No Marriage of Convenience (27 page)

“So my mother was a Countess.”

“Yes, as you would be as well, if I could only prove your mother and father were married.”

“It’s like something out of one of my plays,” Riley murmured.

Her grandmother’s hearing was sharper than Riley gave her credit for, as the old girl laughed. “I suppose it is like one of those overreaching tragedies you call art.”

Riley tipped her nose in the air and teased. “I’ll have you know, my plays are never
overreaching
.”

“Bah!” The Countess waved her hand at Riley. “You wouldn’t be a success if they weren’t. And I take it you are a success?”

“Yes…for the most part…”

“You hesitated—are you or aren’t you?”

Riley shook her head and then told her grandmother about Mason. “So I must make this play a tremendous hit and repay him the money I owe him.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” her grandmother said, her mouth set in a familiar line. “I’ll send a draft over to Ashlin this very afternoon. Then you’ll move in with me, immediately. I’ll hear no more nonsense about you returning to the stage. You are the rightful Countess of Marlowe, and such a public performance is beneath you now.”

“It hasn’t been beneath me these past years,” Riley said, her temper rising. “And I will not take charity from you—even if you are my grandmother. I repay my own debts.”

“Stubborn jade,” the Countess muttered. “You got that side of your disposition from the Stoppards.”

Riley coughed and slanted a skeptical glance at her grandmother.

“Oh, and perhaps a measure of it from the Fontaines,” the lady conceded. “A very small part.”

Mason lost no time in making his way to the Marlowe town house. As he alighted the hackney Belton had procured, a phaeton came to a stop behind them, and the occupant, Stephen Cheval, the Marquess of Cariston, tossed the reins to the lad who’d sprinted forward from the mews. Hopping down from the driver’s seat, the elegantly dressed Cariston gave Mason about as much regard as one might upon finding a beggar on one’s front steps.

Mason frowned back. He’d never liked Cariston—not in person or by reputation. They’d been schoolmates years ago—and even then Cariston had held an unholy disdain for those of lesser title and fortune as beneath his contempt or concern.

“Ashlin,” he said, bowing only slightly in greeting.

“Cariston,” Mason acknowledged.

The other man took a disparaging sniff at the poor hackney as it pulled away. “Surprised to see you out,” he said. “Thought you’d have put on the black gloves and headed for the country by now, what with the scandal at your house this morning.”

A prickle of unease niggled down Mason’s spine. “Hardly a scandal,” he said. “Just an accident with one of the servants.”

Cariston’s eyes narrowed. “An accident, you say. Not
how I heard it. Thought someone said your cousin had been murdered. Strangled, or something like that.”

Strangled
.

The word stopped him as he recalled the image of Nutley with his hand around Riley’s throat.

But how could Cariston have known that or Riley’s involvement…unless…

McElliott’s word echoed like a warning.

Nutley had a reputation for doing a gentleman’s less savory business
.

He looked at Cariston again, this time trying to make sense of all of it. “Hardly anything as dramatic as that,” he told the man slowly. Perhaps the vultures from Fleet Street were already spreading wild tales and Cariston had just gotten the story from the usual ill-fed rumor mill.

“And your cousin?” Cariston persisted.

A chill ran down Mason’s spine. “My cousin did witness the unfortunate accident, but it didn’t frighten her to anything near death. See for yourself. She is here visiting Lady Marlowe.”

“Your cousin is
here
?”

Mason didn’t miss the slight stumble in Cariston’s usually elegant gait, or the tremor behind his question.

When the devil had the Marquess of Cariston begun caring about anything concerning Riley or the Ashlins for that matter? Mason shot him a sideways glance, spying the tense set of the man’s jaw.

“Yes,” Mason said. “Your aunt was kind enough to invite my cousin over for tea—well, rather demanded her attendance. But you know your aunt.”

Cariston shrugged, as if he couldn’t care less if his aunt chose to entertain a shipload of sailors or some Ashlin upstart relation, but Mason wasn’t fooled a bit.

He hadn’t taught first-year students all those years not
to know when someone was feigning indifference—whether it was over a threatened expulsion or something more personal.

Perhaps it wasn’t his aunt’s association with the Ashlins in general that had Cariston in a knot, he noted.

But someone more specific.

Riley
.

Mason shook off his misgivings—he was letting his dislike of the Marquess get the better of him.

At the door, Cariston nodded brusquely to the butler. “Rogers.”

“My lord, your aunt is expecting you. Shall I announce you?” Rogers glanced over at Mason, his brow rising slightly. “Yes?”

“I am Lord Ashlin,” he said, handing over his card. “I’m here to fetch my cousin. She is visiting with Lady Marlowe.”

