Regency Romp 03 - The Alabaster Hip

by Maggie Fenton

  “Never heard of what?” demanded yet another new voice at the doorway, and from one glance she knew it could only be the Earl of Barming. Aside from the gray in his hair and the angry wrinkles lining his face, he looked exactly like his son, just on a slightly smaller and meaner scale. But whereas his son’s brown eyes danced with life, the earl’s were hard and cruel, and the tight line of his mouth spoke eloquently of a man who rarely smiled. He strode into the room as if he owned it and surveyed all of its occupants with a frown.

  Minerva felt Lady Elizabeth stiffen next to her and watched the countess fidget with her lorgnette. Even Uncle Ashley straightened his bulk as much as he could, as if he too were unwillingly disturbed by the earl’s presence.

  Only Marlowe seemed unaffected, slouching casually as ever in a banyan, Pymm’s influence completely forsaken for the night. But Minerva knew it was all an act from one glance at the viscount’s eyes. Minerva had seen the same calculation in her father’s when he’d talked about the French Navy. It was the look of a man facing his bitterest adversary.

  “So nice of you to join us, Father,” the viscount said with false sincerity.

  The earl’s disdainful look swept around the room, fell onto Minerva, and paused. She held her breath, feeling even more apprehensive than she had in Oxley’s company, and wondered if the earl might not notice her if she stayed still enough.

  She began to understand why Marlowe had buried himself in drink and excess for so much of his life.

  “Who is that?” the earl demanded.

  “Miss Jones. The governess,” the viscount said breezily.

  The earl sneered and immediately dismissed her from his notice. She didn’t know whether to be indignant or relieved at the slight. At least the countess and Uncle Ashley had insulted her to her face.

  Lady Elizabeth tensed further at Minerva’s side when the Duke of Oxley, bewigged, painted, and looking even more unsavory than he had at Almack’s, entered behind Lord Barming.

  “Your Grace! You can’t imagine how pleased I am to see you.” The viscount sounded just the opposite, however.

  The duke gave Marlowe a grim look before bowing over the countess’s extended hand with stiff civility. He did the same to Lady Elizabeth, though she winced at his overzealous grip. He ignored Minerva entirely, and Minerva couldn’t muster up anything but relief at the cut. The man made her nauseous.

  Lady Elizabeth wiped her hand against her skirts, as she’d done at Almack’s, and didn’t bother to hide her disgust. Minerva didn’t blame her. If the duke had kissed her hand, she would have scrubbed it for hours, then doused it with spirits for good measure just to make sure all traces of him were gone.

  The earl’s eyes narrowed on his daughter, no doubt devising some future retribution for her display. Minerva couldn’t help but squeeze the girl’s hand in silent support—the one Oxley hadn’t touched.

  “Shall we dine, then, or are we expected to cook our own food in this house?” the earl demanded of his son.

  “Momentarily, Father. We are still one guest short,” Marlowe replied much too brightly.

  The earl’s brow creased with consternation. “I’ve not invited anyone else.”

  “No, but I have. It is my house after all, and since you invited Poxley,”—Uncle Ashley snickered at this; Oxley’s wrinkled cheeks pinked with indignation beneath the paint—“I thought I’d invite someone as well to keep him company.”

  “I do wish your guest were a female, Evelyn,” the countess opined, oblivious to the tension in the room, “for even with your person—” she peered disdainfully through her looking glass at Minerva, “the numbers are still dreadfully uneven.”

  Marlowe smiled at the countess. “I’m sorry to disappoint, Stepmother, but needs must tip the scale even further against the ladies tonight.”

  The countess wrinkled her nose in dismay.

  “What do you mean, keep me company, Marlowe?” the duke growled suspiciously.

  Marlowe gave Oxley a wolf’s grin. Oh, he was definitely up to something. Minerva exchanged a hopeful glance with Lady Elizabeth, but from her bewildered look, the girl seemed as oblivious to her brother’s plans as Minerva was. “Don’t worry, Poxley. I think you’ll be well pleased with my guest.”

  Marlowe’s cocked eyebrow dared the man to say otherwise. Oxley just gritted his teeth at the viscount’s continued mispronunciation of his title, his neck beginning to flush an angry red where it was not caked in paint or speckled by lesions.

  Those lesions were very worrying.

