The Ruin Of A Rogue (7 page)

She lay in the dark in the high-necked garment of thick flannel, suitable for warding off chills. But the sturdy cloth had been softened by washing and offered none of the physical discomfort she needed to match her inner anguish. What she deserved was a hair shirt, whatever that was. Better yet, sackcloth.

Spoiled heiress, was she? Beg for his attentions, would she?

She’d show him.

Chapter 6

M
arcus was in a splendid mood, not just as a result of Julian’s excellent claret. The morning had brought delivery of a letter that pleased him beyond its significance to the success of his stratagem. He looked forward to an enjoyable day. The idea of winning Anne Brotherton and actually marrying her had taken hold of his mind, and not solely for material reasons. The money would be splendid, of course, but the bride that brought it evoked an unaccustomed tenderness. There was a lovely woman beneath her reserve, one who deserved to be introduced to the finer things of life, such as passion and even love.

“Travis, I need your advice,” he said, fired with enthusiasm for the task ahead.

“Yes, sir?”

“Miss Brotherton has asked me to show her some of the sights of London.”

“Very good, sir.”

“I think so too. But how shall I do it? I don’t like to ask if we can use one of Lady Windermere’s carriages since she does not offer. Should I take her in a hackney?”

“Certainly not. I believe the best course is to hire a town coach and driver from a first-class livery stable.”

“That will cost a pretty penny.”

“And a footman too. To wait on you, and for propriety.”

“She will be bringing her maid.”

“Anything less than a footman would appear shabby. Ideally there should be two.”

“One is quite enough. I’ve escorted ladies before, but they always provided their own carriages. Or boats, in the case of the Venetians. I fondly recall the contessa’s well-appointed gondola. Velvet cushions and a brocade curtain for privacy. I wonder if such a thing is to be found in London. On wheels, of course. It might be worth the expense.”

Travis’s bushy eyebrows flew comically north. “Miss Brotherton is a virtuous young lady!”

“All the better.”

Travis’s features relaxed into benignity. “Your Lordship does enjoy a joke. There’s one matter I’d like to bring up, my lord.”
My lord
usually presaged an unwelcome demand. “Your hair.”

“My hair? What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, of course. Except that gentlemen now are wearing Brutus crops. You will wish to appear in the latest mode for Miss Brotherton.”

“Judging by Miss Brotherton’s attire, her notion of the latest mode dates to before the Revolution. My hair is fine. I like it long and always have.”

“Not even a little curl?”

“Especially not that. Help me dress.”

“The green coat, I think.”

“By all means. It matches my eyes.”

“And where are you intending to take the young lady?”

“The British Museum, where else? I’ve sent a boy to obtain tickets, which are, I am glad to say, free of charge. I daresay she’ll be hungry after all that antiquity.”

Travis looked doubtful. “It isn’t usual for a lady to take refreshments in a public place in London.”

“Good Lord, how uncivilized.”

“I suppose a lady, duly chaperoned, might dine at a posting inn, or other well-appointed and discreet establishment.”

“Somehow, Travis, I don’t think you and I have the same notion of the definition and uses of a discreet establishment.” Not that Miss Brotherton was ready for seduction. But another kiss in the carriage, definitely. “Are you sure I need the maid if I hire a footman?”

A
t eleven o’clock sharp, Marcus drew up in Hanover Square in what he considered a very decent town coach with two better-than-average job horses. The hired footman—he’d drawn the line at two—sprang down and rapped on the door of Windermere House. A stately butler admitted Marcus and informed him, with a faint odor of disapproval, that he would inquire whether Miss Brotherton expected him. After twenty minutes there was no sign of either the servant or the lady.

“Will she be much longer?” he asked the footman on duty. “If so I should tell the driver to walk the horses.” He hadn’t taken her for the unpunctual sort. Though what lady was not? He hoped it meant she was taking special care with her toilette, just for him.

The footman disappeared and Marcus kicked his heels in the black and white marble hall, examining a vast and ugly Chinese urn. Lady Windermere’s purchase, most likely. He couldn’t see Damian tolerating such a monstrosity. Denford’s feelings about his inamorata’s taste in furnishing must cause him considerable pain. Marcus wasn’t nearly as sensitive as Julian when it came to art, but even he shuddered at a particularly horrible Dutch still life prominently featuring a variety of dead game birds, well painted but gruesome.

