Married to the Viscount

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “Ah. And once he confiscated the second letter, he must have posted somebody at the docks to watch for your ship, then notify him.” He swore a low oath. “Which would explain the note he received just before he disappeared.”

  The intricacy and thorough planning of this scheme alarmed him. What purpose could Nat have had? To steal her dowry and the company? Nat had done some foolish things in his life, but he’d never been a thief.

  Spencer sat down at his desk and steepled his fingers. “You were telling me about our proxy marriage…”

  “Oh, yes. When Nathaniel realized Papa would only leave the business to my uncle or my husband on my behalf, he tried changing Papa’s mind.” A bitterness crept into her voice. “I could have told him that wouldn’t work. Papa has always been set on my marrying well. He was determined to show his family that my Senecan blood didn’t matter. He hired me tutors and dance masters and bought me guides to deportment…”

  She sighed. “But since Nathaniel wouldn’t marry me, Papa insisted on sticking to his plan to leave the business to his own brother. So to gain any part of my inheritance, I’d have had to go live with my uncle.”

  “Not an appealing notion, I presume.”

  A bleak look shadowed her dark eyes. “Papa’s family disowned him years ago for marrying Mama. I’m sure my uncle would take me in just to have my help with Mercer Medicinal, but I would be treated like…well—”

  “A poor relation. Or worse.”

  She nodded. “Papa didn’t really want that, but he didn’t think I could run the business on my own, either. That’s why he was so eager to see me marry.”

  “So when Nat couldn’t assuage him, I was offered up as the sacrificial lamb.”

  “You could look at it that way, I suppose,” she said testily. “Anyway, two months after you left, Nathaniel claimed to have received a letter from you in which you sang my praises.” Fiddling with his coat, she added in a soft voice, “I suppose I shouldn’t have believed him, but…well…you and I did have some pleasant conversations, you must admit. And I thought…that is…”

  “Yes, I can see how you would have.” Though he’d never made romantic overtures to her, he’d certainly been friendly enough to give credence to Nat’s tales.

  “Of course, there was also that time when you teased me about how my ‘naive American optimism’ might one day lead me into ruin.” She glanced away, a faint flush staining her cheeks. “It appears you were right. Congratulations.”

  “I assure you I don’t like being right in this instance, Miss Mercer. Especially when my brother was the instrument of your ruin.”

  With a dismissive wave of her hand, she went on. “Anyway, Nathaniel told Papa that in exchange for half ownership in the company—with the other half to be yours as my husband—he would arrange our marriage. But the wedding would have to take place by proxy, given Papa’s dire illness and your difficulty with leaving England.”

  “Your father agreed to such an odd proposal?”

  “Apparently he, too, suffered from a ‘naive American optimism.’” When Spencer scowled at her sarcasm, her tone softened. “I suspect he felt he had no choice. He was determined to see me taken care of before he died. And he approved of you.”

  “I’m sure he did,” he said tightly. “I suspect you don’t get many wealthy viscounts passing through Philadelphia.”

  She gazed at him with the betrayed look of a wounded doe. “I thought you knew us better than that, but apparently not.” She tilted her chin up at him. “I’m not a fortune hunter, my lord. I do have a dowry…or I did until your brother took it.” The longer she talked, the higher that proud chin of hers rose. “Papa was less interested in your title and wealth than in your character. He approved of you because he thought you were a nice man. Little did he know. I’m sure if he had realized—”

  “I am suitably chastened, Miss Mercer,” he said, faintly amused. “Pray continue.”

  Giving a little sniff, she hesitated. When she finally went on, she wouldn’t look at him. “We had the proxy wedding, and your brother stood in for you.”

  “Nobody questioned it?”

  Her head shot up, and fire sparked in her eyes. “Why should they? Everybody had met you. There were the letters proposing marriage. Your own brother championed the match. What was there to question?”

  “I see your point.”

