To Marry A Marquess (A Regency Romance)

by Teresa McCarthy

  Drake shook his head at the bittersweet memories. In each incident, Drake had been blamed, but Nightham's devilish humor seemed to make up for his vice. But it was that devious streak that had always placed Nightham apart from the others. There had always been a bit of selfishness in his ploys, but they always seemed so harmless, it mattered not to Drake.

  Drake pushed the blond hair out of Nightham's eyes. "No, never a dull moment, not with a scoundrel like you."

  "Scoundrel." Nightham frowned, locking his hopeful gaze on Drake. "P-promise me."

  Drake nodded, wishing he could promise his friend anything but this. "You have my word. I'll take care of her."

  "Always the hero." With a smile on his face, Nightham sighed and drew his last breath.

  After making the appropriate arrangements, Drake, filled with grief, returned to the woman's bedchambers and halted at the sight of her willowy form retreating from the room. She had changed into a simple blue gown and looked enchanting. Mahogany hair flowed about her head in long, shiny curls, and her face was that of an angel.

  "You're leaving?" he asked, blocking her retreat, inhaling the scent of fresh roses.

  "The boy said he's dead." She lifted her chin, her gaze meeting his. Tears filled a pair of soft aquamarine eyes, and for a fleeting moment, Drake felt an odd ache to hold her, comfort her. His chest tightened painfully as he thought about Nightham.

  Had his friend loved this woman then?

  "I need to go to him," she said, her voice shaking.

  "We need to talk," he said more harshly than he intended. "You were to stay here until I returned."

  She did not challenge his command, but retreated inside the room and sank back onto the bed. "But you don't understand."

  Drake closed the door and whipped a hand through his hair, recalling the promise he’d made to his friend. He took another glance at the woman sitting on the bed, her back straight, her chin up, her hands clutching the reticule on her lap. Not the usual flighty female of Nightham's acquaintance. Perhaps his friend had truly loved her?

  This woman had a spine, and if Drake was not mistaken, she had a certain intelligence as well. His stomach pulled at the thought. Beautiful and intelligent? A rather intriguing combination. He glanced above her head, not able to push away the attraction he had for her.

  He drew in a suffocating breath. Honoria had been both beautiful and poor, letting him believe that she loved him, and he, the fool that he was, had showed his love by marrying her. Nine months after the wedding, their first and only child, Margueretta, was born, the only gift of value in the entire union.

  Honoria had used his money to her selfish heart's desire and ignored their baby. She led such an irresponsible life, carrying on with so many men that he lost count. And then it happened, in the country, while on an excursion with one of her many admirers, her carriage was swept off a cliff, and she was killed.

  Drake clenched his jaw and stole another glance at Nightham's woman. "You're correct. Nightham's dead. The magistrate is downstairs inspecting the crime scene. It seems it was the work of a footpad. No need to venture down there. The body's already been moved."

  "B-but I must go." She stood. "I must."

  He took a step toward her. Yet he felt an instant need to protect this woman. She did not need to see Nightham's bloody body. "Let me rephrase it so you do understand," he said. "You cannot go down there. I will not allow it."

  Victoria stared into a pair of hard, gray eyes. Anger stirred in her veins. Her head felt full of cotton, and she could barely think, but she understood a command when she heard one.

  "You will not allow it?"

  He raised his hand, his lips thinning. "Nightham does not need another scandal associated with his murder. He is dead, and nothing you will do can bring him back to life."

  Scandal. Murder.

  Victoria opened her mouth and closed it. A scandal could ruin her family. A rushed wedding was one thing; the suspicious death of an earl was quite another.

  "It seems as though you are out of luck, my lady. Nightham is dead and you will have to return to the place from which you came. You will never be a countess or anything else."

  Victoria felt the color seep from her cheeks. After a long pause, she found her voice. "You won't obtain a single guinea from me."