Hearing steps on the stairs, he turned and found that Miss Brotherton had finally appeared, unfortunately accompanied by her maid.

“Miss Brotherton, you look beautiful. What a very fine bonnet.”

“Lord Lithgow,” she said, offering her hand with an air of condescension and making no apology for her lateness. “Shall we go?” As he handed her into the carriage, she eyed the scratched leather seat with unmistakable disdain. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been in such a vehicle. Is it hired?”

“It’s my pleasure to offer you a new experience.” Marcus smiled at her.

“Where are we going?”

“I have obtained tickets for the British Museum.”

Her mouth fell into a pout he hadn’t seen before. “I’ve already been there, several times. You promised me a new experience. I should like to see Sir Ashton Lever’s Museum in Albion Street.”

A discussion with the driver revealed that the new destination lay in Surrey, just the other side of Blackfriars Bridge, and Marcus would be paying for the longer journey.

He settled beside her in the despised carriage, which he’d selected for its cozy dimensions. “I’ve never heard of this place. Is Lever a collector of Roman antiquities?”

Miss Brotherton sat bolt upright and looked forbidding. “I’m told his museum is extraordinary. Oh look! There’s a donkey. What a dirty creature.”

She was not to be drawn on the topic of the delights ahead. Instead she kept up a disparaging litany about the smells and dirt and the unsavory appearance of the people in the streets.

“So many beggars and vagrants! They should all be transported to the colonies.”

To Marcus they looked like the ordinary people of London, of all ranks and occupations, going about their affairs. The drive went through the busiest part of London at the busiest time of day so she had plenty of subject matter for her observations and endless time to make them. Her illiberal attitudes surprised him, but perhaps they were typical of the political opinions of the very rich. Back in his naïve youth he and his friends had been fired by the ideals of the French and cheered the storming of the Bastille. Later he decided that a man who lived by his wits hadn’t the luxury of deeply felt principles.

“A city is never at its best on a gray day. At least we are in a carriage and not walking through the dirt and fog.”

Her answer was to run her fingertip down the window glass and stare disdainfully at the resulting mark on her glove.

“London in damp weather is dirtier than any city I’ve visited, though in many other ways the public facilities here are superior.”

She waved her solid hand dismissively. “Of course they are. Foreigners have no notion how to go on.”

Marcus gritted his teeth and refrained from commenting that since she’d spent most of her life in Buckinghamshire she was hardly in a position to cast judgment on the citizens of the greater world. He muttered something soothing and hoped this new and unappealing facet of the heiress’s personality would recede.

“The odor of the river is making me unwell,” she said as the carriage turned onto the bridge. “I fear I cannot speak.”

Good
, he muttered beneath his breath.

Unfortunately she exaggerated her powers of silence. “The Thames is disgusting,” she said with a handkerchief pressed to her nose and mouth. “All those idle villains we saw should be put to work cleaning it.”

“And how would they do that?” he asked curiously.

“That’s not for me to say. But I hate to see people idle. A man without a useful occupation is a disgrace to his sex.” He winced and wondered if this crack was aimed at him. If he was seeing the real Anne Brotherton emerging from the reserved exterior, he’d prefer to remain in ignorance of her character.

A
nger carried Anne through the journey to Albion Street, enabling her to speak as she never had in all her life. Once the carriage stopped she judged it time to abate the torment—for the moment. She had every expectation that misery in plenty awaited her dastardly suitor beyond the walls of their destination. As he helped her alight, she favored him with a smile. “I do beg your pardon for my ill temper, Lord Lithgow. Carriage travel makes me peevish. I am so delighted to be here.”

“I too,” he said, his beautiful, lying mouth curving into the false smile that no longer gladdened her heart.

She enjoyed his displeasure—hastily concealed but she was watching closely—when he had to pay two shillings and sixpence apiece—including her maid—for their admission. One of the reasons she’d picked this obscure gallery. A dimly lit hall, dominated by a couple of gargantuan hexagonal stone pillars, contained several glass cases. She bustled over and squealed with pleasure at a collection of firearms.

