by Brenda Hiatt
"Actually," she said on sudden decision, "I would like a bath before anything else. Pray have hot water brought up at once."
Though the bath eased the lingering soreness between her legs and washed away all physical signs of her passionate night, it did nothing to cleanse her thoughts of their wanton leanings. Toweling her hair dry while Monette laced up her corset, Quinn admitted she wanted nothing more than another night like the one just past.
Laying aside the towel, she seated herself at her dressing table so that Monette could brush out her damp curls and stared at her reflection in the glass. Her face, her green eyes, looked no different than they had yesterday morning, but she knew she had changed irreversibly. She was truly a woman now, and . . .
Dear Lord, she was in love. In love with her husband. Stodgy as he was— everywhere but the bedroom —antithesis of everything she was herself, representative of the very sort of people who had cast off her mother, Quinn had fallen head over ears in love with Lord Marcus Northrup.
In a daze, she allowed Monette to dress her in a fetching pink day dress, wondering what she should do with her shattering discovery. She mustn't let Marcus himself guess, of course. In all of his endearments by candlelight, he had never spoken of love —and it would be absurd to expect it, as they still scarcely knew each other, except physically.
No, she would keep this knowledge to herself until such time as she had reason to believe her feelings were returned. Or until they faded on their own, which was surely just as likely. After all, what did she and Marcus have in common, besides mutual lust? She could afford to wait.
But meanwhile, there could be no thought of leaving, of attempting to return to America. To do so would be to rip her heart from her breast, and for what? For the sake of a family business that would continue profitably without her? She could create work at least as important here, she realized, remembering her idea for a girls' school.
"Thank you, Monette." Her toilette complete, she headed downstairs, wondering whether Marcus would have finished eating by now, as she had taken such a long time in her chamber. Even so, she risked a detour to the kitchens before joining him in the dining room.
"Mrs. McKay, may I borrow Polly from you for an errand?" she asked when the cook greeted her in surprise.
"Why of course, my lady. But wouldn't one of the footmen—?"
Quinn shook her head. "Not for this particular errand, but thank you. Polly?"
The girl hurried over to her, while the cook discreetly moved out of earshot. "Yes, milady?" Already the girl's accent had lost a trace of its rough edge.
"I'd like you to go to Grillon's Hotel and ask whether there is a message for 'A Sympathetic Lady.' If there is not, I'll need you to check tomorrow, as well. Or—do you suppose your brother would be willing to do so? I would pay him, of course."
"Oh, aye, milady! I'll go today, and ask Gobby to go tomorrow, if need be."
"Perfect. Thank you, Polly. Bring any message to me privately."
The girl bobbed a curtsey and promised to do as asked, betraying not the slightest curiosity. Quinn smiled and left her, hurrying now to the dining room.
"I was wondering whether you had fallen asleep again," Marcus exclaimed, rising to help her to a chair. "A bath?" He touched a damp tendril of her hair with an intimate smile that made her toes curl.
"Yes. I'm sorry I took so long. And I really am famished!"
At his signal, a footman brought her a plate loaded with ham, toast and shirred eggs, as well as a steaming pot of chocolate. She tucked into it eagerly, for her overnight exertions had indeed stimulated a prodigious appetite.
"You weren't exaggerating, I see," said Marcus with a grin. "As soon as you finish, I was wondering if—" But at that moment, a loud knock sounded at the front door.
They glanced at each other curiously, then turned at the heavy sound of approaching footsteps. James appeared in the dining room doorway, looking rather flustered. "Captain Peverill," he announced.
Before Quinn or Marcus could rise, the Captain pushed past the footman, into the dining room. "Sorry to intrude so early," he said gruffly, "but I haven't much time. My ship sails on the afternoon tide, and I have a lot to do before then."
CHAPTER 14
Quinn stared. "You are leaving, Papa? Aboard what ship?" None had been listed as leaving for Baltimore in the shipping news she had perused yesterday.
