Or risk going mad.
With Jude and Sam properly wed, and Payton, her youngest sibling, having recently taken a position as a governess, Marce was free to explore her own options for the future. Perhaps complete happiness would always elude her, but contentment would suffice. At twenty-eight summers, Marce would be firmly classified as on the shelf by society. Thankfully, she had no aspirations to be part of the beau monde of London, a group that had shunned her mother and turned their backs on Sasha’s orphaned children.
No, a cottage on the cliffs of Dover or a modest house in the wilds of Cornwall were much preferred to the hustle and bustle of town life—as long as room allowed for the many women who sought Marce’s help in improving their lots in life.
She moved around the desk her mother had favored. The private office was atrocious and overwhelming, even to Marce, with its gold and red décor—Sasha Davenport’s favorite hues. As an ode to her mother, Marce had never altered the room, keeping it as it was before Sasha’s death. Originally, the space had been a comfort to her and her siblings. A place where they found solace and truly felt the presence of their mother, though she was long departed from this world. But in recent years, it had become Marce’s personal prison, filled with deception and the secrets she kept hidden from her family.
All manner of things she was ashamed to be a part of—so much so, she’d never gained enough courage to speak of it to anyone.
Yet, she’d spent years with no other choice. Her family came first, even before her own needs and wants.
The tall clock in the foyer chimed. Twelve times. Its familiar gong echoed through the empty house—one still bouncing off the walls and shuddering down the corridors as another began. Peculiar that only a few short months before, Craven House had been filled with such boisterous noise the peal would have gone all but unnoticed in the midday commotion.
Glancing at the small trunk packed with the requisite necessities for a weeklong trip, Marce waited once more. For the sound of anything besides the gong of the clock and the quick, erratic thump of her pulse.
Nothing.
Silence.
Empty—except for the remorse that filled her and the lies that surrounded her.
She sighed.
Odd that she longed for the time when her siblings would rush into the room and question her about where she was off to, where she planned to spend her time away from Craven House. Was she relaxing in the rejuvenating waters in Bath? Or perhaps she found peace and quiet in Brighton, along with a turn about their fashionable shopping area? Would she please bring them back sweet treats? They would laugh and jest about how Marce spent her time away. She’d even heard envious whispers shared between the twins, Jude and Sam, regarding her frequent jaunts outside of London. And in turn, Marce would tell them, in her stern, motherly tone, to mind their own business and keep their noses from the gossips.
Where Marce went and what task she was entangled in was far darker than any of her siblings suspected—and something Marce was loath to speak of.
The deal made with the Devil himself nearly eight years prior was her own personal secret…and the prison that kept her trapped.
Rowan Delconti, the Duke of Harwich, was certainly close to the beast who ruled Hades with his midnight-black hair, intense green stare, and massive frame—not to touch on his arrogant demeanor and lofty opinion of himself. If she so much as dared open a book about the master of the Underworld, there was little doubt the drawings of the creature would resemble the duke in every way. She remembered the way he’d appeared that first time; how he’d strode into her office, all arrogance and confidence, and demanded his due. Had they met under any other circumstances, Marce would have found his forceful demeanor thrilling and refreshing.
As if on cue, the chimes quieted, and a knock sounded on the front door of Craven House.
The duke’s carriage had arrived to collect her.
Darla, one of only two servants employed at Craven House, hurried from somewhere deep in the house to greet their guest.
Quickly, Marce moved to the cabinet behind her desk and retrieved the small box that held a stash of money in case anything unexpected happened during her time away from London. It was always best to be prepared, as opposed to being caught off guard as she’d once been. With the box securely under her arm, she scribbled a hasty note for Garrett and Payton in case either came home while she was away. Jude and Sam, both newly wed, were traveling with their husbands—Jude to Canterbury to visit the young Lady Theodora at her boarding school, and Sam away from England entirely. Lastly, she placed the duke’s summons in the side drawer and used the long key around her neck to lock her desk in case anyone thought it wise to snoop about in her private correspondence.
Marce longed for the day she no longer had to think of every minute detail—in case—for fear she’d be discovered.
Part of her wished to leave the key on her desk and hope someone discovered her secrets…only then would the trappings fall away, shedding light upon her deceptions.
Instead, she left the note addressed to her siblings face-up on the desk and grabbed her traveling trunk, slipping the box with her money inside before halting once more.
The house, especially this room, had given her solace for most of her life. This was the only place she’d ever felt safe calling home. The rooms and halls were filled with memories—Jude’s first steps as a babe, Garrett’s horrible years attempting to master the flute, Sam’s many years of teasing Payton for her sullen behavior, and Marce overseeing it all.
This was their home. It had taken years for Marce to adjust to life at Craven House—and truly come to think of the residence as a home—especially after everything she’d known was stripped from her when her father died.
No longer was Craven House a temporary place where her family resided.
But now, it was all to be gone—stripped from her—very soon. Yet, in a way, it was long overdue.
While sad, Marce could not muster the expected sense of loss at knowing that everything she prided herself on possessing would shortly be in another’s hands.
