No, he was not sure of much of anything, but certainty was a luxury, and he did not have it.
“I don’t know why you have to bother with this now,” Rogue muttered, glowering out of the window. “Don’t we have quite enough to be getting on with?”
They did, and Rogue certainly did himself, but it couldn’t be helped. There was trouble brewing on the docks, and Rogue was their best operative there, what with Trace’s death. So, he was working himself to the bone in less than pleasant circumstances, while the rest of them worked the leads he brought in so he could continue as he was. What was worse was the fact that Amelia was at Whitleigh, nearing her confinement, and Rogue was in agony with anxiety for her. But he knew his duty, and he did it, with Amelia’s full support.
It didn’t make him any more pleasant, but that was Rogue’s way.
“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Malcolm murmured, feeling a bit of Rogue’s irritability seeping into him. “You’ve just come from tending the flowers, which might as well be a holiday. You’re well-rested, no doubt, which is more than the rest of us can say.”
Rogue grumbled under his breath, but Malcolm smiled at it.
With the loss of Trace had come a new responsibility for the League, and one entirely different from their usual tasks. Trace had left behind a girl who had loved him, one who could not know the true nature of his death, or his life, for that matter, and who would not find much healing in the aftermath of her beloved’s death. Trace had made it very clear to them that Poppy Edgewood was to be cared for after he was gone, and so they took turns making trips up to Cheshire to be sure that all was well with her, physically, financially and otherwise. Secretly, of course. She had no idea they were involved in any way and had never set eyes on a single one of them.
Malcolm rather wished he had taken his turn instead of Rogue. A trip to Cheshire for general reconnaissance and leisurely investigation would have been quite the reprieve from all else in his thoughts.
But no matter. The thing might as well be done now as at any time.
The carriage pulled up to the Marlowe residence, and the two friends entered as unobtrusively as any other guest. They were more familiar with the house, and their hosts, than anyone else in attendance. But on this particular occasion, they were no more than polite acquaintances invited for a dinner party.
Margaret, Lady Marlowe, looked as lovely as ever. Which was not surprising, as she’d fairly blossomed in recent months; first, in her marriage to Gent, and then with the birth of their daughter several months ago. She greeted Fritz and Malcolm with politeness, but without any hint of overt familiarity. Malcolm was quite proud of her. He and the rest of the London League had all wondered how their wives would take to the secrecy that dominated their lives.
Margaret, Lady Marlowe, and Amelia, Lady Wharton, had acclimated even better than their husbands, in some respects. They had become friends, close friends, but rarely met in social circles. Tonight’s party might have marked one of those rare occasions, except the danger stalking Rogue prevented Amelia from attending. She remained safely guarded at Whitfield, fuming from afar at the enforced separation from her husband.
Malcolm had often thought that Caroline would have adored both of them, and how much better it would have been for her to have known other women who similarly had to live a double life. She had borne his absences and his secrets with grace and poise, but always alone.
If he married Miss Owens, she would bear the same burden, though he would likely not tell her for some time, if ever. She would need to be strong enough to endure it, and he was even less certain about that.
“Monty,” Gent greeted Malcolm with a brusque nod as he came closer. “You’re looking tired.”
“Marlowe,” he replied, taking in his friend’s bored and placid appearance with amusement.
It was all anybody knew of Lord Marlowe and the only way that he could move about as freely undercover as Gent. Everybody forgot what Lord Marlowe looked or sounded like, and while he had a peculiar and charming wife, she was all they could recall.
Gent shook him a little, giving him an odd look. “For pity’s sake, Monty, it seems as though you could use a lie-down. Why did you bother coming if you were so fatigued?”
Malcolm gave him a hard look, as Gent knew full well why he was so drawn and tired, and what he intended tonight. “Pardon me, Marlowe, it is just the prospect of an evening in your company. I am half asleep already.”
Gent grinned so briefly it was impossible to say if he actually had, and steered his associate towards the music room, where the rest of the guests were mingling before dinner.
Malcolm spotted Lily and Miss Owens at once, though Miss Owens was currently engaged in conversation with Lily’s sister Rosalind. Lily stood awkwardly by her husband’s side. Mr. Granger stared around the room, as solemn as ever, pointedly taking no notice of his wife, while she appeared to be attempting to ignore his neglect.
Theirs was the saddest marriage Malcolm had ever seen. He had never made mention of it to her, for fear of bringing the pain of it to the surface.
He moved in their direction, catching the austere husband’s notice first. Granger shook hands with him firmly, expressed pleasantries, and asked after the children. For all the man’s faults where Lily was concerned, Malcolm remembered that he really did like the fellow. Granger gestured towards his wife, and Malcolm turned to her with a fond smile, drawing her hand to his lips.
“Monty,” Lily said with a small smile that did not reach her eyes. “I didn’t know you knew the Marlowes.”
He shrugged a little and took a glass from a passing footman. “I know them well enough. I prefer the wife to the husband.”
Lily laughed a little, glancing towards the host and hostess as they now entered the room. “Yes, I believe most do. You know that my sister, Rosalind, is a dear friend of Lady Marlowe. She was quite surprised by the match, but the Marlowes are absolutely besotted with each other, according to her, so there is that at least.”
