The Naked Marquis

by Sally MacKenzie

  "Yes. I suspect having you, Nanny, and the girls sleep downstairs invited our mysterious visitor to make the nursery floor his nocturnal base of operations."

  "I'm very glad you pushed that heavy chair in front of the door, then—but how many other doors are there?"

  "I don't know. I am definitely assigning one of the brawnier footmen to watch Stockley."

  "But what if he's not the culprit? And even if he is, what could he possibly want?"

  "I don't know. At least we don't have much longer to worry. Once we announce our betrothal, most of my guests will pack their portmanteaux and find other fields to hunt. The fox here has been caught."

  "Good morning, Charles. Miss Peterson." Aunt Bea chose this moment to step out of her room. "What is this about foxes being caught?"

  Charles saw Aunt Bea focus on Emma's left hand. He'd wager she could spot the Knightsdale betrothal ring from the far side of a ballroom.

  "Aunt, you are just the person we wanted to speak to. Do you have a moment?"

  "My time is completely at your disposal, Charles. Please, step into my sitting room."

  "Splendid." Charles let the women precede him, then stepped over the threshold and shut the door firmly behind him.

  Aunt Bea's sitting room was decorated in pleasant shades of green, accented by a large, orange cat on the window seat. Queen Bess yawned, stretched, and returned to napping. Aunt Bea eyed Emma's hand again.

  "As you may have noted, Aunt, Emma is wearing the Knightsdale betrothal ring."

  Aunt Bea beamed. "Yes, I did notice. This is perfect. I am so happy." She hugged Emma and then Charles and then Queen Bess. Her majesty was not delighted to have her sleep disturbed. She jumped down from the window seat and stalked into the other room.

  "When shall we make the announcement?" Aunt Bea asked. "At the ball tonight, I presume?"

  "That would be best. Reverend Peterson will be here for dinner beforehand. I had his permission to pay my addresses, of course—Emma and I will let him know tonight that she has accepted my suit."

  "Splendid! And you'll be married next year in St. George's, Hanover Square." Aunt gave a little skip reminiscent of Claire. "It will be the event of the Season."

  "I am sorry to disappoint you, Aunt, but that will not be possible. We will be married at Knightsdale as soon as the banns are read."

  Aunt Bea paused in her waltz around her sitting room. 'You can't be married so soon. People will talk."

  "They are welcome to do so."

  Aunt Bea turned to Emma. "Miss Peterson— Emma—surely you want a big London wedding?"

  "Actually, Lady Beatrice, I would be much happier being married by my father at Knightsdale. I have never been to London. I would be overwhelmed."

  "Well, yes, I see your point. But to be married so soon . . ."

  "I am twenty-six. There is no point in delaying."

  'Yes, well." Aunt shot Charles a look. He raised an eyebrow and clasped his hands behind his back. She hesitated but then soldiered on. "Emma, I know you don't have a mother to counsel you, so you do not understand the repercussions of such a hasty wedding. The point is, dear, if you are married in such a hurry, people will assume you have anticipated your marriage vows."

  Emma turned as red as Aunt Bea's morning gown.

  Aunt Bea looked at Charles again. "Ah. Yes. Well, then. I guess we'll have a wedding within the month."

  Charles grinned back at her. "I do think that would be best." He moved away from the door. "On a different topic, Aunt, have you remembered anything about Mr. Stockley? You were saying the other evening that there was something familiar about him."

  Aunt nodded. "Please, sit down." She chose the large upholstered chair; Charles and Emma sat together on the settee. "I confess my mind has been on other matters"—she smiled broadly at them— "which have been resolved to my great satisfaction. Now, as to Mr. Stockley"—Aunt Bea frowned at a large floral painting on the wall—"I think he has some connection to Uncle Randall."

  "My Great-Uncle Randall?" Charles leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He had never discussed Randall with anyone except Paul when they were playing pirate. He might have tried once, but his father's abrupt reaction to his simplest questions discouraged him from pursuing the topic. "Is it true Randall was a pirate?"

  "I believe he would prefer the term 'privateer,' Charles, but yes, I think so. Randall went off to sea when he was a boy—you never met him, did you, Emma?"

