My Wicked Marquess

by Gaelen Foley

  In a word: marriage.

  The right sort of bride was the perfect instrument to help him begin reversing the dark fame of the Rotherstone lords. And so, a new hunt was on—this time, not for an enemy agent. His new mission was to find a wife.

  Which did not at all explain what he was doing here.

  From a strictly logical standpoint, he was just wasting his time. Obviously, he could not choose Daphne Starling, the last name on his handy list.

  And yet, after reading her file, he had been unable to resist the temptation. He’d been compelled to come here today, merely to have a quick look at the girl.

  There could be no harm in that, surely.

  Once he had satisfied his curiosity, Max was sure he would go back home and make the right choice, probably the bishop’s excessively virtuous daughter. Or, perhaps, the “spirited” horsewoman—he could not abide a shrinking violet. He would not pick the little sixteen-year-old, of course, since he was nearly old enough to be her father, but any of the others would do, as long as they weren’t Daphne Starling.

  One scandalous soul in the family would be quite enough, and that distinction already belonged to him. He needed a wife with a gleaming good reputation to counteract his own wicked one.

  Personally, Max did not give a damn what anyone thought about him, but he was adamant that his future children not be semi-outcasts in the world as he had been. Repairing his clan’s reputation meant giving his heirs every advantage in life. The great fortune that he had painstakingly built over the past decade was only half the equation: Money alone could buy neither respect nor true belonging in London society. The great merchant families could attest to that.

  No, it was key that he choose a wife, and a mother for his little future Rotherstones, who sprang from impeccable bloodlines and was a certified darling of the ton.

  Until quite recently, Miss Starling had fit the bill. But now with her present troubles, Max mused, Oliver had been quite right in suggesting that he cross her off his bride list straightaway.

  Max’s initial interest in her was naught but a lark, anyway. At least that’s what he kept telling himself. It had been sparked when he had turned over the bride list and had read his solicitor’s postscript.

  Max had been astonished, and then had laughed aloud to discover that her jilted suitor was none other than his boyhood archenemy.

  Albert bloody Carew.

  He shook his head in sardonic amusement, still staring out the window, waiting for her to come out of the orphanage, and ignoring the harlot, who was now massaging his shoulders and stroking his hair and doing everything in her power to try to get herself bedded.

  Dear old Alby! Ah, God. Max would’ve liked to say that after twenty years, now a grown man, he would’ve forgotten all about his boyhood nemesis and their ferocious rivalry, but, unfortunately, he remembered him all too well.

  The Carew brothers were the sons of the previous Duke of Holyfield; his obscenely wealthy neighbors had lived on the next estate out in the country where he had grown up in Worcestershire. Except for Hayden, the timid eldest, now the current duke, they had been a pack of little horrors growing up, and beating up on Max had been their favorite pastime.

  It was a convenient sport for them, as well, since their palatial home had sat not far from his own father’s crumbling country manor. Max had had to walk past the duke’s land each day on his way to his old tutor’s cottage.

  Most days, he’d been ambushed near the cow pasture or by the old pine grove.

  Albert, the second-born and leader of the younger ones, had been his particular nemesis. He shook his head wryly to recall their mighty battles—and his own stubborn pride. Though he was always outnumbered, Max had refused to take any alternative path to his tutor’s house.

  No wonder he had drawn the attention of the Order, with the warrior instinct of his Norman ancestors so obvious in him even as a boy.

  Well, lucky for dear old Alby, vendettas went against the Order’s code. Obviously, he had long since parted with any hopes of juvenile revenge.

  On the other hand, with all the serious weight of the war finally behind him, it was a luxury to indulge in trivial amusements. He couldn’t help taking pleasure in hearing how the Starling girl had trounced the haughty Albert Carew. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall for that interview…

  Competitive creature that he was, Max had instantly wondered if he might fare any better with this apparently choosy young lady.

  But of course I would, he had thought at once. Youthful self-doubt was far behind him now.