Rogers nodded and then led the way to the gallery where Riley and Lady Marlowe were surveying the past Marlowe relations lining the hallway.

Lady Marlowe spied them first. “Cariston, you’re late.”

“My apologies, my lady,” he said. “I was delayed by business.”

The lady sniffed. “Always business with you young men.” She peered at Mason. “Who is that with you? Ashlin, isn’t it?”

Riley glanced up at this. She rushed to him, taking his hands and beaming up at him. “Mason, you’ll never guess the news.”

Mason noticed Cariston had gone almost as white as his starched and spotless cravat.

“Allow me, Riley,” Lady Marlowe said, “to tell Lord Ashlin and this no-account relation of mine our good fortune.” The lady straightened, and in her most regal man
ner, announced, “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to the Countess of Marlowe, my long lost granddaughter.”

Riley, the Countess of Marlowe? What was the old girl talking about? Mason stared at the lady as if she had gone mad, and he noted, so did Cariston.

Then he caught a fleeting glimpse of murder flashing behind Cariston’s shocked gaze before it was replaced by an exclamation of surprise.

The news, it seemed, wasn’t quite the shock to the Marquess as it should have been.

For while Stephen Chevel, the Marquess of Cariston, Viscount Henley, Baron Walsby turned to his newfound cousin and shook her hand in a hearty greeting, he could hardly be thrilled with the prospect of surrendering his other illustrious title.

The Earl of Marlowe.

“C
an you believe it?” Riley said. “I’m a Countess.” She sighed and leaned back in the chair in Mason’s study. She held her nose up in the air and waved her hand about in a perfect imitation of Lady Delander.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he said, going over to the tray on the cabinet and pouring himself a drink. “You aren’t a Countess yet.”

“I know, but you heard my grandmother. She is still convinced there is some way to prove my mother’s marriage was valid, and then I can make my claim.” She sat up. “And my cousin, Lord Cariston, appeared more than willing to help with the matter, which is very kind of him. Grandmother says he rarely goes to Marlowe Manor and has never been overly attentive to the properties, so he probably won’t mind in the least giving them back to me.” She reached over and squeezed his arm. “I have a family. A grandmother
and
a cousin. It’s like a dream come true.”

Mason decided against voicing the suspicions that continued to nag at him. Rather, he broached the subject with some careful questioning. “Have you ever met Lord Cariston before?”

She shook her head. “No, but he seemed quite the gentleman, all things considered.”

“Yes, quite the gentleman. Perhaps a little too much so,” Mason muttered under his breath.

She eyed him. “What are you saying?”

“I met this afternoon with the Runner I hired and he told me Daniel Nutley was a known cutthroat.”

She sniffed at this. “Well, yes, we could have surmised that ourselves without your Runner’s esteemed opinion.”

Mason ignored her barb, knowing she still hadn’t forgiven him for firing her investigator without her leave. “McElliott believes Nutley was working for someone, someone in the
ton
.”

Riley sat up on the edge of the leather seat. “Are you suggesting my cousin, a man I just met today, and who didn’t know I existed until this afternoon, is behind my mishaps?” She waved her hand at him. “It is too ridiculous even to consider. From what my grandmother told me, Lord Cariston is extremely wealthy without the Marlowe holdings. He’ll barely miss the income.”

What could he say? She was correct on that point, but Mason couldn’t shake his skepticism. He’d wager his life Cariston was behind the attempts on her life, and he wouldn’t stop until he’d uncovered the identity of Nutley’s employer.

Yet how could Cariston have known that Riley was the Marlowe heiress when no one else had?

There had to be some explanation behind all of it, and he intended to get to the bottom of the matter before…before Cariston had time to find a replacement for Daniel Nutley.

“I just want you to use some caution for the time being. Until I find out who Nutley was working for, I can’t be sure you’ll be safe.” He tossed back his drink and settled
into the seat behind his desk. “At least now you can discontinue your work on the play.”

“Why would I do that? We have an agreement. You’re the one always nattering on about honor. Well, I intend to complete production of my play and see the girls properly married.”

“I won’t allow it, and neither will your grandmother.”

Riley cocked a brow. “You weren’t opposed to my acting a few hours ago. Why is it different now?”

“It is most decidedly different.”

“Then I will ask my grandmother for the money I owe you.” Riley crossed her arms over her chest. “Surely you can’t object to that. Enough to cover the vowels Mrs. Pindar holds.” She eyed him. “Yes, I know all about that odious lady’s blackmail. Well, you can send her and her solicitor packing.” She paused and then frowned at him. “For a man who’s been offered his salvation, you don’t look overly pleased.”