  As if on cue, Mrs. Chips, who had slipped out of the room sometime after Uncle Ashley’s third glass of sherry, slipped back in with their final guest hot on her heels.

  “A Mr. Soames has arrived, your lordship,” Mrs. Chips intoned.

  Minerva found herself gaping in shock for the second time that night at the sight of the new arrival.

  Mr. Soames gifted the room with an elaborate bow fit for the royal court, though it wobbled dangerously on the upswing. The man had Marlowe’s height but was built nearly twice as wide. He hadn’t Uncle Ashley’s impressive girth—who did?—but his belly was substantial enough to stretch the silk of a virulently red waistcoat to its limits. His stained cravat was tied in what appeared to be a Gordian knot, and his tailcoat of cheap black superfine looked as if it had been cut for a man half his size. His broad grin revealed a mouthful of yellowed teeth, and his carefully coiffed dark hair a la Brutus stank of penny pomade even from across the room.

  Lady Barming squinted through her lens, as if she doubted what she was seeing. Which was obviously not a lot, since she’d not stormed out of the room in a righteous huff.

  The earl glared at his son.

  The duke gasped in horror and backed into the sideboard, nearly knocking the decanter to the floor.

  Uncle Ashley finished his sherry with a rapturous sigh and signaled to Mrs. Chips for yet another.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Chips,” the viscount said breezily, crossing the room to greet the new arrival. It didn’t escape Minerva’s notice that it was a courtesy he’d not extended to the duke. “May I present my friend, Mr. Soames of Bow Street. Mr. Soames: my father and stepmother, the Earl and Countess of Barming; my sister Lady Elizabeth; the Honorable Mr. Ashley Leighton; and Miss Jones. Oh, and the Duke of Poxley.”

  Oxley’s complexion took on a greenish cast beneath his cracking paint as Mr. Soames beamed in his direction, and a faint film of sweat began to coat the edges of his wig.

  “Yer Gracefulness! Fancy seein’ you here,” Mr. Soames said. “This is what they call a commencement, for I were jus’ finking about you today while I were visiting me cousin.”

  “You are acquainted! What a lovely commencement indeed!” Marlowe’s look of delighted surprise was so exaggerated that Minerva thought even the myopic countess would realize how feigned it was, but her lens was still pointed at Mr. Soames’s waistcoat. “I was unaware of your interest in Bow Street, Poxley. Surely this is how you know Mr. Soames?”

  Oxley’s greenish complexion had given way to red over the course of the viscount’s words. It was nearly purple with rage by the time he opened his mouth to answer.

  But Mr. Soames cut off whatever the duke would have said with a chuckle and a hearty slap to the back. The duke’s legs nearly buckled from the blow.

  “Oh, aye, we’re old friends, Poxley and I,” Mr. Soames said, rocking back on his heels and looking well pleased with himself. “’Is Gracefulness and I ’ave a business arraignment, doan we, gov?”

  Oxley spluttered, glaring at the viscount as if he wanted to strangle him. “I have never seen this ruffian before in my life!” Oxley exclaimed.

  Mr. Soames’s broad grin grew even broader at this, but there was something hard-edged beneath his expression when he looked at the duke. It was the same look underneath Marlowe’s veneer of calm amusement, as if they were both wolves circling their prey.

  Well, Minerva had known the night would be anything but boring. She decided t
o follow Uncle Ashley’s lead and sat back in her seat to enjoy the show. Mrs. Chips pressed a glass of sherry into her hands, as if reading her intentions and approving heartily of them.

  “Ruffian!” Marlowe cried, seemingly taken aback at Oxley’s accusation. “Surely you are mistaken, Duke. Mr. Soames here is an officer of law and order in this fair city of ours.”

  “Jus’ doin’ me civilian duty, m’lord, an’ ’appy to be ’ere tonight amongst such quality,” Mr. Soames affirmed solemnly.

  The viscount smiled at his guest. “Mr. Soames has done me a great favor, and I couldn’t think of a better way to repay him than an intimate family dinner.”

  Marlowe could think of no better way to annoy his family, either. The earl looked as if he were one breath away from apoplexy.

  The countess, on the other hand, looked as if she were still trying to work out how Mr. Soames could possibly exist. “You have a most fascinating accent,” she said as she peered through her lorgnette. “What is it? Dutch? Belgian?”

