by Amy Corwin
“Cecilia, that is quite enough! We have obviously spoiled you beyond all reason—”
Cecilia broke into loud, wracking sobs, and her father came to an abrupt halt. After a moment, Cecilia sniffed and cleared her throat. “I am not spoiled—I am frightened! Do you not understand? Please do not make me marry him. Dorothy would do just as well if you wish for a family connection with Lord Arundell, and she seems willing enough.”
Willing enough? Dorothy stiffened. Through the ages, untold numbers of women had sacrificed themselves for duty, but she had never viewed herself as one of them, except perhaps when it came to Grace. Dorothy would do anything to grant her younger sister the opportunity to marry for love, even if her choice were Mr. Blyth. Then at least two of them, Martha and Grace, would have happy unions. Two out of three was good—excellent, really—and more than any of the girls could have hoped for after their father had fallen ill and they’d realized the abysmal state of their finances.
As for Dorothy, well, despite her initial and mostly favorable impression of Lord Arundell, Cecilia’s words had given her pause. No wonder she had whispered the words evil earl into Dorothy’s ear. While she could hardly credit him with throwing a little girl into the Thames—that truly did seem like a gross exaggeration—the rest of the rumor seemed entirely too possible. Many men had been known to quietly do away with others who stood in the way of their ambition. If the earl had done so, he wouldn’t be the first.
But he would never do such a thing, her heart complained. While she had to agree with Cecilia that he seemed to have a core of steel, he also seemed like a principled man. He emphatically did not seem like a man who would do anything as dishonorable as murdering his own brother.
But he did plot with Aunt Mary to marry Dorothy—or one of the girls, at any rate—to get his hands on the five thousand pounds that Aunt Mary owed to him. If he would marry for such a ridiculous reason, what might he do for an earldom?
No matter. Cecilia obviously needed rescue. Straightening her shoulders, Dorothy stepped forward and knocked on the partially open library door before walking into the room. Uncle Cyril and Cecilia stood near the fireplace, and as Dorothy entered, they both turned to look at her. Their brows—so much alike—rose in unison. Cecilia abruptly turned away and sniffed into a damp handkerchief while a frown tightened her father’s thin mouth.
“Yes, Dorothy?” he asked.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, I, um, wanted a book…” She studied her cousin’s splotched face and red nose with sympathy. “Are you feeling ill, Cecilia?”
“I am quite well,” her cousin replied sharply. She sniffed again and then delicately blew her nose.
“What was your impression of Lord Arundell, Dorothy?” Uncle Cyril asked with a glance at his daughter.
Both Dorothy and Cecilia stared at him in surprise. Holding her handkerchief halfway to her nose, Cecilia took a deep breath. A watery smile trembled on her mouth.
“He seemed very nice,” Dorothy answered cautiously, her gaze traveling from Uncle Cyril to Cecilia and then back.
“Yes.” Uncle Cyril cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back. A gleam of triumph showed in his eyes. “He appears interested in an alliance with our family.”
Shoulders taut, Dorothy held her breath as her gaze sought Cecilia’s. The other girl’s face had gone pale, emphasizing her crimson-tipped nose and red-rimmed eyes.
“Is he?” Dorothy asked, crossing her arms once again and gripping her elbows to keep from grabbing Cecilia’s hand and running out of the room with her.
“I believe my wife may have mentioned it to you?” Uncle Cyril asked.
She shook her head. “No.” Not directly, at any rate.
“She must have!” Cecilia blurted out. “You got that beautiful new dress and everything. Mama must have explained why.”
“No, she never gave me a reason, though I was very grateful for the gown, of course.”
“She had a notion—plans…” Uncle Cyril’s words drifted off as he contemplated the spot just above Dorothy’s right shoulder. His bushy brows drew down, shadowing his deep-set eyes.
“Plans?” Dorothy prompted. Her heart beat wildly against her ribs.
Once he made his decision public, there would be no going back. She just knew it. She locked gazes with her cousin. Cecilia’s eyes were glazed with anxiety. Both of her hands clutched her handkerchief and pulled on the fragile cloth, and her breath was ragged in her throat.
Uncle Cyril studied first Dorothy and then his daughter. “Our plans are still under discussion,” he said repressively. “However, I am confident that the final agreement will be acceptable to all parties.”
Mouth open, Cecilia glanced from her father to Dorothy, let out a sob, and ran from the room.
“Cecilia!” Dorothy called, belatedly stretching out a hand to her fleeing cousin.
“Let her go, my dear. She is overwrought.” Uncle Cyril sighed and shook his head. “That is what comes from allowing young women to stay up too late—their subsequent exhaustion makes them over-emotional. I hope it has not affected you, Dorothy.” He studied her from under his heavy brows and frowned.
