The Marquess of Temptation

by Claudia Stone

  Hestia felt as if she was missing the vital piece of information that was making the Marquess so irate. True, she was reading a book in the park, but where was the crime in that?

  "Yes," she picked up the book, "It's a rather good book actually, if you don't mind I'd like to finish it."

  She knew that she was being rude, and she was certain that she should not speak to a man of such high rank as the Marquess in so impertinent a manner, but so as to avoid his smouldering gaze she returned her eyes to the page.

  "I do mind."

  The book was plucked from her grasp, forcing her to look upward at the man who had so rudely stolen it. "In fact, I mind very much. Green Park is no place for a lady to be alone. It is dangerous."

  "Dangerous?"

  As though to underscore the ridiculousness of his statement, Henry, tail wagging, came bounding over toward them in keen pursuit of a butterfly. Both Hestia and the Marquess watched silently as the Cavalier gave up his chase of the colourful insect and lay down lazily in the grass, which was littered with cheerful looking daisies and cowslips. Hestia tried to hide her delight as a small tinge of pink coloured Falconbridge's cheeks as he registered that the unfolding scene had completely contradicted what he had just said. His embarrassment would almost have been endearing, if the man himself hadn't been so intimidating.

  Lord Delaney was over six foot tall, with broad shoulders, muscular legs and an athletic frame that was encased in the most impeccable, fashionable attire. Attire that Hestia estimated probably cost many times more than her yearly wage. All this would have been tolerable if it were not for his face, which was so sinfully handsome it was almost painful to look at. He was all hard angles --high cheekbones and a strong jaw --but they were softened somewhat by his eyes--a startling blue framed by black lashes-- as well as his hair which was dark, with a slight curl. He reminded Hestia somewhat of the paintings of angels one saw in the galleries in town, and she could see why the papers had dubbed him The Marquess of Temptation, for everything about him was tempting and lush.

  "Yes," the Marquess continued, his jaw set stubbornly, "Despite appearances, Green Park can be a hotbed for criminal activity. I won't rest easy until I see you safely home. I could not bear the thought of a lady, such as yourself, coming to any harm."

  "But I am not a lady," Hestia gently reminded him, her thoughts flashing to the newspaper article on her father. She was the daughter of a privateer, born out of scandal, she was the furthest thing possible from a lady.

  "Says who?"

  The Marquess quirked an eyebrow, an act that seemed to let loose a colony of butterflies in Hestia's stomach.

  "Says everyone," she laughed nervously, standing to her feet. "Society, Lady Jarvis; why if the patronesses of Almack's were to interview me, they would say it too. I am no Lady, my Lord, though I am a Lady's companion and that is good enough for me."

  She gave a light laugh, trying to brush off the awkwardness of the conversation --why, oh why, had she not simply ignored his initial remark? Now he was staring at her thoughtfully, in a way that made her feel ridiculously thrilled and overwhelmingly nervous, all at the same time.

  "You are every inch the lady, Miss Bowstock," he finally replied solemnly. He hesitated, as though he wanted to say more, but looked down at Henry instead. "Though this little chap is no gentleman."

  Indeed, during the course of their conversation, Henry had decided that the Marquess's gleaming Hessians looked good enough to eat. The small dog was licking them with great determination, as though sensing that at one stage in their lifetime, the boots had previously been an edible animal.

  "Oh, Henry," Hestia gave a sigh, and scooped the small offender up into her arms. "You must not lick the Marquess's boots, it's naughty."

  "Does he respond well to verbal reasoning?" there was a note of amusement in Lord Delaney's voice that made the corners of Hestia's lips tug into an involuntary smile.

  "He does not," she grinned, "Henry only responds to bribes. Food is his first preference, affection comes in a close second."

  "Then he is like every other man in the world."

  For a few seconds they both stood in the tall grass, grinning stupidly at each other. Hestia, who had never spent any time alone with a man, wondered if this would be considered flirting.

  How wrong I was about him, she thought with surprise, annoyed with herself for having misjudged him so.

  "Enough chit chat," the Marquess's tone was suddenly brusque, "As I was saying Green Park is no place for a woman to be alone. Come, I will take you back to Berkeley Square."

