Marcus fished around the front of his jacket and withdrew a card. “Lord Wessex to see the Marquess of Rutland.”
The old servant eyed the card a moment and then accepted it in his gnarled, white-gloved fingers. He peered down at the name and seal emblazoned upon that card. “His Lordship is not—”
Marcus stuck his foot in the doorway and willed the other man to see with the ferocity of his stare that he was not leaving. “I would see Lord Rutland immediately.”
The servant hesitated a long while, and with a sigh, he moved aside and motioned him forward.
Lest the man change his mind, Marcus strode into the soaring foyer, dimly registering a lavish opulence to the home of one of the darkest, most feared, reviled, and scandalous lords in the realm. He’d not known what he’d expected; crimson fabrics and shocking murals, perhaps. But certainly not the innocent cherubs dancing in clouds of pastel overhead.
“I cannot promise His Lordship will receive you.” The older man’s reluctant tones spoke volumes.
Marcus gave a tight nod and waited as the servant shuffled off. By the devil and all his spawn, Rutland would see him. He’d take apart each goddamn room until the evil bastard granted him an audience and gave Marcus the only gift he needed.
As the moments ticked by, he yanked out his watchfob and consulted the timepiece. With a growl of annoyance, he stuffed it back into his pocket.
“His Lordship will see you.”
Marcus spun about and found the servant studying him. With a gruff murmur of thanks, he fell into step behind the ancient servant. The man moved with slow, shuffling footsteps. With the marquess’ notoriously ruthless reputation, Marcus puzzled that he would keep a man who was anything but quick in his employ still. The inanity of that musing kept him from focusing on the thirst for Atbrooke’s blood.
“Here we are,” the servant said with a slight wheeze. He pulled out a crisp white kerchief and dusted his brow. The man opened the door. “The Viscount Wessex to see you, my lord.”
Marcus did a sweep of the room and his gaze landed on the marquess. Seated behind a broad, immaculate, mahogany desk, the man with his head bent over a ledger evinced power. “You may go,” he said, not taking his gaze from his task.
The servant sketched a bow and then took his leave, closing Marcus in with the most dreaded lord in Society.
Marcus stood there, the forgotten visitor, as the marquess scribbled away at the page before him. He fisted his hands into tight balls at the grating scratch of the pen meeting paper. Periodically the marquess would pause, dip his pen into a crystal inkwell, and then resume that frantic pace of jotting notes upon a page. How coolly arrogant the man was. How unaffected, and how he hated this man, more stranger, than anything for that freedom from caring when Marcus’ world was in tumult.
A growl rattled in his chest, and the marquess froze mid-movement, scratched something else upon the page, and then tossed his pen down. Then with an aggravating meticulousness, Lord Rutland folded the page and affixed his seal. The message of his movements clear…he was in control and Marcus’ presence here was merely being tolerated.
“Rutland,” he bit out.
Lord Rutland leaned back in his chair. “Wessex.” The hard, noble features set into an impenetrable mask gave no indication as to what the widely reputed scoundrel was thinking, feeling, or whether he was even capable of emotion. He spread his arms wide, inviting Marcus to sit. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
With jerky movements, Marcus marched over and yanked out the leather winged-back chair at the foot of the desk. He settled into the seat. “I am here to request your assistance,” he said without preamble. Neither of them were friends and they were barely acquaintances. As such, there was no need for false pleasantries or niceties.
Rutland lowered his brow, but otherwise gave no indication that he’d so much as heard Marcus’ reluctant bid for help.
Marcus layered his arms on the sides of his chair and leaned forward. The leather groaned in protest. “You have a book.” Members of the ton, both polite and impolite lords and ladies all knew of the famed book. Purported to document the weaknesses and debts owed by the most notorious reprobates and letches, such a catalogue had once earned Marcus’ disgust and disdain. Now he needed words penned within those pages. Needed the book to be as real as it was rumored to be. “You have a book,” Marcus went on when Lord Rutland said nothing. “And I am in need of the name of one of the gentlemen who is surely on the pages.” He’d wager his very life ten times on Sunday that Atbrooke owed countless debts to the very man before Marcus now.
