by Deb Marlowe
‘Both, I’d say,’ Thom had wheezed, later.
He had also carved time for a couple of sessions with the boy and his pup, after being summoned by cries of alarm and anger to a scene of mayhem. Climbing to the top floor, he had found the spaniel growling in ecstasy while winning a tug of war with an exasperated maid’s skirts.
She was kneeling, trying to fend off the dog while gathering up broken crockery and fighting a spreading jam stain. Rob had come running from the nursery as Braedon made his way from the landing.
‘Get your dog, Rob,’ he ordered as he bent to help the maid to her feet.
It took the boy a while to detach the pup from her skirts; as soon as he did, the scamp charged into the midst of the mess and began to lap up jam.
‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ Braedon said. He scooped the wriggling pup up and tucked him under his arm. Placing a hand over his muzzle, he said, ‘No, sir.’ He held on until the wiggling ceased and the pup calmed.
‘Did you hurt him?’ the boy asked, troubled as he took his friend from Braedon’s outstretched arm.
‘No. I merely sent him a message, asking him to settle down a bit.’ He beckoned the pair of them. ‘Come. Let’s go outside and I’ll give you some pointers.’
They set the dog free to ramble about the small patch of turf behind the kitchen gardens. ‘He’s a pack animal, Rob,’ Braedon explained. ‘He needs you to let him know that you are in charge. It’s your job to teach him what is acceptable and what isn’t. He’ll be happier once he’s learned what’s expected of him.’ He shot the boy a wry grin as the dog rolled ecstatically in the grass at their feet. ‘I dare say we all will.’
He instructed the boy on some gentle ways to discipline his friend. To his relief, Rob was attentive rather than defensive and eager to learn. He and the pup had obviously bonded, which went a long way to reassuring Braedon about the boy’s nature.
‘And don’t forget to praise him when he’s done well,’ he said, ruffling the dog’s ears. ‘That’s just as important as letting him know when he’s done wrong.’
Rob gave a start. Climbing to his feet, he looked at Braedon with a clear, green gaze. ‘What if he’s done something wrong, but he doesn’t know what it is?’
Braedon stopped short. With a sigh, he crossed to the low garden wall. Perched upon it, he invited the boy to join him with a nod and a jerk of his head.
‘You haven’t done anything wrong, Rob. I can tell how hard you’ve worked to keep your end of the bargain. The brown-haired lady seems completely unaware. I know it’s hard, but I appreciate how you’ve kept your word.’
The boy merely waited, sad and expectant.
Braedon scrubbed a hand in his hair. ‘It’s just…things are complicated right now. But look, I’m trying to find you a home you’ll love. Growing up in the country is best for a boy and his dog. There will be good food, nice people and plenty of room to roam.’
‘Will you come and visit us? Some time?’
For the first time it wasn’t painful to look into that hopeful face. ‘Yes, I will.’ And he meant it. ‘Now let’s see if Mrs Grady can find us a bone for this fine fellow. And perhaps a biscuit for you?’
When he hadn’t been pounding his frustrations out or schooling young boys and animals, Braedon had trolled through his clubs and through every gallery, market and shop, listening to the Sturm und Drang surrounding the Spear rise to a fever pitch.
‘How do you do it, Marland?’ Lord Sykes had asked him. ‘The rest of us are balancing on a knife’s edge of tension and you just sit back, the very image of calm.’
Braedon had merely smiled.
‘I do wonder if perhaps you know more than the rest of us,’ the baron had said bitterly. ‘I would have thought you’d be taking this more seriously than anyone.’
‘I’m just biding my time,’ he had told the baron. ‘When the right moment comes, you’ll see how serious I am.’
All of that had taken up a great deal of time—yet somehow Braedon had still found plenty of opportunity to worry endlessly over his last meeting with Hardwick. Most of it he had spent alternating between berating himself for a fool and congratulating himself on the performance of a selfless act.