“I won’t take Lady Marlowe’s money.”

“And why not?”

“I don’t need it.”

“But what about Mrs. Pindar? Maggie said her solicitor demanded—”

He stared at her.

She had the decency to blush. “I told her eavesdropping wasn’t proper, but I know you are in a bind.” She got up and leaned across his desk. “Please, let me help you.”

“You needn’t worry about Mrs. Pindar and her threats. I’ve taken care of her.”

“But how?”

He waived off her question. “It is none of your concern.”

“Don’t you see, Mason? You don’t have to marry Miss Pindar. You can marry—” Riley’s mouth opened to finish
the last of that thought, but she closed it. For a moment she studied him, then her gaze dropped to his desk and she sighed.

Mason was thankful she had stopped short of saying what she had been about to—

—You can marry me instead.

Mason was only too aware of that fact.

But how could he ask her to marry him now?

If he went down on bended knee before her, seeking
this
marriage of convenience, he would be the worst type of hypocrite—especially since he’d held his tongue this long.

“If things were different…” he started to say. “They aren’t—I didn’t—”

Riley held up her hand. “Don’t say anything more.” She looked about ready to burst into tears. She brought her hand to her trembling lips, before turning and fleeing the room.

Mason bounded after her. “What do you think you are doing?”

“I’m leaving. I’ll be out of your house as soon as I can collect my papers,” she sobbed. “Nanette can finish the rest and come along later.” She gathered up her skirt and marched up the steps.

He caught her by the arm. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” she said. “But I hardly think Miss Pindar or Mrs. Pindar would approve of you keeping your mistress in the house while you are finalizing your arrangements for a respectable union.” She turned on one heel, sweeping past Belton.

“I will not allow you to be harmed. Honor requires—”

“Your honor be damned,” she shot back. “Where was your honor the other night in the library? Or last night?” She took two steps back down toward him. “I am leaving.
I am no longer your responsibility. Since you do not want my money, there is no reason for me to remain under your protection.”

“Riley, this isn’t one of your plays.”

She laughed, a bitter, angry sound. “A wonderful tragedy, don’t you think? You should write it. It might make you rich.”

With that she went upstairs. He knew he should try to stop her, but it would only make her that much more determined to leave, and more difficult to follow. As it was, he’d have the Runner McElliott had posted outside the house trail after her and see to her safety. Between Hashim and the other man, it was the best he could do for her.

For the moment.

As he retreated into his study, Riley’s final words continued to bedevil him.

Digging through Freddie’s papers, he found one of his brother’s investments that he’d passed over several times. And as he studied it, he began to smile.

You should write it
, she’d said.

Maybe he would do just that.

The Blackened Swan was no place for a peer of the land to be drinking, but this was what Stephen had come to in the two weeks since Lady Marlowe had found her granddaughter. What with Ashlin nosing about and Lady Marlowe renewing her search for evidence of her daughter’s marriage to Stoppard, someone was going to lead them back to his father—and then to him.

Plans whirled about in his mind. He had to pay off his creditors before they denounced him publicly. To do that he needed the income from the Marlowe estates.

At least to continue the illusion that the Caristons were still rich and powerful.

Dammit, the money was his right, his due—not hers.

Stephen stared moodily into the barely palatable tankard of ale sitting before him, while all around him the dredges of London drank and plotted in this dark corner of Seven Dials.

“I ’ear you need a new man,” a rough voice asked, interrupting Stephen’s visions of Cariston glory—all gone because of his father’s years of risky investments and costly vendettas. “To fill in for Nutley, now that ’e’s been put to bed with a shovel.” The man laughed, drawing a few coarse remarks from a few other listeners.

“Quiet, you fool,” Stephen told him. “I won’t have my business nosed about.”

The man reached over and caught Stephen by the throat. The brute’s callused fingers wound around his windpipe, starting to crush it. “No one calls me a fool. Not you, not no one.”

Stephen nodded, his apology gargling in his throat.

The man smiled and released him.

Gasping for air, Stephen scowled down at the table, but this time kept his distaste for the man and the rest of his loathsome ilk well hidden. “I might be in need of your services.”

“
I might be in need of your services
,” the man mimicked. He leaned closer until his breath, a combination of rotten mutton and sour ale, washed over Stephen like a cesspool. “Ye sound like a regular Jemmy. Either ye need me services or ye don’t.” The man started to rise from his chair.

“No, wait,” Stephen told him. “I do—if you can provide the same work I had hired Mr. Nutley to complete.”