Rutland shuttered his gaze and then shoved to his feet. With a nonchalance that made Marcus grit his teeth, the marquess made his way to the well-stocked sideboard. He paused and looked at the crystal decanters, lingering over his decision, and then selected a bottle of brandy. He turned, bottle in hand, and hefted it in Marcus’ direction. “Brandy?”
“No,” he said tersely. The man was utterly mad. Marcus gripped the arms of his chair hard. But then, he was desperate enough that he’d appeal to the mercy of a madman stranger.
The clink of crystal touching crystal filled the quiet as did the stream of liquid as the marquess poured his snifter full. With the same casualness that had driven him to that sideboard, the marquess strolled back to his desk, and reclaimed his seat. He took a sip. All the while, he studied Marcus over the rim of his glass with an indecipherable stare.
“You were saying?”
Marcus swallowed back the impatient retort on his lips. It wouldn’t do to lash out at the one man who could help him in this moment. “A book,” he repeated impatiently. “You are rumored to keep a book of men indebted to you. There is one gentleman who is within those pages.” Fury thrumming inside him, Marcus snapped. “And I would have that man’s name. I would own his debt.”
Lord Rutland took another sip of his brandy and then cradled the glass in his large hands. “What business do you have with this man?”
The sole reason for Marcus’ happiness, Eleanor, was what would make Marcus humble himself this minute, and yet he could not share that with this ruthless stranger. “It is not your business.” The marquess lowered his eyes and Marcus turned his palms up. “But I have funds and will pay you whatever amount you name for the transfer of this gentleman’s weakness and debt.”
Rutland took another sip. And then, “I cannot help you.” There was a gruff quality to the man’s tone that hinted at a man who spoke to few.
Marcus sprung from his chair. “Whatever amount you name,” he rasped. He planted his palms on the surface of the desk and leaned across the impeccable surface, shrinking the space between them. “Any amount,” he repeated, forcing a calmness into that promise, when inside, his heart was thundering painfully in his chest.
The marquess stared at him for a long while, until Marcus reclaimed his seat. His skin flushed with embarrassment. But then, when a man loved a woman he would humble himself before a ruthless stranger.
Rutland rolled his snifter back and forth between his hands. “At one time, I would have gladly helped you, Wessex. I would have helped you because it would have strengthened my power and influence, and I reveled in that.” He shook his head. “But I am no longer that man.”
Marcus sank back in his chair. Married several months earlier, little was heard from the marquess, and now Marcus knew why. He swiped a hand over his face, a mirthless laugh lodged in his throat. The rogue, rake, and scoundrel had been reformed. Bloody hell. He let his hand fall to his side. “Do you love your wife?” he asked with a bluntness that earned him a lethal stare.
“Say what it is you’d say, Wessex, and get the hell out,” the other man commanded on a silken whisper that promised retribution should Marcus in any way threaten those he loved.
Marcus gave his head a clearing shake. “I am bungling this,” he muttered. “Do you love your wife?” he asked once more, his tone quiet and incessant.
Still, Rutland said nothing.
“I suspect your silence is your answer,” Marcus predicted and the vein pulsing above his eye indicated Marcus was one wrong word away from the other man charging over and pummeling him with his powerful fists. “I suspect you love her and you would do anything for her.” He spread his hands out. “There is a woman whom I am in love with.” Lord Rutland went still. “I would do anything for her.” He held the marquess’ impregnable stare. “Including humbling myself before you, a stranger.” Marcus dropped his gaze to the desk and his eyes collided with that half-empty brandy.
He stank of brandy…
For the knowing of Atbrooke’s identity made Eleanor’s agonizing telling, all the more real. Bile climbed up his throat and he choked it down. He wrenched his gaze away from that glass and found the marquess staring at him.