  "And as I was saying, I have no need to be escorted anywhere, my Lord," Hestia bristled at his tone, her affectionate thoughts evaporating as he once again assumed the air of an entitled Lord. "You would do me more harm than good escorting me home, how would I explain your presence if anyone from the household saw you?"

  "I hope someone sees me," Falconbridge drawled, "For I want to have words with Miss Deveraux on her lack of concern for your safety."

  Never before had Hestia felt so overwhelmed with frustration; it was like conversing with a brick wall. A stubborn headed, arrogant, pompous brick wall. She knew that no matter what she said, the Marquess would not listen, so, sensing she had no other choice, she turned on her heel and began to stalk away.

  "Where are you going?"

  Hestia ignored his irritated call and continued on her path across the field. Henry, who was still in her arms, wriggled in a valiant attempt to escape her clutches and return to the Marquess --but she held tight. She did not once look over her shoulder to see if the Marquess was following her, but she knew that he was from the annoyed sighs she heard as he shadowed her steps. When she reached the Queen's Walk, a stone path that ran the length of the park, she saw a huge, dark stallion tethered to the gate post. From its impressive gleaming coat and its sheer magnificence, Hestia assumed that the horse belonged to Lord Delaney. She did not wait for him to untie the beast, instead she continued on with great determination --she would reach Berkeley Square without the Marquess's assistance.

  She crossed at Piccadilly, weaving her way through the carriages and carts that thronged the street with Henry still in her arms. Mayfair was a short stroll away, Hestia hurried along the much quieter Clarges Street, where finally she dared to look behind her. He was gone; she breathed a sigh of relief. He must have lost sight of her at Piccadilly -- thank goodness for that. She set Henry down on the footpath and as she did so realised that she had left her book behind her in the park.

  Drat, she thought with annoyance. The book, a small leather-bound volume, had detailed Napoleon's exploits in Egypt at the start of the century and his surrender of Cairo to the English. It wasn't her usual reading material, but Jane had told her that it delved into the disappearance of several ancient artifacts during the military transition, artifacts that were thought to have been stolen from the Navy by pirates.

  Instantly Hestia's mind had leapt to the newspaper article on her father, and how he was supposed to have carried out daring raids on Navy ships at that time. Truthfully, the book had been rather a bore, filled with analysis of military tactics and it had not mentioned her father once, but it had reignited her zeal for finding out what had happened to him that fateful night.

  She glanced back toward Piccadilly, thinking that she might return to the park to collect the novel, but her eyes caught a glimpse of a tall man on horseback at the far end of the road.

  Drat him anyway, she sighed, picking Henry back up and hurrying toward home; it would have to wait for another day.

  Chapter Four

  He was losing his mind.

  That was the only explanation that Alex could think of for his uncharacteristic behaviour that morning. Whilst riding through Green Park, he had caught sight of a most familiar looking bonnet and, on impulse, had dismounted his horse and followed the bonnet's wearer across the fields. He had then proceeded to be so overcome with righteous indignation at the object of his affection's i
rresponsible behaviour that he had failed in his initial mission - to charm Miss Belinda Bowstock.

  Judging by the angry, stiff set of shoulders that he was trailing through the streets of Mayfair, his charm needed more than a little polishing; Miss Bowstock was livid with anger. Alex kept a safe distance as she turned onto Berkeley Square, watching to make sure she was safely inside Jarvis House, before turning back in the direction of Piccadilly.

  Why he was so fixated with Miss Bowstock was beyond his understanding, and Alex hated anything that could not be rationally explained. She was the opposite of the type of woman he preferred; where his usual paramours were sultry and experienced, Miss Bowstock was innocent and more than a little naive. Not to mention stubborn headed. Alex, given his title, was used to women veritably throwing themselves at him --not stalking away in the opposite direction without so much as a backward glance.

  The streets of London were thronged with people, rich and poor, going about their daily business. Alex guided Pegasus carefully through the heavy morning traffic of carriages and carts, finally reaching his original destination about a half hour after he had planned.

  The offices of Miley and Son Solicitors was located on Half Moon Street, which itself was named after the tavern that stood on the corner. The buildings were modest yet genteel, with brown brick facades and sash windows that revealed little of the occupants inside. Miley and Sons was located two doors up from the tavern, with only a small brass plaque beside the front door to announce its presence.