  "A guinea?" His eyes narrowed dangerously, and she felt a fluttering in her stomach. "It is I who would have given you more than that."

  He did not want her coin? Victoria's mind swam with reasons why he would pay her. Could she have mistaken his identity? Was he some acquaintance of the earl, or possibly a distant relative, since Nightham was an only child? Confusion overtook her as she watched the play of emotions on his face. Anger, grief, pain. Who was he?

  "You would have given me money?" she asked.

  "If Nightham had lived, I would have paid you to leave him."

  Victoria's heart felt numb. She opened her mouth to speak, but with the authority of a king, he stepped closer, pressing his hand in the air to stop her.

  "Have no fear, Lord Nightham's dying wish was that you were to be properly taken care of, even though you were not his wife." He paused. "Or were you, Lady Victoria? Were you his wife?"

  Victoria flinched at the sound of her name on his lips. She assumed he retrieved the information from one of the servants. But what about the ceremony? Did he know what had transpired? No, he was asking her that very question. And what about the witnesses and the vicar? Had they disappeared? What about the marriage papers? Had she signed anything at all?

  She suddenly remembered her wedding ring and carefully covered it with her right hand. She swallowed hard and made her way slowly to the window.

  "Come now. Are you already a countess? The church is but a small distance down the street. I need only to take a walk down there to seek my answer."

  She could feel his eyes glued to her person. With a slight tug, she pulled off the ruby ring and set it on the sill behind the curtain and turned. She had needed to marry Nightham for his money, but the earl had known that. She refused to divulge to this insufferable oaf what had transpired between Nightham and her. And who would believe her if she told the truth? People might think she had something to do with Nightam’s death.

  "I was never his wife." The words came out in a slight stutter, but he did not seem to notice her nervousness.

  Though it was a white lie, she told herself, it was somewhat true. She had never been Nightham's wife, in the real sense of the word, so to speak. And she still did not have the marriage certificate. She wondered if she had been a wife at all.

  The man seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at her denial. "Very well then. I will follow through with Nightham's wish. I will see to it that you are sent two hundred pounds a year, and in return you will say nothing of your little visit here."

  Her eyebrows shot up in outrage. "What do you know about Nightham's wishes?"

  For the first time she saw a semblance of a smile on that pirate. A smile that said he was vastly satisfied with his offer of help. This man was offering her money to keep the day a secret—a secret that he had no knowledge of. How dare he!

  She would not embrace a single crumb from this wretched man, even if she were starving. "Two hundred pounds, you say?"

  His eyes flashed with contempt. "Very well. Four hundred pounds a year. Lord Nightham would have wanted it that way. We were good friends."

  Friends? Victoria curled her hands behind her back. Lord Nightham was dead, and this alleged friend was acting as if the earl's death were nothing at all.

  "My, you are generous. Four hundred pounds a year now?"

  He clenched his jaw.

  She gritted her teeth. "Why not? It's quite a sufficient sum." Sufficient enough to shove up your haughty nose.

  She batted her eyes, sinking back against the sill, bringing her arms across her breasts, and hiding the stinging tears that threatened to spill. She would not give this man the satisfaction of knowing how much she hurt inside
. If she had stayed home, Nightham would still be alive.

  "What about Lord Nightham?" she asked, her voice deceptively calm.

  As if avoiding her gaze, the man tilted his head to the side, his black hair gleaming against the setting sun. His profile was strong, almost classically handsome. But now she realized he wasn't quite perfect. His nose was a bit too long, and when he turned toward her, she could not help but catch the sorrow that flitted across his face.

  So, the pirate had a heart after all. She had no wish to feel sympathy for this man, but she did. However, trusting him was an entirely different matter.

  "His body will be sent home to his mother." He glanced away from her again. "I'll send his carriage along as well."

  Victoria cringed at the mention of Nightham's mother. The poor dear would be in a state of shock. Somehow, she would have to make things right with the woman. But how to do that without causing a scandal mystified her.