  Only slightly mollified, she pulled his rapidly slipping coat back up to her chin. It occurred to Spencer that she might be cold. He rose and went to stoke up the waning fire.

  “Shortly after the wedding,” she went on, “your brother said he was leaving, that he’d been away from his intended too long. He said that Mrs. Graham and I should follow him as soon as Papa passed on. Then he took the coins and left.”

  Spencer turned from the fire to stare at her. “Your father didn’t find that suspicious?”

  “He didn’t know.” She gave a thin smile. “By then he was very ill and I didn’t want to worry him. He died shortly after your brother left.” Her voice grew choked. “I think Papa only hung on until he saw me settled. He was stubborn that way.”

  “Many parents are.” Spencer glanced over to the massive desk that had once belonged to his own stubborn father. After Spencer’s eldest brother, Theo, had died, their father had contracted pneumonia. But the old man had clung to life as long as he could, hoping to see Spencer return from the war to take Theo’s place as heir. Unfortunately, Spencer had already become a spy—by the time anyone could notify him of his brother’s death and his father’s illness, his father was dead.

  Without ever hearing of Spencer’s inadequacy to be the heir.

  “After Papa passed on,” Miss Mercer continued, dragging him from his somber reflections, “I arranged for the burial, disposed of our goods, and closed up the house, which Papa had left to my uncle. I wrote you a letter about all this. Then we came here.”

  Her tale explained a great deal, but not everything. “I see why your father agreed to the match, but why did you? What made you leap willingly into a proxy marriage with a man you barely knew?”

  With a sigh, she dragged his coat back up to her chin. “Did you happen to read those letters I handed you, my lord?”

  “No.” He patted his pockets for them, then remembered dropping them on the floor. Bloody hell. No doubt the harpies in the hall were having a fine time poring over them. “Why? What did they say?”

  “You’ll be pleased to know you were very convincing in explaining why I’d be better off married to you than living like a cast-off at my uncle’s.”

  “Ah. A practical decision, was it?”

  She kept her eyes on the carpet, which she dug at with the toe of one dainty boot. “Um…not entirely. Your brother is a particularly talented liar, you see, and wrote some very…nice things about me. I should have caught on when he actually waxed poetic in one letter—writing that I ‘walked in beauty like the night of starry climes and cloudy skies.’” Light from the now leaping fire shown on her pained smile. “But I’m unused to such extravagant compliments, so I suppose I wanted to believe him.”

  Spencer caught his breath. Devil take Nat for remembering what Spencer had half forgotten from the night they were drunk. “Actually, I did…er…quote that line of poetry to him in reference to you.”

  Her gaze shot to his. “Oh?”

  Bloody hell, he probably shouldn’t have revealed that little tidbit. “I was making a point about how other gentlemen might regard you.”

  Her eyes glinted with humor. “I see. And you used poetry to do so?”

  “I was foxed, all right?” he grumbled. “It was my last night in Philadelphia, and Nat and I were drinking. Men often speak nonsense when they’re foxed. But apparently my brother decided to use my nonsense to further his own ends.”

  Her amusement faded. “You mean, to steal my dowry and Papa’s company?”

  “I suppose.” Spencer shook his head. “Though this seems an extreme method for gaining funds, not
to mention doomed to failure. He must have realized you would come here and expose him eventually.”

  “Of course he did. He’s the one who paid for our passage to England.”

  Chapter 3

  The wise servant puts his employer’s needs first, for when the master prospers, the servant prospers.

  Suggestions for the Stoic Servant

  Judging from how he gaped at her, Abby had shocked his lordship yet again. It was becoming a habit. Well, he deserved it. He’d certainly done his share of shocking her tonight.

  “My brother paid for your passage?” Lord Ravenswood echoed.

  “How do you think we got here? Papa left me little money—he thought I was married, remember? And he didn’t have much to leave anyway. So after I paid for the funeral and settled his debts, there was barely enough left to buy essentials for the trip.”

  “But why would Nat pay your passage here after stealing your dowry?”

