The Heiress Effect (24 page)

It was an unseasonably bright, warm day, a few
days after Jane had so brazenly informed Mr. Marshall that she was
battling with Bradenton over him. In those intervening days, she’d
wondered what she had been thinking. How she’d dared to say
anything so audacious.

But when she saw Mr. Marshall again, she
didn’t wonder.

It was high noon. She’d been walking on Jesus
Green with the Johnson sisters, pretending to watch a cricket game
that was being lost very, very badly, enjoying the warmth of real
friendship. She saw him first, walking slowly along the other side
of the green, gesturing as he talked. He was talking to a boy in a
black gown.

She had never seen Marshall walk before. Oh,
she’d watched him amble about a room. But out on a lawn, he had a
long stride and an easy grace to him. The wind caught a hint of his
hair under his hat, ruffling his fringe.

And Jane knew why she’d said what she had to
him. Because she wasn’t ceding this man, this man who’d told her to
keep talking, who’d told her she was brave, to anyone.

It was a shockingly fierce, possessive
thought. It came anyway.

Mine.

He’d touched her, and she’d liked it.

Mine.

“Jane?”

She whirled around, startled, to see
Genevieve and Geraldine smiling at her.

“Tell me,” Geraldine said, “what
were
you thinking of just there?”

Jane shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Even Geraldine isn’t that bad,” Genevieve
sang out, “and that’s her fiancé over there. Does
nothing
have auburn hair and spectacles?”

Jane flushed. She hadn’t even realized it was
Hapford with Mr. Marshall.

Geraldine leaned in. “Is
nothing
walking next to Hapford?”

“No,” Genevieve put in. “I think that
nothing
is approaching. Come on, Jane. Wave at him.”

Jane held up one gloved hand. Even separated
by fifty yards of close-clipped lawn, with half a cricket-match
between them, she felt a hot flush.

He raised his hand as well. And then he
walked toward her.

I am ablaze,
she thought, but she was
truly on fire, burning hotter with every step he took in her
direction.

“Mr. Marshall,” she said, as soon as he was
near enough. “My lord.”

“Miss Fairfield. Miss Johnson. Miss
Genevieve.” His words were proper enough, but his gaze lingered on
Jane alone.

Beside her, Hapford made a similar greeting.
Geraldine came forward to take his arm, and Genevieve went with
her. That left Jane with Mr. Marshall. They weren’t alone, but they
had a little privacy.

“Do you like my walking gown?”

His gaze swept up to her bosom, then down to
her toes, as palpable as a caress.

“Tell the truth,” she said, gesturing ahead
of her. “They can’t hear.” Indeed, the Johnsons had obligingly
taken Hapford five or six paces ahead.

“It’s an improvement on
screeching
horror,”
he told her. “It ranks almost as high as
sick
fascination.”
He gave a mock shiver. “But really. Are those
vermilion bananas printed on the fabric?”

“Yes. I love it. Look.” Jane held out her
pendant, a green enameled monkey with fierce topaz eyes. “See?
Isn’t that wonderful?”

He stepped forward and looked obligingly.

Maybe not so obligingly. She was close enough
to see his eyes behind his spectacles, dropping not to her pendant
but…

Technically, her gown climbed halfway up to
her neck. Also technically, the upper fabric of her bodice was dark
lace. And lace had holes.

Nothing showed that wouldn’t have shown in a
ball gown, but it still
showed.
If someone stood close,
pretending to look at a necklace…

He lifted his gaze to her face and gave her
an unapologetic smile.

“You’re right. That quite makes the outfit.”
He crooked his finger. “Let me see it again.”

Jane flushed, and in front of her, Geraldine
coughed.

“Oh, Geraldine,” Genevieve said loudly, “I
hope you’re not coming down with something.”

“Nonsense,” said Hapford. “That didn’t—”

But Geraldine interrupted him. “I’m afraid I
might be. We’d better go. Hapford, you’ll walk me?”

“But…”

She linked her arm with her fiancé’s. “Come
along,” she said.

“But… Oh.”

“Unless,” Geraldine said, “you wish us to
stay, Miss Fairfield?”

“Um.” Jane flushed hotter. “No. That would be
unnecessary.”

Genevieve waved at her, and the three of them
walked away. Jane watched them go, the entire time feeling Mr.
Marshall’s eyes on her…necklace. She turned back to him and he
raised his eyes to her face.

“You have a smudge on your spectacles.”

“I do?”

“Yes.” She lifted her hand and placed it
deliberately against the glass. “A fingerprint right there.”

He gave her a look of mock annoyance and took
off his glasses to clean them with a handkerchief.

“That’s what you get for ogling my monkey.
Now imagine what I’ll do if you take Bradenton up on his
offer.”

That smile that had curled the corners of his
lips faltered. His breath sucked in. “Jane.”

“What vote is it?” she asked. “The one that’s
so important.”

But he didn’t answer right away. Instead, he
held out his elbow to her. “Walk with me.” They passed by the
cricket game.

“You know,” he finally said, “that I’m a
duke’s byblow.”

“Yes.”

“Legally, I am not any kind of bastard. My
mother was married when I was born and I was acknowledged by her
husband. Up until a few years ago, I wasn’t even publicly
recognized as the duke’s progeny. Some people knew, of course, but
it was at best whispered about, never spoken aloud.”

Legally, Jane wasn’t a bastard, either. But
she still was treated like one.

“Sometimes,” he said, “I forget that people
think I’m Clermont’s son. They don’t believe that Hugo Marshall is
my father. It’s odd, because he’s never been anything else to me.
Just…father. He never acted as if my sisters who were his flesh and
blood were more important than I was. I didn’t realize how
extraordinary this was for most of my childhood. It just was.”

Oh, she felt a twinge of jealousy at that,
one that twined around her heart at the thought of having a real
family.