  “East London, Yer Excellency,” Mr. Soames said, sweeping her another courtly bow.

  The countess dropped her lorgnette into her lap. “Indeed!”

  “An’ I doan aim to be impotent, Yer Excellency, but I doan fink I’ve seen finer assets than yer own,” he said, gesturing in the vicinity of the countess’s bosoms. “Are they genuine?”

  Uncle Ashley spluttered his sherry down the front of his cravat at this, and the viscount and Lady Elizabeth choked on horrified laughter.

  The countess seemed to understand what Mr. Soames was truly referring to, however—her only show of astuteness since recognizing Minerva earlier. She touched the enormous diamonds around her neck with a haughty sniff. “Of course they’re real.”

  “You’ve excruciating taste, Yer Excellency,” Soames said, bowing once more.

  The countess didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended, judging by the constipated look on her face.

  “If ever yer needin’ an ’onest appraisal of value, I know a man in Covent Garden. ’E makes excellent paste for ladies such as yerself what might be in need of a little supplemental pin money, if ye takes me meaning.”

  “My stepmother only shops on Bond Street, Mr. Soames, and would never wear paste,” Marlowe interrupted smoothly when the countess flushed with affront.

  “Of course,” Mr. Soames said breezily.

  “And that necklace is an heirloom. If it were to be interfered with or misplaced, it would surely break my stepmother’s heart,” Marlowe continued, his easy manner laced with steel.

  Mr. Soames’s smile froze. “Of course,” he repeated, less breezily this time, giving the necklace one last look of longing.

  “What is your game, Marlowe?” the earl barked at his son. He looked as if he’d finally recovered enough from the shock of Mr. Soames’s presence to continue to be as disagreeable as possible.

  Marlowe’s look of feigned innocence was so outrageous Minerva only barely held back a snort. Uncle Ashley didn’t bother. “I truly don’t know what you mean, Father. This is just an intimate meal among friends, is it not? I thought it a wonderful opportunity to invite Mr. Soames to join us and thank him for all of the wonderful work Bow Street does for the citizens of London. You’ve always been after me to perform my civic duty, after all.”

  “Me an’ me fellow runners are benighted to serve, Vee-count,” Mr. Soames declared agreeably.

  Marlowe grinned. “Eloquent as always, Soames. Now I believe it’s time to dine. Countess?” Marlowe said, offering his stepmother his arm.

  Somehow, the earl ended up escorting Minerva to the table, though he looked the entire time as if he’d rather be having his teeth pulled. She would have felt insulted, but she was too entertained to do so. What had started off as a miserable evening had quickly become something else altogether. She had a feeling that Lady Elizabeth was going to find herself without a fiancé by the end of the evening. Whatever Mr. Soames held over Oxley had to be huge for the duke to even consider sitting down at the same table as the runner.

  She had once again underestimated the viscount. She’d feared this dinner with Oxley might have meant Marlowe’s capitulation to the marriage, but she should have known better. The night was going to end in a spectacular disaster, of that she had no doubt.

  And if there was ever a doubt where the twins had inherited their penchant for wreaking havoc, the sight of Mr. Soames settling into his seat next to the Earl of Barming erased them all. She sought out the viscount at the head of the table and found him relaxed in his seat, wineglass poised carelessly in one hand, the picture of indolent amusement. He seemed completely immune to his father’s glower and the duke’s silent fuming. He caught her eye and gave her a guileless look as Mrs. Chips ladled cold pea soup into his bowl.

  She groaned inwardly, for it seemed Mrs. Chips had devised the same menu she’d served to Minerva the first night of her employment. Pea soup and mutton were as much a call to arms for the housekeeper as the viscount’s East London dinner guest. The vile combination meant that the housekeeper disliked their present houseguests as much as she did.

  But it also meant that Minerva would be going to bed hungry.

  Uncle Ashley and Mr. Soames attacked their bowls with alacrity. They were the only ones. The sound of their slurping was the only thing that broke the awkward silence that had descended over the table.

  Minerva decided to give this disaster in the making a little kick and turned to Mr. Soames, waiting until he was between spoonfuls of soup to pose her question.

  “So, Mr. Soames, how is it that you know the viscount?”

