Compromising the Marquess

by Wendy Soliman

  Another moment and it would be too late for them to do so.

  She glanced at Jean-Philippe’s handsome young face, screwed up with bitterness and hatred. With Martell out of the picture she had hoped that his resolve might falter. The resolute set to his features caused that aspiration to wither before it even took hold. She could see by the icy determination in his eye that he would carry through with the crime he’d come here to commit, with or without his partner’s help.

  Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t the only person in the room who had reason to act with cold disregard for the sanctity of life. Leah loved Hal with an unrequited passion that gave her strength and purpose. She wasn’t about to watch him gunned down by a maniac with a grudge to bear and would gladly sacrifice her own life if it meant that his would be spared.

  Martell nursed his injured hand, uttering expletives beneath his breath, no longer a danger. Jean-Philippe stood close to her chair, all his attention trained on Hal. He seemed to have forgotten all about her. She watched his evil smile as his finger slowly tightened on the trigger. Hal stared at him, helpless to do anything as Jean-Philippe took his time, savouring the moment.

  “Think about what you’re doing,” Hal said.

  “Are you going to beg for your life?” Jean-Philippe tittered. “I thought you had more dignity than that.”

  “I was merely pointing out the futility of your actions, which hardly amounts to begging.” Hal stood a little straighter, towering over the Frenchman, as though to prove his point. “Kill me by all means, but you won’t leave this estate alive if you do.”

  “Hah, still so arrogant. In case it slipped your notice, Monsieur le Marquess, it is I who has the pistol.”

  “Indeed.” Hal levelled a malevolent stare on the young man, his eyes as black as obsidian, no emotion evident in his tone. “But do you have the courage to use it, that’s the question?”

  “I killed my father,” he said proudly.

  Hal quirked a brow. “Did you?” His glance moved towards Martell, still clutching his broken hand. “I rather thought you had a little help with that.”

  Jean-Philippe’s features twisted with anger. “Then you are about to learn differently.”

  Leah listened to this exchange, her mind whirling. Hal must be keeping him talking in the hope that help would arrive. But he had miscalculated, that much was obvious when she noticed Jean-Philippe’s finger tighten on the trigger a little more. Hal was a fraction of a second away from death.

  Unless she did something to prevent it.

  With no time to left to think, Leah acted on instinct alone. She rocked her chair until it lurched sideways, crashing into Jean-Philippe at the exact moment he fired his shot, sending him sprawling to the floor. Still bound to the chair, she had no way of breaking her fall. Her head made hard contact with the wooden floor, sending a debilitating ache shooting through it. She blinked back the pain, watching Hal move with agility to disarm Jean-Philippe.

  Finally the front door crashed open but before she could determine whether the newcomers were friend or foe, she lost consciousness.

  * * *

  Leah opened her eyes, unaware how much time had elapsed since the brief, brutal confrontation between Hal and his enemies. She immediately shut them again, the thumping pain on the inside of her skull eliciting an agonized groan. Where was she? Her thoughts were a tangled mass of nonrecollection. The feel of crisp linen sheets told her she was in bed, but not her bed, surely? Her uncle’s gatehouse didn’t run to such expensive linen. She opened her eyes again, more cautiously this time, and jumped when she heard gunshots.

  “Shush!” A large hand gently brushed against her brow. “It’s just the fireworks.”

  She looked up and found Hal sitting beside her, a frown creasing his beautiful brow. “What happened to me?” she asked, still dazed. “Where am I?”

  “You were in the dower house but are now safely back at the Hall. How do you feel?”

  She wiggled her limbs and winced. “Like I’ve been trodden on by a large horse.”

  “You saved my life,” he said, choking on the words.

  She managed a brief smile. “Any time.”

  “Do you remember what happened?”

  “Yes, I think so. Jean-Philippe was going to shoot you.” She sighed, fighting the temptation to surrender to sleep. “Couldn’t allow that.”