Malcolm snorted, sipping his beverage. “A love match in the aristocracy of England? I highly doubt that.”
“You’re a cynic.”
“This surprises you?”
Lily’s fan suddenly rapped his wrist.
“Really, Monty,” Granger intoned from his other side, sounding partly pained and partly amused. “Even the peers have hearts, despite what anybody might say about them. We all do. Why shouldn’t they be besotted? I wish more marriages were conducted thusly.”
That was a bit surprising, especially from him. And really, Malcolm agreed wholeheartedly. But standing between the pair of them, with their mutual misery and his own, was too much to bear.
“Yes, but what does she see in Marlowe?” he asked with a sardonic look. “She already had a fortune, and his title is not that impressive.”
“He is rather attractive,” Lily offered, smiling a little.
“If you like the dark and rugged sort of thing,” Granger snorted.
“I do,” his wife quipped, seeming to forget that her husband was also rather dark and potentially rugged, and quite honestly the more attractive between the two men.
Malcolm sipped his drink and studiously avoided looking at either as the couple stared at each other. He did not want to know what was going on there; he had quite enough to be getting on with.
“Excuse me,” Granger said suddenly, striding away to find another drink.
Malcolm exhaled a very silent sigh of relief.
“Just when I thought we might get somewhere,” Lily murmured softly beside him.
He winced as he recalled that Lily actually loved her husband, or had once, at least, and might have wished for a different ending to their unusual banter.
“Did you see Miss Owens tonight?” Lily said with forced brightness before he could turn to her. “She looks so lovely in white, and she has nothing so fine of her own. Rosalind lent it to her, and I find it suits Beth better, don’t you?”
> It certainly did, Malcolm thought as he gazed at the woman in question. She looked perfectly lovely, with an inner light that outshone any set of candles in the room. Rather a change from the easy, earthy woman from before, he decided. Now, she held herself with poise, as elegantly dressed as any other woman present. Nothing at all indicated reduced circumstances or desperation. No one would mistake her for a servant tonight, and if there were any single gentlemen worth their salt, she would not want for company.
Ever so faintly, he felt something tug at the back of his stomach in discomfort, and he found himself frowning. He might not know what he was going to do with her, or what sort of wife she would be, but he did know full well that he didn’t want to give anyone else the chance to find out.
What did that say about it?
“Did she mention anything about me?” he asked in a low voice, still staring at Miss Owens.
Lily hummed a soft laugh. “Not really. She asked me some questions about you, purely out of curiosity, but nothing since. Why? Did you want her to say something about you?”
He sniffed and sipped at his drink again. “Never you mind.”
A sudden commotion across the room drew everyone’s attention. “That’s enough! I’ve bloody well had enough of you, Pratt, now leave off!”
Malcolm winced, knowing that voice all too well, and wishing to heaven that he were anywhere else. Two gentlemen were currently engaged in a bit of a struggle, the darker one seizing the other by his cravat, and the overly-dressed one bearing a smug smirk that was impossible to remove.
Rogue and Rook were having a show for everyone, only it seemed Rogue was not interested in continuing it.
Dammit.
“What’s the matter, my lord?” Rook prodded, his tone mocking and painfully loud now that everyone could hear it. “Can’t take a little advice? It’s no wonder your wife did not accompany you to London; with the way you dress, they’d think she’d come with the parson instead.”
Rogue’s eyes grew colder, and his grip intensified on the younger, thinner man. “Not another bleeding word, Pratt. I don’t like you, and I don’t need your addle-pated advice.”
“Do you see what he is doing?” Rook called out merrily to the others in the room. “No wonder he doesn’t move about in Society; he’s not fit to be in it. Unless we’re letting mongrel dogs in these days!”
Malcolm was going to kill him and take great joy in it. Couldn’t he see that Rogue was not in the right state for his peacock nonsense? Rook was very good at his character, but intentionally provoking his most dangerous colleague publicly like this when the man was genuinely agitated for Amelia’s well-being…
It would be a miracle if no one were murdered tonight.
He glanced over at Gent, who was struggling with his public Lord Marlowe face in favor of the same sort of agitation Malcolm was feeling. They needed to act, and quickly, but without barking orders at them or giving anything away. Surely a gentleman could act in the interest of others without knowing the particulars. He saw Kit Gerrard frowning and starting towards the pair of them, and Gent began to move, as well.
“Now, see here, Pratt… Come now, Wharton,” Marlowe managed in the blandest voice in the world.
“I will tear you limb from limb,” Rogue seethed, lifting Rook off the ground by a fistful of his shirt front, “if you ever mention my wife in any way again. Then we will see who is fit, sir!”
Perhaps Malcolm would be strangling Rogue, too. He understood his feelings, but really, to lose control like this…
“All right, that is enough, both of you,” interrupted a sweet, warm voice that did not fit the situation.
Malcolm jerked to see Beth walking towards the two men, her head held high, no hint of nerves or fears, and a serene smile on her face. What did she think she was doing?
She approached them and looked up at Rogue with a small smile. “My lord, if you would kindly replace Mr. Pratt so that his feet touch the floor.”
