"I am sorry," Hestia offered, wondering why she was apologising, when it was the Marquess who was at fault. "Do you study hieroglyphics as well?"
"I do not study them," Dubois replied arrogantly, "I live and breathe them. Tell me, has Lord Delaney mentioned the missing stone to you?"
"No," Hestia answered honestly, she hadn't the faintest idea what the Frenchman was speaking of. He narrowed his eyes in annoyance at her reply and heaved an irritated sigh.
"For the past year, Falconbridge and I have been trying to decipher a steele from ancient Egypt. Our progress is being hampered by the fact that a large piece of it is missing. The missing piece was thought to have been stolen by pirates, who attacked a British Navy ship. The man suspected of this act of theft was none other than your father."
Dubois finished speaking and looked at her pointedly, waiting for her response, but Hestia was speechless at his revelation.
"Has Lord Delaney not yet asked you if you know where the stone might be?" he questioned impatiently.
When Hestia shook her head, he clucked his tongue in disapproval.
"Honestly, there is no point in pussyfooting around the question. Do you know where it might be? Did your father ever tell you where he hid his treasures?"
"My father pawned nearly everything he stole," she whispered, delivering her words in a voice that shook with threatened tears. "He wasn't particularly adept at managing his finances. If he had stolen that stone that you are looking for, Sir, then I regret to inform you that it could be anywhere. Perhaps try Mr Meagher's Pawn Shop, in Truro. He might remember purchasing it from my father."
"Truro," Dubois gave a snort, "I'm not trekking all the way back there again."
"Again?" Hestia tried to keep her voice steady as she spoke, ignoring her heart which was hammering a wild tattoo in her chest.
"I was there a few months ago," Dubois gave a Gallic shrug, "Hoping that I might find some information on the stone. My journey bore little fruit, sadly. When Falconbridge said he was marrying you, I hoped that you might be useful to our search. I can see I was wrong. Good day, Miss Stockbow."
Pierre Dubois touched the brim of his hat in a goodbye salutation, leaving Hestia standing alone on the path, rooted to the spot in shock.
Her mind was whirring as she tried to register all that had transpired. This man, this blonde man, had been in Truro just before her father's death. He obviously believed that David Stockbow had stolen the stone, and he certainly seemed obsessed by getting it back.
Was it possible that Pierre Dubois had killed her father?
A chill wind brought her mind back to the present and she decided that she had had enough of Green Park. Hestia hurried back the path she had come down, clutching her shawl tightly around her body for warmth. There was something else bothering her, something that Dubois had said.
He had questioned if Falconbridge had asked her "yet" where the stone might be, which implied that the two men had been discussing her. It also implied that the Marquess, for all his talk of honour, chivalry and responsibility, had ulterior motives when he had asked her to be his bride.
Anger began to simmer within and by the time that Hestia arrived back at the Thackery's Mayfair home, her fury was fit to boil over.
"Where on earth have you been?"
The authoritative tone of the Marquess as he greeted her in the entrance hall, did little to dampen Hestia's rage. His handsome face wore a look of smug superiority, and he seemed filled with righteous indignation. Well, she'd show him indignation.
"Out for a walk," she snapped, as she passed her shawl to a waiting footman, who quickly disappeared with it.
"Alone?"
If she had not been so angry herself, the icy fury in that one word would have petrified her. Falconbridge's expression was thunderous at her revelation that she had walked alone, despite his previously having forbid it.
"No. Not alone, I brought Henry," Hestia said, tugging at the buttons of her gloves as she struggled to take them off. "And I met your friend Mr. Dubois. Tell me, my Lord, when were you going to reveal to me that you thought I was keeping the location of stolen historical artifacts a secret? Before or after the wedding?"
His stunned silence was most gratifying. Hestia checked a victorious smile that was threatening and concentrated instead on trying to unbutton her gloves, which was proving a most difficult task.
"Here," the Marquess finally said, coming to stand beside her, "Allow me."