Less competent hands, unfortunately.
One source of regret over her duplicitous life coming to an end was present. Her family. This was their home, too. Sam, Jude, and Payton had been born within the walls of Craven House and had known no other home.
The time would come when they learned of Craven House’s fate.
And what of the women she helped in London? Travel accommodations would need to be secured, as well as a house large enough to serve as a refuge. Marce could not—would not—abandon them, no matter the hardship it caused. Her family had lived many years helping those less fortunate, and Marce would not end that now, no matter the appealing lure of absolute freedom.
A light knock sounded on the door, and Darla opened it enough to peek her head in. “A carriage be here ta fetch ye, Madame.”
“Thank you, Darla.” Marce smiled to cover her cringe. Madame. It was only fitting that the proprietress of a brothel be addressed as such, even if it had been many, many years since Craven House housed such scandalous activities.
Nonetheless, she was known as Madame Marce—and her mother before her, Madame Sasha. The ton had a long, detailed memory.
Perhaps she could outrun her reputation if she traveled far enough. Would Cornwall do, or would she need journey as far as the distant corner of Scotland—or perhaps across the Channel—to find a reprieve from her family’s past?
Marce would dwell on the matter later. For now, she had a carriage waiting to take her to Kent.
When she focused on the door once more, Darla had disappeared, slipping as soundlessly away as she’d arrived.
Marce adjusted her hold on her traveling trunk and walked toward the foyer, careful to keep her pace unhurried to hide the mounting dread that increased with each step.
It was not every day a woman told a duke to go to hell—consequences be damned.
With her head held high, Ma
rce departed Craven House with only a slim hope she’d be allowed to return.
“Your carriage,” the driver called, pulling the coach door wide for her.
With this servant, and the several that had come before him, she was never Madame Marce, nor even so much as Miss Davenport. He only held the door for her to enter at Craven House and exit the carriage at the Whisper Hook Inn.
She was simply a chore that could be assigned to any random servant. Collect and deposit her as if she were naught but a bag of sugar needed for afternoon tea, or a gown needing collection from the laundress.
Perhaps she, at some point, had acquiesced to her role as such and began to think of herself in the manner in which the duke treated her—as something of little import.
The time had come for that to change.
She may have shed the trappings of her noble birth long ago and nearly forgotten her status as the eldest daughter of Lord Buckston, a marquess; however, she had not fallen so far that she believed herself as insignificant as a bushel of sugar.
“Sir.” Marce halted before stepping up into the waiting conveyance, making certain to keep her tone level. This was not the man her years of pent-up frustration should be aimed at.
He was but a messenger.
“Yes?” He cleared his throat, keeping his stare trained on her feet.
“I need to make a stop before departing London.” She pinned the driver with a hard stare even though he’d yet to lift his gaze to hers. Would he deny her request? Would he load her into the carriage and ignore her demand?
“His Grace will not be pleased if we are tardy,” he mumbled, his eyes finally meeting hers.
“It is a gift—for the duchess.” It was Marce’s turn to avoid his gaze as she admitted the truth of the matter. She was in no way seeking to delay or displease the duke, only curry favor with the duchess. “I must pick it up from the bookseller on Piccadilly.”
“Certainly.” He nodded, his stare focusing on her feet once more.
Without another word, Marce handed her trunk to the driver to stow in the boot and entered the carriage.
As they pulled out of the Craven House drive, Marce stopped herself from glancing out the window and watching her home disappear in her wake. Neither would she waste precious time dwelling on the looming task awaiting her once she arrived at the Whisper Hook Inn. Her decision had been made—and Marce would allow nothing to alter her course.
Chapter 2
Rowan scrutinized the smudged tumbler as he rolled it between his fingers, shifting it from one hand to the other, careful not to send the amber liquid over the rim. The scotch should have burned going down as he hadn’t drunk in far too long, but its murky blandness spoke of spirits too long open on the shelf.
More difficult than overlooking the less than stellar drink was ignoring the various conversations going on about the public room at the Whisper Hook Inn—locals in search of a hot meal and lukewarm ale, or stragglers from the staging coach passing through on its way to and from London. There was little need to hear their business as Rowan sought to keep his reasons for being in Welling quiet—and the public room at the inn afforded him just that. The constant flow of people masked Rowan’s comings and goings. No one took notice of him, and Rowan, in turn, made a point of not retaining the names of the barkeep or the patrons.
Each time, it was as if Rowan had found himself in the rundown inn for the first time.
There was no need to familiarize himself with the neglected inn when this occasion could be his last visit—the tepidness of the spirits, the stale smell clouding the room, the scrape of wooden stools on the scarred plank floor, the rough bar top…all things Rowan did not commit to memory.
He could leave the Whisper Hook Inn and return a thousand more times. Or never again.
“Another scotch, m’lord?” the barkeep called, removing a plate with the remnants of Rowan’s meal from the bar top.
“No, thank you.” Rowan tossed back his glass, emptying the remaining scotch before sliding the tumbler toward the barkeep. Even though the liquid had seen better days, Rowan was not one to waste spirits, no matter the murky, suspect quality. “What time have you?”