  Lord, it was tempting! The whole thing struck him as hilarious.

  He had known at once he had to meet this girl. He had, at least, to dance with her in front of dear old Alby.

  The Order might forbid revenge, but the code said nothing about giving a small twist to the knife that somebody else had plunged in.

  So he had written back to his solicitor at once, requesting the file on Lady Number Five. Oliver had sent it over quickly, but when Max had poured himself a brandy and sat down to read it, he got so much more than he had bargained for.

  Indeed, from the moment he had finished reading her file, a strange breed of hope had taken hold of him.

  He had read it through several times last night, familiarizing himself with every detail. One particular point that stood out in his mind was Miss Starling’s nickname in Society as “the patron saint of newcomers.”

  She was known for befriending outsiders and those arriving in the frigid ton with few acquaintances. She took them under her wing, introduced them around, and made sure that they were included.

  As a longtime outcast in the eyes of many, Max knew the value of such kindnesses.

  Admittedly, he was intrigued. He had come today in part because he wanted to see her for himself. To find out firsthand who she was when she thought no one was looking.

  There was still the trouble with her reputation, of course, but now that he knew Albert was involved, Max severely doubted that any of it was her fault. Knowing Albert’s sneaky ways, Max saw at once that, failing to get what he wanted, that spoiled knave would not hesitate to stoop to slander to soothe his wounded vanity.

  It was then that the fatal thought had struck. If Miss Starling was being unfairly attacked…perhaps she needed help.

  Ah, damn, Max had thought with a sinking feeling and the irresistible pull of his innate need to help any damsel in distress. Especially when he, too, knew how it felt to be the target of Carew’s malice.

  From that moment, he could not get Daphne Starling out of his mind. The injustice of an innocent, kindhearted lady having her sacred honor maligned by the likes of Albert Carew gnawed at every chivalrous inch of his body, and had kept him awake last night for some time, staring at the ceiling, and rather wanting to hit someone.

  So, here he was. Despite the fact that he knew full well the choice of a wife was too serious a matter to base on mere emotion.

  It just went to show that Miss Daphne Starling had a worrisome effect on his brain. He had not even met her yet and somehow she already showed a talent for clouding his cool calculation.

  No wonder he had chosen to observe her today from a safe, detached distance, so he could leave like a shadow. She’d never know he was there.

  Of course, seeing this lawless rookery, he was doubly glad he had come. Somebody ought to be keeping an eye on the chit.

  Honestly, didn’t Lord Starling know the true condition of this place where his daughter conducted her charity work? Max did not at all approve.

  Right on schedule, just as it said in her file, she had appeared for her weekly orphanage visit at her usual time—Friday morning at nine on the nose. Apparently Daphne Starling was the kind of person who liked her same routine.

  Max liked a prompt woman. Then again, her reliable routine made it awfully easy for others around here to anticipate her arrival, and he did not like that at all.

  Myriad questions about her revolved in his mind like
the spheres on an astrolabe, but his painted hostess in the brothel’s upper room was growing petulant at his lack of attention.

  “Why are you watching that lady?” she demanded.

  “Because,” Max said slowly, sardonically, keeping his telescope aimed out the window, “I am considering marrying her.”

  The harlot let out a laugh of surprise, then twitched her skirts at him. “You’re havin’ me on!”

  “No, no,” he denied in an idle tone, though he was still not sure himself how seriously he meant it.

  “Well, you’ve got a strange way of wooing, don’t ye?”

  “Old habits die hard,” he said under his breath.

  She gave him a teasing poke in the arm, not knowing what to make of him.

  Few did.

  “Come, sir, no woman likes a husband who spies on her!”

  “I really don’t care what she likes at this point.”

  “Cold,” she chided.

  “Practical,” he countered, glancing over with a cynical smile. “One wants to know what one is getting into.”

  She snorted, eyeing him. “You can say that again.”

  “Relax. You’ll get your money.”