  "I have already paid the magistrate to keep the specifics of the death as quiet as possible. Even he admits that the thief could be anywhere by now." His accusing gaze swung her way. "You must realize that eventually Nightham's death will be news. The papers will say that he was stabbed by a footpad, and that is all. You were never here."

  She pressed her lips together in annoyance. What a lobcock!

  "The earl's ruby ring was missing," he continued with a frown. "Nightham never took it off. It would be a prize for any thief. Yet it was strange, when I searched Nightham's pockets, I found his money still left on his person."

  "His ring?" She never thought about the object as evidence against her, until now.

  Arching a scrutinizing brow, the man strode toward her and touched her forearm. "Not to worry. You can trust me."

  She looked away, keenly aware of his warm flesh upon hers. But she could not trust him. She would not trust him.

  "You will be quite safe returning to London. I'll take care of the matters entirely."

  The tenderness in his voice shocked her. Why was he concerned about her now? Safety was precisely what she was worried about. If he ever discovered that she had Nightham's ruby ring, she might not make it back to Town at all. A thief killed Nightham, but that thief did not take his ring. She did, and this man may believe she planned the killing.

  Yet she could not ignore the questions whirling in her mind. Was she married to a dead man? Or was the marriage ever legal in the first place? And if so, was the marriage certificate still on Nightham's body? No, the man would have found it. Still, what about her signature?

  Suddenly, it was all too much for her, and she made her way toward the bed to sit down.

  The man's keen gaze followed her. "Are you ill?"

  "No," she responded sharply. Of course, she was ill. She was sick to her stomach! Perhaps she ought to tell this man that she had already married the earl. No, she could not. He would believe the worst. Oh, what to do! Here she was worried about herself when poor Nightham was dead. She was absolutely wretched.

  The man cleared his throat, his voice softening as he spoke. "I'll send for a maid. We need to start back to London without delay."

  Victoria shook her head, her hands twisting on her lap. "No maid. I have very little. I can gather my things and meet you in a bit." She paused. "I just need some time."

  Like a general giving orders, he conveyed to her when to meet him downstairs in the private dining room, then he quickly departed.

  After the door closed, Victoria fell onto the pillow with a sob. Oh, heaven help her, what had she done? Nightham was never coming back, and it was all her fault. Her marriage might not even be legal, and if it were, the scandal would be social suicide. What would her family do now? She had made a mess out of everything.

  After a minute of indulging in grief and self-pity, she sat up, pulled back her shoulders and mentally scolded herself. Nightham was dead, and she was alone. However, it was Nightham's mother who would be the one to truly suffer her son's death. But Phoebe, William, and Sarah must come first.

  Guilt pricked at Victoria's conscience. One day, when things were better, she would venture to Nightham Manor and explain the entire situation to the countess. She owed the lady the truth, no matter what the ninnyhammer downstairs had said to her. And she certainly would not be going anywhere with him!

  She hurriedly rose from the bed and locked the door. Her gaze snapped to the window where a robin sat chirping in a tall elm tree within an arm's length of the inn.

  She immediately made her decision. She had always been good at climbing trees. She just hoped her legs could handle the drop.

  Drake sat in the taproom, snapping his pocket watch shut for the third time. The shock of his friend's murder overwhelmed him, but it was the disturbing death scene that formed a hollow ache in his soul. There was nothing to be done but to fulfill Nightham's request to take care of the female.

  Frowning, Drake shifted his gaze to the stairwell. He had been waiting thirty minutes already. Where in blue blazes was that woman? After what he had been through today, he had no use for more chaos, but he was inclined to believe that Nightham's acquaintance was going to do her best to drive him mad.

  He stretched his legs toward the hearth and grimaced as a pair of aquamarine eyes flashed in his mind. He knew his behavior was abominable, but he had no help for it. She was a pauper and deserved a few contemptuous glances for her deceitful plan. However, he was reasonably sure she had nothing to do with the hideous death of his friend.