  “He would have done, too, but for your quick thinking. I made the mistake of goading him instead of trying to placate.”

  “Placation wouldn’t have worked. He was quite determined to do away with you. He boasted about it.”

  His hand continued to gently caress her face. “You have a nasty bruise on your temple where you hit the ground, and chafing on your wrists and ankles where those bastards bound you so tight.” He ground his teeth. “We shall send for the doctor once the ball is over.”

  “No, it’s not necessary.” She placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “I have no serious injury.”

  “You can’t be sure of that.”

  She smiled. “You say I saved your life so you must allow me to decide whether I need a doctor fussing over me.” She thought of her aunt’s reaction if news of such a situation where to reach her ears, which it surely would. She winced for a reason that had nothing to do with her thumping head.

  “Very well,” he said with patent reluctance. “Have it your way, for the time being, at least.”

  “I ruined my lovely gown and I haven’t paid you for it yet.”

  “Nor shall you. It is I who is in your debt.” He dropped a featherlight kiss on her brow. “Your thinking to sing Figaro was inspirational.”

  “I thought you would understand why I’d done it.”

  “When we discovered Jean-Philippe missing, I finally realised that he must be his father’s actual killer.” Hal grimaced. “I’m a mutton-headed fool for not having suspected him earlier.”

  “Why would you? He’s looks like nothing more than a child. Martell was the driving force.”

  “Yes, I came to realise that too. Father and son didn’t spend much time together, whereas Martell was constantly in Jean-Philippe’s company, easily able to influence his impressionable mind.”

  “Do you have any idea why they really did it?”

  Hal shrugged. “Greed, I would imagine. They wanted to continue with their relationship and have money and power enough that people would turn a blind eye to their proclivities.”

  Leah blinked. “What relationship?” Hal said nothing, leaving her to think it through. It didn’t take long for the truth to dawn. “Ah, I did not realise,” she said.

  Hal expelled a long sigh. “I doubt Martell was too happy when his protégé insisted upon coming after me. The mistake he made was being too convincing. Jean-Philippe believed the yarn that Martell spun about his father’s treachery and needed someone to blame. I think he also saw himself as an avenging angel. I never knew him that well but I believe he had a great attachment to his grandfather. He was certainly spoiled and indulged, accustomed to getting his own way.”

  “What will happen to him now?”

  “They’re both secured in the dungeons, along with their helpers. Dealing with them held Rob and Wright up outside the dower house. Two ruffians for hire who slipped into the grounds tonight and acted as their eyes and ears. They will all be transported to London tomorrow to answer for their crimes.”

  “And so they should.”

  “I shall have to go with them, Peisinoe, much as I would prefer to stay here with you. There will be reports to write, meetings to attend whilst we decide how best to deal with them. I shall be gone several days.”

  “Of course you must go.”

  “You will oblige me by remaining here at the Hall, you and your sister, until I return.”

  “No.” Leah shook her head and immediately regretted it when the pain reasserted itself. “That wouldn’t be proper. We shall return home tomorrow.”

  Hal tried to dissuade her but Leah was adama
nt. She was also realistic. She had no excuse to spend more time at the Hall, especially when her true purpose was merely to feast her eyes on the man whom she’d fallen so comprehensively in love with. She had to look to her own future now, and to Beth’s, and that future was unlikely to interlock with Lord Denby’s.

  * * *

  Hal’s few days in London turned into ten. His patience, never his strong point, had almost reached its limit when it was finally decided to incarcerate Jean-Philippe and Martell in a gaol beneath the Admiralty building that few people knew existed.

  The difficulty was that if they were sent back to France, Jean-Philippe would get an opportunity to crow about his father’s treason. The French courts might then overlook his murderous attack on his father and, instead, hail him as a hero. The British couldn’t afford to take the risk, especially since one of the men whom Hal had set to guard them in the nursery at the Hall had subsequently died as a result of the severe knock on the head he received.