  "No, I don't believe I did."

  "You wouldn't have," Charles said. "The last time Randall visited was the year I turned seven. He died shortly afterward. Had a few too many glasses of blue ruin one night and walked off the end of a pier."

  Aunt Bea snorted. "That's your father's story."

  "Was there another? I never heard it."

  "Nor did I." Aunt Bea shrugged. "I just never believed it. Randall drank, of course—sometimes heavily. But he could hold his liquor. I do not think it possible he was so drunk he didn't know where he was. I think he was helped into the harbor."

  "You think Randall was murdered?" Charles couldn't keep the shock from his voice. "Did you tell my father your suspicions?"

  "Of course I did—George just laughed at me. He was happy to have Randall removed from his list of responsibilities." Aunt Bea turned to Emma. "My brother and uncle did not get along. We all grew up together—Randall was the same age as George. Father died when I was two and George four, so Grandfather raised us. Mother wasn't happy about the arrangement, either. Grandfather's second wife— Randall's mother—was a year or two younger than she. It was an awkward situation all the way around."

  Queen Bess wandered back into the room and jumped into Aunt Bea's lap. Aunt Bea absently stroked her ears.

  "Randall insisted George call him 'Uncle Randall,' I suppose because it made George angry. Randall was always joking, and my brother had no sense of humor. When George inherited the title, it was even worse. Randall would not give George the respect he thought his due. I loved Randall, but it was almost a relief when he left to go to sea."

  "Hmm. I knew Father wasn't delighted by Randall's visit," Charles said, "but I didn't think anything about it. Delight was not an emotion with which my father was familiar."

  "Exactly. George was a dry old stick," Aunt Bea said. "An angry, dry old stick. I often wished Randall, not George, was my brother."

  "Still, I can't see my father being pleased someone murdered his uncle, no matter how much he may have disliked the man."

  "No indeed. George would have investigated thoroughly if he'd thought Randall had been murdered— murder was not an appropriate end for a Draysmith. But a tragic accident—that could happen to anyone, even someone from such an exalted family as the Draysmiths of Knightsdale. George accepted the easy, obvious explanation."

  "But you did not," Emma said.

  "No." Aunt Bea shook her head so that her gray sausage curls bounced. "No, indeed." She stroked Queen Bess for a few minutes in silence.

  "Randall was worried when he was last home," she said finally. "I'd swear to it. He was drinking a lot."

  "He was drunk most of the time," Charles said.

  Aunt Bea sighed. "True. That was unusual. Something was bothering him." She bit her lip. "He even joked about dying. Well, I thought he was joking, but then he had that odd little sculptor make a bust of him. Said he wouldn't live forever, and he wanted to be certain his place in the Draysmith line was recorded for posterity."

  Aunt Bea's voice had grown slightly shrill.

  "Aunt, there's no need to tell us this, especially if it stirs up unhappy memories."

  Aunt Bea blotted her eyes with her handkerchief. For once she looked all of her sixty years. "No, I want to tell you, Charles. I don't think of Randall often, but when I do, I feel so sad. It's the uncertainty that bothers me the most. I feel an injustice has been done, that Randall's ghost has not been appeased."

  "Surely you don't think his spirit walks the halls of Knightsdale?"

>   Charles was happy Emma asked the question. He hoped Aunt Bea wasn't so addled she thought Knightsdale actually was haunted.

  "Of course not, dear. I was speaking figuratively." She smiled and shook her head. "If any spirit is walking the halls of Knightsdale, it must be George's. He was livid over that bust. It did not suit his sense of propriety to have some unknown local artist do the work. If Randall was determined to add to the effigies in the long gallery, George wanted to have a well-regarded artist in from London. He most certainly did not want inferior work displayed at Knightsdale. But he lost that battle—he always lost when he argued with Randall. It did not improve his temper."

  Charles decided it was time to bring the conversation back to the main point. "But Stockley, Aunt?"

  "That is what is so frustrating. I'm almost certain Randall said something about the man the last time he was home, but I just cannot remember what. I have racked my brain, I promise you."

  "But, Lady Beatrice, Mr. Stockley is not old enough to have had anything to do with Lord Randall's death."