“No,” Dorothy answered dryly. “I am quite well and not at all tired.”
“Excellent. Very commendable, in fact. I cannot tolerate scenes first thing in the morning.”
“What disturbed Cecilia? Perhaps I can talk to her.”
“It was nothing. She was simply hysterical and ill-inclined to do her duty.”
“Her duty, Uncle Cyril? What duty is that? If I can assist her in any way, I shall be pleased to do so.”
“It is nothing—none of your concern. Now, what book did you wish to find?”
“Ah…” Dorothy glanced at the tall bookshelves on either side of the fireplace. “I did not have a particular one in mind.”
He nodded. “Then an improving one, perhaps? I have a book of sermons that our vicar compiled last year. It is just the thing for a young lady.” He strode over to the bookcase and pulled out a slender volume bound in plain brown leather. He held it out to her, his brows raised in a look of benign expectancy.
The last thing she wanted to read was a book of sermons, but she took the volume and smiled. “Thank you. I am grateful for your suggestion, Uncle Cyril.” If nothing else, it would certainly serve to put her to sleep tonight.
“Now, I am sorry to cut short our discussion, my dear, but I do have work to do.” He strode to the desk and pulled out the chair. “Is there anything else?”
Her heart pounded, and she clutched the slim volume to her chest. She ought to tell him that he should not force his daughter into a marriage she clearly did not want—she ought to defend poor Cecilia. But instead, she heard herself say, “No, there is nothing else, Uncle Cyril.”
“Good day, then.” He nodded to her and sat down, his gaze already focused on the pile of letters arranged on the leather blotter in front of him.
“Good day.” Dorothy escaped from the library and came to an abrupt halt in the hallway.
Part of her wanted to search for Cecilia and offer her what comfort she could. She could imagine her cousin sitting in a dark corner somewhere, sobbing in terror at the thought of being forced to wed the evil earl.
Silly sobriquet, she thought. Evil earl, indeed. It sounded like the title from one of the absurd gothic novels from the turn of the century. And yet it clearly meant something to Cecilia and frightened her deeply.
In truth, it bothered Dorothy, as well. The rumor might explain why the earl was so clearly willing to marry a nobody he had barely met. If the rest of polite Society shunned him—which frankly seemed unlikely, no matter what he had done, since earls were rare and marriageable ones rarer still—perhaps other ladies were unwilling to marry him. Or he might simply want to fulfill his duty and be done with it.
That notion would accord well with the air of impatience she’d sensed hovering around him when they met. He was not a man who would dilly-dally and ponder
a decision for days. He’d do his duty as he saw fit and move on to other more pressing matters. Her own father had had something of that quality, often much to her irritation, so she recognized it easily when she encountered it.
The leather binding of the book of sermons felt damp in her hands. She relaxed her tense grip and picked up her skirts to climb the stairs to her bedchamber. After depositing the book on the nightstand next to her bed, she’d find Cecilia and suggest they visit a few of the shops on Bond Street.
It would take both of their minds off the so-called evil earl, at least for now.
Chapter Seven
In less than two weeks, the marriage contract shifted from a simple matter to an absurdly complex negotiation. After another three days going back and forth between lawyers, Marcus wryly noted that his most serious temptation had shifted away from the endearingly lovely Miss Stainton and her five thousand pounds to an overwhelming desire to walk away from the entire thing. However, there was the principle of the thing, after all. He’d agreed for some reason he could not understand to forgive the debt and take Miss Stainton to wife. Perhaps it was the sense of emptiness he’d felt since the loss of his brother. Or a simple desire to feel less alone in the depths of the night when the emptiness of the house reminded him that only a few months ago, he had a brother, niece, and sister-in-law.
Whatever the reason for his impulse, Miss Stainton’s uncle now seemed determined to ruin his wife’s plans and foist his eldest daughter on him, instead.
Polkinghorne’s efforts on behalf of his daughter only had the unexpected result of making Marcus realize how attractive Miss Stainton truly was. And then there was the fact that Miss Polkinghorne drew back in terror of him every time they met. That did not bode well for a pleasant or even tolerable marriage. The poor girl had nearly fainted in the middle of Hyde Park when he’d encountered the two young women three days after the supper party.
It would be too strong to assert that the memory haunted him, but it certainly irritated him.
“Oh, do help me get her to a bench!” One arm around Miss Polkinghorne, Miss Stainton had glanced around desperately as her cousin leaned against her, dragging her halfway to the ground.