  “By the look of you, I’d rather earn it, love.” She sidled closer, hooking her hand over his shoulder. “Men like you don’t come in here too often.”

  He looked askance at her, wondering if she meant trained killers for an organization that did not officially exist, or dressed-down marquesses with a centuries-old title. “Perhaps you should be glad of that,” he said.

  She fell silent, scanning his closed expression with a troubled look. “Who are you, anyway?”

  Depends who you ask. He sent her a softly chiding glance. “Ah, you know better than to ask your clients that.” He nodded toward the window. “Do you know her?”

  “Miss Starling? Everyone ’round here knows her. Tryin’ to save souls, I reckon. Waste o’ time.” Her short, disdainful laugh spoke volumes. “She don’t approve o’ the likes o’ me.”

  “I don’t suppose she does.” Damn, how long did it take to pass out a few cheap toys? Hardening himself against an echo from the distant past with a painful sense of kinship to the penniless, unloved children behind those dingy walls, he noted his growing restlessness while he waited for Daphne Starling to come out again.

  Normally he had the patience of a spider, but he had already lost so much time…Twenty years of his life sacrificed to the Order.

  He drummed his fingers on the window ledge, suppressing a growl. “How long does she usually stay?”

  “How should I know?” the prostitute exclaimed, then bravely, she reached out and touched his arm. “I could entertain you while you wait.”

  Max paused; warily, he watched her make her move. It was the third-floor corner room of the brothel with its vantage point overlooking the street that he had wanted, not the woman that came with it. Nevertheless, he permitted himself a moment’s fleeting enjoyment at her caress.

  This, God help him, was what he was used to when it came to bed sport. From bored highborn adulteresses, to expensive courtesans, to the prettiest wenches in some low house of pleasure, it all boiled down to harlotry. For so long, he had had to content himself with anonymous liaisons of this sort, or for his work, seductions of a strictly calculated nature. Those usually left him wondering who exactly was the whore.

  Now that the war was over, he was forced to face the fact that he was so painfully lonely. The bleak years had worn at his soul, the moving from place to place, always alone. He hungered to find something different. Something that didn’t make him feel filthy afterward.

  At the moment, however, that delicious filthy feeling was welcome and familiar, and as the harlot’s hand traveled admiringly down his chest, Max was silent, tempted by vice, while his possible future wife polished up her diamond virtue at the orphanage across the street.

  It was not, perhaps, the most auspicious start to any marriage.

  In the next moment, a flicker of motion outside pulled his attention back to the window. Daphne Starling was coming out of the orphanage.

  He brushed the harlot’s hand away and leaned forward, staring more intensely past the drapes.

  Walking out from between the heavy doors of the orphanage, Miss Starling was carrying her hat, and as she crossed to her carriage, followed by her maid, he caught a brief, dazzling glimpse of an angelic countenance.

  Neither the dingy street nor the flat gray light of the overcast mid-morning could dim the incandescent gleam of her golden hair, as though she were a source of light unto herself.

  Then she put on her bonnet again, hastening to cover up her beauty, before it drew unwanted attention in this place. Max did not even blink.

  The harlot was watching her over his shoulder, as well. “Pretty,” she conceded.

  “Mm,” he agreed in a noncommittal tone, but he continued staring out the window, mesmerized, his years of hungry isolation homing in on her.

  Every motion brisk and businesslike, no idea she was under such close observation, Daphne Starling paused to confer with her servants, when suddenly they all heard a low shout from farther down the street.

  Both the lady and her footman turned to look, as did Max.

  “’Hoy!”

  Trouble.

  Max narrowed his eyes as five criminal-looking types drifted out of the pub and approached her carriage.

  The men of Bucket Lane were grinning broadly at her.

  “Here’s our angel o’ mercy, ain’t ye, love?”

  “All them sacks o’ goodies for the babes! Didn’t ye bring any presents for us? I thinks I’m gonna cry!”