That tone… It was the most perfectly given directive ever, firm with a hint of scolding all coated in honey. It was at once a pleasure to hear and impossible to ignore.
But would it work on a man like Rogue?
Impossibly, Rogue glanced down at her, exhaled roughly, and brought Rook back down to his place.
“Thank you,” Beth said with a smile and a nod. “Now, if you would remove your hands from his person, I think his cravat may be trying to strangle him with your help.”
Malcolm couldn’t believe it, but Rook looked ready to laugh, and he was not the only one. Rogue would not take kindly to this sort of set down, but he couldn’t exactly find fault with Beth for it.
Rogue growled a little and released Rook roughly, taking a step back. He looked ready to turn away, but Beth suddenly placed a hand on his arm, gripping a little, effectively holding him in place, unless he wished to create more of a scene than he already had.
“Now, you are both fine men,” she told them, looking between them with calmness and no hint of amusement, only a cool grace. “You are better behaved than this, I know.” She turned a scolding look to Rook, and it surprised Malcolm to see how severe it was. “Mr. Pratt, you must stop offering unsolicited advice where it is not wanted. Lord Wharton looks very dapper this evening and obviously does not have the same appreciation for finery that you do. That is nothing with which to find fault, as hardly anybody else in London does, either.” There was a soft titter of laughter around the room at that, and she allowed a small hint of a smile, despite her severe look. “It was unkind of you to provoke him when he was not in the wrong and is not inclined to your witty banter.”
Beth turned to the man whose arm she was gripping and gave him the same sort of look. “My lord, I know you are irritated with Mr. Pratt, which I can easily believe, as I think he irritates a great many people.”
There was more laughter at this, and even Rogue seemed to be having trouble not smiling.
“But you mustn’t attack him so. It is hardly in good taste to behave in such a way before all these guests, and it’s a gross insult to our host. What would your wife have to say about that, sir?” She shook her head a little, clucking her tongue. “There is only one proper way to settle this matter. You must each dance with me and forget about the matter entirely.”
There was a general murmuring at that, given that it was a slight faux pas for her to ask for a dance from either, but more of what Malcolm heard tended towards amusement.
Rogue and Rook stared at her as if she had sprung up from the ground, though they were each amused by it.
“But,” Beth said with a finger in the air, looking at them both again, “you must shake hands and part as friends.”
The two men glared at each other, and it was quite evident they would rather have swum the Thames than do any such thing.
“Very well,” Beth conceded with exasperation, “then you may part as slightly less hostile acquaintances who won’t speak to each other anymore this evening unless it is with perfect politeness regarding the complimenting of my person, or our host’s graciousness.”
Now the laughter in the room was complete, and even Rogue managed a small smile as he shook hands with Rook.
“I believe that is my cue,” Lily murmured fondly, moving away from him to the pianoforte. She struck up a lively tune and Rook led Beth to a cleared space. A few other couples joined in, and the fight was all but forgotten as they danced a quadrille.
Malcolm moved about the room, indirectly heading for Gent, who leaned against a wall, watching the whole thing.
“That was close,” he muttered with a shake of his head.
Gent nodded. “Idiot. Where does Rook come off, pulling something like that?”
Malcolm shook his head. “Well, Rogue should never have reacted that way.” He snorted in disgust. “Which one do you want to talk to?”
“Neither, if you please. Your future wife handled them both so well. I hardly think it needs to be restated tonight.”
�
�She’s not my future wife,” Malcolm growled.
Gent turned to look at him, his expression one of bland derision. “Isn’t she? I should think her performance just now would have solidified your decision. If she can handle those two so perfectly, she can handle anything Archer and Samuel can get up to.”
Malcolm was not yet ready to admit it to anyone aloud, but his decision had been solidified by Beth’s actions. He’d found himself thinking of her as Beth the moment she’d moved, which seemed something of significance. He still had his doubts, but seeing that side of her had struck a chord within him. He was fairly certain that everything else that could possibly arise from his marriage to her would be much easier.
“I know that much,” he admitted, taking another glass of wine from a footman. “But…”
“Monty…” Gent looked around, then turned to face him more fully. “That young woman just settled a rather temper-fueled dispute between two very influential men in Society, in a room filled with other influential members of Society. Look around.” He gestured faintly, indicating the small selection of Society’s best that had been invited here this evening. “See who is in this room. They are going to be talking about her, Monty, and it is going to be about her poise, her efficiency, and how she had everybody half in love with her by the end of it. Lady Whitlock herself couldn’t have done a finer job of it. And let me tell you this,” he added quietly, leaning closer, “if I were not already a married man and madly in love with my wife, I’d be after Miss Owens myself.” He quirked a knowing brow and moved away, looking bored once again.
Malcolm knew he was right, and he knew Gent would never say something like that unless he truly meant it. He was proud of what Beth had done, but he also wished she had not done anything. Whether that was some twisted version of propriety that had been offended or his desire that no one discover her until she was Lady Montgomery, he could not honestly have said. All he knew was that everything was getting more and more confusing, and he was not the sort of man who enjoyed being confused.
A Tip of the Cap (London League, Book 3) Page 4