He took her hand in his and began to undo the dozen or so buttons which ran from her elbow to her wrist. He worked quickly to free one hand, but took his time over the second glove. She watched, a little breathlessly, as he worked his way, painstakingly slowly, to the final button. She had not known that such a simple act could be turned into something that felt almost sinfully intimate.
"Please believe me," Falconbridge said, as he pulled the glove from her hand. "That your father's connection to my work, in no way influenced my decision to marry you. In fact, until Dubois mentioned it, it had completely left my mind."
"Why should I believe you?" Hestia questioned.
"Because I am telling the truth."
Falconbridge took her bare hand in his and squeezed it tightly, before holding it against his broad chest. Hestia could feel his heart thumping within, and was startled to find that its beat was as erratic as her own; was it possible that the Marquess had been as affected by their interaction as she? It was a ridiculous thought, for he had probably undressed dozens of women over his lifetime, in much more passionate circumstances -- he would hardly find the removal of a pair of gloves exciting in comparison.
"Mr Dubois said that he was in Truro in the weeks before my father's death," Hestia said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. She tugged her hand away from his and began to pace the chequered tiles of the entrance hall. "Do you think Dubois could have killed him?"
"Dubois?" Falconbridge gave a bark of laughter. "He wouldn't be capable of anything like that."
"How do you know?" Hestia rounded on him, furious that he wasn't taking her seriously. "He seemed obsessed by the ruddy thing, from what I saw. Perhaps in a moment of madness, when my father would not give up his secrets, Mr Dubois just snapped?"
She clicked her fingers in a most un-ladylike fashion to emphasise her point, ignoring the look of incredulity on Falconbridge's handsome face.
"Did you know that he had gone to Truro?" she asked.
"He said he was going for a week to Cornwall to visit friends," the Marquess confessed.
"So he hid the fact that he went there from you?" she asked pointedly; that was a most illuminating piece of information. Why would Dubois not tell his colleague that he had tried to find the stone, unless he had something to hide?
"I think you are being ridiculous," Falconbridge replied, rather pompously, as she finished speaking. "I know Pierre Dubois, I have worked with him for years. The man is not capable of murder. In fact, he's not capable of buttoning his own shirt without the help of a valet. He did not kill your father, believe me."
"That's the second time today, that you've asked me to put my faith in your honesty, my Lord," Hestia retorted. "And you have put no faith whatsoever in my suspicions. If you'll excuse me, I must go upstairs and rest."
"I shall be here all evening," he called after her.
"And I shall be in my room all evening," Hestia replied, "Believe me."
Chapter Twelve
One's wedding was supposed to be a joyous occasion, but Hestia Stockbow wore an expression more suited to a funeral, as she exchanged vows with Alex.
The girl had not spoken to him properly since that disastrous afternoon, nearly a week before, when he had roundly dismissed her suspicions that Dubois had killed her father. Alex knew that he had been right in his beliefs, but he reluctantly conceded that could have been a tad more tactful in the way he had responded. Hestia had every right to be annoyed with him, and he was longing to apologise, but the stubborn woman had steadfastly avoided
being alone with him, and so he had not had the opportunity to say sorry.
That would end today though, he thought with relief, there was no way that she could continue ignoring him once they were wed.
The wedding was a simple affair; the pair exchanged vows in the morning room of Thackery House, with Phoebe, the Earl and the newlywed Lord and Lady Payne present. Hestia was resplendent in a gown of pale, butter yellow that complimented her colouring. Alex thought fondly on her old, yellow ribboned bonnet, which he had not seen for a while, and decided that the colour suited his wife to perfection. He would commission a modiste to make her a dozen dresses all in varying shades, he decided.
Once the Vicar pronounced them married, the party retired to the dining room, where a breakfast buffet was laid out. Hestia took a seat beside Alex and silently began to eat her trout and eggs, as though he were not there.
"Are you going to ignore me forever?" Alex whispered, a little aggrieved that his new bride was so obviously underwhelmed by him.
