Oxley just gritted his teeth.
“I should like to help as well,” Lady Barming continued, “so that she may recover enough to resume her work. Where was she employed, Mr. Soames? For I should like to write a very stern letter to its proprietor for letting this poor woman go.”
“The White House, off Soho Square, Yer Ladyness,” Mr. Soames said. “And thank ye for yer kindness.”
It seemed the countess, who smiled benevolently at the runner, was the only one at the table who didn’t know what the White House was. Even Lady Elizabeth seemed to recognize the name, judging from the way she choked on her wine.
The earl glanced from Mr. Soames to the viscount, as if he couldn’t decide where to focus his rage. And he was angry, very angry, a large purple vein throbbing in his right temple and his fingers clutching his spoon so tightly the silver had started to bend.
“You will cease this game at once! How dare you invite this . . . opportunistic villain to the table!” the earl hissed at his son with quiet fury.
Marlowe merely lifted a bored brow. “You invited Poxley, not me.”
The earl spluttered indignantly.
Uncle Ashley snorted in amusement.
The duke rose from the table, sweat pouring down his face and streaking through the maquillage, making it seem as if his face were melting off. His hands clenched at his sides as if he were barely holding himself back from crawling over the table and strangling his host. “I’ll stand for this no longer, Marlowe. I’ve never been so insulted in all my life,” he seethed.
“I’m the one who should feel insulted, as if anyone could ever think I’d let a man like you marry my sister,” Marlowe returned.
Minerva’s heart swelled at his words. She wanted to stand up and cheer, and when she glanced across the table at Lady Elizabeth, she looked as if she wanted to do the same.
“The arrangement has nothing to do with you,” the duke snapped.
“On the contrary, it has everything to do with me,” the viscount interrupted briskly, “since Mr. Soames has sold to me some extremely interesting documents indeed.”
The duke’s face went pea green once more. He shot daggers at Mr. Soames. “We had an arrangement!”
Mr. Soames just smirked. “Wot can I say? I ’ad a better offer elsewhere, an’ I took it.” His smirk faded. “Asides, Jenny’s me cousin’s sister-in-law. Family’s family, and I’ve of a mind to ’ave you brought as low as you brought ’er.”
“I’m a peer of the realm,” Oxley sneered. “I hardly think a prostitute’s allegations would send me to Newgate.”
“Prostitute!” the countess cried, aghast, fanning herself vigorously. “Oh, lud. I hardly think this is appropriate conversation for the dinner table!”
“We’ve been talking about prostitutes for the past quarter hour, Mama,” Lady Elizabeth said from Oxley’s other side, not bothering to hide her delight in the proceedings. “What business did you think the White House was? A haberdasher’s?”
The countess clutched her diamonds as if they could be contaminated by such low subject matter and glared at her daughter around Oxley’s buttocks. “Elizabeth! An unwed lady doesn’t speak of such things!” she gasped.
“But don’t you think I should be better acquainted with my fiancé’s hobbies?” Lady Elizabeth said much too sweetly. “You said it was important for a wife to pretend to share her husband’s interests.”
The countess moaned and swooned in her seat, her vinaigrette falling from limp fingers. Lady Elizabeth rolled her eyes and took another sip of her wine.
“I shouldn’t worry about that, my dear,” Marlowe said. “For I think that Poxley shall be going on an extended holiday very soon and, alas, shall be in no need of a wife after all.”
“What have you done?” Oxley growled, rounding once more on the viscount.
Marlowe’s smile was so implacably frosty that Minerva finally glimpsed the soldier who had survived the Peninsular Wars underneath all of his armor.
And in that moment, she had to wonder how much of his life was a performance. He played the court jester—the feckless sot—so well that very few people would ever suspect anything lay beneath the mask. She herself would have never guessed he had half a brain, much less hidden depths, had she not lived in such close quarters with him these past few months. His reasons for playing the fool were becoming a bit more obvious now that she’d met his extended family, however. She’d don as much armor as she could as well against such perniciousness.
