‘Good.’ Her mother nodded, relieved it had only been kisses. ‘I suppose the next question is do you think Vennor will offer for you?’
‘I don’t know.’ Marianne answered somewhat truthfully. Vennor had been very clear that he could not think of marriage until the crime of his parents’ death was resolved, but would he actually want to marry her then?
‘Nor do we. Vennor has not mentioned any intention to court you, although I had hopes he would, as you well know. I don’t want to be brutal, but I think in this case we must assume that not knowing his intentions means there are no intentions. My dear girl, if you are waiting to see if Vennor comes up to scratch, you will risk losing Hayes. Have you considered that Vennor’s presence is the reason Hayes is eager to press his suit more formally? If you deny him, he will take it as a sign that you prefer Vennor’s suit.’ Her mother drew a breath before delivering her proclamation. ‘I think we have to let Vennor go. You’ve had a bit of a fling, but you need to make it clear to him that it ends now—or better yet, that there was nothing there to begin with.’
Marianne had been studying her hands, but at her mother’s words she looked up in shock. She’d not expected her mother’s edict to be an eradication of Vennor, not after her veiled, hopeful implication a few weeks ago that something more might be brewing. ‘But his house? We have to finish the projects. We can’t simply walk away from him.’ It would break him. He might not understand the ways he needed her, but he did need her. And she needed him. She’d just got her series of articles accepted for publication in the magazine, she had interviews to conduct, the Vigilante to assist. They could not leave each other now.
‘I’m not talking about severing ties completely. I’m talking about putting things to rights. His friends will be in town. There will be plenty of people to assist him, like Cassian’s wife, Inigo’s wife. There will be no reason for you to be alone with him. Whatever tendre exists between the two of you will fade naturally. Hayes will see that there is no threat from that quarter.’ Her mother took her hand. ‘You will see, in time, that it’s for the best. Exciting men are often broken men who are missing something inside. They seek to fill the gap with worldly things and they put on masks to hide the hurt. In the long run, a girl is better off with the steady man.’
A man like Hayes. She understood the moral of her mother’s lesson. What girl, who’d been out three Seasons, put off the chance to marry a title? ‘Is that what you chose, Mama? The steady man?’ Her parents had always seemed very much in love. She’d assumed theirs had been a fortunate love match.
Her mother met her gaze evenly with her own dark eyes. ‘Yes, I chose the steady man and I’ve not been sorry. I’ve had a wonderful life, a secure life, and six daughters to love. I want such blessings for you, too.’
‘What if there are other kinds of blessings besides marriage and children? Maybe I don’t want to marry at all. Maybe it’s not a question of Vennor or Hayes.’ Marianne tested the waters very delicately. ‘What if I want a career? I’ve wanted to try my hand at journalistic writing, at promoting an awareness of the social problems we face.’
Managing men and matrimony had not fazed her mother, not even the announcement that she’d kissed Vennor. But this did. To her credit, her mother did not flinch, but she did blanch. ‘I don’t know what to say to that, Marianne. It’s certainly unorthodox. Lord Hayes would not allow it, nor would there be time for it. A viscountess has responsibilities.’
‘Then maybe Hayes isn’t the one for me. Don’t you see, I need time to decide not just on a husband, but on the whole course of my life.’ Vennor understood that because he needed time, too. ‘I want Father to tell Hayes I need time, that it’s too soon.’
Her mother nodded thoughtfully now that it had come down to negotiating positions. ‘In exchange, you need to give Lord Hayes some hope that all is not lost. Distance yourself from Vennor, Marianne. Let him be surrounded by his friends, let Lord Hayes see that Vennor no longer singles you out.’
It was the best bargain she was going to get out of today. ‘Yes.’ Marianne offered the word, but she already knew it was a lie. She could not give him up any more than she could give up her writing and now the two were intertwined. Her heart lurched. All she wanted was Vennor. She wanted to tell him everything—the good and the bad. She wanted his arms about her, his encouragement whispered at her ear, she wanted his mouth on hers, stopping her troubles with his kiss. She wanted his touch to burn away her thoughts. She wanted to live in the moment with him in the East Docks helping people, tomorrow and society be damned.