“What was it like?” she asked, her voice
low.

“He taught me how to fish, how to set a snare
for a rabbit, how to fight politely at fisticuffs, and how to win a
fight very impolitely using dirty tricks. If necessary.” Mr.
Marshall took a deep breath. “He taught me how to balance books and
how to fold a piece of paper into a box. He showed me how to
whistle on a blade of grass. My father taught me everything. And so
I call him father because that’s what he was. In every sense of the
word except that one tiny thing.”

“So you were a part of the family, then?”

“Oh, yes. I grew up with them. They ran a
small farm. And that’s what brings me to all of this. My parents
have never been wealthy. They have always had enough. My mother and
father are both clever. Twice a year, they lease out factories for
a week, just long enough to distill oils and make soaps. Not great
big bars of soaps, produced for the masses, but scented, molded
soaps. My mother packages them for ladies and charges twenty times
their worth.” He smiled and glanced at her. “You use it, I think.
Lady Serena’s Secret.”

She did. The boxes appealed to her in their
colorful range of pastels. The bars of soap had come wrapped in
tissue, accompanied by a slip of paper explaining the scent. There
were different scents for every month of the year, altering with
the seasons. She paid five times more for those small,
sweet-smelling bars than she might otherwise have laid out, but
unwrapping them gave her pleasure so she’d accounted it money well
spent.

“My parents do well for themselves,” Mr.
Marshall continued. “But I have three sisters. Two of them have
recently married, and they’ve laid out funds to establish them in
their new lives. There was my own schooling at Cambridge. And while
the current Duke of Clermont—my brother—settled money on me when I
came of age, they’ve refused to take anything from him on
principle.”

“Are you telling me your family is poor?” she
said.

“No, not at all.” He swallowed and looked
away. “Although…yes, I suppose you would think so. I am telling you
that my father is a tenant at will in a county constituency. He
pays an annual rent of forty pounds a year.”

She shook her head, not seeing the
relevance.

“I worshipped my father. I used to think he
could do anything,” he told her. “That’s the way of it, when a man
teaches you everything. And then, when I was sixteen, I learned
otherwise.”

She squeezed his arm. “Everyone is fallible.
Even the best of men.”

“No. I didn’t mean that I discovered he had
flaws. I meant what I said. There is one thing my father is not
allowed to do.”

She waited for his answer.

“He cannot vote.”

She looked up in surprise, her eyes widening.
“That’s…that’s…”

“Imagine,” he said, his voice tight, “that
there was someone who owed you nothing and gave you everything. A
family. A place in the world. Love. Imagine that the entire world
around you said that he was worth nothing. What would you do for
him?”

“For her,” Jane whispered involuntarily. She
took her hand off his sleeve and hugged her arms around herself.
“When you have almost nobody… For her, I’d do anything.” She was
silent for a moment longer. “That’s what Bradenton promised you? A
vote on the Reform Bill?”

He nodded. “More than that. Not just the
vote, but the credit for changing his mind. He’s the leader of a
group nine strong. He’s grooming Hapford to join them. If I can
bring the entire group in, it will prove my worth. It will be the
first step forward.” He looked away. “Miss Fairfield, I won’t
apologize to you for the choice I must make. Bradenton and his set
will all be in town in a matter of days—all nine of them. I don’t
know.” He made a frustrated sound. “That is—I think I would be
better off leaving. Now.” He spread his hands. “Parliament will sit
in a few weeks anyway. It is time to get on.”

Mine.

Maybe it was rash on her part. Maybe it was
injudicious. But then, Bradenton had broken her cactus and she
wanted him to pay.

“Tell me, Mr. Marshall,” she said. “How would
you get on with your first step forward if you brought back eight
votes instead of nine?”

“I’ve been trying precisely that. You just
saw me talking to Hapford.” He stopped and looked at her. “But the
rest of them…the bonds of friendship count for much, and if
Bradenton speaks ill of me…” He shrugged.

“That’s the thing,” Jane said. “I’ve never
met them, but Bradenton doesn’t even have a solid hold on Hapford.
He cannot truly control the other men. And if you could do
something to put a little pressure on those bonds of
friendship…”

He just looked at her.

“They’re going to be here,” she said. “It’s
the perfect opportunity. You only need a little something. Enough
to get them to listen to
you
rather than him. You’ll have
the votes you want, minus one. You’ll get the credit.” Her voice
dropped. “And Bradenton, well… I think that would really annoy
him.”

He blinked. “My God.” A slow smile spread
across his face. “But how would it be done?”

“Oh, Mr. Marshall,” Jane said, long and slow.
“I have been thinking of nothing else.”

After her last conversation with Mr.
Bhattacharya, Emily had felt unsettled. She’d watched Titus more
carefully, trying to be…well, not
obedient,
but at least
more respectful.

It had made absolutely no difference to his
behavior, but she’d found that the less she raged at her uncle, the
more she could bear.

Now, standing on the side of the brook and
waiting for Mr. Bhattacharya to arrive, she felt nervous all over
again. What if he decided that he didn’t want to see her? What if
he decided that her uncle’s approval was paramount? Her heart raced
with every little noise, imagining it to be his footfalls. The
palms of her hands tingled, as if her skin remembered his.

And then she saw him and she felt herself
burst into a smile as he drew near. He was always an excellent
dresser. Far too many Cambridge students were quite slovenly—that
was what came of wearing robes over their clothing, she supposed;
they stopped caring about what they believed few others could see.
Mr. Bhattacharya was always neat and clean, his clothing evenly
pressed, his hat situated firmly on his head.

“Mr. Bhattacharya,” she said, as he came
nearer.

He came to a halt a few feet away and
regarded her quizzically with his dark eyes. “Is that the way
you’re planning to greet me?”