by Deb Marlowe
“You won’t have to,” a voice rang out from the doorway.
“Bentham!” A chorus greeted the man as he crossed to the table. He took up the pint meant for Laura and toasted her with it.
“What do you mean by that, Bentham?” Rothmore glanced back and forth between them.
“Only that I have worked it out.” Bentham shrugged. “Your mistake, your grace, was in sending those last two right out on their journey. I knew Penrith would never be happy without his collection of fanciful waistcoats. Talked to his valet earlier—and damned if I wasn’t right. Penrith sent the man instructions to deliver the lot of them—to Brittany.”
Laura, still leaning on the table, gasped.
“Yes,” Bentham said. “You’ve been on fire to join the marquess? You’ll find him on a farmstead outside St. Malo.”
Triumph surged inside her. She let it shine through as she straightened, her mind already forging ahead, plotting planning.
“No!” Rothmore stood. “Don’t even think about it. Any of you.” He fixed on Laura. “Showing up uninvited to Marstoke’s door would be suicide.” He turned his fury on Bentham. “And likely a death sentence for your friend Penrith. None of you can breathe a word of this. You must forget that you even heard it. Do you understand?”
The others erupted in protest and debate.
Laura was already inching toward the door. She didn’t care what Rothmore said—she was going after the marquess. She took another step—and realized that her movements were not causing pain.
She looked down in horror. Her surreptitious tugging had loosened the damned band—and now it had slid downward inside her shirt, to bunch about her waist.
Panic replaced the victory in her soul. She had to leave. She abandoned subtlety and headed for the door.
Only to be yanked to a halt as Rothmore grabbed her arm.
“Did you not hear me? You cannot go on your own. He will kill you.”
Despite the gravity of the situation, Laura laughed. Marstoke was finally going to find the tables turned. She wanted to see his face when Lawrence McConnell tricked him as thoroughly as the marquess had deceived her sister—and others, if rumor held true. Then Marstoke would be dead and McConnell would be gone—as if he’d never existed.
Oh, but she’d miscalculated. Her laughter only spurred Rothmore’s anger. He hauled her up against him and glared down into her face. “This is no laughing matter. There is naught but danger and death to be gleaned with association . . .”
His voice trailed off. Laura saw the truth hit, saw the moment he realized just what pressed up against him. His jaw dropped. He let her go as if her touch burned, stepping away as heat swept across his chiseled cheekbones and shock dulled his blue eyes.
“What?” His voice had reduced to a rasp. “Who?”
She lifted her chin. “Goodbye, your grace.”
He stood, a statue amongst the uproar, staring dumbfounded as she slipped away.
Chapter Three
Hell. And. Damnation.
McConnell was a girl.
Who was she? The question circled Rothmere’s mind. She couldn’t really wish to join Marstoke. No woman remotely familiar with the marquess would wish to be in the same room with him.
Unless—was she one of his victims? Lord Stoneacre and his cohorts were just beginning to understand the extent of the man’s wickedness. Rothmore had heard the rumors of what had been found in Marstoke’s office. There were whispers of long lists, of young girls once deceived now coming forward. Was this unknown girl one of them?
It had taken him a minute to recover his senses and escape from the rowdy crowd at the George. He’d run after her, but she’d gone. He’d promptly hired a postboy to try to run her down, and another to fetch Stoneacre. The earl could deal with the drunken louts now in possession of dangerous information—after Rothmore had questioned them all.
None of them were helpful. Only Stuart had held a vague recollection that McConnell lived in Hart Street, near Covent Garden and the theater.
It was damned little to go on, but he did know one thing—she would want to get to Brittany as quickly as possible. Dover was the closest port, but Portsmouth would get her there earlier. And the likeliest coaching inn near Hart Street with a stage bound for Portsmouth was the Three Hens.
It was a gamble, but Rothmore settled in at the window of the taproom, where he could watch the courtyard. He ordered dinner and waited. When the hour grew late, he paid the innkeeper to wake him an hour before the Portsmouth stage was due, wrapped himself in his cloak, and slept.
Which was why he was out in the cool pre-dawn air when she arrived, dressed as a woman and accompanied by a maid. A smart move, but he recognized her immediately. He walk was different, but he knew the tilt of that chin and the gleam in her eye. He was well acquainted with the stubbornness she showed the driver when he informed her that all the seats were bespoke.
“I’m that sorry, Miss,” the harassed coachman said at last. “You can buy a ticket for tomorrow’s stage or you can find your own way.”
Rothmore approached them from behind. The maid made a sound of protest when he grew too close. “I’ll take you myself,” he said to the girl’s back, “if you tell me the truth and can convince me you’ve reason to go.”
She turned slowly. “I didn’t think you’d recognize me.”
He stared—at her face, so different framed by soft curls rather than hidden by square-cut sideburns, at her slimmer shoulders, and her most-definitely-more-rounded figure in a traveling gown of green kerseymere. “I will always know you, now,” he said simply.
She stilled, then glanced around at the busy courtyard. “We cannot speak here.”
The maid made another disapproving sound, but the girl frowned. “I will speak with him.”