"One of our own, of course—the Atalanta. She's to take on barrels of wine in Lisbon and Madeira before heading home."
Which meant its destination had been listed as Portugal rather than Baltimore, of course. Taken completely off guard by this development, she protested, "But the Atalanta was not to sail for two more weeks—I remember the schedule clearly."
"Shipping schedules change constantly, you know that, Quinn. We're taking advantage of the weather, as well as news of an exceptional new winery in Lisbon. I'm hoping to be one of the first to bring their wares to America."
Quinn had to nod— she'd likely have recommended the same course, had she still had a hand in the business. Which she never would again, it appeared. This sudden departure left her no chance to even consider accompanying him—as he'd doubtless intended.
When she did not respond, Marcus rose and bowed. "I'm certain you will wish to say your farewells in private. As I've finished my meal, I will leave you to do so and attend to some business of my own."
The Captain watched him go, then smiled at Quinn. "Such a fine young man, Quinnling. Again, I congratulate you. I can depart secure in the knowledge that I'm leaving you in good hands."
The resentment Quinn had felt on her wedding day came flooding back, making her momentarily forget what had passed since. "Is that why you forced me into marriage? To relieve you of responsibility for me?"
Her father helped himself to coffee and some pastries from the sideboard, then seated himself across the table from her, his eyes shadowed. "I hope you're only saying that to relieve your understandable irritation with me, and don't really believe it. You've never been a burden to me, Quinnling. Never."
She knew it was true. She'd more than pulled her weight at home, particularly since her mother's death. "Then why? So that you could point to me and say that your daughter married the son of a duke?"
"I can't deny I'll enjoy that," he replied, his expression showing more self-knowledge than she'd have credited him with. "But my main concern was always your welfare. After—"
His voice broke, and he cleared his throat noisily before continuing. "After your mother died, you changed. Distanced yourself from me, Charles, all of your friends, and flung yourself into the business. I can't deny it was good for the business, but I knew it wasn't good for you. A young woman needs friends, parties, admirers —and a husband and children of her own."
"So that's why you brought me to England? To force me back into the world and separate me from the business?" Quinn didn't know whether to resent him even more or forgive him on the spot.
He nodded, his rough face still pink with emotion. "Lord Marcus seemed like an answer to prayer, the very thing to set you on the proper path —to happiness. Do you not think he'll make you happy Quinn? Truthfully?"
The events of the night before came rushing back. "Perhaps marriage will not be so bad as I feared, after all." She fought to keep from blushing.
"But will you be happy?" her father pressed her. "I hate to leave without feeling I've done my best for you. If now, knowing Lord Marcus better, you'd prefer an annulment—"
Quinn lost her battle, the color rushing to her face. "I, er, no. I think that probably isn't an option."
The Captain raised an eyebrow. "Ah. Like that, is it?"
Quinn could not answer, not even with a nod, but her silence was apparently enough answer in itself. Her father's face relaxed into a tender smile that yet held a trace of sadness.
"Are you in love with him, Quinnling?" he asked gently.
"No! That is, I don't know. I mean, I've only known him a week. But
. . . we do seem to deal well together, so far."
Rising, her father came around the table to kiss her cheek, then enfold her in a gentle bear hug. "I'd say you're off to an excellent start then. Lord Marcus is a good man, and you are a treasure, of course. I'd say the two of you have a better shot at happiness than most."
Quinn returned his embrace. "I hope you're right, Papa." And she meant it. After this conversation, there could be no question of her returning home to Baltimore. Ever.
She walked the Captain to his waiting carriage, her emotions a confused tangle of sadness and hope. Could she make this marriage work? She supposed she would have to try.
"Oh! I nearly forgot." Her father paused even as he leaned down to give her a farewell kiss. "Lord and Lady Claridge have invited you and your husband to accompany them to the theatre later this week. I imagine you'll be receiving a visit or note from them shortly."