"That depends. Are you going to continue to ignore me?" she asked calmly, placing her knife and fork down. "I told you that I believed my father was murdered, and you promised to help me find the perpetrator. Then you completely dismissed me when I presented you with a suspect who had means and motive."
Means and motive? Goodness, what type of ridiculous novels was she reading?
"I dismissed your claims because I know Dubois and I know that I am right in saying he did not kill your father," Alex tried to keep his voice low. "Though perhaps I was a bit rude in the way that I explained myself. As for ignoring your suspicions that foul play was involved in your father's death, quite the opposite is true. I have arranged for us to honeymoon in Cornwall, where we can investigate the matter properly."
"We are going to Cornwall?"
Finally his new wife met his eye and he was left almost speechless by her beauty. Her huge, blue eyes were filled with hope and her plump mouth was parted as she awaited his reply. Alex had never seen her look so beautiful, and he wished that he had not promised her that he would wait until she was ready, to consummate the marriage.
"Yes, we will leave once breakfast has finished," he said casually. "I have a small estate near Penzance, though, obviously, we shall visit Truro first to begin our investigations."
"Oh, thank you, my Lord!" Hestia squealed, her face wreathed in a smile.
"For Heaven's sake, you're my wife now, call me Alex."
"Thank you, Alex," she repeated softly, offering him a shy smile that melted his heart. He had never heard a sweeter sound than his name on her lips.
Once breakfast had finished, and the newlyweds had said their goodbyes, Alex, Hestia and Henry all clambered in to the Marquess's well-sprung carriage. He tried to hide his surprise as the footman helped a fourth person inside --Hestia's flame haired lady's maid, Catherine.
His visions of he and his new wife sharing a tender moment instantly vanished; it seemed that Hestia too had realised the romantic opportunities a carriage ride might present, and had decided to put an obstacle in the way.
Catherine was a pleasant girl, if a little talkative by the usual servant's standards. She and Hestia chatted easily for the duration of the journey, sharing an easy friendship that Alex was actually quite envious of.
As darkness fell, they stopped at a Coaching Inn, just outside of Alton, to rest for the night. Their bags and Alex's trusty valet, Thomas, had followed in a carriage behind them.
The proprietor of the inn fawned over the Marquess and his new bride, showing them to what he promised was his best room. Alex tried not to visibly grimace when the door opened to reveal a rather basic, but mercifully clean, room, with a large double bed and what looked like, he hoped, a feather mattress.
"Will my Lord and Lady be taking supper?" the inn-keeper asked hopefully.
"Yes, after we freshen up," Alex said with a nod. "Please have someone bring up some hot water for my wife."
My wife; the words felt natural as they rolled off his tongue.
The inn keeper nodded, gave a ridiculously elaborate bow and hurried off to fetch the bathwater. The door closed behind him with a sharp click, and Alex gave a happy sigh; finally he was alone with Hestia.
"How do you feel after the journey?" he asked.
She was standing by the window, with her back to him, staring out into the yard below.
"Quite well," she chirped, like a startled bird. His new wife was fidgeting with the sleeve of her dress, plucking the material in an absent minded, anxious way.
She's nervous, he realised with a jolt. Of course she was nervous, he could have cursed his thoughtlessness. Hestia was but twenty years of age, a young woman who had led, by all accounts, a sheltered life. Heaven knew what she thought might happen tonight, or what grisly tales of the marriage bed she had heard.
"When I said that I would not take you, until you were ready, I meant it," he said quietly, speaking across the distance between them. "Do not fear me, I'm not about to ravish you."
Never had he witnessed a woman flush so quickly; Hestia's cheeks were so red that if he had touched them, he thought they might scald him.
"Excuse my directness," he continued with an amused laugh at her obvious embarrassment, "We are married now, we can speak to each other openly about such things."
"Do you mind?" she ventured, turning to look at him, "Waiting?"
"I can't say I'll enjoy it," he grumbled in good-natured way, "But I won't be waiting too long...believe me."