But she wondered if she’d ever know who he truly was underneath all of his formidable defenses. She’d thought perhaps she was beginning to, but she had a horrible feeling she’d only scratched the surface. Though as she gazed at him in the candlelight—at his rich coffee eyes and unruly mahogany curls, his hawkish nose that had been broken one too many times, and those full, mobile lips that said and did such outrageous things—she felt oddly up to the challenge.
She was definitely, definitely doomed.
“The court of public opinion can be as powerful as Whitehall,” Marlowe continued. “And I have to confess to being something of a philanthropist, just like Mr. Soames here. The Times was quite keen to acquire the documents Mr. Soames sold to me. I would suggest that you leave for Calais before the morning delivery. Though I don’t think even France deserves the likes of you.” The viscount’s eyes glittered with triumph as he took a laconic sip of his wine, as calm and as unruffled at the chaos he’d orchestrated as if he’d been talking about the weather.
“You bastard!” the duke bellowed, launching himself forward over the countess’s lap. The countess shrieked and fell out of her seat, knocking her half-finished bowl of pea soup with her fan. The greenish contents upended over the back of the duke’s breeches as he punched the viscount in the face.
Marlowe’s head jerked to one side from the force of the blow, but he was smirking when he turned back to the duke, despite the cut high on his cheekbone from the duke’s pretentious signet ring. He didn’t even bother to rise to his feet. “Shall you try that again?” he taunted. “I barely felt it.”
The duke lunged at the viscount again and punched him in the jaw this time, but the viscount remained unmoved. It was more an insult than if he had met the duke’s challenge. “I refuse to fight a coward like you, Poxley,” he said with cool disdain.
“How dare . . .” Oxley strangled out as he went for the viscount once more.
Mr. Soames jumped from his seat, wiped the pea soup from his mouth with his sleeve, and stuffed a couple of bread rolls in his pockets before wading into the fray. He rounded the table faster than Minerva thought someone with such a prodigious belly could ever hope to move, stepped over the prone countess, and restrained the duke’s spindly arms behind him.
“Unhand me, you pleb!” the duke snarled.
“As an officer of Bow Street, I’m afeard I can’t obligate Yer Gracefulness. Attacking a man in ’is own home is a ’orrible breach of manners.”
“Thank you, Soames,” the viscount said, patting at the cut on his cheek.
“Jus’ doin’ me job, gov. I only wish I could stay for the main course.”
“Another time, perhaps. See that you deposit him on the docks, as we discussed.”
“It will be my great pleasure to obligate, my lord,” Soames said grandly and kicked at the duke’s knees to get him moving forward.
“I’ll have your head, Marlowe!” Oxley bellowed as Soames marched the man out the door.
Only the countess’s indignant pants broke the silence that followed, as Lady Elizabeth helped her mother back into her seat.
Mrs. Chips cleaned up the spilled soup and took away everyone’s bowls with quiet efficiency, as if nothing untoward had happened.
The earl waited until Mrs. Chips had served the mutton course and left the table before he threw down his serviette and stood, as if only the presence of the servant had restrained him. Hands clenched at his side, he stalked over to Marlowe with a murderous look on his
face.
Minerva heard Lady Elizabeth gasp, and even Uncle Ashley paused in the act of cutting up his meat. She began to truly worry for the first time all evening. Vile as he was, Oxley was hardly a physical match for Marlowe, but the earl was nearly as broad as his son and looked thrice as capable of doing violence.
Marlowe just stared up at his father with a vague amusement, as he’d done with Oxley, and waited.
When the earl backhanded him squarely across the cheek, Marlowe’s head recoiled from the blow, and his lip began to bleed, but his expression never changed.
Marlowe dabbed at his lip, unimpressed. “You’re getting old,” he murmured.
The earl looked disgusted. “You have done so many things over the years to embarrass this family, I was rather used to the disappointment, but tonight . . . tonight has been a special hell.”
“The only embarrassment is you selling your daughter to a deviant who almost certainly already killed three wives.”
