When the Marquess Was Mine Read online

  “I am trying to be discreet,” Georgiana said in mock indignation.

  “Really?” murmured Kitty wryly.

  “Please don’t be!” cried Geneva, earning a stern look from Mother Winston.

  Georgiana took a sip of tea. “Well, if you insist on hearing more . . .”

  “Oh yes!” Geneva leaned so far forward she almost fell off her chair.

  “Geneva,” said her mother in reproof.

  “He may be on his way here to intimidate and alarm us,” returned Geneva without blinking an eye. “I think we ought to know the worst.”

  Mother Winston pursed her lips. “Nevertheless, it isn’t decent to look so eager.” Geneva grinned, and even Kitty choked on a laugh.

  “Westmorland is a scoundrel,” said Georgiana, abandoning all discretion. “He’s ill-mannered and mean-spirited. He and his useless friend Lord Heathercote amuse each other with spiteful little comments about other people, and they don’t care who overhears them. At a soiree this spring, they stood off from the rest of the guests, looking down their noses at everyone, and mocked everything from the food to the decor. He called Joanna Hotchkiss a simpleton. He suggested Lady Telford was a poor hostess, and called her decorations headache-inducing.” She paused, hating that she cared at all what a drunken rake thought of her. “He said I was nothing more than a silly, shallow flirt who reveled in teasing men.” Although he’d said it in more vulgar terms.

  Kitty’s mouth fell open. Geneva’s eyes flashed. “You, silly? How dare he!”

  “Very rude!” said Mother Winston indignantly. “Abominable man!”

  “He’s rude and abominable, and interested solely in himself,” she agreed. “Quite malicious, in my opinion.”

  “I hate him,” declared Geneva.

  “So do I,” murmured Georgiana.

  “And now he’s abused our dear Charles.” Mother Winston looked to Kitty. “What shall we do, my dear?”

  “For the moment, there’s nothing we can do.” Poised once more, Kitty folded the letter. “How odd that Charles thinks Westmorland might come here. Why on earth would he?”

  “To gloat, no doubt!” Geneva looked at her mother. “We would not be required to receive him, would we, Mother?”

  “Certainly not!” Mother Winston rose to her feet, a militant look in her eye. “And neither will anyone in Maryfield. I shall warn everyone, especially Mrs. Tapp at the Bull and Dog. Not only will this wretch not be welcome here, he shan’t find a room in our town, either.”

  “I’ll help!” Geneva went with her, proposing a dozen wild ideas about how they could deter and snub the marquess.

  In the silence of their wake, Georgiana looked at Kitty. “What else does Charles say?” she ventured to ask.

  “Not much.” Kitty’s gaze fell on the letter, brooding and pensive. “That’s what worries me.”

  “I confess I can’t see them crossing paths,” said Georgiana frankly. “Westmorland is a very different sort than Charles. Whatever it was between them, Westmorland may not have noticed or cared, regardless of what Charles fears.”

  “We both know there is one place they might meet.” Kitty pressed her fingertips to her temples as if they hurt. “Charles enjoys cards more than he ought to.”

  Georgiana had forgotten that. Charles wasn’t the most interesting person; handsome without being arresting, amiable without being engaging. It was entirely possible to spend an evening with him and not recall a single word he’d said the next day. It had been a bit of a surprise when Kitty married him, but he was a baronet and eligible enough. Kitty had always been a forceful personality, and Georgiana supposed she’d wanted a husband who would give way to her. Kitty would hardly be the first woman to feel so, and as she’d brought a sizable fortune to her less wealthy husband, perhaps she felt entitled to have the upper hand in her marriage. She certainly had more sense than Charles.

  But Georgiana wasn’t about to say any of that aloud. She busied herself adjusting the baby’s blanket.

  “Tell me the truth. Is Westmorland a gambler?” There was tension in Kitty’s question.

  Georgiana smoothed Annabel’s soft, fair hair. “Well, yes. I believe he is.” She didn’t precisely know Westmorland’s habits, but several of his mates were notorious for scandalously extravagant wagers and parties. It would be shocking if he weren’t the same, given how much he was seen with them.

