The Wild Marquis (12 page)

She felt hot, bothered, out-of-place, and nervous
about how Cain would react to her bearding him in his own house. Would he sneer at her presumption or take it as an invitation to repeat his overtures?

When they entered elegant Berkeley Square a crossing sweeper directed her to Chase’s address on the west side, an imposing gray brick house, six windows wide, with a stuccoed porch. For the first time Juliana appreciated that Cain, so casual in his manners, was truly a member of the aristocracy and every bit as rich as he had claimed.

She could just imagine the kind of butler who presided over this mansion.

Juliana gathered her courage. She had a legitimate reason for her visit. The worst that could happen was for a toplofty servant to refuse her entry, in which case she’d leave the book and depart.

Then a young woman emerged from the area steps. Juliana had lived in London long enough to recognize the tawdry costume and rouged cheeks of a street-walker. The girl passed them, a satisfied look on her face. She glanced at a few coins in her open palm, and smiled.

Juliana felt a complete fool. She’d been warned about the Marquis of Chase and she should have listened.

“Let’s go home, Quarto,” she said.

C
ain returned to Berkeley Square some time after noon in a very bad mood, having endured a morning of utter tedium. In former days—how long ago two weeks seemed—his time had been agreeably occupied, swiving by night, sleeping all morning, calling on a few ladies (in the broadest definition of the word), then attending a theater, usually to view the onstage performance of his current paramour. Now he felt this ridiculous urge to belong to a gentlemen’s club and spend the morning reading the
Times
and chewing over the news and gossip of the day with his peers.

Since that option wasn’t open to him, he’d wandered over to Sotheby’s. None of the historical works being sold that week appealed to him and he missed Juliana. The auction wasn’t as much fun without her to tell him what not to buy, or to disturb their neighbors with smothered giggles at his tales of the demimonde. The room was filled with men and not a sign of a shapely little lady in black.

“Any messages?” Perhaps she had written to him.

“The usual.” Mel had bustled out to the hall when
she heard him come in. She was worried about him, he knew. “Your post is in the library. Another girl turned up, sent by one of Rafferty’s girls. Silly little chit. Came to London with the usual foolish notions. Found her senses before too much harm was done. She said she’s clean and not in the family way and her kin’ll take her back.”

“Good,” Cain said, only half listening.

“I gave her money for coach fare back to Lancashire and some decent clothes. Hope she buys something warm. Bloody freezing up there.” Mel had never left London in her life and was convinced the Arctic began north of Watford.

Cain stamped off in the direction of the library. “Not now, Mel,” he said when she followed him. He wasn’t in the mood for her brand of salty wisdom.

“What happened to get your breeches in the wringer?”

Mel wasn’t easily put off so he had to give her something. “Lady Moberley passed me in her barouche as I came in.”

“The snotty cow!” Mel put her hands on her hips and shook her head. “Your own mother’s sister, living just across the square, and never a word in three years. Don’t let it get to you, Cain. The old bitch ain’t worth it.” Her loyal indignation gathered force. “I’ve a good mind to march over there and give her what for.”

“Please don’t trouble yourself.”

“Don’t worry. That stiff-arsed butler wouldn’t let me in. Thinks he’s the bloody Prince Regent.”

“Last week he was the Tsar of Russia.”

“And next week he’ll be Napoleon.”

“Forget it, Mel. And bring brandy.”

Mel gave him a troubled look, but for once didn’t argue. Cain settled into his favorite leather armchair and systematically worked his way through half a bottle of Cognac’s best. His well-laid plans should be ready to come to fruition, but he felt the strangest reluctance to deliver the
coup de grâce
.

Once his temper at her rejection had subsided he’d pondered his next step. Juliana Merton would be his mistress whether she liked it or not. And of course she would like it. He knew she wanted him. He’d merely handled her in the wrong way, an unusual misstep for him who could read women’s minds like a book. Her background was different from his other
chères amies
and he’d failed to take it into account in his approach.