The countess gasped, as if it were the first time she’d heard of this. It probably was.
“Unfounded innuendo,” the earl insisted.
“Doubtful. But my sister will not marry him.”
“You’ve no leg to stand on, boy,” the earl sneered. “The law is on my side. She’ll marry where I say.”
Marlowe looked unbothered by this technicality. “You may take legal recourse, by all means. Oxley will be long gone by then, but I’m sure you can find another titled reprobate to fill his shoes. Though even if you brought the magistrate and all of Bow Street to my door, Betsy shall be leaving this household over my dead body.”
“That can be arranged,” the earl bit out.
Marlowe gave his father a cold smile. “Please. Don’t make threats you can’t possibly mean, Father. It makes you look ridiculous. Given his appetites, Uncle Ashley is liable to die next week, leaving Cousin Eustace as your only heir—the one person on earth you hate more than me. You’d rather eat glass than have him inherit.” Marlowe nodded apologetically at his uncle. “Pardon, Uncle.”
Uncle Ashley waved a forkful of mutton dismissively. “No need for apologies, my boy, no need. You are not wrong.”
“If only Evander had been born first!” the earl raged.
Marlowe shrugged. “Sorry to disappoint you, Father, but Evander is dead.”
The earl scowled. “For which you deserve the blame.”
Marlowe cocked his head to the side, a flicker of . . . something wary crossing his face. The earl had finally hit a mark, it seemed, enough to jar his son out of his easy nonchalance, and Minerva braced herself. “Do I? How, exactly, did you come to such a conclusion?” It sounded like a dare.
“You were weak!” Barming jeered. “Half the man your brother ever was. So pathetic he stole your wife right from under your own roof.”
The tension in the room reached a fever pitch at this pronouncement. No one dared to move, much less breathe too loudly . . . except Uncle Ashley. “Well, that were direct,” he muttered around his mouthful.
Minerva felt sick to her stomach at the earl’s revelation. For though his expression was still carefully neutral, she could see the pain in Marlowe’s eyes and the stiffening line of his shoulders. Oxley’s comeuppance had been rather satisfying to witness, but this . . . this was getting truly ugly.
No wonder Betsy had run away. And no wonder Marlowe was so . . . Marlowe-ish. Minerva thought her father had been a cold fish, but he had nothing on the earl. For once, Lady Elizabeth hadn’t committed gross exaggeration when she’d complained ad nauseum these past few weeks about how awful her family was. If anything, Betsy’s accounts had been kinder than they deserved.
The Leightons made Minerva glad to be an orphan for the first time in her life.
“Careful, Father,” Marlowe warned.
The earl didn’t listen. “You disgust me. A worthless cuckold raising and ruining another man’s children . . .”
The moment the words left the earl’s lips, Marlowe snapped. His careful neutrality gave way to a raw rage that she’d never before seen cross his face. It was like looking at a stranger. He rose from his seat, and before the earl could complete his vile thought, he laid the man out with a blow of such ferocity it lifted the earl off his feet and sent him sprawling back on the parquet floor.
The countess shrieked. Uncle Ashley choked on his mutton. Lady Elizabeth looked grimly satisfied.
Minerva herself felt as if her heart were about to beat itself out of her chest. Between the implication of the earl’s words and the sight of his unconscious body on the floor, she rather thought she might be going into shock.
Marlowe stood over his father, shaking out his fist and breathing hard, face still contorted with rage.
“Well, I’ve never been so entertained, my lad,” Uncle Ashley said, breaking the silence with false cheer. “I believe the finale was my favorite part. Been wanting to do that for years.”
Marlowe gave his uncle an unimpressed look, but at least that horrible rage was gone from his eyes. He nudged his father with his boot. The earl slowly came around, looking dazed as he managed to raise himself up on his elbows.
“Say what you will about me, but never speak of my daughters,” Marlowe said with quiet fury. “For I shall call you out, no matter the scandal it would cause, and I would not delope.”
