How to Master Your Marquis (22 page)

Before leaving the room, he removed a set of papers from the false back of his shaving mirror and stared at them thoughtfully. There were fourteen in total. They had begun arriving at the end of November, written in an ornate and foreign hand, unsigned. The message was roughly the same, every time. The last one, delivered the previous Monday, read:
You and your pretty friend made a fine couple out ride in the park yesterday. The chestnut who bore your friend has being poison and is now dying. Good day.

A knock on the door.

“Nelson, I am not to be disturbed. I shall call you when I require your assistance.”

“Sir, it’s your father.”

Hatherfield sighed and shuffled the papers together. “Tell him I’m out.”

The door swung open. “I heard that, you dog.”

“Father.” Hatherfield slipped the papers into his bureau drawer and turned wearily to the doorway, where his father stood in dinner dress, hair sleek and collar blinding. “I see you’ve returned to town. Have the charms of the country grown flat already?”

“I had business, and your mother wished to consult with her dressmaker.”

Hatherfield nodded at the duke’s tailcoat. “I’m afraid I’m already engaged.”

“How delightful it is to return to town after a two months’ absence, to be greeted by the usual excess of filial affection.”

Hatherfield braced his arms against the bureau and leaned back. “I daresay you’d shrink away, these days, if I dared to approach you with my corrupt embrace.”

“True.” The duke folded his arms. “I only came to see for myself whether you’ve returned to your senses and your duty.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I remain as I was in November.”

“I understand from a mutual friend that you have been making a public spectacle of yourself with that boy of yours.”

“I see.” Hatherfield lifted his hand and tapped his chin. “Allow me to hazard a guess. Had this business of yours anything to do with Mr. Wright and Her Grace’s gambling debt? Is your period of grace nearly at an end? I can only imagine how you contrived to fob him off in November.”

“Mr. Wright was kind enough to allow us additional time.”

“To convince me to marry his sister?”

“His sister!” The duke started.

Hatherfield turned to the shaving mirror and inspected the perfection of his white bow tie. “Didn’t you realize? I spotted it at an instant. Mr. Wright is the natural son of Lady Charlotte’s esteemed father. Which makes you and Her Grace . . . oh, what the devil is that word . . . something to do with chess . . . give me a moment, it’s on the tip of my tongue . . . oh yes. That’s it.” He turned and fixed his father with a stony glare. “Pawns.”

The Duke of Southam’s face flushed an extraordinary shade of pink. “Nonsense.”

“I will not be maneuvered into this marriage, Father. If you wish to dance at the end of Wright’s puppet strings, I won’t stop you. But I won’t be dragged into the damned show myself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an engagement.”

“With that boy,” Southam spat.

“Yes. With that boy. How do I look, Father? As handsome as ever? Good. I should hate for my physical charms to fade, and leave me with nothing.” He struck out past Southam without pausing.

“Wait, Hatherfield . . .”

“Can’t, Father. I’m already late.” Hatherfield found his overcoat on the hall stand.

The duke hurried behind him. “Your mother and I are holding a party next week. In Belgrave Square. The twenty-first.”

“Isn’t that the same evening as that royal affair at Olympia’s?”

“Yes, it is. Your mother thinks . . .”

“Aha. Let me guess. Your Graces were not invited to the ball, were you?”

“Some damned mix-up, I’m sure. In any case, she wishes to hold a party of her own . . .”

Hatherfield threw back his head and laughed. “Oh God. I can picture it. Enraged, insulted, she decides she’ll show them up, she’ll call in every favor and ensure that Olympia’s party is a complete failure.”

“In any case, we—I—would very much like you to attend.”

Hatherfield buttoned the last button and turned. “Why?”

“What the devil does that mean? Because you’re my son. Our son.”

“Oh, rubbish. You can’t bear the sight of me.” Hatherfield spun his cane elegantly. “I prefer the company of my own choosing, as it happens.”

“Bring him, then! Bring your . . . your friend,” Southam said breathlessly. As if he were pleading.