  Alex knocked, a loud rap, that was instantly answered by a beleaguered looking young man with sandy hair and spectacles.

  "My Lord," the young man gave an exaggerated bow, "We have been waiting for your arrival. Old Miley cannot begin reading the will until all beneficiaries are present."

  "My apologies for being late," Alex replied, feeling not in the least bit sorry for his tardiness. He had no idea why he had been summoned to the reading of his late wife's, late cousin's husband's will, and if it weren't for the fact that Mr. Miley Senior had sent him no less than five letters demanding his presence, Alex would not have come at all.

  "No need to apologise," the young man blustered, gesturing for Alex to follow him down a dim corridor. "There is no hurry, Mr Miley Senior abhors rushing of any kind."

  Nearly half an hour later, as Alex waited for the elderly, consumptive solicitor to finish reading the last will and testament of David Stockbow, he realised that the young man had been right. Old Miley spoke at a pace that left Alex stifling a yawn as he waited for him to finish. A young man named Captain Black, the only other person present, wore a similar look of boredom as he listened to the old man ramble on.

  "Ah," Miley rasped, the phlegm in his chest audibly gurgling, "Now we get to the good bit."

  Alex perked up, his interest piqued. David Stockbow had been a notorious privateer in his younger days, and was suspected of having stolen many things, including ancient Egyptian artifacts, among which, it was thought, was the missing part of the Egyptian steele he and Pierre Dubois were trying to decipher. Was it possible that Stockbow had learned of their familial connection and Alex's passion for hieroglyphics and decided to do the honest thing? Alex doubted it, but he pricked his ears and listened intently none the less.

  "To my daughter, Hestia B. Stockbow, I bequest all my worldly goods, excepting my ruby-hilt sword which I leave to Captain James Black, as thanks for saving my life."

  Alex stole a glance at the young man who sat to the left of him; he was well dressed and handsome, not the type of man who looked like he would be anyway inclined toward saving a criminal's life. He idly wondered how on earth that scenario had arisen, but his imaginings were cut off as the solicitor spoke again.

  "And finally," Miley read slowly, his rheumy blue eyes fixed on Alex, "Should I die before my daughter reaches her majority, I wish to entrust her guardianship to Alex Delaney, Marquess of Falconbridge."

  "A ward?" Alex was so shocked he had not realised he had spoken aloud until Miley replied "Yes" with a cackle.

  "Good God," Alex blustered, "What on earth am I supposed to do with a ward?"

  "Well," Miley lay down the sheath of paper on the table and eyed him with unconcealed amusement, "You could start by finding her first. You see, since her father's death, Miss Hestia B. Stockbow seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth."

  It took all of Alex's will power not to snarl in annoyance, for the elderly solicitor looked positively gleeful as he imparted the news. Wonderful, Alex thought to himself, not only had he inherited a ward, he had inherited a mystery as well.

  "I can help you find her," Captain Black spoke for the first time, his voice as clipped and aristocratic as Alex's own. "For I owe Stockbow my life as much as he owes his to me."

  The offer to trade the gallant Captain his ward for the Captain's ruby sword was on the tip of Alex's tongue, but he somehow resisted.

  "Thank you Captain," he said instead. "Once Miley furnishes me with the last known whereabouts of Miss Stockbow perhaps we shall retire to the Half Moon to discuss our search?"

  "I could do with a glass of ale," Black replied cheerfully.

  "I could do with a gallon of it," was Alex's dour response.

  White's was not a place that Alex frequented regularly; he was usually too absorbed in his work to bother dedicating himself to nights of drinking, like so many of his peers. That evening, however, after having spent the afternoon in the rather amicable company of Captain Black, Alex found himself alighting the steps of the prestigious gentleman's club for the first time that season.

  "Lud," a cheerful voice called as he entered the warmly lit drawing room. "Falconbridge, I haven't seen you in an age."

  "Payne," Alex inclined his head toward James Fairweather, whom he had known since childhood, "Fancy meeting you here."

  Lord Payne either missed or ignored the sarcasm in Alex's tone, for he gestured for the Marquess to join him at his table at the club's famous bow window.