“Come to my home,” Rothmore urged. “We’ll need privacy for this tale, I suspect.”
She searched his face, then drew a deep breath. “I cannot come like this. I’ll return home and come to you as McConnell.”
“When?”
“An hour.”
He tamped down impatience and nodded.
“This person has no card, your Grace, but insists he has business with you.”
Laura slipped past the disapproving butler into the duke’s study.
“It’s all right, Huggins. I’ve been expecting him.”
The servant withdrew. Laura nodded and moved to a spot far removed from Rothmore’s position near the desk. The first time she’d worn trousers, she’d felt strangely exposed. With Rothmore it was the opposite. She’d felt soft and vulnerable when he’d stared at her in skirts, ran his gaze over her unruly curls and undisguised figure. She felt safer hiding behind the armor of bindings, waistcoat and boots.
“I feared you would not come,” he said.
“I believed you when you said you would take me yourself.”
He shook his head. “I doubt you can convince me.”
“I can.” She stiffened her spine. “If you have a heart.”
“I want the truth,” he warned. “All of it.”
“Will you swear to keep it to yourself?”
He hesitated.
She shifted. “You must swear.”
“I do.” He held out a hand. “As long as it doesn’t mean treason or harm coming to you or another, I will keep your secrets.”
It might have sounded melodramatic had they been discussing anyone but Marstoke. Perversely, the drama of it reassured her. “You do know what he is capable of, then.”
He nodded.
“And yet you send those young men off to be corrupted?”
“We get some of them back, once they’ve been exposed to the real Marstoke. We help them pull back, fade away—and we often obtain useful information, too.”
“We? You don’t work with Marstoke?”
“He believes that I do. It would be dangerous if he were to realize that I do not. So you see—you are not the only one vulnerable here. We must keep each
other’s secrets.”
Relief flooded her. She’d thought she’d have to convince him of Marstoke’s wickedness. If he already knew . . .
“What of the others, the ones you don’t pull back?”
He shrugged. “They were lost in any case.”
She thought she knew what he meant. “Who is we?”
“Many of Marstoke’s heinous crimes have just been discovered. The Prince Regent wants to know more. I am working with a small group to uncover the truth—and stop him.”
“Who?” she repeated.
He regarded her solemnly. “And you will share your own story? All of it?”
“Yes.”
“Lord Stoneacre,” he said slowly. “The Duke of Aldmere, and Hestia Wright, among others.”
“Hestia Wright?” She knew of her. Everyone had heard of the ex-courtesan who’d pledged her life to helping women in need. She’d even considered approaching her—but she’d been a man at the time.
“Yes. And you?” Rothmore asked, impatient. “What is your name?”
She held his gaze, but moved behind a winged chair. “Miss Laura Stokes. My father was Lord Stokes.”
“The Baron, Lord Stokes? You’re from Durham?”
She inclined her head.
“I met him once, long ago. I’d heard that he passed. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“As I’m sorry for yours.”
He glanced at his brother’s portrait over the mantel, then lifted a hand. “How did you go from Lord Stokes’ daughter to . . .” His hand dropped. “What happened?”
She clutched the chair before her. “What’s the one thing people say to you? The one thing that’s said over and over, though it might not even be polite.”
He sighed. “Your brother died too young.”
“You should have been born a boy.” She closed her eyes. “That’s mine. I’ve heard it all my life. The first time when I was three and insisted I could ride my pony alone. Papa laughed and said I was pluck straight through to the backbone.”
He chuckled, moving closer to her barricaded spot. “I’d agree to that.”
“When Mama lost several more babes. When Papa died. When his cousin sent us off to live in a cottage on another estate, when I talked too loud or walked too fast. I heard it again and again. But I didn’t begin to truly believe it until my sister’s come-out, when my mother’s nerves led her to bring her out in the smaller circles of Bath, rather than endure the stress of London’s Season.”
“Was your sister disappointed?”
“Not at all. She’s always been the quiet, pleasant one. She sketches endlessly, pictures of her inner world, full of gardens and teapots and kittens and needlework. She was content—and I was relieved when I received Mama’s letter about a courtship with an older baronet from Sussex. Mama made him sound the perfect companion for Faith, but then the pair of them disappeared. Society tittered about an elopement, but I knew better. Mama was a wreck. She came home and we hired an investigator, but we knew nothing until Faith came creeping home, bruised and frightened—and not married.”
Her fists clenched. “And then I knew they’d been right all along. Had I been a man, my sister would not have been chosen as a victim by that deceitful and debauched nobleman.”
“Marstoke?”
“Yes, although we didn’t know it was him until the scandal broke and his image was in all the papers.” She scowled. “Were I a man he would not have felt so free to trick, terrorize and abandon her.”
“I’m sorry.”
“As am I.” He shoulders drooped. “They are in Switzerland now, my mother and sister. Ostensibly for my sister’s nerves, but truthfully, to hide the consequences of her ravishment.”
“Good God.” He stepped closer again.
“Yes. Faith doesn’t draw any more. She jumps at noises now, and cries often. I watched her hollow, tearful face as they set off on their journey and I knew I had to become the man I should have been.”