Hatherfield paused. He peered curiously into his father’s eyes, which were wide and a bit too gleaming, a bit desperate. He said quietly, “What are you up to, Father?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. A party, that’s all, a masquerade, and I would like for my son to attend, for once. People are talking about our estrangement, and I want the world to know that . . . that . . .” His wobbly old throat swallowed. “That there is no estrangement. That we accept you and . . . and what you are. As I said, your friend is welcome.”

“His name is Stephen. Stephen Thomas.”

“Mr. Thomas is welcome to accompany you.”

Hatherfield fingered his cane and regarded the duke’s face, the angry flush now faded to an unwholesome winter pallor. In his mind, the picture of his father was frozen in time, a duke at the height of his power, strong shouldered and firm jawed, his hair dark and thick and his eyes glinting with confidence. Who was this old man, and when had he draped himself over the Duke of Southam’s frame? The jowls swung low, the hair hung thin and white, the eyes crinkled with weary uncertainty. Even those doughty shoulders, which once seemed to brace the entirety of the British Empire, now sloped at a defeated angle.

Obviously something was up. The Duke of Southam did not retreat from his entrenched positions; he did not forgive or forget; he did not welcome prodigal sons back to the Belgrave Square fold. Hatherfield knew this. He knew there was a noose there somewhere, into which he was placing his neck.

But he had never yet known the noose from which he could not escape.

And those defeated shoulders. That wobbly neck.

“A masquerade, eh?” he said.

“Yes. Everybody loves a masquerade, apparently.”

Hatherfield fixed his hat more securely on his head. “Very well, Father. I’ll put it in my diary. And now, I’m afraid you really must excuse me. My engagement is a pressing one.”

He stood back, ushered his father through the door, and marched down the stairs to his hansom, which waited for him on the corner.

SIXTEEN

One week later

T
he westward traffic had already begun to thicken, and it was nearly five o’clock by the time the Marquess of Hatherfield’s black hansom turned around the corner of Southam Terrace, Hammersmith, and came to a stop before the first house. “Wait here,” he told the driver, and he leapt briskly to the beaten earth, where the pavement was marked out in stakes and long brown string. From within the buildings, in their various states of completion, came the echoing sound of hammers and shouts.

“Lord Hatherfield!” A rough-bearded man strode out the open door of the first house, tugging his cuffs down his frayed jacket sleeve. His gaze dropped for an instant to the carnation in Hatherfield’s buttonhole. “There you are. Hoped my message would catch up with you before the evening.”

“Mr. Brookside.” He shook his manager’s outstretched hand. “What seems to be the trouble? I left everything tight enough a few hours ago.”

“Well, that’s the thing, your lordship. Right and tight it was, until I came back after lunch when the new bricks was being delivered for the facing of numbers ten and twelve, sir.” He nodded down the street, where the neat redbrick facades gave way to open timber framing. A pair of workers sat smoking on the stoop, staring at the stacks of bricks in the yard.

Hatherfield frowned. “There was trouble with the bricks?”

“Oh, the bricks was sound enough, sir. Best quality bricks, just as you directed. But there was only half of them. Half of what we ordered last week.”

“Only half? Why? Some sort of shortage?”

Mr. Brookside’s whiskers twitched voluminously. “Come along inside, sir.”

Hatherfield followed the manager inside number two. The entrance hall was nearly finished, smelling of fresh paint and plaster; the electric chandelier sat in its wooden crate in the corner, waiting for hanging tomorrow. In a week or two, the house would be fully fitted up and furnished, pillows plumped and table laid, ready to serve as a model for prospective buyers. Just that morning, Hatherfield had inspected the plumbing in the bathroom and the W.C., had tested the hot and cold taps and the flush of the handsome wooden-seated commode, had gone into the boiler closet for a look at the newfangled beast squatting there with its dials and pipes. Central heating in every one of his houses, the most modern sanitary systems, electric wiring and refrigeration: He wanted his terrace to feature every possible convenience, every innovation for improved light and ventilation, for health and safety.

