing.

  The countess was not impressed at all. She glared at Marlowe through her lens. “Just what are you implying about Belinda, Evelyn?”

  The viscount visibly gritted his teeth at the use of his Christian name. “I ain’t implying nothing,” he muttered, suddenly all of five years old.

  The countess sniffed and turned her lens back on Minerva. She frowned at her with deepening suspicion. “I’m sure Belly had a perfectly good reason for the sacking,” she said in a tone that made it clear she’d found Minerva sorely wanting.

  Then suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, for she couldn’t seem to make herself stop noticing him, Minerva saw Marlowe’s whole face light up with unholy glee. She held her breath, fearing that he’d finally remembered their first true encounter.

  He had, God help her. “You were at the Montford Ball when Sherry and I . . .” He made a complicated hand gesture that Minerva took to represent two grown men rolling in sponge cake. “You were the little wallflower old Blunderbuss nearly flattened.”

  The blood she could feel rushing into her cheeks was only fractionally due to embarrassment. The rest was from pure vexation. Truly. How could she have fallen for such an absolute, utter oaf?

  “Little wallflower,” she said flatly.

  Lady Elizabeth seemed the only one in the room who had any idea how near Minerva was to exploding. But instead of being concerned, the girl just laughed merrily.

  Meanwhile, Lady Barming continued to examine her through her lens with the intensity of someone searching for nits. Not even Countess Lieven had made her feel so awkward. This felt more like the morning she’d stood in the middle of the headmistress’s office after the viscount’s bungled housebreaking—the second time she’d been sacked.

  She thought longingly of her bedroom, far, far removed from what was shaping up to be an excruciating evening.

  “I feel certain Belly told me why she dismissed you,” the countess mused. “Some dreadful unpleasantness, I’m sure. How you managed to secure a post in my stepson’s household is quite beyond me.”

  “Have you met your stepson, my lady?” she countered.

  Lady Barming sniffed at Minerva’s cheek and lowered her lorgnette. She turned to the viscount. “Is there such a dearth of servants in London that you must hire this impertinent creature? Whatever is she doing here at this hour anyway?”

  The viscount gave a long-suffering sigh. “You insisted upon having another female at the dinner table, Stepmother. I could have Mrs. Chips take Miss Jones’s place, if you would prefer.”

  Mrs. Chips, who was pouring the countess’s sherry at the sideboard across the room, looked as horrified at this prospect as Lady Barming.

  Or at least her left eyebrow did.

  The countess warily accepted her drink from the housekeeper and sniffed it suspiciously. “Really, Evelyn, you must hire a proper staff,” she finally said. “A governess at the dinner table, and your poor housekeeper serving drinks like a common footman. It is all very irregular.”

  Mrs. Chips’s eyebrow rose even higher as she glanced pointedly at the viscount. On this subject, it seemed that she and the countess were in agreement. Apparently a valet and a couple of footmen and grooms were not enough staff for her tastes.

  “And what have we here?” interrupted a deep voice at Minerva’s back.

  Startled, she spun around to find the most enormous man she’d ever seen. He put even Lady Blundersmith’s girth to shame. He turned sideways, too wide to fit through the doorway otherwise, and squeezed himself in. He then proceeded to shuffle toward her with a blatant leer on his face. He had the Leighton hair and eyes and looked like a much older version of the viscount—had the viscount continued down his road of dissipation and excess . . . and consumed a whole roast pig every evening for about two decades.

  She tried to gather her chin from the floor, since she was sure that was where it was at the present moment.

  The man’s beady brown eyes took her measure, and then took it again. “She’s a tasty little morsel underneath all that drab,” he declared. Really, the utter . . . “You always did have an eye, Evie. Caro were a prime article, and I can’t blame you one bit for having your head turned arse to ankles over that one. It weren’t your fault she were a lying, faithless bi—”

  “This is the governess, uncle,” Marlowe cut in, his cheeks a bit pink and his jaw tight. “Of my children. I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue tonight. Miss Jones, this is my father’s brother, the Honorable Ashley Leighton.” Marlowe sounded extremely dubious about the accuracy of that particular courtesy title.

  Uncle Ashley’s leer only increased. Minerva, quite recovered from her surprise, stared him down with a cool look she’d reserved for her most recalcitrant students (i.e. the twins). If the viscount’s family insisted on being rude, she’d damn well serve it back to them in spades.

  Uncle Ashley’s leer turned into a delighted smile at her glare . . . though it was hard to be sure underneath so many layers of blubber. He finally seemed to lose interest in trying to disconcert her and waddled farther into the room. She was shocked the buttons on his waistcoat didn’t fly across the room when he settled himself next to Lady Barming, the chair groaning ominously beneath him. He snapped two meaty fingers at Mrs. Chips and gestured toward a stool on the other side of the room.

  Minerva nearly gasped at his effrontery and half expected Mrs. Chips to chuck the decanter of sherry at his head. The housekeeper looked as impenetrable as ever, but she took her time fetching the stool and setting it at the man’s feet, her eyes like flint shards. Someone was going to receive cold tea and stale biscuits in the morning.

  Uncle Ashley waved her away, unbothered, and heaved a gouty leg on top of the stool. The only one who didn’t look disgusted at the sight of the swollen appendage was Lady Barming, and that was only because she was too blind to see it.

  Minerva, who still found herself standing in the middle of the room, finally took her own seat next to Lady Elizabeth. It put her farthest from Uncle Ashley’s leg.

  Tasty morsel indeed. From the look of the man’s waistline, he was not even being metaphorical. She had the horrible suspicion that he’d consume her for a midday snack if given half the chance, and still have room for pudding in the evening.

  “Nevertheless, my boy,” Uncle Ashley continued after tossing
back the sherry Mrs. Chips had handed him in one go, “you do know how to find ’em.” He held his glass out to the housekeeper for more. Mrs. Chips’s eye began to spasm.

  “If he knew how to find a proper staff,” the countess intoned with a distasteful look at Mrs. Chips.

  “That weren’t what I were talking about,” Uncle Ashley muttered.

  Minerva decided not to hold back, as no one else seemed to be bothering. She turned to the viscount. “Do you and your uncle talk about your conquests at every family gathering?”

  “Only the interesting ones,” he replied. He gave his uncle a warning look. “Play nice, you old goat, or I’ll ban you from the evening’s entertainment.”

  Uncle Ashley brightened. “Entertainment, eh? Anything to my taste?” He licked his lips suggestively and eyed Minerva.

  Oh, the man was a pig.

  The viscount just grinned cryptically. “Very much so, Uncle.”

  “Entertainment? Lud, I did not know there would be entertainment!” the countess cried in alarm. “I must be up early to catch my modiste for a consultation. I shall have a new wardrobe out of this trip, if nothing else.”

  Minerva had never known a mother’s love, but it hardly seemed as if it would feel good to know one’s mother cared about her new frocks more than her own child’s pending marriage to a blackguard. From the way Lady Elizabeth’s shoulders slumped next to her in defeat, Minerva suspected the girl would agree with her.

  “Don’t worry, Stepmother, the entertainment shall commence at the evening meal. You shall be in your bed before ten,” the viscount assured her. “And out the door before dawn, if all goes well,” he muttered in a voice so low that only Minerva was able to hear it.

  This didn’t seem to mollify Lady Barming. “Entertainment during the meal? I’ve never heard of such.”

  Neither had Minerva. She could only guess what Marlowe had planned.