  Again, prosecuting could be difficult since Hal would be required to explain why they had been imprisoned there in the first place. And so the decision was finally taken to hide them away until it could be decided what best to do with them. That could take a considerable while since the wheels of bureaucracy turned at a frustratingly slow pace.

  All the time he was kept in town, Hal’s thoughts constantly returned to Leah. Several times he was tempted to send word to her, explaining the reason for his delayed return. He didn’t do so because he was convinced it couldn’t be much longer before he was absolved of responsibility for young Jean-Philippe. But ten days!

  Furious, he stomped through the rooms of his town house, ready to commit a murder or two of his own. Very few staff were at the house at this time of year, most of them having moved to the Hall along with the family at the end of the season. Glad of the solitude, he poured himself a large brandy and sat in front of the drawing room fire, relived to the core that it was finally over. He was now free to leave town, but he wouldn’t be going straight home. He would make a detour to Brighton first and attend to some long-overdue business there.

  He reached the seaside town the following afternoon and met with Parsons at an agreed location. Exchanging the minimum of words, they made their way to Morris’s bookshop. From Parson’s description, Hal guessed it was the man himself who stepped from behind a towering pile of books and bowed low. He summed Hal up with one glance of his furtive eyes, clearly recognizing a gentleman of quality when he saw one.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Morris said in a sycophantic tone that made Hal wince.

  Without responding, Parsons slipped the bolt on the door.

  “I say, sir, what do you think—”

  Hal risked soiling his gloves when he placed one hand on Morris’s chest and pushed him into a chair. “I am here at Miss Elliott’s behest,” he said.

  “Miss Elliott?” Morris wrung his hands. “Such a charming young lady. Her father and I were in the way of business together. It was a tragedy what happened to him.”

  “Especially as that tragedy was of your making.”

  “Me, sir?” Morris feigned surprise. “Why ever would you say such a terrible thing? He was my greatest friend.”

  Hal removed his tainted glove, slapped it against his palm and fixed Morris with an icy glare. “To get your hands on his valuable books. Books that he’d steadfastly refused to sell to you.”

  “How dare you, sir!” Morris attempted to stand and express his indignation. With just one finger Hal pushed him back into his seat. “I’ll have you know that his books were damaged almost beyond redemption in that unfortunate fire. However, out of the goodness of my heart, I had them restored as best I could and sold them for what I could get.”

  “Oh, we know what you got for them.” When Hal named the precise figure, all colour drained from Morris’s face. “The question is, why did that sum not reach Miss Elliott’s account?”

  When Morris opened his mouth and then shut it again like a dying fish desperate for oxygen, Hal moved in for the kill.

  “I neglected to introduce myself. I’m the Marquess of Denby and have taken it upon myself to seek justice on behalf of Miss Elliott and her sister.” Hal had thought it impossible for the weasel of a man to pale even more, but he managed it at the mention of Hal’s name. “Now then, why don’t we discuss what you are going to do to make things right?” Without waiting for a response, Hal continued. “You shall arrange for the full value of the books to be made over to Miss Elliott. We shall be perfectly comfortable here whilst you write the order to your bank.”

  “But I paid Miss Elliott—”

  “A mere fraction of their value. You will now pay Miss Elliott their full value plus, what shall we say, Parsons, an additional ten percent interest, perhaps?” Hal nodded. “Yes, that seems perfectly fair.”

  “I can’t, I won’t—”

  “You can and you will, if you want to remain a free man. Make the direction to my bank.” Hal handed him a piece of paper with the particulars. “I’m unsure if Miss Elliott has an account of her own.”

  “How do I know you won’t gull her?”

  A penetrating silence greeted this foolish slur on Hal’s honour. The sound of wheels on cobbles and the odd cry from a street urchin were the only sounds inside the cluttered shop as Hal left Morris to ruminate on his own stupidity.

  “I shall pretend you didn’t say that,” he eventually said, fixing the dastardly cove with a glare of icy contempt.