And, with luck, a flood of eager buyers on the half-finished doorsteps of Southam Terrace.

Mr. Brookside led the way into a small room off the kitchen, which was meant to serve as a pantry, and which currently did duty as a building office. “Your lordship,” he said, fingering a stack of papers, “may I ask a private question?”

“You may, and I shall choose whether or not to answer it.” Hatherfield crossed his arms and regarded Brookside’s nervous movements with curiosity. His manager was not ordinarily a nervous man; Hatherfield had hired him firstly for his reputation for honesty and fair dealing, and secondly for his air of unshakable self-assurance.

“Are you having financial troubles of any kind, sir?” Brookside’s gaze met his at last.

“None relevant to this project,” said Hatherfield.

“Funding all in place, that is?”

“Yes. Ample funding, between my own capital and the loans I’ve secured on the property.” Hatherfield removed his gloves. They’d turned on the central heating last week, and the contrast between the February chill outside and the warmth within caused his hands and arms and back to prickle with perspiration. “Why do you ask?”

“Because of them bricks, sir, I’m afraid. The bloke who delivered them, sir, he would only allow us half of what we ordered. I told him it was rubbish, that we was fully paid up, I would write him a draft that minute for the full amount. And the fellow, why, he scratched his head and said that there was a rumor about that we was in trouble here. That we hadn’t the blunt to finish the building, that we was all on credit, house of cards, that sort of thing.”

“Nonsense. Our financing is perfectly secure. I’ve funded fully half of the building with my own capital, and I sat down with the bank manager just last week, as the final loan tranche was deposited into the company accounts. You were right there during the inspection. They were delighted with our progress.” Hatherfield spoke forcefully. In matters of finance, confidence was paramount.

“That’s what I told him, more or less. And he agreed to deliver the rest of the bricks this week, once the draft’s cleared the bank.”

Hatherfield’s blood rose high. “Once the draft’s
cleared
! By God! The cheek!”

“What I thought, sir. But the point is, someone’s spreading rumors about us, sir. Someone with enough mouth to make it stick, if you follow me. So I thought you should know about it.” Brookside shrugged his shoulders and leaned against the bright white plaster, self-assured once more in the face of his employer’s righteous anger.

Hatherfield’s skin itched against his clothes in the warm room. Behind him lay the kitchen, bright and white, fitted with a handsome range and piped hot and cold water, well drained and ventilated. He’d overseen the design himself; he had put everything into this project, as if it held the key to his own salvation.

Someone with enough mouth to make it stick.

“You did well, Brookside. Thank you.” Hatherfield replaced his gloves in short and angry tugs. “Obviously someone wishes to undermine our efforts. A competitor, no doubt. I assure you, I shall look into the matter with the utmost energy.”

L
ike a ball of summer sunshine, the Marquess of Hatherfield burst through the doorway of the Worthington drawing room at three minutes to eight o’clock, just in time to save Lady Charlotte Harlowe from the receiving end of a faceful of Sir John’s best sherry.

At the delivering end of the sherry, Stefanie’s arm lowered. “Why, Lord Hatherfield. We were beginning to think you’d found a better offer.”

Lady Charlotte turned to the door, and her peevish expression transformed into a flawless china-doll smile. “Nonsense. There is nowhere in England where his lordship is more welcome than in this house. Isn’t that so, James?” She held out her hand.

Hatherfield’s lips stopped just shy of the white Harlowe fingers. “Good evening, Lady Charlotte. Sir John.” He turned to Stefanie, and the old smile broke across his face in a sparkle of mischievous white teeth. “My dear Stephen.”

“Your lordship.” Stefanie bowed stiffly.

“Have a glass of sherry,” said Sir John. “You look as though you need it.”

Hatherfield accepted the glass and tossed it down in an alarmingly thorough gulp. “I confess, it’s been a rather complicated day.”