by Deb Marlowe
“Hello,” the lady said as Laura struggled to sit up. “Welcome to Half Moon House.”
“Miss Wright? I need to talk to you—”
“Just Hestia, dear.” The stunning woman handed her a cup of tea. “I hope you like it with a bit of brandy.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you. I’m sorry for making such an entrance—”
“Don’t think a thing about it. You are hardly the first girl to faint away on our doorstep. But do drink up. I suspect you’ll need the strength and this,” she indicated Laura’s male clothes, “is a story I must hear.”
Laura obeyed on both counts, warming up with each sip of the tea and spilling her tale in a hurry. Not until she reached her sister’s part did Hestia interrupt.
“Did your sister meet this gentleman in Bath?” Her expression was grim.
“Yes.”
“Under an assumed name?”
“We might never have discovered him, had the scandal not put his image in the papers.”
“You don’t have to say anymore. I know your sister must have come home bruised and battered. I know she hasn’t been the same, since.”
“How do you know that?” Laura whispered.
“Because the same thing happened to me, long ago.”
“Marstoke?”
Hestia nodded.
Laura swung her feet to the floor. “He’s been at this so long?”
“I’ve kept him busy fighting on other fronts when I could.”
“Still, you know that he must be stopped. You see why I must kill him. This identity is well established. Lawrence McConnell must kill him. And then he can disappear, with no one the wiser.”
“On the contrary, he must not.”
“How can you—?”
“Killing is far too good for Marstoke, my dear. He doesn’t deserve an easy death. He must be made to suffer. I have great plans for it, in fact.” She sat quietly for a moment in contemplation. “You bring several delicious new elements to the table, Laura. You say your sister is a skilled artist?”
She nodded.
“Good. That’s given me a lovely idea. We can begin the torment even earlier than I’d planned. Do write her, will you, and ask if she’ll work with us? She might as well use her time as she waits.” She pursed her lips. “Incidentally, where does your mother believe you to be right now?”
“I . . . ah . . . At a friend’s in Wiltshire.”
“Regular posts going out from there, I assume?”
Laura hung her head. “My hired maid’s brother lives there.”
“Excellent. She sounds as if she knows how to get things done. I really must have the both of you, I think.”
“But, but . . .” Laura looked down at herself and then back at Hestia.
“Oh, don’t despair! You did exactly the right thing, coming here. You wanted to avenge your sister, did you not?”
“Yes!”
“Now you can allow her to get a bit of vengeance back herself. So much more satisfying for her—and healing.” Hestia sat back. Laura squirmed a little as she watched her through narrowed eyes. “I think you also must have wished to make your father proud, didn’t you?”
Laura blinked. “Yes.”
“Well he must be somewhere bursting with pride right now. Such a brave, determined and intrepid girl. I’m thoroughly impressed myself, so don’t fear that I mean to cut you out of things. We just must make a few adjustments.”
“Adjustments?”
“Traveling to Brittany is out, of course.” She waved her fingers when Laura tried to protest. “We’ve just learned that Marstoke is on his way back to England. And oh, what a pot of scandal broth he intends to stir up! We will prevent him, of course. Plans are under way, but what I need is a distraction—and you may prove just the thing.”
Hestia breathed deeply and smiled. The sight made Laura a bit nervous.
“You know what I think your father would have wanted above all things? I think he would want you to be happy.” She leaned in. “And though we will indeed stop Marstoke, and we have to find a way to kill off your Lawrence—the most important thing will be to find a way to keep Rothmore from slipping through your fingers.” She waited a moment. “Am I right?”
It felt as if a weight had suddenly rolled off of her shoulders. She thought about all that Hestia had said. Faith managing to get a bit of her own revenge? Marstoke caught and punished. A role in it for her. And then she thought of Rothmore, of the warmth and acceptance in his eyes, the trust he showed when he shared his own secrets—and the heated promise of his touch. “Yes.”
Hestia’s smile grew. “Good. That should be easy enough.”
Rothmore frowned down into his coffee.
He’d been doing a lot of that lately. A lot of frowning, a lot of sulking since Miss Laura Stokes jumped out of his window to escape his kiss.
He sighed. The thought made for good melodrama, but he knew what she’d really been running from. His overbearing manner. His hubris. His conviction that he knew what was best for her, a woman of the briefest acquaintance.
But what was he supposed to have done? Allow her to hare off after a misogynistic monster like Marstoke?
Someone had to be reasonable in all of this mess.
Except that he’d barely had a reasonable or rational thought since he’d watched that girl limp away. He’d stormed directly out of his house, tracked Stoneacre down, and told him that he was done recruiting malcontents for Marstoke.
He’d ignored all of his appointments, avoided his friends, refused to go home and abandoned his efforts to learn his brother’s way of running the ducal empire.
Instead he’d been sitting in a lot of coffeehouses. Thinking about his life, and how he should begin to put his own stamp on the dukedom. Cogitating on his idea for helping those bored and aimless men like Geordie and Stuart, contemplating how he might find a purpose to occupy them. And thinking about Laura Stokes, about her pretty face and her wild hair and her will of iron.
And yes, sulking as well.
