Swept Away By a Kiss (43 page)

“Sounds lovely. I will slip on my riding habit and dash off to have a go at him.”

“You have become absolutely vulgar, darling.”

“And you are no pristine innocent either. But you haven’t a sennight spent aboard a pirate ship to justify your vulgarity, do you?”

Anna smiled fondly. “My news still awaits. In fact, she awaits in the corridor as we speak.”

Valerie’s brows shot up. She jumped out of the bed, reaching for her dressing gown.

“Oh, mum!” Mabel said, coming through the door. “It’s surely a great pleasure to see you looking fit and— Faith, but you ain’t been sleeping, have you? Or eating. Aren’t you well?”

Valerie squeezed her maid’s hands. “More importantly, you are.”

Anna was looking at her oddly, but Valerie could not hide her relief. For nearly three weeks she suffered an anguish of worry over the part her maid played in Hannsley’s duping. Safely hidden at Castlemarch with Lady and Lord March, Mabel hadn’t been in any real danger. Still, Valerie’s insides were twisted with anxiety over her. She had put Mabel in danger, after all.

Suddenly, like rain clearing away a fog, understanding blazed in Valerie.

She swung around to Anna, abruptly wanting to tell her everything. Valentine too. Well, perhaps not exactly everything. But the important parts.

“Pish-tosh, mum,” Mabel said cheerily. “It were indeed a great trial to sit day in and out in my very own chamber stuffing my mouth with sweetmeats and looking at fashion plates when I should have been working.” She grinned. “And there weren’t no insisting from you, not that I remember. I like a bit of adventure. Now here’s a letter from Her Ladyship for you.”

Valerie plucked the envelope from Mabel’s hand and tore it open.

January 18, 1811

THE LADY VALERIE MONROE

ALVERSTON HALL, KENT

Dear Lady Valerie,

I hope this missive finds you well.

You should know that my nephew Alistair has disappeared without leaving word. The Captain believes he has gone to America, but I suspect he fled to the Continent until our godson is again gone. While Steven has made certain that the Other Transgressor will be duly punished, he refuses to pursue Alistair, which is probably imprudent, but he can oftentimes be unwise when it comes to matters of the heart. He always has been. I suspect he realizes he has met his match in you and simply does not know how to go on now. He has spent a lifetime alone, and bad habits are difficult to break, of course.

He sends word that he sails from Portsmouth on February 2.

Fondly,
Margaret, Countess of March
Castlemarch, Derbyshire

Valerie lowered the letter. Mabel and Anna stared at her.

Valerie swallowed hard. “I love him.”

Mabel nodded vigorously, bouncing up on her toes.

Anna smiled. “But of course you do, darling. What will you do now?”

Valerie’s heart pounded so rough and fast she could barely breathe. He had left her, and it didn’t really matter what anyone else said about his feelings. If Steven did not want her with him, Valerie would not force him to have her. She was through with insisting upon her worthiness to any man. She knew her worth. If he couldn’t recognize it, then he did not deserve her. She’d told herself that for three weeks already.

But she wanted him so much.

“He sails in less than a fortnight.”

“Sails?” Anna’s brows went up.

Mabel sprang to the wardrobe. “I’ll start packing, mum.”

“What do you mean he sails, Valerie? Where is he going? Back to America?”

Valerie looked at Anna and a new ache sliced through her. She grasped her hands.

“Oh, dear friend,” she said upon a ripple of pleasure and pain. “There is so much I need to tell you. He is not at all what he appears.”

Anna nodded. “I suspected as much. He could not be to have captured your heart.”

Warmth bloomed in Valerie, spreading through her belly and limbs. A knock came at the door and a maid entered carrying a silver dish bearing a calling card.

“Milady, a gentleman is here to see you. Mr. Sibble sent me up to you right quick.” She curtsied and ducked from the chamber.

Valerie clutched the card in shaking fingers, disbelieving the name she saw embossed there.

“Well, that’s unusual of Sibble to hurry a caller’s card up like that,” Anna murmured, peering over Valerie’s shoulder. “Who is it? Would you like me to ask him to return later? You are hardly dressed for visitors, and you haven’t yet answered my questions about Lord Ashford.”

Valerie caught up her breath. “But, Anna, I still have questions about him myself, and this gentleman is the one person who can answer them for me.”

The ramshackle carriage once belonging to a baronet long since in his grave blotted the London street corner like a plague pustule. No one bothered the hackney coach, though. It lacked a driver, and it had been parked for well over an hour already. A pair of swaybacks slumped in the harness, no longer bothering to stomp their impatience to be back at the mews.

Dusk dropped and shadows lengthened across Ewer Street’s narrow confines. The wooden placard above the plumber’s door swayed. The proprietor locked the bolts and hurried to make his way up the street, away from the hackney and away from Steven leaning like a dark specter against a wall opposite.

The old fellow was the last. Shop fronts along the street all stared blankly, unwelcoming in the deepening gloom of urban twilight.

Steven moved toward the coach, the hem of his greatcoat brushing boots worn thin from such use. One never knew, after all, what fluids one might find upon one’s footwear following the sort of interview Steven anticipated. Reserving a special pair for certain occasions had always seemed wise, at least since he’d discovered himself to be despicably wealthy.

He opened the coach door, pulling back upon the rickety hinge and steeling himself for the bullet’s impact.

“Get in, fool.”

“Now, now. Sticks and stones, Clifford.” Steven stepped lightly up and bent himself into the cab. He closed the door. The air inside was fetid. Stale sweat and urine mingled with skin-soaked liquor and the pungent, unmistakable odor of defeat.