The earl looked as if he might actually continue the argument, but Marlowe’s expression darkened, and his fist clenched again. The earl wisely shut his mouth and glanced away from his son.
“I’m sure you’ll want to depart at daybreak,” Marlowe said in a tone that made it clear this wasn’t a suggestion.
The earl’s scowl deepened, but he didn’t protest the edict.
The countess, however, was not so wise. “But my modiste! I have an appointment with her in the morning, and I simply must visit . . .” She trailed off when Marlowe turned his hard gaze in her direction. She slumped back in her seat in defeat.
“I believe we are done here, then.” The viscount gave Minerva one long look before he executed a short, stiff bow toward the table at large. “Ladies, Uncle. I bid you good night.”
With that, he stalked out of the room.
No one made a move to help the earl to his feet.
The countess turned to her daughter, looking heartsick. “So does this mean you won’t be becoming a duchess? For I did so have my heart set on the loveliest Brussels lace for the ceremony.”
Lady Elizabeth sighed and patted her mother’s hand in consolation.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IN WHICH THE VISCOUNT MISS JONES SEDUCES MISS JONES THE VISCOUNT
WHEN MINERVA RETURNED to the nursery that night, she found the twins still awake and playing spillikins, despite having tucked them in before the start of dinner. It was obvious having Lord Barming under the same roof was the reason they were unable to settle for the night, but she supposed she couldn’t blame them. The last time their grandfather had been around, they’d been shipped off to West Barming School for Recalcitrant Young Ladies. That was enough to cow even the most intractable of souls.
She managed to coax them back into bed by promising them a chapter from Gulliver’s Travels—a book they seemed to love despite its gruesome politics (though that was probably why they liked it)—but just as they were settling in, the viscount appeared at the door, looking weary and rumpled, his jawline already starting to reveal its bruises and the cut in his lip just beginning to scab over.
After all that had happened at dinner—all that had been revealed—she understood his mood and his desire to seek solace in his children. He had routed the duke, but the cost to himself had been high. He must have been used to his father’s contempt—had even expected it to be rained down upon him—but she doubted that familiarity had made it any easier to bear the earl’s vicious words. She barely resisted the urge to go to him and offer some sort of comfort, for he looked as if he needed it. But it was not her place. She doubted it ever would be, though she was beginning to
wish it were.
When the girls caught sight of him, they jumped from their beds, decorum completely abandoned, and mobbed him. The weary look on the viscount’s face immediately faded away, and his tense lips smiled gently as he held his children close. But then Beatrice looked up at her father and frowned. “Papa, what happened to your face?” Beatrice cried in alarm.
Marlowe touched his bruised jaw and split lip as if he’d just remembered the abuse he’d received and froze. “I tripped,” he said.
“Tripped?” Beatrice said skeptically.
“Tripped and fell into a door.” It was a ridiculous explanation, but Minerva supposed it was better than the truth.
“It must have been a very angry door,” Bea said, her brow furrowed as if she still did not quite believe it.
“It was,” he agreed. “And speaking of angry doors, I have good news. Your grandfather will be leaving tomorrow morning.”
The twins both breathed a sigh of relief at this. “Can we have our reward, then?” Beatrice demanded after exchanging an excited look with her sister.
Marlowe fixed Minerva with a mock serious look. “Miss Jones, how did my daughters fare today?”
“Very well, my lord,” she managed. They’d been so well behaved it had been disconcerting. “We did figures this morning”—both twins made retching sounds at the reminder—“and they both chose books to read for the afternoon.”
“We’ve been ever so good today, Father,” Bea said, gazing up at her father with her big brown eyes. “Just as you asked.”
He sighed, as if greatly put upon. “I suppose that means we must have ices at Gunter’s tomorrow after all.”
The girls cheered and danced around their father, and something flipped inside Minerva’s chest as she watched the viscount smile down at his gamboling children. He finally looked back at her, and his expression was a bit sheepish. “Miss Jones, I’m afraid I must enlist your services tomorrow for an expedition to Gunter’s.”
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