* * *
He’d been damned generous with her tonight and all she could do was snivel. Hayes felt his ambivalent mood ebb at the sight of Elise curled up on the bed, knees drawn up tight under her chin, arms wrapped about herself, the red wig in tangles about her shoulders. ‘Those two men you recommended have worked out well.’ He set down a pouch of money on the little table hard enough to make the bag jingle temptingly. ‘I hope they’re as discreet as you say they are. I can’t have them blabbing what they know to anyone.’ That they were following Miss Treleven about Mayfair and reporting back to him. He didn’t want his creditors getting wind of anything that smelled like desperation or worry that his engagement wasn’t going to take place. Nor did he want Sir Jock Treleven to learn of it.
‘They’re trustworthy,’ Elise murmured.
‘They’d better be, for your sake,’ he reminded her. ‘I’ll take it out of your hide if they so much as whisper a word about their task and who they’re doing it for.’ So far, so good, though. Their information had paid off. It had allowed him to hedge his chances by getting to Jock Treleven with his offer first. If he had delayed, the prize might have slipped from his grasp. Now, he had to do his part and decide how best to eliminate Newlyn from the game. ‘Do you think your friends might be up for something a little bloodier?’ he asked.
Elise was wary. She lifted her head from the bed. ‘They might be. Do you mean like last time?’
‘Possibly. I haven’t decided yet. The men we used before, are they still available?’ He knew very well they weren’t. He’d seen to it that they’d met their own bloody ends once he was done with their services.
‘No, I haven’t seen them. I think they took ship to the Americas.’ Elise sat up, tucking a sheet about her. There was a sudden boldness to her that surprised him. ‘I don’t want to have anything to do with any more murder.’
Hayes laughed. ‘You hardly had anything to do with it last time. You don’t even know who they killed.’
‘And I don’t want to know,’ Elise said quickly, her eyes flashing with a bit of fight. Panic often brought that out in people. She’d have to be handled carefully. He couldn’t have her getting nervous and telling someone.
‘No matter. I’m sure you know some men who can be hired. It hardly makes you guilty to simply put the opportunity before them and let them decide. Start looking. Perhaps some of your clients might be inclined. As always, I’ll pay you a handsome commission.’ He hadn’t decided if it would come to that. There was always a risk when a third party was involved, but the trade-off was that it was so much easier to distance oneself from the crime when one wasn’t actually holding the smoking gun, or knife as the case might be. ‘Elise, be a good girl and help me with my cravat. I have a ball to attend.’ And with luck, Marianne Treleven would not only be in attendance, but compliant as well.
Chapter Fourteen
She could not be compliant about this, even though politeness and good ton demanded she offer Lord Hayes a gentle set down when he asked for her decision, which he would most surely do tonight. He was in confident spirits this evening as they danced, no doubt anticipating an affirmative response from her. She would disappoint him. She hoped he would understand that she neither liked nor disliked him. She simply didn’t want to marry him.
Lord Hayes took them through the turn at the top of the ballroom
with his usual steady precision, nothing at all like Vennor’s reckless, whirling speed that left a girl breathless. For the first time since she’d come out, Marianne didn’t want to be at a ball, didn’t want to be dancing.
It didn’t matter that this was one of the most sought-after invitations of the early Season, that the crush tonight was peopled with the brightest stars of the ton, or that the food and decorations were nonpareil. She made mental notes of the glittering ballroom to record for M.R. Mannering’s column later, but her heart wasn’t in it tonight. Instead, her heart was yearning to be in Blackwell, interviewing women at Mrs Broadham’s, checking on Mrs Simon and the children. Part of her wondered if that was where Vennor was tonight. He certainly wasn’t here. Had he gone out alone? Was he even now righting wrongs and being useful while she waltzed hypocritically with Lord Hayes amid the opulence of a silk-strewn ballroom?