"How . . . how nice." A final effort of her father's, or a real attempt at reconciliation, she wondered? She'd be able to tell when she saw them again, she supposed. Then, the reality of the parting suddenly overwhelming her, she threw her arms around her father. "Have a safe voyage, Papa! Give my love to Charles, and write to me often."
Though he'd never been much of a correspondent, the Captain nodded, blinking rapidly. "I'll do that. And I'll look forward to your letters, as well. Have a wonderful life, my Quinnling." He climbed into the carriage and was gone.
Quinn watched him drive away, feeling as though her last link with home had just been broken. A tear slid down her cheek.
"My lady! There you are."
Dashing away the tear, she turned to see Polly at the front door, holding a letter.
"You have something for me, then?" Shaking off her melancholy, she walked up the steps and took it. "Thank you, Polly, you have done very well indeed. Go on back to the kitchen now. If I need you again, I will let you know."
Conscious of the footman in the hallway, Quinn returned to the dining room and her unfinished breakfast before opening her letter. Addressed to A Sympathetic Lady, it read:
Dear Madam,
I received your kind offer with all gratitude, and am most willing to consider an adjunct school for unfortunate girls, agreeing with your esteemed self that they too often find themselves forced by poverty into depraved and immoral circumstances. The expense will not be inconsiderable, but I will trust to your kindness to allay that concern. I have enlisted the help of Mrs. Hounslow of the Bettering Society for this project, upon whose discretion and sincere charity you can rely. I have enclosed her direction, that you may wait upon her to discuss the particulars. Yours in gratitude,
—M. Throgmorton
Quinn refolded the letter and tucked it into her sleeve just as a footman appeared with a fresh pot of chocolate to replace the one that had cooled. She thanked him absently, already considering when she might safely —and secretly —call on Mrs. Hounslow.
It appeared she was now irrevocably fixed in this country —and in her marriage —for good or ill. Marriage, however, had never been an end in itself for her. She needed real purpose in life. This new project would have to serve.
And while she strove to untangle her conflicting feelings about her husband, and to decipher his toward her, it would act as a welcome distraction, as well.
* * *
"Excellent work, lad!" Marcus exclaimed at the end of Gobby's lengthy report. He had nearly forgotten his promise to meet with the boy this morning, behind the stables. "I had no idea their operation was so extensive. Five of them, you say?"
Gobby nodded. "That we knows of so far, anyway. Stilt —he can write the best of us—put down here where they all live." He handed Marcus a torn sheet of paper with a list of names and addresses, all in or near Mayfair.
Marcus's eyebrows rose as he recognized two of the names, men who moved among the better circles, though he didn't know them well. "And all of these are actually involved, not just friends of our Mr. Jarrett?"
"Aye, we think so, guv—er, milord. Talked to other lads from other flash houses and found out they've took a fair number off the streets, like what they did to Tig. And Tig says he heard Mr. Jarrett talking to the two what visited about selling him."
"And which two were those?" Marcus held out the list.
Gobby squinted at the names. "They was Mr. Hill and Captain McCarty. Would that be these here?" He pointed.
"Yes, thank you." McCarty was a half-pay army captain and Mr. Hill was cousin to Sir Gregory Dobson, if he recalled correctly. Both in need of additional funds, no doubt, though that in no way excused their dabbling in what was essentially slavery.
"I'll take it from here." At the sight of the boy's crestfallen face, he added, "It may be I'll need a lookout tonight, however. Can you or one of the others meet me at the corner of Duke Street and Chandler at ten o'clock?"
Gobby's grin returned instantly. "I'll be there, milord! And maybe one o' the other lads, too. We all want to help, you know."
Marcus gripped his shoulder affectionately, wishing he could take in all of his friends as well, giving them food, schooling and employment. Someday he would, he vowed. "I know you do, and I appreciate it. Thank the others for me as well, all right?"
"Aye, milord. I'll see you tonight!" With a cheery wave, Gobby disappeared into the stables.