The gift of the dog was the start of the campaign, although it wasn’t an entirely cynical gift. He was genuinely concerned for her. Unlikely as it was that anyone would rob a shop so devoid of easily fenced merchandise, her husband’s fate made her terror reasonable. And by presenting her with a companion and guard he’d given her something she needed. Women loved that.

A few days of neglect and she should be ready to reopen negotiations.

God, he hoped so. Celibacy was straining his temper. If he had any sense he’d take himself off to Drury Lane or Covent Garden and find a willing
actress, reimmerse himself in the theatrical milieu that had been his principal haunt for several years.

The idea had no appeal. He wanted to chat with Juliana about books and make her laugh at his stories. He wanted to burrow under the bombazine and reveal the buried treasure of her exquisite little body. And bury himself in her and teach her that not all knowledge could be found between the covers of books, even those by Aretino. The very thought…agitated him.

So what was he waiting for? Why wasn’t he even now on his way to St. Martin’s Lane with hothouse roses in hand and diamonds in his pocket?

Because he had the lowering suspicion that Mrs. Juliana Merton deserved better. He admired the way she fought to make her own way in a difficult world. He respected her knowledge, gained through hard work, intelligence, and determination. In comparison he led an idle and useless life. Her example gave him an urge to take up his own responsibilities and attend to his substantial estates.

Yet there seemed little point when he couldn’t even visit them, thanks to the promise his mother had wrung from him.

So he admired and respected Juliana and feared that he was very bad for her.

And that thought put him in a very bad mood.

His hand on the decanter was stayed by a commotion in the hall. Probably the footmen playing again. Perhaps he’d join them, as he sometimes did for a few minutes before Mel arrived to chase them away. But
his momentary interest in indoor cricket faded and he continued to fill his glass.

“I must see His Lordship.” A female voice. His ear pricked up.

“You can’t. You should’ve come in the servants’ door. Mel will see to yer.” That was Peter.

“I don’t want Mel, whoever he is. I want to see Lord Chase.”

“’E don’t see the likes of you. I’ll take you downstairs.”

He slumped back into his chair. He never saw the prostitutes who came looking for help. Mel made sure only those with merit received assistance. Cain had a well-deserved reputation as a soft touch.

There was a scuffle, followed by a curse from Tom.

“She hit me with ’er umbrella, Pete!”

A whore with an umbrella? How singular.

When he entered the hall, his first impression was that this particular bit of muslin hadn’t been long in her business. Dressed in brown, she looked like a country servant. Not long off the stagecoach, he guessed.

“Do you need help, boys?” he asked.

The girl—he could see that she was young, fifteen or sixteen years old at a guess—shook off Tom’s grasp on her arm and looked at him.

“John?” she said. “Oh, John!”

Only one person in his whole life had called him by his Christian name.

It couldn’t be. She was just a child. But that had been eight years ago.

“Esther?”

She ran to him and threw her arms about him.

“Esther. My little Esty.” His voice was strangled, choked with tears, as he returned his sister’s embrace.

“Y
ou smell of wine, John.”

Wonderful! The first time she’d seen him in eight years and he was half seas under.

“Can I have some?” she asked.

Was he drunker than he thought? He might not know a great deal about well-bred young ladies, but he was fairly sure they didn’t drink alcohol. Especially not one raised by the Saintly Marquis and his spouse. On the other hand he could easily imagine life with his mother driving her to the bottle.

“Certainly not. I’ll ask Mel to bring us some tea. Or perhaps lemonade. Are you hungry?”

Esther nodded. Cain ordered Tom, who was rubbing his arm and regarding Esther resentfully, to go downstairs and fetch a light repast to serve in the morning room. He wasn’t having his sister anywhere near the decanter.

“Do you usually drink wine?” he asked, guiding her toward the rarely used room.