  “How should I know?” She dragged his coat back up to her chin, trying not to notice that it smelled thickly of him. “Maybe he had a crisis of conscience. Maybe he hoped you’d make up for my loss. He’s your brother—why do you think he did it?”

  “I have no earthly idea.” Lord Ravenswood marched back and forth across the costly Turkish carpet with his hands clasped behind his back in a decidedly military stance. “I can’t even begin to fathom my brother’s twisted logic.”

  “Are we being unfair to him by assuming the worst? Maybe he had good intentions. Maybe he wanted to rescue me from my dire situation.”

  “By encouraging you to marry a man who didn’t want to marry you?”

  She flinched. “Are you sure he knew? Lord knows I was too dense to see it.”

  His lordship halted to snap, “That’s because you were too busy listening to my idiot brother build fanciful castles for you and me in the air.”

  Whenever she started to remember why she’d liked him initially, he up and said something annoying like that. “I had no reason to think your brother was making this up. Amazing as it may be for you to believe, I actually thought you liked me.”

  His heavy sigh contained a lifetime of exasperation. “I did. I do. I just don’t want to marry you.”

  “Which you’ve made extremely clear. Several times, as a matter of fact.”

  Eyes like cool summer rain flicked over her. “I’m sorry, Miss Mercer, this has taken me by surprise. I assure you my grumbling has naught to do with you personally. You’re an amiable woman whom any man would be delighted to marry, but—”

  “You’re not just ‘any man,’ are you? Don’t worry—I understand.” Now that she’d seen him in his own environment, she understood only too well. “You’re a viscount of great social standing and political power. Marriage to an American physician’s daughter wouldn’t exactly enhance your position.”

  “That has nothing to do with it.” Walking back to his imposing desk of carved mahogany, he stood there arranging papers and replacing a quill pen in its holder. “This is a crucial time in my career, that’s all. The government is in an uproar, and I’m much needed at the Home Office. I can’t be bothered with a wife at present.”

  “Since when is a wife a bother?”

  “Since when is my reason for not marrying any of your concern?” he countered.

  She didn’t need his forbidding glare to get his point. She had no business prying into his affairs. She didn’t belong here and never would. They both knew it.

  Not for one minute did she believe all that hogwash about his career. It was only his polite way of saying she lacked the proper background, class, and connections to be a viscount’s wife. She would have realized it sooner, except that the amiable gentleman she’d known in America hadn’t seemed to care about such things. But clearly this officious viscount—the one who accused her of being a fortune hunter and lived in a costly mansion—cared very much.

  And there was nothing she could do about that. Except maybe curse herself for not realizing that his kindly manner in America was only a façade.

  Tamping down her disappointment, she curled her fingers into the supple leather of the chaise longue. “Forgive me for being nosy. It’s a bad habit of mine.” She ventured another comment. “But maybe your brother wasn’t happy about your reluctance to marry. Could that have made him marry you off without your knowledge, to sort of force you into it? I understand that the English insist on the eldest son doing his duty to marry and produce an heir.”

  He gave a terse nod. “That’s because the eldest inherits everything. Which means younger sons are more likely to thwart their elder brothers in marrying than to help them. If the eldest doesn’t sire an heir, the next in line inherits. So younger sons resent the eldest, they stage petty rebellions against them, and in extreme cases they try to eliminate them. But they don’t help them to acquire wives.”

  “Then I’m stumped. If he wanted to steal the dowry and the company, he shouldn’t have paid for our passage here. But if he had some noble motive, he shouldn’t have stolen the dowry and the company. It makes no sense to me, none of it. Only he can explain why he did it.”

  “And he’s not around,” Lord Ravenswood said dryly.

  A discreet knock at the study door jolted them both. Lord Ravenswood strode to the door and opened it enough to reveal the butler standing there.

  “My lord, your dinner guests are…er…”

  “Growing restless. Yes, I imagine they are. Give me a moment, McFee.”