If there was any good to have come from today’s surprises it was that she knew her own heart. She could not marry Hayes, no matter what happened with her writing. She fixed her gaze on his face, listening abstractedly to him talk about an incident at his club, all the while wondering why Vennor should rouse such passion in her while Hayes could rouse none. The two men shared certain attractive features: both were blond, both were tall, but Hayes’s shoulders weren’t as broad, his arm not as muscled where her hand lay on his sleeve. His embrace did not inspire a feeling of welcoming security.
It was the eyes, she thought; Vennor’s eyes were alive, but Hayes’s eyes were blank, empty. Vennor had purpose. Hayes had the ennui of unexercised privilege. What did he get up for in the mornings? The irony was that he should have something that motivated him. He was a peer, a man with a title, money, land and the ability to shape the world the way he desired through his seat in the House of Lords. Yet from those resources he’d fashioned nothing.
Unlike Vennor, who’d seen his father’s reform legislation move through Parliament and spent his nights masquerading as the Vigilante.
Unlike the other Cornish Dukes, who each, in their own ways, made Cornwall a better place to live for all.
Unlike herself, who wanted to inspire others with her writings to see justice done. Lord Hayes would want to keep her in line. She didn’t want to be kept in line. She wanted to soar. It had taken Vennor and the Vigilante to help her see that. She knew her heart. She just needed to act upon it.
‘Miss Treleven, would you like to walk in the garden?’ The dance had ended and Lord Hayes was eager for his answer. In a few moments he might wish otherwise. ‘The fountain is pretty at night. I should like to show it to you.’
‘Of course, that would be lovely,’ Marianne managed in response. They were speaking in code. They both knew what he really wanted to discuss. Marianne’s stomach clenched. Despite her commitment to her own decision, there would be consequences. Everyone knew he was courting her. She was an Incomparable; everyone watched her and who she was with. Everyone knew Viscount Hayes meant to offer for her. People would wonder what had happened. He would look foolish if he was refused. She would look like a jilt. People would say she’d led him on. People would also say she’d never do better. People would speculate on the reason for it; they might even attempt to drag Vennor into the scandal. The best she could do to save face for them all was delay the inevitable, as she’d promised her mother.
‘You’ve been distracted. Might I assume it has something to do with my visit with your father today?’ Hayes enquired as they strolled slowly through the garden, stopping to admire the statuary as they made their way towards the fountain.
‘Yes, it does, in fact.’ They might as well get right to it. ‘I was surprised that you would wish such a thing on so short an acquaintance. You hardly know me, milord, nor I you.’
‘Justin. It’s my name. You might start with that.’ There was more warmth in his tone than she’d ever heard, but she wasn’t entirely sure the warmth was from affection or from anger.
‘That’s just it. A start. Hardly enough to base a lifetime commitment on. I need more time to consider and in all honesty I think you do, too. Haste is unseemly and unnecessary. We can decide if we suit at the end of the Season.’
Hayes’s eyes were keen, piercing. ‘Is that the real reason you resist or is there someone else I am being measured against?’ There was a boldness to Hayes tonight she’d not encountered before.
Hayes covered her hand with his where it lay on his sleeve, a gesture that was more possessive than polite. Her hand was trapped. ‘His Grace the Duke of Newlyn, perhaps? A man with hopes of your hand cannot find that arrangement encouraging.’ It was calmly said with a hint of self-deprecation, but Marianne was not fooled. This was a command, an order, on par with her mother’s edict earlier today to stay away from Vennor.
Marianne bristled. This was a taste of what married life with Hayes would have been like—implicitly wrapped orders she was expected to obey without question. ‘You worry for naught. Newlyn is an old family friend. He can’t be expected to remodel his home without a female touch and he has no one to hand.’
Hayes smiled, but coldly. ‘Then let your mother act as hostess. She is an expert. I wouldn’t want Newlyn to get the wrong impression. A woman’s touch, a woman’s presence, can put all nature of notions into a man’s head. I would protect you from the wickedness of men, my dear.’