  "No, of course not—I did not mean this Mr. Stockley. I imagine it was his father whom Randall knew."

  "But how would they have met?" Charles snorted. "I can't imagine Stockley is a member of the ton.'"

  "Randall didn't frequent ton events, Charles. He left for the sea as a boy, remember." Aunt Bea laughed. "I can no more picture him at Almack's than I can picture George at a. . . a common brothel. An uncommon brothel, well, perhaps. But no, George preferred to visit Mrs. Borden for those needs."

  Charles stared at his aunt. Mrs. Borden? The nice old lady who had lived in the cottage by the big oak tree and given him lemon drops?

  "I do think Mr. Stockley said his family was in shipping," Emma said. "Perhaps Lord Randall worked on one of the Stockley family ships?"

  "Pshaw! I doubt Stockley's family ever owned any ships. He does not look like a man who comes from money—and ship owning requires money."

  "And I'm certain I've never run into our Mr. Stockley before." Charles shook off the unsettling image of his father and Mrs. Borden. He focused on Stockley. He'd have remembered the annoying twid-dlepoop if he'd met him in Town. "I should have crossed paths with him at some point if he moves among the ton."

  'Very true." Aunt Bea frowned and stopped stroking Queen Bess. Her highness protested the neglect, meowing and butting her head against Aunt Bea's hand. Aunt Bea gave her one long stroke from her nose to the tip of her tail. "I wish I could remember."

  "I wish I could boot Stockley out the door." Charles did not care to have a suspicious character under his roof, especially one who showed any interest in Emma. Especially if he had access to her room at night. Well, that would not be too much of a problem. If Stockley decided to haunt Emma's bedchamber, he was in for a surprise. Charles did not intend to let Emma sleep alone again.

  "Lady Beatrice," Emma said, "did you know there were secret passages in the walls of Knightsdale?"

  "Hmm?" Aunt Bea's mind obviously was still on the Stockley problem. "Secret passages? I thought George had them nailed shut when he inherited the title."

  "So you did know about them?"

  "Of course, Charles. They really weren't secret—we used them often enough to escape our lessons."

  "I knew nothing about them. I thought they were just another of Randall's drunken tales."

  Aunt Bea shrugged. "As I said, I thought George had them all nailed shut. I suppose hidden passages did not sit well with his notions of propriety, either. Guests could—and did—get up to all kinds of immoral behavior. Why do you ask?"

  "Because someone is using them again."

  Chapter 16

  Who was using the hidden passages? Emma pondered the question while Betty, Lady Elizabeth's maid, dressed her hair for the ball. Charles was certain it was Mr. Stockley, but he did not like the man. Well, she did not like him either, but that did not mean he was sneaking through the walls of Knightsdale. Of course, she had seen him engage in some odd activities. Looking behind pictures was not a normal occupation for a guest. Nor was examining the statuary and stone construction of the grotto quite so thoroughly. It was almost as if he were looking for something. But what?

  If only Lady Beatrice could remember what Lord Randall had said so many years ago. Emma sighed.

  "Do ye not like yer hair, miss?"

  "Oh, no, Betty. It's quite nice." Emma actually looked at herself in the mirror then and gasped. "Oh. Oh, my. It is more than nice, Betty—it is wonderful."

  "Well, I thought so."

  Emma barely heard the maid's words. She was staring at her reflection. Lady Beatrice had kindly offered to loan her Claudette. Fortunately, Lizzie had been standing nearby and had seen Emma's expression. She'd insisted on sending Betty instead. Thank God! Not only did Emma find Claudette intimidating, she did not want to go to her first ball looking like Lady Beatrice. But she never thought she could look like this.

  "I have to go, miss. I still have to do Miss Margaret and Lady Elizabeth."

  "Go ahead, Betty. You have worked your magic here. Thank you."

  Emma kept staring at herself as Betty left. The girl must think her a complete pea-goose, but she didn't care.

  She looked . . . well, as close to beautiful as she could ever hope to come. Closer than she'd dreamt possible. Betty had tamed her wild curls so they looked elegant and . . . alluring. As if they were casually caught up on her head, just waiting for a man to come and pluck a few pins, sending them tumbling over her breasts.