  "My congratulations on your engagement," Alex offered, as a discreet footman placed a fresh decanter of brandy before the two men. "Miss Deveraux is quite the woman, rather different from the wife I had imagined you would choose."

  "I know," Payne looked very pleased with himself, "She's terribly clever. Lud knows what she sees in a man like me."

  Alex, if he hadn't known that Payne was a most loyal and kind man, would have been inclined to agree. The younger man had always been known as a rakehell, who was forever involved in some sort of trouble, brought on by his impulsive nature. That he had chosen the sensible Miss Deveraux as his bride had shocked the ton, though judging by the smitten look on Payne's face, it was a most suitable match.

  "To your future health and happiness," Alex said, raising the tumbler of brandy that had been poured for him. He drank deeply on the amber liquid, savouring the warmth of it trickling into his belly. A man could get fond of brandy, he mused, if he put his mind to it.

  "How goes all in the world of..." Lord Payne trailed off and threw Alex an apologetic glance.

  "Hieroglyphics," he helpfully supplied, suppressing a grin. "It does not go well, I'm afraid. Dubois and I are trying to translate a piece of writing on a stone steele, but a chunk of it is missing, which is making the whole exercise rather pointless."

  "Well, couldn't you just try finding the missing chunk?" Payne asked, wearing a patient expression on his handsome face.

  "Gosh, I don't know why we didn't think of that."

  Alex's father had once told him that sarcasm was the lowest form of humour and when Payne gave him a pitying smile, Alex began to see why. His scoffing tone had gone un-noted by Lord Payne, who grinned brilliantly at having solved Alex's dilemma.

  "Sometimes we overlook the most obvious solution," Payne said, lifting his glass in a toast to simplicity. Alex did not know whether to laugh or cry and in the end he simply opted to raise his own glass in a return toast.

  "Yes, well, I'm afraid I won't get around to
searching for the stone anytime soon," Alex said with a sigh, "I'm headed to Cornwall in the morning."

  "Bit chilly for the seaside, old chap."

  "Would that I was going to the seaside," Alex laughed, "I have...a legal matter to attend to."

  He didn't want to mention the business with Miss Hestia Stockbow in front of Payne, lest the chap said something to his intended, who might then mention it to her companion. Goodness, he started as his train of thought reached its end, why on earth was he concerned about what Miss Belinda Bowstock thought of his having inherited a ward? As the Marquess of Falconbridge he was one of the wealthiest men in England and, with that, came power and influence. He shouldn't care about the thoughts of a lowly lady's companion --and yet he did.

  "Sounds exciting," Payne deadpanned, setting his empty tumbler on the table and standing up. "If you can bear any more excitement when you get back, come down to Hawkfield Manor. Caroline is talking about holding a small get together of friends and family before the wedding."

  "Sounds a treat," Alex answered truthfully, for his mind had instantly deduced that the chances of Miss Bowstock being present were quite high. He lifted his hand in a lazy wave as Lord Payne made his exit. The club was quiet, as it was midweek, and only a few souls still loitered in the drawing room. From inside the breast pocket of his coat Alex withdrew the book that Miss Bowstock had left behind in Green Park. It was a small, leather-bound work on military tactics and battles, focusing especially on the period that the French occupied Egypt, some twenty years previously. Alex was rather bewildered by Miss Bowstock's choice of reading material; he had expected it to be a Gothic Romance, which were popular with the young ladies of the ton. That she read obscure writings on what had been, for the most part, unimportant military skirmishes just added to her intrigue. He could not place what it was about Miss Bowstock that had so captured his interest; yes, she was beautiful, but so were many other women - women with better social standing than she. Perhaps it was that she seemed thoroughly unimpressed by his title, where most people saw nothing but his rank when they saw him. It was that, he decided, and her fragility, because, while Miss Bowstock did her best to give the impression of being thoroughly independent and self reliant, Alex saw past her stubborn exterior. She seemed to be completely and utterly alone in the world and it inspired feelings of tender protectiveness that he had never felt toward anyone before...even if she was loathe to take the protection he offered. He heaved a sigh and finished his drink; his protective feelings toward Miss Bowstock would have to be put on hold, for he had a missing ward to find.