  “Very good, my lord.” The butler started to leave, then held out a sheaf of papers. “Oh, and I relieved Lady Evelina of these. I thought you might prefer to have them in your own possession.”

  Even from where she sat, Abby recognized the letters and the marriage certificate. Lord Ravenswood took them with a grim nod. “Thank you, McFee. Good work.”

  After the butler left and his lordship closed the door, he tossed the papers on the leather-lined top of a nearby library table. He stared at them a long moment, then lifted his gaze to her. “We can’t unravel this tangle tonight. I have to get rid of my guests, and you and your servant probably need a meal and a good night’s sleep.”

  “Now that you mention it, that does sound wonderful.”

  “You’ll stay here, of course, and in the morning we’ll figure out how to proceed. By then I may have located my brother.”

  Though tempted by hunger and sheer exhaustion to simply acquiesce to his will, she felt obliged to say, “If you’d prefer that we go to a hotel, we will.” Then, remembering that his brother had stolen her dowry, she added tartly, “But you’ll have to pay for it, since your brother left me with little money.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I’m truly sorry about that. I assure you that no matter what happens, you’ll be compensated for your financial loss.” He ran his finger over the marriage certificate and added dryly, “This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve paid my brother’s debts, I assure you.”

  Now she was a “debt.” Wonderful. But given his generosity, she shouldn’t complain. The warm and friendly gentleman she’d thought she was marrying wouldn’t have left her destitute, but who knew what a great English lord might do if he chose to be nasty? “I don’t want to burden you. If you’ll simply advance me some funds for my lodgings—”

  “Nonsense, giving you a place to stay is the least I can do.” He smiled ruefully. “Besides, if I send my ‘wife’ to a hotel, the gossips will never stop squawking about it.”

  She shot him a startled glance. “Do you plan to continue this farce?”

  “To be honest, Miss Mercer, I don’t know what my plans are. Thanks to your chatty servant, the twenty-six people in my dining room have undoubtedly been discussing my new wife for the past half hour. I can hardly put that cat back in the bag.”

  “So what will you tell them? The truth?” And what did he mean, her “chatty servant”? What exactly had Mrs. Graham said during Abby’s mortifying faint?

  “No, certainly not the truth. But I’l
l come up with something to buy time until I decide what to do.” He arched one eyebrow. “I can be a ‘particularly talented liar’ myself when necessary.”

  “Then it runs in the family,” she said sweetly.

  For the first time since her arrival, he laughed. “Apparently.” Opening the door, he beckoned to his hoity-toity butler. “McFee, show our guest to her room and have trays sent up for her and her servant. And have baths drawn, too.”

  “Thank you,” Abigail breathed.

  His warm smile fleetingly reminded her of the man she’d so easily agreed to marry. It made her chest hurt with the loss of him.

  “Well then,” he said, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  When he started to walk out in only his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, she leaped up from the chaise longue. “Lord Ravenswood!”

  He stopped to look back. “Yes?”

  “You’ll need this.” Holding together the gaping edges of her bodice with one hand, she held his coat out with the other.

  Walking up to her, he reached for it. When his hand brushed hers, the frisson of heat that sparked between them so flustered her that she lost hold of the bodice she’d been holding closed.

  His gaze dropped down to her exposed chemise, and his breath quickened until it matched the frenzied pace of her own breathing. For a moment, the dark intensity of his stare made her think he might actually kiss her.

  Then he seemed to shake himself, and his gaze jerked back to her face. “I believe, Miss Mercer, you had better keep the coat,” he said in a throaty murmur that resounded low inside her. He circled around behind her. “After everything that has gone on in this house tonight, the last thing my guests will care about is my missing coat.”

  Demurring, she let him put it on her. But every whisper of his hand along her shoulder stirred up butterflies in her belly, and every accidental brush of his fingers against her hair resonated to the farthest ends of her silly, besotted heart. Her pulse stumbled the whole time he stood close, swamping her with his delicious scent.