  She flushed. She knew which man she hoped would do just that.

  And the blue satin ball gown might be four years old, but it looked as good—better—than she remembered it. Would Charles like it?

  Would he be tempted to see what was barely hidden by the dress's low neck?

  She closed her eyes. She hoped so. She definitely hoped so. She would love to feel his hands on her shoulders, her breasts. She imagined his fingers sliding over her, his lips following, tracing a line down to . . .

  Her nipples hardened, and her body began to throb.

  "What a lovely way to greet me, sweetheart."

  She felt Charles's breath skim her collarbone and his fingers dip beneath her bodice to tease her nipples. She wanted his mouth there. She arched back, turned her head. His breeches were right by her cheek—his tight, revealing breeches. She smiled and put her hand over him.

  He inhaled and jerked his hips back.

  "So bold, Emma."

  "I'm sor—"

  "Don't be, sweetheart. I love your boldness— unfortunately, at the moment we cannot see where it might lead us. We must attend this ball, and we must look presentable while doing so. No suspicious wrinkles or stains." He grinned down at her. "But after the ball, please feel free to be as bold as you can imagine. And if your imagination falters, I shall be delighted to make some suggestions." He nibbled her earlobe. "Will you come to my room tonight, Emma? Make love with me in the Draysmith ancestral bed?"

  "Oh, yes." Lust surged through her again, making coherent thought difficult. "Why do we have to go to the ball tonight?"

  "Because it is your betrothal ball. Because people will be scandalized if I, the host, don't appear. And because we need to tell your father we are getting married. I suspect he would like to know."

  '"Yes." Emma took a deep breath, trying to think of something other than Charles and the lovely, magical thing he had hidden in his breeches.

  "Emma."

  "Hmm?" She heard the serious note in his voice.

  "Mrs. Graham will be there, too."

  "Oh." Emma waited for the confused mix of emotions that always flooded her at the mention of Mrs. Graham.

  Lust apparently left room for no other strong feelings.

  "Mrs. Graham. Yes." Still nothing. She did remember how Mrs. Graham had tried to protect her when she had felt besieged by the Society in the blue drawing room.

  "It would be much appreciated by your father, I'm sure, if you could manage to be plea
sant to Mrs. Graham. I do think he would like your blessing, or at least your acquiescence, in their marriage."

  Emma expected to bristle at the word "marriage," but again, she felt little—except a spurt of excitement at the thought of her own marriage.

  "All right." She wondered if the anger and hurt would bubble up in her again once she saw Mrs. Graham.

  Charles would have much preferred to strip Emma of her lovely gown, lay her on the bed, and sheath himself deep inside her. He might have done it, if he had not known the scandal would be immense. And he did want to see her father and get the banns read as soon as possible. His betrothal ring on her finger was enough in his mind to make their bedroom activities acceptable, but he would rather have his wedding ring on her finger before he had his heir growing in her womb. If possible. He wasn't prepared to sleep alone to ensure that outcome. An "eight-month" babe was fine with him.

  God, she was lovely tonight. When he'd walked in and seen her eyes closed, her head back, her breasts high, her lovely nipples pebbling clearly against the satin . .. And then she'd put her small hand on him.

  It was almost more than he could bear without bearing her directly to bed. That blue gown was obscene. It didn't leave much to the imagination—or, rather, it prompted a man to imagine everything. No man had best do so tonight.

  Charles dragged his mind away from bedsheets and bare skin.

  "Emma, I actually came here with a purpose." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the necklace he'd deposited there when he'd seen more enjoyable activities for his fingers. 'This goes with your ring. There's a bracelet and tiara, too, but I think this will be enough for tonight."

  He looped the sapphires around her neck and fastened the clasp.

  "Oh, Charles." Emma put her fingers on the stones. She shook her head. "They are beautiful, but I can't accept them."

  "Of course you can. You are going to be my wife, my marchioness." If anyone had told him in London he'd ever say "wife" and "marchioness" without cursing, he'd have called the man a liar. Amazing how things could change in such a short time. "If it's any consolation, I'm not really giving them to you. They go with the title. I believe you'll have to give them up to our son's wife eventually."