God, what a risk he’d taken, telling that story, and to Hardwick of all people. More familiar with his personal life and work habits than anyone, she’d already proved herself capable of frighteningly accurate insight into his soul. And now he’d ripped off his protective armour and given her a good long look at the ugliness beneath.
The worst part was—it hadn’t even been difficult. He’d felt so profoundly connected to her in that damned passageway. Connected on an elemental, deeply dangerous level—in a way that felt far more risky than a few, paltry kisses.
And that was exactly why he’d had to tell her. Their affinity was undeniable—but it could have no future, and it was better if that was made clear now.
It was also why his preparation for this evening had become so important. Finally, the time had come. Tonight was the Antiquarian Society’s lecture. Besides dressing appropriately for the evening—which meant those damned, pinching shoes—Braedon must also gird himself for the true beginning of the race for Skanda’s Spear, and, most important, he had to find his distance again. He had to summon all of his defences to shield against Hardwick’s magnetic pull.
He knew it was good planning, sound strategy. He had worked on it as he readied himself for the evening. He sought out the old, familiar numbness as Dobbs helped him into his coat. He descended the stairs feeling strong and ready.
All of this, and still he suffered a tremendous blow at the first sight of her.
She stood waiting for him in the front parlour, a vision of ebony hair and flawless, pale skin. Obviously he had missed a spot as he’d donned his armour, because her first glance pierced his chest and stirred up something low and wicked in his belly.
Mairi had been at work again. He knew even before he saw his sister’s proud expression. Hardwick was dressed in an elaborate gown of deepest blue, shot with black. Tiny diamonds twinkled like stars in her hair. She looked decadent and delicious, like she’d been wrapped in midnight—and all Braedon wished to do was lose himself in the dark.
‘Oh, dear,’ Mairi chirped. ‘I know I’ve been caught up in plans for the ball. I hadn’t really thought of this evening as anything but a business gathering. But now…’ Her gaze travelled back and forth between the two of them. ‘I wonder if you really ought to have a chaperon?’
Hardwick frowned. ‘No, you were right, my lady. It is a lecture more than a social gathering and our focus tonight is solely on your brother’s collection. There is no need to worry yourself.’
Mairi pulled on her gloves. ‘Well, I cannot go myself, unfortunately. I am promised to the Edmunds’ ball and Eugenia would be furious with me, did I not attend.’ She frowned. ‘Let me think a moment…’
But Braedon had recalled himself and his mission. He was the Marauding Marquess, was he not? Hiding until the advantage lay in revealing himself was his expertise. And tonight he intended to do what he did best.
‘Hardwick is right,’ he interrupted. ‘There is no need to worry. In any case, I obtained my own ticket and returned Signor Pisano’s to him. I’ve sent a separate vehicle to collect him. He will be waiting for us outside the Hanover Square Rooms.’
‘He’s agreed to attend?’ Hardwick asked in surprise.
‘I convinced him that it might be best for you to be accompanied by a…companion.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Why? Have you heard about my notebook?’
Braedon frowned. ‘No. What of it?’
‘It’s gone missing.’ She raised her chin. ‘At first I thought it had only been left behind in the confusion of the move, but it is gone. And I do not believe its disappearance to be the work of a rival hostess, either
. Yesterday I caught a glimpse of Laxton’s lackey…’ She flushed. ‘Our friend from the courtyard. He was loitering outside when Lady Ashton and I returned here yesterday.’
‘It could have been anyone,’ fretted Mairi. ‘Between the construction in my home and the preparations for the ball here, there has been a regular parade of strangers in and out of both houses.’
‘Damn it all!’ Braedon was stricken. He’d been worrying so hard about protecting Hardwick’s tender feelings that he’d left her open to a far more physical danger. He paced to the far end of the room, then returned rapidly to loom over her. ‘We will have to step carefully tonight. I want you to stay by my side at every second. Do you understand?’
‘Oh, dear.’ Mairi wrung her hands. ‘Perhaps you should go alone tonight, Braedon.’
‘No!’ protested Hardwick.