  A fierce frown touched Kitty’s brow. “I worry about that. Charles has sometimes said the stakes at our neighbors’ parties here in Maryfield are so low as to make any game dull. I hope he would be too clever to get drawn into a table with men like that, but if the marquess joined a table where he was playing . . .”

  Georgiana thought it very doubtful that the Marquess of Westmorland would want to join any table where Charles Winston was already playing. More likely it would be the other way around. Westmorland, with the wealth of Rowland behind him, could afford far higher and more exciting stakes than Charles could.

  He also preferred gaudier, flashier company, the dashing crème de la crème of London rogues, rakes, and ne’er-do-wells. Charles Winston, simple baronet of Derbyshire, would never be dashing or outrageous enough for the jaded marquess. It really was astonishing that they’d met in the first place.

  But it wasn’t shocking at all that Charles hadn’t come out of the encounter well.

  “No matter what happened, I don’t doubt for a moment that Westmorland was at fault,” Georgiana said breezily. “He’s a thoroughgoing scoundrel, but I’m equally certain he’s forgotten all about . . . whatever it was by now. Why, he must have gone on at least two or three drunken benders since he could have met Charles.”

  Kitty’s jaw set, her mood unchanged. “Charles mentioned suffering a loss at his hands. Not to his person, but to his dignity. It must be gambling.”

  Probably.

  “And it’s very disturbing that he thinks the man might come here,” Kitty finished slowly.

  Georgiana glanced at her uncertainly, but the baby began to fret louder, then to cry in earnest. Kitty’s attention switched to her infant daughter. She took the child and settled her against her shoulder, patting the tiny girl until she calmed down.

  “You mustn’t worry about it,” Georgiana tried to assure her. “Even if Westmorland has the unspeakable nerve to come here, we shall bar the door and lock him out in the rain. Pelt him with stale dinner rolls and insult his tailor. That sort of thing sends any rake worth his debauched reputation howling back to London, you know.”

  Kitty quirked a brow, her expression easing. “Of course you would think nothing of locking the door against a marquess.”

  “Against that one, I would not,” Georgiana agreed with a cheeky grin. “In fact, I would enjoy it.”

  Finally her friend laughed. “I don’t doubt it.” She pressed her cheek to the baby’s downy head. “But still I hope he does not come.”

  “Kitty,” said Georgiana honestly, “I cannot imagine that he would.”

  Chapter 3

  The harbinger of the apocalypse would be a lawyer.

  Robert Churchill-Gray, Marquess of Westmorland, was thoroughly convinced of this. Even more, he suspected that lawyer would be his father’s solicitor, Sir Algernon Sneed, who had invaded not just his house but his dressing room. And Sneed was in the dressing room only because West’s valet, Hobbes, had thrown himself in the bedroom doorway and threatened bloodshed if the solicitor advanced.

  He was grateful to Hobbes for that, as small a mercy as it might have been. He was still rousted from bed and forced to sit through a painful dressing-down from his mother, delivered in Sir Algernon’s cool, polished voice that stripped the passion from the duchess’s words but not the import. She had heard rumors of some of his latest activities and was—to put it mildly—not pleased.

  For his part, Rob barely remembered the night of debauchery that had set off his mother’s ire. It had been his birthday—he remembered that well enough—and there had been a raucous celebra
tion, plotted and carried off in high style by Heathercote. He remembered his friends, wine, excellent food, brandy, women, more wine, gambling . . . They might have sung “God Save the King” while flashing their arses at Carleton House.

  Unfortunately, it was something he did not remember with any clarity that had brought Sir Algernon to his door, courtesy of some gossipy friend of his mother’s writing a scandalized, and quite probably exaggerated, account to Her Grace.

  “I trust you will do whatever is necessary to rectify this appalling situation,” read Sir Algernon, his wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his nose. “Posthaste. I should hate to have to send your father to London to speak some sense to you, and he would be very grieved to do it, as the fishing at Salmsbury has been excellent of late.”