“The Marquess of Atbrooke would hurt her.” Hurt Eleanor when he’d already stolen so much from her. Marcus’ throat worked and, uncomfortable with that show of emotion, he coughed into his hand. “If I do not destroy the gentleman, he will destroy her, and she is all that is good and kind, and she is a mother, and…” He buried his head into his hands, helpless and unable to save her just as before. Suddenly, the futility in being here assaulted him and he jumped to his feet. “Forgive me for wasting your time with the affairs of those who do not concern you,” he said stiffly. Dropping a bow, he started for the door.
“Wessex,” Lord Rutland called out, bringing him back around. He motioned him forward. “Please,” he said quietly, gone was all earlier vestige of frigid guardedness.
Marcus hesitated and then as hope mixed with wariness, he reclaimed his earlier seat.
“I do not have a book.”
And with those words, Lord Rutland killed that hope. The marquess gave his entire focus to his glass. “Not any longer. Had you paid me a visit one year ago, I would have pulled out that tome, scratched your name inside, and handed over the information you wanted in return. I resolved to not be the man I had been and some of that,” he grimaced and yanked at his cravat. “All of that is because of the woman I married.”
By God, the speculative whispers about London proved true. The Marquess of Rutland truly loved his wife. Loved her enough that he wished to be more than the ruthless scoundrel he’d been. Then, wasn’t that the power of a woman’s hold? She made a man wish to be better than the person he was. “I am sorry I have wasted your time,” he said tersely. “If you will forgive me?” He made to rise, when Lord Rutland held a finger up.
“I did not say I would not help you.” His heart stilled. “I just will not help you in the way you believe. I want nothing from you,” the marquess said, his tone gruff. “I’ve no need for money or power, and nothing of the material which you may give. Atbrooke is an evil bastard.” A sardonic grin formed on the hard lips of Society’s most dreaded scoundrel. “And it is, indeed, quite a day when I identify others as such.” He smoothed his lips, killing all earlier hint of weakening. “I am not unfamiliar with his proclivities.” Had the man’s proclivities included forcing other young women as he’d done to Eleanor?
A blinding rage clouded his vision and he blinked it back, attending those words.
Lord Rutland pulled open his desk drawer. He shuffled through pages and then withdrew a single sheet. He slid it across the desk.
Marcus glanced down and then froze.
“You are wondering what I want from you? You’re asking what debt I’d exact for this favor?” The marquess shook his head. “The answer is nothing. I want the Atbrookes and Brewers gone from my life. The vowels are yours to do with as you wish.”
With numb fingers, Marcus picked up the sheet. He promptly choked. Eighteen thousand pounds the man was turning over. He eyed Rutland dubiously over the top of the page. “I don’t understand.”
A ghost of a smile hovered on the other man’s lips. “You are in love with your lady. As such, you understand. I’ve pledged to live a life that is good and I will not prey on others. So Atbrooke is yours to deal with.”
Marcus tightened his fingers reflexively upon the page. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely, studying the sum inked on the ivory velum. “I can never repay you.” Not for this kindness. Not for allowing Marcus to claim freedom from fear of this man’s machinations.
“I do not expect you to repay me,” Rutland replied automatically. “But, Wessex?”
He glanced up.
“You believe you will find solace in revenge. You will tell yourself that as long as you ruin him, you will find happiness, but that isn’t true.” The marquess jerked his chin at the sheet. “That thirst for revenge, it will only destroy you. The only thing that will heal you, or the lady that sent you here to me today, is love. Until you accept that, neither of you will be free.” A dull flush mottled Rutland’s cheeks, and as though embarrassed by those words, he picked up his brandy and downed the remaining contents of his glass.
Allowing him his dignity, Marcus returned his focus to the page. Atbrooke’s name glared mockingly back. Another surge of rage ripped through him. “Perhaps you are right,” he said when he trusted himself to speak. “But if anyone hurt your wife the way he hurt…” A spasm gripped his heart and he cleared his throat. Even the hint of a suggestion of the crime committed against Eleanor would bring her undeserved scorn and additional agony. In coming here to obtain information from Rutland, Marcus had sought the far lesser of the two evils. By the marquess’ frank candidness he’d no doubt Marcus’ confidence would be kept. Still, he’d already said too much. “Thank you,” he murmured. “I am in your debt.” In every way, imaginable.