Her eyes narrowed and the corners of her mouth quirked at his assured statement, he knew her well enough now, to know that she would try to resist the challenge --if only to prove him wrong.
"Pray tell, husband dear, how can you be so confident?"
"Your eyes give your true feelings away," he replied easily, crossing the room in three long strides so that he was standing before her. He cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her face up, so that she had nowhere to look but at him.
"You can't hide desire, Hestia," he whispered softly, "Not with eyes as expressive as yours."
Before she had a chance to protest that she felt no such thing, Alex dropped his lips to hers in a soft, tender kiss. The moment their lips connected, she melted against him, thus proving his point perfectly. His lips, which were still on hers, curled into a triumphant smile, which she seemed to feel, for she pulled away defiantly.
"That's not fair," she protested, thwacking his chest with her hand. "You took me by surprise, and besides, you have far more experience than I at this!"
"And that's the way it shall stay," he whispered possessively, "You won't be gaining experience with anyone but me."
His lips claimed hers again in a kiss that was far more passionate than the last, perhaps it would have progressed further but a knock on the door jolted them apart.
"I shall call for Catherine to assist you," Alex said, in voice that was hoarse with desire, as a chamber-maid carried a steaming bucket of water inside. He ran a distracted hand through his hair and went in search of Hestia's lady's maid. His wife was right when she had said that he had far more experience than she, though he had never experienced a passion like this in all his life.
"Tell me about the night your father died," Alex said, later that evening when they had finished dining. They were seated in a small parlour of the inn, which afforded them the privacy needed to discuss David Stockbow's apparent murder.
In a halting voice, that occasionally shook with emotion, Hestia laid out the facts of the matter.
"Have you any idea who the blonde haired man, that your father saw, might be?" Alex asked, once his wife had finished speaking.
"I'm rather inclined to think it was Dubois," she answered tartly, casting him a defiant look.
"And, as I have told you, I'm rather inclined to think that it wasn't," he dead-panned, scratching his chin thoughtfully.
"Your father made many enemies over his lifetime, all infinitely more dangerous than Pierre Dubois," he con
tinued gently. "Can you think of anything else he might have stolen, that would cause someone to murder him in cold blood?"
"He always brought back things of value," Hestia replied with a shrug, reaching down to scoop Henry up into her lap. "Furs, jewels --things that could be pawned easily. There was never that much left by the time he reached England. I'm wont to think that in his latter years, he wasn't that adept at piracy."
"The world changed," Alex shrugged, "The Navy became better equipped during the war. Your father would have been a foolish man to try and take on any of Wellington's ships."
Indeed, toward the middle of the war, David Stockbow seemed to have disappeared from the seas, from what Alex knew. Captain Black, the young man to whom Stockbow had left his sword, had alluded that the pirate was engaged in other activities, but had point blank refused to divulge any more information when Alex had pressed him. It all left Alex feeling rather uncomfortable, for if Stockbow had been engaged in espionage for the French and it all came to light, then his new wife's reputation would never recover. She would be shunned completely by a society that had only just reluctantly accepted her.
"We will reach Truro by nightfall tomorrow," Alex said, as the inn-keeper brought him a tankard of ale. "I can have Thomas check the local taverns, to see if he can discover anything. People will be far more willing to talk to him than I."
That was because the people Thomas would be speaking to, would be thieves and ruffians, who had a natural mistrust of the aristocracy --though Alex wasn't about to tell his new bride that.
Once his pint was finished, the new bride and groom repaired to their bedroom. Alex gritted his teeth against the well wishes of the inn-keeper, who gave him a subtle, saucy wink as he passed. The man naturally believed that the Marquess was retiring to consummate his marriage, when the opposite was in fact true.
Hestia changed behind the screen, in the corner of the room, whilst Alex undressed easily by the wash-basin. She shuffled out, wearing a petrified look and a nightshift that fell to the floor.
"Don't look so frightened," Alex grumbled, as he quickly washed his chest with the cool water in the basin. "Did we not discuss tonight's activities earlier?"
The Marquess of Temptation Page 9