Walking back to the house, Marcus suddenly realized that leaving at midnight might not be so simple a matter as it had been before. Somehow, he'd have to dissuade Quinn from staying overnight in his room —not at all a task he relished, particularly as they were finally establishing a rapport.
He sighed. Legendary thief and attentive husband weren't exactly complementary roles. Somehow he'd just have to learn to integrate the two—at least until he'd put this ring of crimps out of business and thrown the Runners completely off of Luke's scent.
Reentering the house, he found Quinn just leaving the dining room. "Has your father gone already?" he asked in surprise. "I had hoped to wish him good passage."
"I extended your good wishes," she replied with a nervous laugh, though he couldn't think why she would be nervous. "He had much to do before sailing."
Marcus nodded. "I'm sorry he had to leave England so soon. No doubt you will miss him."
"He promised to write." Quinn's eyes met his, and for a moment the night came rushing back. He took a step toward her, his body already responding to her nearness. Her eyes widened, her lips parting as if in anticipation. But then she spoke.
"I, er—I thought perhaps I would begin making the changes to my room today. I have some notes upstairs I'd like to show you. It will only take me a moment to fetch them."
"Oh. Of course." He blinked, wondering what madness had nearly overtaken him. It was broad daylight, with servants all about, for heaven's sake. "I have some correspondence to attend to. I'll be in the library."
With a last, uncertain smile, she hurried upstairs and he headed to the library. Pulling out a sheet of paper, he penned a note to Mr. Paxton, suggesting a meeting that afternoon. He might as well get that over, as delay could only serve to arouse the man's suspicions.
Dispatching the note with a footman, he wondered how he would manage to slip away from Quinn tonight without arousing her suspicions.
* * *
Quinn pulled Mr. Throgmorton's letter from her sleeve and hid it in the drawer of her writing desk, under the stationery. That had been very close! She had nearly moved into Marcus's arms when he had looked at her so smolderingly —and he would almost certainly have heard the letter crackle if she had.
"Foolishness," she said aloud. Surely she had only imagined that he was about to embrace her downstairs, in full view of the servants. Marcus was far too proper to do such a thing.
Wasn't he?
Yes, she was simply letting her memories of the night influence her perceptions. That was all. He surely knew how to separate proper daytime behavior from private nighttime pleasures. She had best learn how to do so, too, or she would
risk embarrassing him.
Checking her appearance in the glass, she headed to the door, only remembering as she stepped into the hallway that she had supposedly come upstairs for her decorating notes. Where was her head today? With an exasperated sigh, she went back to the desk and snatched them up, then hurried downstairs.
Marcus was in the library, as he had said, sorting through a small stack of letters.
"Ah, there you are, my dear. There are not many invitations, as most people are leaving or have left for the country, but I have found one or two we might want to consider." He handed them to her. "Did you bring your notes?"
"Yes." She exchanged them for the invitations, and they both read in silence. "A Venetian breakfast? What is that?"
"An al fresco party, or fancy picnic, if you will. I thought it might be fun. You've done more planning than I realized," he added, indicating her notes. "There is little left to do but choose fabrics and commission the changes. Brava, my dear."
She felt herself pinkening with pleasure at his praise. "I'm rather anxious to brighten up my chamber, I confess. And yes, the Venetian breakfast does sound entertaining, and perfect for this time of year. I'd like to attend."
"Then that's what we'll do on Thursday. Would you care to pen our acceptance, or would you prefer that I do so?"
"Oh. Which is proper?" She really would try to learn the proprieties, and to abide by them whenever she reasonably could.
"Wives generally handle such social correspondence I believe —at least, my mother always has."
"Then I'll write it. Was there nothing for tonight?" The other invitation was for a ball on Friday.
He gave her a grin that was part grimace. "A rout at Lord and Lady Mountheath's. I assumed you'd prefer to forego that one."
"You assumed correctly," she said with a shudder, remembering that lady's nasty barbs. "Though I do wonder how she reacted to the news of our marriage, since she so obviously did not believe we were betrothed."