“I know you didn’t harm your brother.”
He froze with his coffee cup half raised.
“Forgive me for intruding.” Miss Stokes seated herself at the table next to his. The waiter placed a steaming teapot before her. She wore a shimmering orange day dress covered with an ivory spencer. “But I wanted you to know that I know that you are a better man than that.”
Rothmore scoffed. “You don’t know anything about me, not if you could have thought for one second that I would have coerced you, the other day.”
“Oh, I didn’t believe such a thing. I just knew you were going to be reasonable—and expect me to be as well. And I was in no mood for it.”
“Are you in the mood for it now?”
She shrugged. “Not really.”
He sighed. She would make some man a frustrating, exasperating, wonderful wife. The perfect duchess, he rather thought. But he suspected he had a long road before he could bring her around to his way of thinking.
“I may not know all of the incidentals,” she continued, “but I do know all of the important things about you. I know you can keep a secret. I know that you are loyal and inspire loyalty as well. I know that you have empathy for your fellow man, the vision to see the bigger picture and heart enough to work to change it, even at your own expense.”
He had no idea what to say to all of that, so he stared at the elegant frogging over her bosom instead. Perhaps there might be a shortcut or two upon that road.
“You know all the important bits about me too,” she continued. “And I’m glad you do. I wanted you to know how much I admire you, in case something happened and I don’t get the chance to tell you later.”
He straightened. “You don’t still mean to go to Brittany?”
“No.” She raised a brow and he marveled that he could ever have believed that those fine features could belong to anyone but a lovely girl like her. “Had you not heard?” She leaned close. “Marstoke is coming back.
The word circulating about is that Mr. Lawrence McConnell wishes to do him some harm.”
He clenched his jaw to keep from saying the wrong thing.
She waved for the waiter, and settled with him before standing up to pull on her gloves. “Goodbye, your Grace.”
He’d be damned before he let her walk away again. Throwing coins on the table, he followed her out and snatched her close before she could leave the shadowed alcove of the shop’s entrance.
“Scheming with Stoneacre has indeed made me something of a professional meddler, it seems. I apologize if I overstepped my bounds. I won’t do it again.” He breathed deeply. “McConnell must make his own choices, of course.” He lowered his head until they shared both breath and a long, scorching look. “But Miss Stokes should know that she has choices too—and someone waiting for her on the other side.”
Without further hesitation he kissed her. Gently, at first, but her response was open and immediate and the triumph that swamped him went deeper and more primal than mere lust. His kiss grew rougher, more demanding—and she arched against him and slid her hands up and over his shoulders.
He growled and buried his face in the slender curve of her neck, and then summoned the sort of strength he’d never known he had and set her away.
“I’ll be waiting,” he said, before he turned and walked away.
Chapter Five
Lady Pilgren’s ailing husband showed signs of recovery and she was giving a ball to celebrate. It was to be a grand fete, so elaborate that some of the departed nobility were returning from the country just for the event. That was the public version of the thing, although those in the know understood that the lady was planning the evening at the behest of the Marquess of Marstoke—and that he meant to attend.
Everybody who was anybody was going to be there, including the Duke of Rothmore, who had heard both versions, and heard from Geordie besides, that Mr. Lawrence McConnell was going to attend, for the express purpose of challenging the marquess to a duel. Stuart, on the other hand, held with the opinion that the young man was going to publicly name Marstoke as his natural father. There were other rumors floating about, and no one knew which was right, but everyone knew it was bound to be an eventful night.
It nearly killed Rothmore not to know the truth of the matter, but he did know that Laura had joined up with Hestia in this affair, and that must be enough to satisfy him.
It must be, because that’s how Miss Laura Stokes wished it. Both Hestia and Stoneacre urged him to stay out of it. Hestia encouraged him to instead begin to develop his ideas for those wayward young nobles. The Spare Affairs, she was calling it with delight. And Penrith must be first, she told him, urging him to find the man something productive to pursue far from England’s shores, for Marstoke was mightily displeased with the lad.
So Rothmore arrived at the ball with several ideas in mind, trepidation in his heart and several more weapons hidden about his person. He kept to the fringes of the crowd and kept his eyes open, but the evening was half over before he saw any of the players in the expected drama.
Suddenly Marstoke was there. He hadn’t been announced, but a surge of gossip and excitement surged through the ballroom and everyone turned to find him affably greeting their hosts.
Rothmore began to move in that direction. The polite conversation continued for a few moments. The wave of whispers had just begun to ebb, attention to shift away, when the marquess made a show of turning and holding out his hand toward a nearby alcove. His motions were dramatic and exaggerated as he urged someone to come out from the shadows and into the light.
“Marstoke!” Laura’s clear voice rang out across the ballroom.
Rothmore spun around. The musicians had taken a break and she’d stepped out onto their dais. What a picture she made, standing there in her formal gentleman’s attire. The buckram padding at her calves might have been a tad overdone, he thought critically, but otherwise she looked the perfect picture of a young English gentleman. The shine of her shoe buckles rivaled the silver embroidery on her dark blue waistcoat, but both were outshone by the fancy etching on the dueling pistols she held in both hands.