‘I don’t believe it is anything except rival collectors hoping to get a leg up on me, my dear,’ he said to reassure his sister. Glancing at Hardwick, he hardened his tone. ‘And we don’t want them to think they’ve rattled us.’ He frowned. ‘But stick close. I want that damned Spear and I mean to have it—but I won’t have you harmed in the getting of it.’
She nodded agreement.
‘Good.’ Braedon bade his sister goodnight and handed Hardwick into her wrap. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked.
She breathed deeply and nodded again.
‘Then let’s go.’
* * *
Lord, but she was a fool several times over. Purposefully, she avoided glancing at the marquess, seated across from her in the carriage, rigid and stiff. She hadn’t seen him since yesterday afternoon. He’d told her that tragic tale—perhaps not the only one he might have chosen, she suspected—and he’d done it with purpose. It had been meant to illustrate his point and warn her off.
She understood that—but still a hot current of want swept along her veins. He looked so handsome in his formal dress, every woman’s fantasy of a warrior leashed. She wanted to hop across the small space separating them and burrow on to his lap. She longed to tug the narrow cord that held back his hair, dig her fingers in and shake his dark locks free. Most of all, she wanted to press her lips to his hard, unsmiling mouth and make him forget that anything had ever happened to make him hide away from the rest of the world.
Yet it had—and she was not free to do any of those things. She watched the passing streets instead and cast about for any other subject on which to focus her attention.
The strange occurrences over the last few days proved a distraction. And surprisingly, after only a few minutes she had to cover her mouth to stifle a laugh.
‘What is it?’ asked the marquess.
She took her hand away and grinned at him. ‘I was only wondering, if Laxton was the one behind the theft of my notebook, what he thought about my detailed notes on menus, entertainment and flowers.’
He didn’t return her smile, but she noticed the tension fade from around his eyes a bit.
She sighed. ‘I’ve seen your tenant boy around the house. He and the pup seem happy together. I even lured the pup to me once, by way of a pocketful of scraps, but the boy stayed hidden around the corner.’ She chuckled. ‘And once the scraps were gone, I grew less interesting.’
Lord Marland did not respond.
Her smile softened. ‘I’ve seen them romping out in the back garden, too. I don’t think that dog has ever met a delivery person he didn’t adore.’
‘Was Mairi with you?’ He asked the question of the darkened window.
‘No. As she said, she’s spending most of her days at Ashton House. I’ve been the one in charge of setting your house to rights.’
He leaned forwards. ‘Here we are.’ Lowering the window, he peered out. ‘Just a few carriages ahead of us. And the signor is waiting at the corner.’
Chloe took her turn. ‘Oh, heavens. He doesn’t look happy.’
He wasn’t.
‘Dio Mio,’ the older man said by way of greeting as they descended to meet him. ‘I feel like a pig trussed for the spit.’
‘Oh, I am sorry, signor,’ Chloe said, gripping his hand. ‘I know you had no wish to come this evening.’
‘Bah,’ he said, pulling away. ‘There was no escaping it in the end. This matter has grown beyond all normal expectations.’ He frowned. ‘I only hope it ends well.’
Chloe took his arm, then accepted Lord Marland’s on her other side. She held the same hope. But she was beginning to have her doubts.
Together the three of them entered the brightly lit assembly rooms.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Surely it’s nothing but a rumour,’ Lord Sykes repeated again. ‘It’s too absurd to be true.’
Footmen passed through the crowd, carrying trays of sparkling wines. Braedon grabbed a flute as it passed by and drained it in one long swallow.
‘Who in their right mind, in possession of such an object, would choose to give it away, rather than sell it?’ Sykes demanded.
‘I’m sure I don’t know.’
‘No one would!’ the baron exclaimed. ‘It’s absurd. And what nonsense this scuttlebutt is…that this unknown nabob intends to give the thing away—but only to the right person? What constitutes the right person then? I ask you, Marland?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ Braedon repeated. He exchanged a glance with Hardwick, who stood nearby. She raised a brow in his direction before Signor Pisano called her attention away. With flair and a great deal of pleasure, the signor introduced her to the Earl of Conover, their host for the evening and the only scholar reputed to have actually seen the Spear of Skanda.