  Mr. Soames spilled most of his next spoonful onto his waistcoat as he turned to her. He gave her a yellow grin, his eyes twinkling with some sort of secret delight. “Well, that’s a bit of a tale, Miss Jones,” he said loud enough for the whole table to hear. “The vee-count and meself share a mutinous friend in the Marquess of Manwaring.”

  “He came to the heroic rescue of one of the marchioness’s dogs a few years ago,” the viscount said dryly.

  She was sure she didn’t want to know.

  “I didn’t know Bow Street was in the habit of rescuing pets,” Lady Elizabeth said from across the table, leaning as far away from Oxley as she could as she ran her spoon listlessly through the soup.

  “It were a one-off, Yer Ladyness,” Mr. Soames said. “The opportunity presentated itself, an’ I took it. ‘Carpenter diem’ an’ all that. I’m out of the pet business these days, though, and on to more charitable indebtors.”

  “Rescuing animals seems very charitable of you, Mr. Soames,” Minerva said, wondering where in the world this conversation would end up.

  Mr. Soames was well pleased by the praise, judging from the way he flung his spoon through the air as he spoke. “Aye, but people ’elping people—and wot-not—is wot this great city of ours needs more of, an’ that’s the line of business I aim to pursue. Bow Street does good work, but there are too many criminals that woan ever be persecuted proper-like.” He shot a pointed look at the duke, who was as green as his soup at the moment. “So I offer me services to wronged parties that woan see the renumeration they deserve through the courts.”

  “How very public minded of you, Mr. Soames,” she said, impressed by his philanthropy. Perhaps she’d underestimated the man.

  “I’m sure Mr. Soames is well compensated for his services,” the viscount said, dry as dust, as he took a sip of his wine.

  “I take a small percentage,” Mr. Soames admitted, not looking the least bit ashamed. “I’m an entremanurial-minded fellow. I can’t be doing charity work for free.”

  Well, perhaps she hadn’t underestimated the man after all.

  “God forbid,” Marlowe agreed.

  “Can’t say as I doan enjoy the work, though,” Soames continued after another slurp of his soup. “You meet all sorts. It’s how I became acquainted with the duke ’ere, in fact.”

  “Oxley, I didn’t know you too were so involved i
n charitable endeavors,” Marlowe declared disingenuously.

  Oxley, conspicuously silent since he’d sat down, went rigid, and the green beneath his thick maquillage quickly changed to scarlet. His soupspoon clanged hard against the porcelain bowl as he dropped it from a clenched fist. “I should call you out for this, Marlowe,” the duke gritted out.

  The viscount’s grin developed a razor-sharp edge to it, and Minerva repressed a shiver. Nothing of the indolent aristocrat remained. This was the man who’d fought and won too many duels of honor to count.

  Now she remembered why she was so taken with the man.

  “Nothing would please me more,” he said flatly.

  The high color fled the duke’s cheeks.

  “My heavens! I shall need my salts tonight if you insist on dueling at the dinner table, Evelyn,” the countess breathed, looking uncomfortably befuddled, sitting as she was between the two men.

  “Our highness ’ere is one of my biggest contributors,” Mr. Soames continued, as if oblivious to the tension in the air. “I felicitated ’is ’elp after a mutinous friend of ours lost ’er employment due to a viscous assault on ’er person.”

  “Why, how awful! And Bow Street cannot find her assailant?” Lady Barming cried, for she seemed the first one, surprisingly, to have muddled out Mr. Soames’s meaning.

  Mr. Soames’s genial smile faded, and he fixed the duke with a hard look.

  “I’m afraid the courts were unable to prosecute this particular villain through conventional means,” Marlowe offered when Soames just continued to glare at the duke.

  “This is why I despise London!” the countess declared, trading her lorgnette for a gold-encrusted fan and fluttering it frantically in front of her. “I should not feel safe shopping even on Bond Street after hearing such a sordid tale. I should only hope ruffians like that confine their activities to the lower orders where they belong.”

  “Aye,” Soames said sagely. “My client is but a lowly businesswoman, Yer Ladyness, but she’s an ’onest woman all the same, wot doan deserve wot’s been done to her.”

  “How admirable of you to come to this poor unfortunate’s aid, Your Grace,” the countess said, turning her attention to her neighbor. “Even if she is in trade.”