“Never,” she replied. “But I’d like to try it. I’d like to try lots of things.” Apparently his sister had some things in common with him.

He took her cloak and bonnet and absorbed the sight of her. She was plainly attired in the kind of garments worn by the maids at Markley Chase, but still showed promise that, to his partial eye at least, she would grow into a beauty. Like him, her height was no more than average, her hair a little darker than his own and draped over her shoulders in untidy curls. Her figure was slender and as yet barely formed. She had his blue eyes.

“How did you get here?” he asked.

“On the stage.”

“
Why
are you here?”

“Didn’t you understand my message?” she said reproachfully. “Mother reads my letters so I couldn’t say more, but I know how clever you are. I thought you’d understand.”

“I’m sorry, my dear. I didn’t believe it could be anything serious. I take it I was wrong.”

“Well, it was. It is.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it.”

“Mother wants me to marry Mr. Ditchfield.”

“What?”

Since their last meeting Cain had many resentful thoughts about his surviving parent but he’d never questioned her sanity. His eyes narrowed. The Reverend Josiah Ditchfield had been present at their last interview following his father’s funeral. Forty-five if he was a day, the man had rubbed his hands together in a particularly egregious fashion as his mother recited her husband’s version of Cain’s sins, with a few apposite biblical quotations. He hadn’t bothered to persuade Cain to renounce his wicked ways. As far
as Ditchfield was concerned, nothing could save his former pupil from hellfire.

“You don’t have to marry anyone you don’t want,” he assured Esther.

“Mother talked and talked at me. She told me I was a wicked girl to turn down such a worthy and godly gentleman who was good enough to wish to wed me. Even though I am frequently defiant and don’t show sufficient respect for the Lord’s will.”

Good enough! Cain had no doubt that Esther’s fortune of fifty thousand pounds was the incentive, greater even than her youthful flesh. The thought of the Reverend Josiah getting those greasy hands on his little sister made him want to retch. What on earth could his mother be thinking?

He considered for a moment. “Old Staveley won’t allow it. Does he know? I’ll write to him.”

Esther’s lower lip quivered. “Lord Staveley is dead.”

That showed the depth of the family estrangement, that he’d never heard his mother’s cousin, who was joined with her in Esther’s guardianship, had died.

“And I didn’t think I could refuse Mother,” Esther continued. “She locked me in my room and said I would have only bread and water until I agreed.”

“How did you escape?”

“I climbed down the ivy.” She rolled back her sleeves to display fading scratches on her lower arms.

“Well done, you little minx.” He was delighted that a lifetime in that gloomy mansion hadn’t broken her spirit. “Where did you get those dreadful clothes?”

“Mother made me wear them. She said I showed an excess of vanity and must wear homespun and dark colors until I amended my attitude.”

Lady Chase had outfoxed herself there. Esther would have found her escape on a public coach much harder had she been dressed according to her rank.

“I’ll have to let her know where you are.”

“Oh no! Please, John. She’ll make me go back and marry him.”

“I don’t approve of her plans,” he said gently, “but she is your mother and she’ll be worried. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

He only hoped that was true. The first thing he needed to do was consult a barrister, a good one. His face hardened. He was going to find the best damn lawyer in London.

Mel bustled in with a tray. He was surprised it had taken her this long.

“So who’s this, Cain?” she asked, arranging the food on a small table. “Tom said it was your sister. ‘And I’m the Queen of France,’ I says. ‘I’ve heard that one before.’” She turned and subjected Esther to a sharp-eyed examination. “But since she’s the dead image of you it might be true.”

“Mel, this is Lady Esther Godfrey. And you are quite correct. She is my sister. My dear, allow me to present my housekeeper, Mrs. Duchamp.”

“That’s all right, love. Call me Mel. We ain’t formal here. Come and sit yourself down and have something to eat.”