Marianne pulled her hand away. ‘I am quite capable of protecting myself, milord. I appreciate your understanding in regards to my need for time. I cannot possibly decide the matter between us right now. If you would excuse me, I need to return inside.’ He had not offered her understanding or granted her permission to delay, but she’d seized both. A gentleman would not contradict her, but just in case the idea crossed his mind, Marianne fled up the path before he could protest and she didn’t stop there. Her slippered feet took her out of the ballroom, past the kerb lined with waiting carriages and down the street to Portland Square, unconsciously guiding her trajectory to the one place, the one person, she’d wanted to be with since the moment she’d left him that afternoon. Marianne dashed up the steps of Newlyn House, one thought on her mind: to get to Vennor, to be with Vennor. It was the only thing that made sense any more.
Her hand was at the knocker before the darkness of the house registered and with it a thousand misgivings. What if Vennor was out? What if Vennor was in? And not alone? No, he wasn’t that sort. He would not bring a mistress here, not to the rooms she’d so carefully done for him, for his fresh start. Honeycutt answered her knock, surprised to see her. ‘His Grace is out, miss.’ He was flustered, a rare condition for him. Perhaps he wasn’t used to young ladies calling alone at night. That was a good sign.
Marianne took advantage, her brain starting to function. ‘I’m happy to wait. I’ll just wait upstairs for him. There are some additional measurements Mr Howser needs for the wall hangings,’ she improvised with a smile as she sailed up the steps. There was nothing like action for affirmation. She wasn’t asking Honeycutt for permission, just as she had not asked Hayes for his.
Upstairs, she stepped inside the Duke’s newly redecorated chambers and shut the door with a smile. That had been easier than she’d expected. One victory down. She turned up the lamp and took a tour of the room before she sat. From the look of things, Vennor was settling in nicely. Her hand ran over the silver backs of his brushes, the length of his razor. She pulled the stopper out of his cologne bottle and took a healthy sniff—sandalwood and nutmeg, a spicy, masculine scent that was saved from sharpness by the undertones of vanilla. It was quintessential Vennor, a scent she’d associated with him ever since she could remember. She dabbed a bit of it on her neck and moved on. In the dressing room, his blue banyan hung from a peg, ready to be slipped on. She fingered the silk. Did she dare?
It was an admittedly wicked idea, but one that had merit. If he came home and found her sitting primly in his chair, he would argue with her. She hadn’t come here to a
rgue. She’d come here to claim. Now that her head was clear, she knew exactly what she wanted and there would be no turning back. It was a bit of a struggle to get out of her gown without help. She’d had to be creative about getting the hooks in the back and even a little destructive. She wasn’t certain all the hooks had survived. But sacrificing a dress to the cause seemed a small price to pay against the bigger picture now that she was decided.
She wrapped herself in Vennor’s banyan, letting the folds envelop her, the silk brush against her skin as the scent of him brushed against her nostrils. She settled on the bed to take down her hair with a smile playing on her lips. Tonight, she claimed her future. Tonight she would put herself beyond Hayes’s reach, beyond the reach of any man who thought to limit her.
* * *
He had not protected Marianne from Hayes this afternoon and now there was another woman in need of protection. Vennor’s hand closed around the note in his pocket, taken from the Vigilante’s Post this evening. He’d gone out alone on a rampage as soon as it was dark, lashing out in his frustration at any criminal that dared to move. The East Docks had never been safer, but it did not mitigate the rage and the impotence in Vennor’s heart that had brewed since Lady Treleven had dragged Marianne home in anticipation of a proposal from Lord Hayes.
Should he have intervened? Should he have raced to Treleven House and made an offer of his own even knowing that was something neither of them wanted? What did an offer solve? Yet he could not put the last sight of her out of his mind. She’d glanced his way and for a moment there’d been a flash of desperation, an appeal for help, for him. But it had been gone so quickly he might have imagined it. Marianne was used to fending for herself. He could only make matters worse.
The Confessions of the Duke of Newlyn Page 12