“Listen,” she said, reading from a label. “
A gun which burst in the hand of Lord Grey’s gamekeeper, without his receiving any hurt. A remarkable circumstance considering how greatly the gun was shattered
.” She shook her head in wonder at the shapeless lump of metal. “I should have been so frightened to see it. Isn’t it amazing?”

He tried to conceal his astonishment at her interest in this ridiculous object, and failed. “Incredible,” he said.

“I’m so glad we came here. Thank you! I shall look at everything!” She concentrated fiercely on a case labeled “Remarkable Horseshoes.” “The shoe of a Tuscan mule, fancy that. You’ve been to Italy. Can you tell me what is special about it?”

“It looks like a perfectly ordinary horseshoe to me. But then blacksmithing is not one of my talents. Shall we move on to the next room? Perhaps the displays there are more interesting.”

She agreed, but only once she’d finished looking over a case full of rusty weapons. “Plants and animals next.”

“Not even whole animals,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind seeing a stuffed elephant or tiger.”

Anne pored over a case full of bits of birds. “It says here that the beak of the rhinoceros hornbill bird is remarkable for the curious appendage on its upper mandible.” Darting over to another case, she rhapsodized over a curious fungus, a nicker-nut (whatever that was), parts of fishes, cotton pods, a rolled-up armadillo, several complete homes of white termites, and a dismal exhibit labeled “Sundry Seeds, Leaves, and Other Parts of Curious Unknown Plants Brought from Botany Bay.”

“Have you ever been there?” she asked brightly. He deserved to be transported to the colony for convicted criminals.

“I’ve never traveled beyond Europe.”

“You must have seen so many exotic animals.”

“Very few. My time has mostly been spent in cities. There are few armadillos roaming the streets of Berlin, Paris, and Naples.”

“How disappointing. I thought you must at least have met a tiger. Or a hippopotamus.”

“I did join the King of Naples’s wild boar hunt. Other than that, I’ve never had my courage tested by a wild animal.” He smiled winningly. “Should we meet one in these chambers I trust I would be capable of fighting it off.”

When she ignored this attempt at flirtation, he managed to show dogged interest in case after case of minerals and sponges and who knew what else. After half a dozen rooms his façade was crumbling and he couldn’t hide the fact that he was thoroughly bored. So, unfortunately, was she.

“I believe your maid is tired,” he said gently, reminding her that they weren’t the only ones suffering.

The eyes of the middle-aged woman, who had trailed them patiently for two hours or more, gleamed with relief.

“Oh, Maldon! I’m sorry. Your feet must be hurting you,” she said guiltily. Then, lest her fish think he was off the hook, “Perhaps we could come back another day, Lord Lithgow.”

“I should be honored. But it grows late and I wouldn’t wish Lady Windermere to be worried.”

“I must confess,” she said, “that I am a little tired. Cynthia won’t worry when I am in your care, but I yearn for some tea.”

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t wish to endanger your good name.”

She waved off his objection. “Maldon is quite capable of protecting me.”

“I assure you, madam, that you need no protection from me.”

“Of course not. You
are
a gentleman.”

He directed the driver to take them to a coaching inn, a little way beyond the bridge. If she was any judge of the matter he was in dire need of refreshment himself, preferably something stronger than tea. Good. She’d like to drive him to drink.

The courtyard of the inn was thronged with people, not all of them respectable. Half a dozen passengers, laden with baggage, spilled from a stagecoach. Delivery carts brought meat and bread. A sad mongrel rummaged for scraps in a corner. Above them, on a second-floor gallery, the shrill quarrel of a pair of maids cut through the cries of ostlers, the impatient snorts of horses, the purposeful chatter of travelers. Never having visited a London inn, Anne looked around her with interest, forgetting her supposed scorn for unwashed humanity. When a young man in a smart curricle eyed her with curiosity, she remembered that she wanted word of her outing to reach the ears of the
ton
. She smiled at him and he tipped her hat. Perhaps he genuinely admired her new bonnet.