Esther stared at Mel with huge eyes. Cain doubted she’d ever heard an endearment from a housekeeper.
Or seen one so oddly dressed. Oblivious to Esther’s astonishment, Mel chattered on, pressing the girl to try the cold meats, salad, and fruit. Only when she took herself back below stairs did Esther, who had tackled her food with youth’s healthy appetite, speak again.

“Your housekeeper is quite unusual, John.”

“Yes, but perfectly capable. Is the meal to your satisfaction?”

“But she’s wearing a pink gown.”

“Tell me about your journey,” Cain said hastily.

Esther gave him a look suggesting she’d like to stick with the original subject, but good manners prevailed. She was happy enough to describe the journey from Gloucestershire, the characters she’d encountered on the stage, the novelty of spending a night in an inn at Hungerford.

“I told the landlord I was a lady’s maid traveling to a new situation and he believed me,” she said proudly. “And when I reached London I didn’t know how to find your house and a lady came up to me and said she’d take me in a carriage.”

Cain froze.

“But then,” Esther continued blithely, “a kind man told me he’d take me in his hackney and the lady needn’t trouble herself.” She paused. “He was a little bit rude to her, I think. She said a word I’d never heard before and went away.”

Having been merely grateful that Esther had made her way on the public stage without mishap, Cain offered fervent silent thanks to the unknown driver for deflecting the marauding abbess. He was only too fa
miliar with tales of such despicable creatures who met the coaches, trolling for country flesh to fill the brothels. Hazardous as Esther’s journey had been, it was nothing to the dangers she’d face as a young female alone in the metropolis.

“Listen, my dear. You’re in London now and you must never go out alone.”

“I won’t need to,” she said. “You’ll take me about. Will you take me shopping? I’ve spent almost all my pin money but you’ll give me some more, won’t you?”

“As soon as I’ve determined your situation. I’m not your guardian, remember.”

Cain fully expected that Lady Chase, or her emissaries, would be hard on Esther’s heels to recover her from her wicked brother. Until he’d examined his legal options he intended to keep his sister indoors and well guarded. And little as he was accustomed to trouble himself with matters of propriety, things were different when it came to Esther. In the general run of things there was nothing exceptional about a girl being escorted by her brother. Except when the brother was Cain, one of London’s most scandalous denizens.

“You won’t make me go back, will you, John? Please let me stay with you.”

“There’s nothing I’d like better and I’ll do everything I can.”

“Why don’t you ever come home?” She rose from her chair and came around the table to stand in front of him, her face creased in distress. Suddenly she seemed eight years old again. “Even when you re
turned after Papa died, you didn’t come and see
me
. Why?
Why?
I missed you so much.”

He couldn’t explain why his mother refused to let him spend even a single night under the same roof as them.

“It’s complicated.”

She began to weep. “You’ve been gone so long.”

He took her in his arms and hugged her, as he had the day his father dismissed him from the house. Just as he had then, he murmured comforting words, rubbed her back, and dried her tears.

Then he recalled what happened next. He drew back and handed her the handkerchief. “The day I left. Why did you cry?” His father had interrupted them before she could tell him. “Do you still remember?”

“I remember,” she said with a gulp. “But I shouldn’t say.”

“Esty! This is your brother, John. You can tell me anything.”

She paused and sniffed again. “I went into Mother’s sitting room.”

“Yes?”

“Papa was there. He whipped her, with a switch.”

The bastard. The hypocritical bastard.
His chest burned with impotent anger.

“Did he ever hit you?” If his father were still alive he’d ride to Markley Chase and tear him apart with his bare hands.

“No. Mother spanked me when I was naughty.”

He hoped “spank” didn’t equate with the severe whippings he’d suffered at his father’s hands.

“And our mother? Did he beat
her
again?”

She looked away.

“Esther?”

“Yes. Mother explained to me he only did it when she misbehaved. I don’t know why. Mother is always good.”

Guilt fastened like a vise on his gut. His life hadn’t always been easy, it was true. But he’d left his mother and sister in the hands of a violent monster.