Rutland tossed his hands up. “I do not want you in my debt,” he growled. “Bloody hell, Wessex, I am looking to be free of it all.”
Then, weren’t they all seeking to shake free the demons of their past? How futile their attempts were.
The marquess again drew open the front desk drawer and withdrew a peculiarly shaped velvet box. He hesitated and then pushed it across the table.
Marcus eyed it and then wordlessly accepted the package. He lifted the lid and peered down at the heart-shaped pendant. Puzzling his brow, he glanced up. “What—?”
“It was a gift given my wife by the Marchioness of Waverly. The wearer is fabled to land the heart of a duke.”
Despite the hell of that morning, Marcus’ lips twitched. “I’m rather hoping the lady is content with my mere title of viscount,” he said dryly.
A chuckle rumbled from within the marquess’ chest. “Yes, well, the real truth is that the wearer will earn the heart of their true love.” He motioned to the necklace. “You are better entrusting yourself to that emotion, than the revenge that would destroy you both, Wessex.”
Brought ’round to the very reason for his being here, Marcus closed the lid. “I thank you. But I cannot—”
“Take the necklace. I just ask when you are married and happy, that you see it returned.”
Marcus looked down at the two gifts given, humbled by this stranger’s kindness. This man feared by all had proven himself more human than Marcus could ever hope to be. “I don’t—”
“There is nothing to say,” the marquess murmured.
The door opened. “Edmund, where have you—oh.”
Their gazes swung to the entrance of the room to where a lady with nondescript brown hair and blue eyes stood staring back at them. Marcus and Rutland rushed to their feet.
“Phoebe,” the man murmured with a reverent tenderness. “I was meeting with the Viscount Wessex.”
“Forgive me,” she said softly. With her plainness, there was nothing extraordinary about the lady, and yet there was a kindness and warmth in her eyes, and as Marcus stole a glance at Lord Rutland, the man’s transformation made sense.
“No, my apologies,” Marcus said, tucking the marquess’ offerings in his front pocket. His gaze went to her rounded middle and a wave of potent longing so strong hit him so completely that it robbed him of breath and thought. In the marchioness, he saw Eleanor as she’d been,
with her belly full with child, and he ached for the need to be a true father to Marcia, and to have more children with Eleanor. Forcing his eyes back to Rutland, he held his hand out, much the way Eleanor had a short while ago. “I cannot thank you enough.”
For the marquess’ waving off what he’d done this day, he’d turned over a fortune when most men would have exploited Marcus’ weakness.
“Remember what I said,” he returned and accepted the offering.
Marcus bowed his head and then with a polite goodbye for the marchioness, he took his leave. The marquess’ words reverberated around his mind; the warning clear. He would turn himself over to love—as soon as he could be sure that Atbrooke would never threaten Eleanor and her daughter again.
Taking his leave of the marquess, Marcus drew his hat on and bounded down the steps to where a boy waited with the reins of his mount. Withdrawing a small purse, he tossed it to the lad. “Thank you,” he murmured and climbed astride.
He had but one more call to make this day…and then there could be, if not a total healing for Eleanor, at the very least some peace and assurance that she need never fear the Marquess of Atbrooke again.
Chapter 22
A short while later, the Marquess of Atbrooke’s butler ushered Marcus from the foyer and down the hall.
As he walked, a vitriolic hatred spun inside him. It filled every crevice of Marcus’ person until he tasted his seething animosity for the man whose company he now sought. He took in the chipped and cracked plaster walls, the threadbare carpets lining the floors, and reveled in even the small material discomfort the man had known. When it should have been far greater suffering.
“Lord Wessex!” The faint breathless cry brought him to an abrupt stop.
He stiffened, and angled around. Lady Marianne smiled that sultry, enticing smile and he fought down apathy for this woman who shared the blood of a beast. How had he ever entertained anything more with this one? “Lady Marianne,” he said brusquely. “If you will excuse me? I have a meeting with your brother.”
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 27