The crowd gasped and fell back.
“You’re crimes are uncovered, my lord. You’ve harmed countless innocents,” she declared in ringing tones. “You’ve mastered the arts of trickery, abuse and seduction, stolen the light and the lives of so many. And now it’s time you begin to pay on the debts you owe.”
Rothmore pushed through the crowd, but the revelers were all moving away from those waving pistols. The marquess looked unaffected. He’d turned to face his accuser, away from the alcove. “What nonsense is this? I don’t even know who you are,” he said derisively.
Laura raised a pistol and aimed it for his heart. “How many of your victims have awakened, drugged, bruised and bloodied, to say those very same words?”
Rothmore read the deadly intent in her eye. Marstoke must have recognized it as well. He took an uncertain step back. A woman in the crowd began to scream.
Rothmore pushed against the tide, but he wasn’t going to reach her in time.
“Goodbye, my lord,” she said with finality.
Over his shoulder, Rothmore saw Marstoke cringe.
“Stop him!” The marquess ducked down, trying to make a smaller target.
Laura stepped closer to the edge of the dais and took careful aim.
“No!” Suddenly Penrith stepped into the empty space left by the crowd. He had a pistol of his own and before Rothmore could do more than shout, before anyone could react, he raised it and fired.
Screaming, panicking guests ran everywhere. Others stood frozen, watching the tableau.
Laura staggered back. Her pistols clattered to the floor. She reached a hand to her chest and drew it away, covered in blood.
Rothmore broke through. He swung hard and knocked Penrith to the ground with one blow. “Keep him there,” he shouted to a footman. He was already running for the stage.
Stoneacre was there, along with a crowd of gentlemen. As Rothmore leaped up, they dragged Laura through a servant’s entrance.
Someone grabbed Rothmore’s ankle from below. He shook them off and followed through the green baize door. Stoneacre stood on the other side.
“Bear left at the end of the passage. Get her out of here. If anyone else comes, send them toward the right, to chase McConnell out the back.” The earl clasped Rothmore’s arm. “I leave her safety to you. I have to get back. Tonight’s drama is just beginning.”
Rothmore ran on. He found a curtain in the left passage, closing off some sort of butler’s pantry or staging area for the serving of refreshments. He swung the curtain open.
She was there, in the midst of the room, raking her hair up behind her head as Janie buttoned her into a gorgeous green gown.
“Close the curtain again!” she scolded. “Oh, that was such fun! How was I? I practiced for ages! Did you believe I’d been shot?”
Rothmore’s knees went weak. “My God! You are fine? But what of the blood?”
“Stage blood.” She looked him over. “Ah, good. I was convincing, then!”
Relief and fury warred for space in his chest as he slumped against the wall. “You scared the very life out of me,” he shouted. “Don’t ever do that again!”
“Hush, hush,” she warned. “I can’t be seen until I’m dressed—and then you must take me through the butler’s pantry and dining room into the party, as if I’d been there all along.” She cocked her head to listen. “We don’t want anyone to come this way, but to follow the trail after Lawrence, out the back.”
“Lawrence,” he said firmly, “is dead.”
“Yes, he is, the poor dear. But he served his purpose. Did you see Marstoke’s face? I put the fear of God into him, if only for a moment. I cannot wait to tell Faith about it.”
Janie finally stepped away and Rothmore moved in to take Laura in his arms. “Lawrence brought you to me, and for that I’ll drink a toast to him e
very night of my life—but there will be no more breeches and boots for you, my dear.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck. “What, never?”
“Never. No matter how tempting your bottom looks in those trousers. My nerves won’t take it.” Heedless of the delicate embroidery of her gown, he crushed her close. “And you shall be entirely too busy, in any case, learning how to go on as my duchess.”
She grinned her delight up at him. “Will I? What will you be doing?”
“Figuring how to be your duke. And getting on with the business of getting an heir.”
“Wait, that reminds me. What of the Spare Affairs? May I help with that, too?”
“What, so I am free to meddle, as long as you are meddling along with me?”
“That sounds about right.” She cocked her head. “Penrith must be our first order of business.”
Rothmore snorted. “Penrith is damned lucky I didn’t just shoot him dead. He shall not be our first order of business.”
“What will be?” she asked, all innocence.
“This.” And he bent to lift her right up into his embrace so that he could thoroughly kiss her.
About the Author
USA Today Bestseller Deb Marlowe adores History, England and Men in Boots. Clearly she was destined to write Regency Historical Romance.
A Golden Heart Award winner and Rita nominee, Deb grew up in Pennsylvania with her nose in a book. Luckily, she'd read enough romances to recognize the true modern hero she met at a college Halloween party--even though he wore a tuxedo t-shirt instead of breeches and boots. They married, settled in North Carolina and produced two handsome, intelligent and genuinely amusing boys. Though she spends much of her time with her nose in her laptop, for the sake of her family she does occasionally abandon her inner world for the domestic adventure of laundry, dinner and carpool. Despite her sacrifice, not one of the men in her family is yet willing to don breeches or tall boots. She's working on it.
Deb loves to hear from readers! You can contact her at www.DebMarlowe.com