  Max knit his brow, a scowl gathering. There was no sign of a constable, if they ever dared patrol here. He could practically hear her young footman’s frightened gulp from where he sat, could almost feel Miss Starling’s heartbeat pounding.

  The men swaggered closer. “Come, lovey, ye must ’ave a little somethin’ sweet left over for us.”

  “Like a kiss!”

  “Aye!”

  With a sharp glance over the entire area, Max assessed the situation. The men were coming toward her carriage from the front, blocking her way forward; the street was too narrow to turn the gig around fast enough for her to escape unmolested.

  A distraction. If he pulled them away from her, she could race away from here and slip out past the church.

  It could easily be accomplished, of course, but, damn, he had only intended to observe from a distance today. Now he was getting pulled in. Logic said he should not even be here, working at cross purposes with himself in considering a lady who was not in his best interest. But at the moment, he did not give a damn. She needed help, and after all, this sort of mischief was his specialty.

  “Excuse me.” Nudging the harlot aside, he rose and smoothed his black coat as he marched toward the door.

  “Sir, wait!”

  “What is it?” He paused, glancing back at the harlot.

  “Be careful with them! This street is their turf! Every shop here pays them protection money.”

  “Hm,” Max answered. He nodded to her and walked on. On his way out, he tossed a few extra gold guineas on the ratty bed.

  A moment later, striding down the shadowed hallway, he heard the woman’s exclamation of delight from her room as she counted his donation.

  With a hard gleam in his eyes, Max smoothly descended the brothel stairs. As he crossed the foyer, however, the mirror caught his eye. He paused.

  Chameleon time.

  Yes. An old, familiar game.

  In the blink of an eye, he had transformed his demeanor, untying his cravat to dangle around his neck, unbuttoning his waistcoat, messing up his clothes, and rumpling his hair with a quick run of his fingers through it. He picked up an empty bottle of wine left behind on the window ledge after someone’s drunken revelries the night before.

  Damn, he thought, eyeing his changed reflection, now he surely looked the part of the debauc
hed, pleasure-seeking Grand Tourist known to the world as the ne’er-do-well Marquess of Rotherstone.

  Not the introduction to Daphne Starling that he would have liked. First impressions could be lasting. But it did not signify. She was in danger, and he had no choice but to intervene.

  Taking out his coin purse, he loosened the strings with a slight grimace of regret. It would serve admirably as bait.

  Without further delay, he strode toward the exit, and, bringing up his arms, blasted out through the double front doors, ready and willing as ever to raise hell.

  Chapter 2

  With catcalls and wolf whistles, rude leers and laughing invitations, the Bucket Street gang had begun surrounding her carriage. It did not take long for Daphne to realize they were still drunk on last night’s gin.

  She tried negotiating with them, but her voice was beginning to tremble. “Come now, pl-please! Step aside,” she cajoled them. “We really must be going—”

  When one of them grabbed her horse’s bridle, William barked at him, “Clear off!”

  “What are you going to do about it?” The miscreant stepped toward him, but at that moment, a roar erupted from some distance down the street.

  “Bring me my bloody carriage—now!”

  The thunderous bellow brought all motion to a halt.

  The rough fellows surrounding her gig turned to look; Daphne and her servants did the same.

  A man—tall, handsome, and well-dressed all in black, and above all, quite intoxicated, judging by his weaving gait and the bottle still dangling from his hand—had just come staggering out of the brothel, squinting and shading his eyes against the daylight.

  “Ow.” His mutter of pain could be heard as he visored his eyes with his hand, scanning the street. “You!” He suddenly pointed with his bottle hand at the gang member holding her horse’s bridle.

  “You, there!” he clipped out again in a loud, slurred, but still lordly command. “Bring me my carriage. I am through here,” he added with a wicked little laugh that betrayed the fact that he, too, was still three sheets to the wind, and also seemed to insinuate that he had not deigned to leave the house of ill-repute until he had sampled every blasted woman on the premises.