Hannsley’s hooded eyes barely registered his presence. Slumped against the torn squabs, he held a snuffbox open in one hand. Gray dust littered his neck cloth and waistcoat. A turtle-shell embossed pistol balanced upon his thigh.

“You deserve the name. Fool,” the marquess repeated, his voice slurring. “You should be ashamed of yourself. But tainted blood makes for simpletons. I wager pretense is all you have, though. Isn’t it?” For an instant his eyes cleared, glinting momentarily cruel. “Polite society’s doors are open to you now because of Margaret March, but they won’t be for long. You may as well accede the title to perdition. A gentleman would not have you for his daughter, and a Cit would be too afraid to ally his house with yours, you half-breed papist. A viscount, and you can’t even cross Parliament House’s threshold. Hunh?”

“Can’t say I’d much wish to if you were there, old fellow. Anyway, I don’t have the taste for politics. Too untidy.” Steven kept his tone light. “I do have plenty of blunt, though. That
is
the reason you arranged this little back alley assignation, isn’t it? In dun territory? Hard to imagine, with all your ready. But a fellow’s expenses are his own business, I always say. How much do you need?”

Hannsley’s eyes dulled again, but his fingers slipped toward the pistol.

“My patience is thin, Ashford. Cease this stupidity.”

“If it’s not money you want, Clifford, then I haven’t the foggiest notion why you called me to this dreadful place. But I don’t think I shall stay.” Steven drew back, considering the other man. “You know, old fellow, I believe you’re foxed. Won’t blame you. Present accommodations are dismal, don’t you know.” He looked about with exaggerated distaste, drawing his hand away from the seat cushion to wipe it upon a handkerchief.

Hannsley’s grip encircled his wrist. “I could kill you now,” he snarled, jerking his chin toward the pistol. “I don’t need this thing to do it. I could kill you with my bare hands for what you have done.”

“It would be fascinating to see you try. Again,” Steven drawled. “Nevertheless, I think I will pass. Now, remove your hand from my person, if you please.” Above his pleasant smirk, his eyes warned.

Slowly, the other man’s fingers loosened.

“Your confidence is undeserved,” Hannsley muttered. “That slave spawn Fevre was my man. He bought his freedom with your betrayal, whimpering like a whelp as he took the money. But you know that already, don’t you? Learning that tidbit of information must have burned like lamp oil. You thought you were omniscient. Thought you had everything in hand. But you never did.”

Steven remained silent. Though impressively lucid, Hannsley was indeed disguised. In Steven’s view, responding to a drunk’s taunts was not a worthy pursuit.

“You know, after I realized it was you, I almost wanted you to discover Fevre.” The marquess laughed in satisfaction. “S’why I didn’t kill that boy, showing up at Castlemarch on Christmas Eve like he did. Too many coincidences. Tipped your hand. Oh, I will admit Flemming was convincing. But I am not the trusting fool you are. Though . . .” He paused, and his fingers slipped to his thigh, caressing. “I didn’t see the girl coming. Not even after she stole the letters. Must’ve been her after all.” His heavy gaze swung to Steven’s face. “Well done, my boy. Little trollop passes herself off nicely as a la—”

Steven’s thumb and forefinger pressed an inch deep into Hannsley’s throat before the marquess saw him move. Snuffbox and pistol both clattered to the cab floor. Hannsley’s eyes protruded. After a moment, his hands flailed around Steven’s outstretched arm.

“Insult me all you wish, Clifford. But do not, in my presence, impugn the honor of a lady.”

He released his grip. The marquess gulped in breaths.

“Th-that’s the w-way it is, is it?” Hannsley coughed, gingerly massaging his crushed cravat. “She won’t have you, you know. At least not for long. Whatever she does with her nights, she’ll have to wed carefully to salvage her reputation.”

Steven stilled, clarity washing through him like cold seawater. He was, indeed, the greatest fool alive. It almost made him laugh to realize that Clifford Hannsley, of all people, was the one to finally show him how foolish.

Valerie did not belong in Hannsley’s world of unbending codes of behavior and status, the one Steven had left behind so many years ago. She would die in it.

She belonged with him.

Abruptly restless to be away, he straightened the capes on his greatcoat. “I would like to be able to say that this little interview has given me great pleasure, old friend, but I simply cannot. So I will take my leave—”

“Is it decided, then?” Hannsley’s hurried voice halted Steven’s hand upon the door latch. “Prinny won’t return my messages. Turned me away from Carlton House.” Desperation laced his tone. “It’s coming, isn’t it? They all know?”

Steven wished he could feel pity. Honesty, for once, would have to suffice.

“What do you wish me to say, Clifford? With a shovel of gold you have dug the graves of thousands. Your own tomb now awaits you.”

Steven’s hand turned upon the latch and the cab door swung open. He stepped down, closing it behind him. As he crossed the street, his boots echoed upon the uneven cobbles, obscuring the muffled pistol shot within the carriage.

Valentine and Anna offered Maximin a tour of Alverston Hall and the nearby grounds of the estate, including the stables and hothouses. A lavish dinner followed, and tea in the drawing room afterward. They went out of their way to welcome the man who helped save her life the previous summer, extraordinarily gracious despite the fact that they were obviously mad with curiosity and concern. Valerie knew she should be grateful.

She wanted to throttle them.

Finally they withdrew from the drawing room, leaving the door open. Maximin swirled the brandy in his glass, and a smile crept across his handsome face.

“Your brother is uncertain whether to thank me or throw down his gauntlet,” he said in French. He wore a cutaway coat of finely tailored English wool, and his topboots shone with the glow of a valet’s effort. A gold pin glimmered in his starched cravat, and a single gold ring glinted upon one finger. He looked nothing like the sailor she’d met at sea, but his grin still teased.