“Mr. Nutley, is it?” The man coughed up a wad of phlegm and spat it at the floor. “Nutley was nuthin’ but a filchman, a sorry excuse of a cove who pranced around
fancy-like, thinkin’ ’e was better than everyone else. If you ask me, ’e got exactly what was comin’ to ’im. But me, now I’m a swaddler who ain’t afraid to crack what needs to be done.” The man pulled a long knife from inside his coat and began picking his teeth with it, his lips spread in an evil grin.

Stephen eyed him. “How do you feel about killing a woman?”

The man leered. “I kills ’em all the time.”

A few others around them laughed at this vulgarity, and Stephen chuckled a bit, if only to keep his newfound companion in good spirits.

“There is a woman who I would prefer go aloft.”

“Tossed you over, eh? Made you wear the horns, perhaps?”

“Yes, something like that,” Stephen said, not caring a whit if this man thought him nothing more than a vengeful cuckold.

“You want to see this bitch gone, but not obvious-like?”

“Yes, exactly,” Stephen said. “And quickly. An accident, whatever fits your mood.”

The man nodded. “I like the way ye do business, Jemmy. If it’s justice ye want done to this bitch, Bean McElliott is your man.”

“Riley, do you think this gown would make a good wedding dress?” Bea asked. The girls had been at the theatre for a fitting with Jane Gunn and had come upstairs to have tea with her. “You don’t think it’s too daring?” She glanced at Maggie, who blushed and busied herself with pouring another round of tea.

“What do you care?” Louisa snapped. “As if either of you two are going to get married. Especially if you keep
wasting every afternoon over at Lady Delander’s taking housekeeping lessons.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Maggie said, rising to Bea’s defense. “I’ll have you know that—”

“Maggie!” Bea interrupted.

Riley glanced at both of them and wondered what mischief they’d been up to—not that it could be much if they were spending all their time at the Delanders’. And she knew Louisa’s ill humor sprang from the fact that Riley had sent Roderick on a list of errands that would keep him gone all afternoon.

“Riley, what do you think?” Bea repeated, standing up and slowly twirling around. “I think this would be a perfect wedding dress.”

“’Tis lovely,” she said, truly meaning the compliment. The pale blue silk might not have been a color Riley would have chosen for Bea, but leave it to Jane Gunn to find the perfect hue for the girl. The intricate embroidery, which Riley knew the lady had done herself, dotted along the edge of the hem and the neckline in a dainty row of flowers and curlicues. “I think it is an excellent choice for Lady Marlowe’s ball.”

Much to Riley’s delight, her grandmother had offered to sponsor the girls’ coming-out ball. Mason had grudgingly agreed to this bit of charity only after the girls had hounded him nonstop for three days straight, or at least, that was what Bea had reported with a satisfied smile.

The thought made Riley grin as well. She only wished she’d been there to see the girls’ antics—and perhaps even lend a hand.

His lenience may also have resulted from the fact that the girls had finally blossomed into a trio of ladies. The three of them had flourished all on their own since the Everton masquerade.

“What do you think of my gown?” Maggie asked. For the brunette girl, Jane Gunn had chosen a primrose muslin, dainty and sprightly, the fabric complimenting Maggie’s delicate features. A georgette silk overskirt completed the ensemble, lending it an ethereal quality that made Maggie look like an Eastern princess.

“It’s enchanting,” Riley told her. “I only hope your uncle approves.”

“As if we ever see him anymore,” Louisa said. “Since he agreed to our coming out, he has barely been home. Gone all hours and not even taking tea with us. Especially now that the—”

“Louisa, shut up,” Bea hissed.

Her sister sat up. “Well, he hasn’t been home in days.”

Riley drew a deep breath. She knew why Mason wasn’t home.

Miss Pindar
.

On the day she’d left, when she’d offered to have her grandmother pay off his debts and practically begged him to marry her, she’d seen the evidence that declared he’d already made his decision. For there on his desk had been a special license, granting him the privilege of marrying Miss Dahlia Pindar without a moment’s delay.

“I suppose he is making his marriage plans.”

“Of course,” Louisa told her. “He’s—oooof!”

Bea’s elbow had landed in her sister’s ribs, ending Louisa’s disclosure of Mason’s wedding plans.

For once Riley was glad for Bea’s unreserved manners, because she didn’t want to hear about the impending nuptials.

“Cousin Felicity sent her apologies for not coming down,” Maggie said. “She’s reading that new novel—the one that’s all the rage, and she refuses to leave the house
until she’s finished it so she can be included in the chatter.”

Riley smiled. Leave it to Cousin Felicity to put her ability to gossip effectively above all other matters.

“Yes, well, we had best get home,” Bea said, rising abruptly, and shooting Maggie a censorious look. “Besides, we’ll see you tonight.”