“Nearly three.” The man moved farther down the bar to serve a pair of newly arrived patrons. Their threadbare trousers and wide-brimmed hats spoke of their employment in the fields surrounding Welling.
Rowan had no need for the barkeep’s undivided attention. To remain a man not remembered was preferable; yet, dressed as he was and arriving as he had, it would be odd if the proprietor didn’t recall his many visits and thus cater to him. Not that the man knew anything of Rowan, least of all his status as a duke. If the barkeep paid close enough attention, he’d have noted that, for years, Rowan came to the inn, had a drink—whether ale or something more substantial—and departed quickly when a fair-haired woman arrived in the stable yard.
So had been his tedious routine for nearly eight years.
Shifting his stare to the window, Rowan’s irritation only grew when he still did not see his traveling coach in the yard.
Where is the bloody woman?
Miss Marce Davenport was many things, but late was generally not one of them.
Since the day they’d struck their bargain, she’d always been punctual—for she knew well the consequences if she did not abide by Rowan’s dictates. With any luck, she would not test Rowan’s boundaries, or he would be forced to make the decision he’d been dreading.
Perhaps she tested his patience on purpose?
Today was not the day for her to challenge him.
With all things considered, he asked very little of the woman: her attendance at his country estate no more than three times per year, and repayment each month for what she owed the Harwich dukedom. In exchange, she kept control of Craven House. What she did with the ancient structure, he cared not. As long as she didn’t burn the house to the ground, Rowan was content to remain far removed from her business, and as an unspoken rule, she did the same with his. Their names were linked in no other way.
Except when they both journeyed to Welling and then continued on together to his family home, Hadlow Estate, in Dartford, Kent.
It was then that they became entangled in one another’s affairs, at least enough to make it through their stay in the country without raising his mother’s suspicions. The servants, both in London and at his country home, were easily dealt with—and had kept their positions in exchange for their silence on the matter of Rowan and Miss Marce Davenport’s association outside of Hadlow Estate.
Julian, Rowan’s father, had ruled with an iron fist, and though his only son found himself away more than in residence, his family’s servants obeyed his every command.
He turned toward the public room door as another coach pulled to a stop in the stable yard.
Once again, the conveyance did not have the Harwich crest on its door, nor did any of the finely dressed occupants exiting the coach have fair hair or an upturned nose.
“Another,” Rowan growled, and the barkeep hustled to pour him another drink.
The woman obviously had little care for her own well-being.
As he drained his glass once more, cringing at the tepid temperature, a hand settled on his shoulder, and a light, feminine voice purred into his ear. “Somethin’ sweet Molly Mae can do for ye, sir?”
Rowan stiffened, turning to see a woman of indeterminate age, her lips painted a bright red, with rosy cheeks and plumped cleavage, taking him in with a slightly hooded stare and a mischievous smirk. His stomach turned at the thought of what Molly Mae did for the men passing through Welling on their way to places unknown—and the atrocities that had forced her into such a career path.
Life was a cruel mistress, and Rowan would be remiss in thinking he was the only one cursed.
When he made no move to answer, she continued, “Ol’ Pete has a room saved jus’ for me.”
Gripping the woman’s fingers where they clutched the shoulder of his coat, wrin
kling the fine fabric, Rowan removed her hand with a tight frown. “My apologies, ma’am, but I am only here long enough to meet a friend.” He glanced over her shoulder and out the open door. “And it appears they have arrived.”
To diminish any injured feelings, he slipped two shillings from his pocket and held them out to her. Quick as anything, Molly Mae swiped the coins with a grateful smile.
Rowan made no further conversation as he strode from the inn and into the crowded yard, his coach still unseen. The chilly February breeze slammed into him, making him take a deep breath and clamp his jaw tight to avoid chattering teeth. Winter still had a viselike grip on Kent, and with the dark clouds in the distance, there was little chance it would release its hold during Rowan’s stay at Hadlow.
The clouds were rolling his way from London—the path his carriage would be taking. Had something happened on her journey? After all these years with no issues, Rowan had become decidedly lax when it came to trusting she would come when he sent for her. It hadn’t struck him until now that her carriage might be tardy because something had waylaid her. The thought of a highwayman coming upon her unexpectedly sent a shiver of unease through him. Would the servant he assigned to protect her have the gumption to do what was necessary to transport her safely?
Even if she were out of the reach of a highwayman, what of the weather? Or perhaps a thrown wheel or injured horse.
If she did not arrive soon, he would be forced to set out and search for her.
Bloody hell, if she went back on their agreement, Rowan would be wise to forget the entire debacle—go on to his country estate without her and make as if she’d never existed. It would be safer for him, yet the questions he’d face when he arrived would be dangerous.
Dangerous, indeed.
He pulled his collar high to keep the wind from darting down his back and raised his hand to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun as he stared off into the distance. There were too many carriages, carts, and men on horseback to see anything clearly. Perhaps he should call for his mount and venture back toward London until he found his coach.
The Madame Catches Her Duke Page 2