‘I’ll tell you,’ Sykes said with passion. ‘The right person is the one with the deepest pockets!’
‘So says the man with very deep pockets indeed,’ answered Braedon with a grin.
‘Damned deep, I tell you.’ The baron gestured out over the sea of gentlemen shifting and chattering with excitement as they waited to be called to the lecture in the main room. ‘Just look at them all…every one of them here for the same purpose. I deserve a chance at the Spear just as much as any one of them.’
Braedon merely shrugged, but he did gaze over the crowd. Here and there in the expanse of dark formal wear he could spot a burst of colour—the few women attending gathered in languid groups. Hardwick, close at his side, stood apart from the other women—in every way possible.
They’d been mobbed when they entered, by scholars welcoming him back to Town, by enthusiasts wanting to hear of his collection, and by Laxton, clearly hoping to discover what they might know of the Spear. Braedon had worried a moment, as some of the men obviously dismissed Hardwick and still others thought to manipulate her for information.
He needn’t have bothered to worry. Hardwick handled the situation magnificently. She spoke with some of the foremost experts on ancient weapons with knowledge and authority. Her enthusiasm blazed through and he knew he wasn’t the only man affected by her shining eyes and animated expression.
He wasn’t the only one admiring her generous figure in that incredible blue dress, either. She was drawing attention from all over the room—and he was constantly reaching for a non-existent blade. Bad enough the others were ogling the low-cut silk of her bodice, but somehow word had got around that she had resigned as his assistant. He heard her receive two serious requests for an interview and at least one sly innuendo about a new position. Signor Pisano defused that situation by smacking his walking stick across the offender’s shins—and thus neatly preventing Braedon from throttling him with his bare hands.
He glanced over at her again, still deeply engaged with the earl. The man could stand as a model for the quintessential English nobleman: he was all shining teeth and curling blond hair and freshly scrubbed good looks. The man didn’t even have the grace to look as if his s
hoes pinched. No, the Earl of Conover was in his element—and he looked elementally interested in Hardwick.
They were debating something, the pair of them. Braedon knew that mulish look of Hardwick’s. Her face was alight and she spoke low and fast, just the way she always did when she was trying to convince him of some small, vitally important point. Conover did not look overly upset about it. He did not look offended that a mere woman sought to tell him something he didn’t know. He nodded and gave every indication that he was listening intently.
Until—there it was. The earl’s gaze travelled slightly, moving admiringly over Hardwick’s elaborate coiffure. He said something in reply to a question—and dropped his attention briefly to her bosom.
Suddenly Braedon was envisioning the man at the functional end of his Japanese pole arm.
He moved quickly to interrupt them, telling himself that Hardwick was bound to steer the conversation to the Spear if she possibly could. She didn’t realise it, but there were a few bits of information about the piece that he hadn’t shared with her. Things he’d rather she heard as late as he could manage it, if at all.
He stepped close and took her arm. ‘Hardwick. Conover.’ He bowed and gestured toward the top of the stairs where a porter had just emerged. ‘It appears that it is time to begin.’
* * *
Fascinating. Chloe found the lecture to be utterly riveting. Several speakers took part, each presenting a thorough report on an ancient weapon of legendary status. The stuff of dreams, most of them sounded, possessing magical properties or granting extraordinary skills. The evening began to take on an air of myth and fantasy.
Until the Earl of Conover took the stage. Matter of factly, he spoke of Skanda, a war god of Hindu mythology. He described the earliest origins and versions of the figure and the characteristics that came to be associated with him. And then he brought out his illustrations, large diagrams and charts with detailed depictions, even measurements, of the weapon. A burnished wood shaft, he mentioned. A wide point in the shape of a spade. Precious metals and inlaid jewels.