  He blinked. Or had she? The question simmered in his mind as he swirled the glass of brandy in his hand. He would never fall prey to a beautiful face again. He had no need to be involved with another Honoria. But the tumultuous feelings he had for Nightham's lady were beginning to worry him.

  His gaze narrowed on the orange flames dancing before him. Surely his friend could not have married her. But then again, she was registered at the inn under Nightham's name.

  Yet the upstairs maid had assured him that Lord Nightham had placed Lady Victoria—that was the name the maid had given him—in the room soon after she had departed from the carriage. Nightham had left her with another female servant, having never stepped foot in the chambers again.

  Drake whipped his fingers through his hair. It could not have been grief he had seen in those turquoise eyes. She could not have loved Nightham, not a penniless chit.

  Still, there was no reason for Lady Nightham to know of her son's scandalous escapade or of the woman upstairs. If he had his way, no one would learn about Lady Victoria, ever. He owed Nightham that much at least.

  Drake's gaze moved to the door of the tap as a tall, fair-haired gentleman in a layered black cloak bobbed his head in greeting and took a seat at the far corner table.

  Drake did not know the man, but from one gentleman to another, he nodded back, drumming his fingers on the table. He would have waited in the private dining room, but he wanted to listen to the locals as they slowly congregated in the tap. The conversation centered on the murder.

  "A lord, he was."

  "Knifed in the back."

  "Fight over a woman, I think."

  "Blood everywhere."

  Drake winced, but he had yet to hear Nightham's name. He had to get the woman out of the inn as swiftly as possible. He had paid the servants not to talk, but one never knew.

  He looked at the stairwell again, knowing from this angle that he would see her enter the private room with no one the wiser. He knew there was another door to the kitchen from the private dining room, and he had already decided to take his leave from there.

  How long was she going to take? If this was her way of trying to send him to her chambers, she would be sorely mistaken.

  He started for the stairs, his Hessian boots clacking against the pine planks as he climbed the steps. He raised a hand to her door, and rapped hard against the wood.

  Silence.

  The smell of rotting wood seeped through the floor boards beneath him. He glanced down the hall. Two dusty
sconces lit the corridor. It was a deplorable inn, a place his friend should never have come.

  He rapped louder upon the door, scowling as he remembered the key lying on the table inside the room. "Madam, it is time we left."

  He stiffened when the answer was nothing but the rumble of voices from the tap. Had the lady run out the back? No, he would have seen her descending the stairs.

  He stared at a knot of wood on the door and frowned. The notion of him not fulfilling the promise to his friend made him clench his hands in rage. He knocked again with no response, biting back a curse at the very idea of the woman slipping through his fingers.

  "Lady Victoria?" Nothing.

  A shiver clipped down his spine, making his blood run cold. Something was wrong. And, dash it all, he felt something for that woman he had no right to feel. He must be mad.

  Nightham had died in his arms, and that very same day Drake was yearning for a woman he could not have.

  Ramming his shoulder against the door, he broke past the lock. His gaze immediately shifted to the curtains blowing steadily across the window. "Lady Victoria?"

  Her name fell easily from his lips as he hastened across the room, breathing in the lingering scent of roses. Looking past the window, he noticed a huge tree that brushed up against the inn.

  He stared in shock, his jaw tightening. She had scooted down the tree and jumped!

  He slammed his fist against the sill and cursed.

  Beyond the ground, shadows blended into the night, making detection impossible. A murderer was on the loose, and the confounded female had left his protection.

  First Nightham and now this! Though he had no notion of the woman's full name, Drake made a solemn vow to find her.

  Devil take it! It was a matter of honor now.

  Chapter Three

  Victoria held the teacup to her lips and stared out the window of her aunt’s townhouse. A drizzling rain beat against the cobblestone streets, adding to the miserable feeling churning inside her. It had been two weeks since Nightham’s death, yet it seemed like yesterday.