  “That’s enough. I grasp her meaning.” Rob put out his hand for the letter. The moment his mother threatened to send his father, he was doomed. The Duke of Rowland was generally an amiable, affable fellow, but when his temper was roused—and it would be, by missing quality fishing—woe betide the man who got in his way, including and especially his son and heir.

  Sir Algernon handed it over. “If I can be of any assistance in the matter, my lord, I would be delighted to do so.”

  And no doubt report it in great detail to my mother, thought Rob. “Of course.”

  The lawyer remained in his chair. “May I inquire how you plan to proceed, sir?”

  Rob peered at him. He could almost feel his brain sloshing gently from side to side in brandy from the night before. Another of Heathercote’s ideas, last night. They’d gone to the opera with Forester and some of his mates, who could apparently drink their weight in brandy. One had to keep up, of course. If he were less tired or less drunk, he might have made a more intelligent reply to Sneed, but as it was, he could only manage to say, “I’ll work it out.”

  Sneed was not impressed. “My lord, this is a matter of property. It cannot be papered over with a handshake and an apology.”

  “No?” Rob ground the heel of one hand into his eye. “Ballocks, that was my entire plan.”

  “Was it really?” asked Sneed dryly.

  Rob snorted. “Of course not. I don’t even recall this Winslow fellow—”

  “Winston.”

  “—and I do not recall winning any deed from him, and most especially I do not recall, in any degree, telling him I would commit immoral acts in his house.” That had been what set off his mother the most, he knew; someone had told her he’d not only swindled this poor Winslow person of house and home, but declared that he meant to set up a brothel on the premises.

  Since the house in question was reportedly located in Derbyshire, Rob couldn’t imagine wanting it, let alone going to see it. As for the brothel, who would visit a brothel in Derbyshire? It might as well be in China.

  Sir Algernon removed his spectacles. “I understand Sir Charles Winston is a young man, and this property is his sole holding. He must be mired in regret and anxiety about this affair. May I suggest, if you do not recall winning this property, that you approach him about giving it back?”

  Rob could not remember the slightest thing about Charles Winston. That didn’t stop him from hating the fellow, though, for being so stupid as to wager his house and then so careless as to lose the bloody thing. Now Rob would have to do something, to placate his mother if for no other reason. “Mired in regret, my arse. He’s gone about blackening my name, Sneed, telling people I cheated him and stole his house, and you think I should apologize and beg him to take it back?”

  “It would be the most discreet solution to the issue.”

  Rob let out a crack of laughter, which made his head ring. “Would it? Winslow has painted me a cheat and a scoundrel before all of London to the point where my mother heard of it all the way in Lancashire. I don’t take that sort of thing lightly.”

  “My lord,” said Sneed severely, “I do not advise retaliation.”

  “Duly noted,” replied Rob. “Fortunately for all, you are not my solicitor.”

  “His Grace your father would agree with me,” warned Sneed.

  Rob held up one finger. “We do not know that. Firstly, because this letter is from my mother, not His Grace. We both know there is a chance His Grace hasn’t heard a word of this.” Rowland was generally indifferent to gossip, even if his wife was not. “Secondly, she only instructs me to rectify matters. I assure you, I have no intention of keeping Winslow’s house,” he added as the solicitor drew a disapproving breath. “But I’ll be damned if I’ll let him slander me before the ton and then beg him to take back his property like a whipped dog. If he couldn’t stand to lose it, he ought not to have wagered the bloody thing.”

  “I quite agree, my lord,” said Sir Algernon, “however—”

  “I’ll deal with it.” Rob got to his feet, keeping his balance with some difficulty. “If you are under orders to report to Her Grace, you may assure her that I will devote my entire attention to the matter.”

  The solicitor pinched his lips together. He was not pleased but knew his place. “Of course, my lord. If I can be of assistance—”

  “Yes, yes.” Rob waved one hand, already turning back toward his bedroom. “Good day, Sir Algernon.”