He was beside her now, and drawing her to a small sofa before the unlit fire. “And not one woman in ten thousand could have done it,” he said admiringly. “Yet you pulled it off brilliantly. I cannot get over it.”
“It was easier than I thought it would be.”
He shook his head. “It’s more than the disguise. You move differrently. Your voice and the cadence of your words are different. You fooled me utterly.”
Her heart fluttered a little at his clear approval. “It’s Janie’s doing—my maid from this morning. She’s an actress. I hired her to coach me, and to help transform me. She’s been marvelous—and relentless. She knew where to get rooms, the best, most discreet tailors and wigmakers.” She glanced askance at him. “How to find difficult information.”
“Yes, we’ll speak on that, but first I must ask—you transformed yourself so well—but to what end? You must know even if you meet Marstoke, you will not convince him to help your sister.”
She frowned. “I don’t want to lecture him,” she said with exasperation. “I’m not going to guilt him into providing pin money.”
“Then what?”
“I want to avenge her. I want to stop him before he hurts someone else. He destroyed Faith’s peaceful, happy world, killed the light inside her.” She breathed deeply and met his gaze directly. “So now, I’m going to kill him.”
He gaped at her. “You cannot.”
“I will. I have to.”
“You don’t have to. There are already plans in motion to capture Marstoke, to catch him in the midst of his treasonous plotting.”
“Plans by those who let him slip our shores the last time?”
“By those with numbers and resources. You must be reasonable.”
“He must be stopped.”
“He will be—but not by you.”
“Of course not.” She stood up and struck a pose. “By Mr. Lawrence McConnell.”
He smiled at her and her knees went a little weak. “I’m all admiration, and amazed by what you have done. I’m suddenly and irrationally curious to see your backside without that coat over it. And I’m on fire to see how you fit that mass of curls under that fine wig.” He pulled her back down and began to tug at it. “Please. Show me. How do you get this thing off?”
In a moment he had his fingers under the wig and she slid her own up to remove the tight cap along with it. Her hair tumbled down, a riot of messy, chestnut curls and he made a sound at the back of his throat. “My God, that is irresistible,” he said, touching her hair.
“If any woman dressed as a man could destroy Marstoke, it would be you,” he breathed. “But he’s ruthless and slippery. I cannot let you risk it.”
All the warm feelings of promise that his touch and the first part of that speech stirred up died away at the last. “Fortunately, you’ve nothing to say about it.”
“Don’t I? You’ve challenged me, plagued me, and now tempted me past all rational bearing. I’ve shared my end of the business with you and you’ve entangled me up in yours.”
She watched as he pulled his hands away and took hers. He weaved their fingers together. “Entangled?”
“As you can see.”
He pulled and she let herself be taken into his arms, didn’t resist when he leaned in close. She waited, and he began with a slow sweep of his mouth against hers. So soft, so lovely. And the warmth of his acceptance, his pride in her achievement still ran soothingly through her. Her eyes closed and she shut it all away—everything that should have made her pull back. He made a sound as he kissed her and the vibrations slid into her, racing along her nerve endings and up her spine.
Pluck through to the backbone.
She stiffened. He ran his hands over her shoulders, trying to reclaim the moment, but it had gone. She couldn’t ignore the truth or cover it with a blanket of desire. She had to follow this through, quiet her father’s voice in her head, see to her sister’s honor.
She sat back. “I can’t.”
“Laura. Miss Stokes.”
“Forgive me for being forward.” He patted the sofa. “Come back. We’ll ring for tea—”
Her shoulders went back. “And we’ll discuss my behavior? No, thank you.”
He frowned. “That’s not precisely what I meant. Let’s talk this through . . .”
Yes. She should talk this through. But not with him. Reasonable, he’d said. She didn’t want to be reasonable, not with him. She didn’t want him to sway her judgment. No matter what happened, she wanted to know she made her own choices. And in the future, when she looked back, or even looked on the Duke of Rothmore, she didn’t want him colored or tainted with those choices.
But Hestia Wright knew what was happening. She’d be ideal.
Laura swept up her wig, hat and cap.
“Laura, wait.” He finally stood as she pulled open the door. “McConnell! Stop!” He followed after her as she slipped into the passage. “Huggins,” he called. “I’m not done with him yet!”
The grim butler eyed her with distaste, his gaze fixed on her hair. A footman, frowning in confusion, came down the stairs. She backed up, shut the door again and turned back to the study.
“I apologize,” Rothmore began. “I just thought—”
“That you know best? That I should slow down, calm down? I’ve heard it before.” She crossed to the window behind the desk. The sash opened easily. She looked out. Ten feet down. She could do that. “You might be right,” she told Rothmore. “But it’s for me to decide.” She swung her feet out and jumped.
She would have been fine, had it not been for the ornamental urn her right foot struck as she landed. Damnation. She stood on her other foot and breathed through the pain while she stuffed her hair up under her hat. Then she limped off, stopping only to ask a man with a vegetable cart how to find Half Moon House.
Chapter Four
Laura came awake on a narrow settee. Her boots had been removed and her ankle wrapped. Next to her sat a tea tray, with a beautiful blonde woman presiding over it.