  “I did not mean to imply—”

  “Just write!” Hal tapped the paper in front of the bookseller.

  Morris scribbled the direction to his bank in accordance with Hal’s dictation.

  Satisfied, Hal folded the note and placed it in his pocket. “Thank you. Now, as to your future, Morris, you’ll close up shop here and leave these shores forever. Forget about your moneylending—”

  “Why would I do that?” He puffed out his chest, dredging up a little courage now that his future was being threatened. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “You’ve done plenty wrong. I know you arranged for that fire to be set that killed Miss Elliott’s father, and I’m in a fair way to proving it.”

  “My contacts in Whitechapel are proving very talkative,” Parsons said in a matter-of-fact tone. “His lordship’s money has a way of loosening tongues. It’s only a matter of time before we find the poor fool who did your bidding, and then you’ll both swing for your crime.”

  * * *

  Leah had a hard time explaining her disappearance from the ball and subsequent injury to Beth and Flick. She suspected neither of them believed that she’d slipped and fallen on the damp terrace stones but had the good manners not to press her on the point.

  True to her determination, the girls returned to the gatehouse, Flick insisting that she would call upon them very soon. The days slipped by and Leah’s anticipation of seeing Hal again gradually faded. He had seemed so determined, so grateful, when she last saw him but other matters had quickly claimed his attention. Her lingering hopes that he would make good on his promise to extract funds on her behalf from Morris dwindled also, along with her crazy notion that she and Hal had formed some sort of a bond. She shook her head, reminding herself again and again that she was being unrealistic.

  Unable to settle long to any activity, Leah directed her anger at herself for almost believing he was sincere in his desire to help her. Had life not already taught her that it was futile to rely on anyone else? Besides, she could manage her affairs very well without Lord Denby’s interference. She didn’t need the soft touch of his lips as they played against hers, the unsettling intelligence in rich brown eyes that sparkled with appreciation when she sang for him. Hal was nothing more than an amusing distraction, one she could easily dispense with.

  Thus resolved, Leah set her mind to the future direction of the lives she was responsible for, a situation made necessary when a few days after the ball her aunt called at the gatehou
se. Leah had hoped that she might reconsider evicting them, but that didn’t prove to be the case.

  “You are a grave disappointment to me, Leah,” she said coldly, “and I refuse to recognize you. In spite of my warning you still threw yourself at the marquess quite shamelessly, wore a dress that made you look no better than a trollop, and then conducted yourself as though that’s precisely what you are.”

  By dancing one dance? “I am sorry you think so, aunt,” Leah said in a dignified tone, folding her hands in her lap and refusing to explain herself.

  “Lady Bentley has cut all connections with me, thanks to you. I, in turn, shall cut you.” She stood up, collected her gloves and turned her back on Leah and Beth. “Just remember that you must leave this property by the end of the month and not bother your uncle or me ever again.”

  “I’m sorry, Beth,” Leah said when their despised relation had departed. “I appear to have made us homeless.”

  Beth took her sister’s hand and squeezed it. “It’s not your fault. We can easily find somewhere more agreeable to live.”

  If only it were that easy.

  A week later, Leah received a response to a letter she’d written, which finalised her plans. With a sinking heart, she sat Beth and Meg down and told them they’d all be returning to London.

  “I shall seek a career as an opera singer,” she said, trying to make it sound as though the idea excited rather than appalled her.

  “But Mama didn’t wish you to take that route,” Beth said in an anguished tone. “She was quite adamant on the point.”

  “It won’t be so bad. Singing isn’t looked upon as being a disreputable career for a woman anymore, quite the reverse, in fact. Catalani is rumoured to have earned two thousand guineas last year, singing at the King’s Theatre.” Leah’s feigned enthusiasm felt strained in the light of the identical expressions of disapproval that greeted her statement. “Only imagine how well we could live on that. Not that I expect to earn nearly as much, even if they will have me, but I’m sure I shall be able to keep us all very well.”