  Once on the other side of the door, though, he toppled face-first into bed. The temptation to go back to sleep was overwhelming, but the thought of his father arriving was a sobering one. His mother did not bluff; she would drag the duke back to London, and then Rob would be in the fire. God almighty. What was he going to do now?

  After some thought, he decided there were three questions. One, had he actually won a property? That ought to be relatively easy to verify. There should be a note or the deed itself somewhere in his belongings. If none turned up, why, he could claim the whole thing was a tissue of lies and there was nothing more to be done about it.

  Two, had this Winslow fellow really made those slanderous charges against him? Again, an easy thing to discover. His friends would be sure to know, and eager to help plot his revenge.

  And third, presuming the answers to the first two questions were both yes, how could he exact the most fitting vengeance upon the man? Because Rob was no saint, but neither was he a cheat, and he wasn’t about to be called one without protest.

  He lurched out of bed again, cursing as his head threatened to explode, and staggered to the bell rope and pulled hard. He was still clutching his temples when Hobbes appeared. “Why was Sneed admitted?” he demanded. “I gave firm orders about visitors . . .”

  “It was an impossible choice, my lord. Defy your orders, or refuse a man from Her Grace.”

  “I ought to sack you on the spot.”

  “Indeed,” murmured Hobbes. “Mr. Bigby was in favor of admitting him when he first called, at half eight this morning.”

  God almighty. He’d have to speak to the butler about that. Rob scowled at his valet as he poured water into the basin. “Don’t ever suggest that again.”

  “No, sir. It did require some effort to persuade him to return at ten.” Hobbes stood by with the towel while Rob took a deep breath and plunged his throbbing face into the cold water. It wasn’t the best remedy, but these were desperate times.

  “Send for Tipton,” he said when he’d pulled his dripping head from the basin. “I want him within the hour.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And Heathercote,” he added. If he had to be awake and thinking about his respectability, Heath could damned well help him.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  An hour later, Rob sat at his dining table eyeing his cook’s cure for drunkenness. A veritable tureen of weak tea, a cup of strong coffee, and a boiled egg sat before him, lined up in the proper order. His head still felt like it was inside a drum, so he grimly picked up the tea.

  “You summoned me?” drawled Heath, strolling into the room. Only the slightest wobble in his gait gave away that he had spent the previous night as Rob had done, drinking himself blue.

&nbsp
; “You’ve got me into a load of trouble.” He drained the first cup of tea. The footman silently stepped up and poured another. “Go on,” he told the servant, who bowed and left the room. “Did we wager houses the other night?”

  “The devil if I know,” said Heath, staring at the cure in disgust.

  “Did you win a house?”

  “No.” He thought for a moment. “There’s a strange barouche in my mews, though. Not quite certain where it came from.”

  Rob groaned. “Trade me—the barouche for the house.”

  “Not on your life.” Heath paused, an arrested look on his face. “Wait . . . Yes, now I recall. At the Vega Club. You won Winston’s house. Marlow thought you might set it up as a brothel.” He laughed.

  Rob cursed and drank off another cup of the tea. It wasn’t helping his stomach, but his head was starting to clear. “I don’t want a brothel any more than I want a house.”

  Heath laughed again, and Rob threw a spoon at him. Too late he realized the spoon might have been used to stir some sugar into the vile tea. It must be made of rotten vegetables and old hay from the stable, steeped through a footman’s dirty stocking. “My mother says I must make things right,” he said, staring into yet another cup. Two more to go, by his calculations.

  Heath stopped laughing at once. “God above. How did she find out about it?”

  “Gossip.” He lifted the tea to his lips. “Apparently I came off as quite the callous wastrel in the telling, and now I have to mend matters.”

  Heath sat as Rob choked down the tea. “That will cause trouble, West.”

  He snorted. “Already has.”

  “No, no.” Heath leaned forward, his voice dropping. “My uncle has been quite pleased with our progress with Forester. He wouldn’t be happy if you got distracted by some silly gossip.”