On the other side of the fainting girl, Marcus slipped his arm around Miss Polkinghorne, brushing Miss Stainton’s warm side. After a nod at Miss Stainton, he half-supported, half-dragged Miss Polkinghorne to the nearest bench a hundred yards away.
“Thank goodness I brought the smelling salts.” Miss Stainton fumbled in her reticule and pulled out a small silver bottle, opened it, and waved it under her cousin’s nose.
Miss Polkinghorne’s sharp little nose twitched. She coughed into her gloved hand and turned her pale face away, but she leaned against Miss Stainton’s shoulder as if the contact reassured her.
“Cecilia!” Miss Stainton put the salts away and gave Miss Polkinghorne a shake. “Cousin Cecilia, what is wrong? Are you ill?” Frowning with suspicion, she studied her cousin’s face. “Have you eaten anything today?”
Miss Polkinghorne pushed Miss Stainton away, her heavy brows—so like her father’s—bunched into a frown. “I am quite well—I simply will not do it! I will not!”
“Do what?” Miss Stainton asked. She glanced over Miss Polkinghorne’s head to catch his gaze. Her eyebrows rose as if she thought he might provide an answer.
Marcus shook his head and shrugged. How should he know what ailed the girl?
“I won’t marry him—I won’t! I don’t care if he is an earl—he is a murderer!” Miss Polkinghorne blurted out before hiding her face behind her hands and weeping. Her thin shoulders curved inward as she hunched over, a pitiful picture of terrified obstinance.
“Cecilia!” Miss Stainton’s face turned white and then rosy-red. She dropped her gaze to her cousin’s blue silk bonnet, which must have been all she could see, since Miss Polkinghorne kept her head bent and face hidden behind her hands. “You can’t believe such a thing—it is absurd. And rude. The earl is a gentleman—you must apologize.”
“I will not!” Miss Polkinghorne shifted away from Miss Stainton and turned a stiff shoulder to her.
“Cecilia! Apologize at once! You are being unforgivably rude.” She glanced up at Marcus, her face taut with agonized embarrassment. “I am so sorry, my lord. I don’t believe she realizes what she has said. She is overwrought.” She pulled off a glove and attempted to place her bare hand on her cousin’s forehead.
Miss Polkinghorne leaned further away and turned her head to prevent the touch, for all the world like a sulky child.
“Perhaps she has a fever,” Miss Stainton suggested.
“I am not overwrought!” Miss Polkinghorne leapt to her feet. Her hands clenched at her sides, and her eyes flashed. “Nor am I ill. Everyone knows he murdered his brother. Everyone!”
Miss Stainton stood and yanked her cousin’s arm to pull her away so she could stand between Miss Polkinghorne and Marcus. “I must apologize for my cousin, my lord. She doesn’t realize what she is saying.”
“Thank you for your kindness, Miss Stainton,” he said dryly. “However, I am fairly sure she realizes precisely what she is saying.”
“No, no.” Miss Stainton laughed, although the sound seemed to catch in her throat. She swallowed and grimaced. “It is not true. I am sure it is not.”
“Are you indeed so sure?” One of his brows rose in mild inquiry.
She flushed and glanced away. “Of course, I am sure. I cannot imagine how such a terrible rumor should come about, but it is beneath Cousin Cecilia to listen to such patently false gossip. Or repeat it.”
“I imagine she has her reasons.” He studied Miss Stainton’s red cheeks.
The rosy color slowly ebbed, leaving behind an unnatural pallor. Doubt pinched her brows together and drew the corners of her mouth down, revealing her own conflicting thoughts. Her lovely blue eyes were shadowed in deep hollows, revealing that she had her own worries to keep her awake at night.
Now, she had one more concern.
He looked away, too familiar with the progression of emotions once someone heard the rumors about him. False gossip, indeed. However, no matter how black his character appeared, there were still plenty of social climbers and ambitious ladies who were more than happy to overlook the more unsavory aspects of his past. Nonetheless, a sense of disappointment stiffened his shoulders. His mouth thinned.
Miss Stainton lifted her rounded chin and looked directly into his eyes. “I imagine she has been listening to sheer nonsense, and it has weakened her wits.”
“Perhaps.” He shrugged, letting his gaze drift over the path stretching out behind the two women. “Though it is undoubtedly true that my brother and his wife are deceased. They were murdered, just as she claimed.”
“But not by you,” Miss Stainton asserted stoutly, her straight back revealing her refusal to accept such a rumor.
His mouth twisted wryly. “Yes, well, that is not the popular belief.”
“Oh, popular belief—what do they know? If there was any truth in it, you would not be standing here, would you?”
“I like to believe that is true.”
“You see?” she asked triumphantly, clasping her hands together at her waist. A small movement from Miss Polkinghorne made her turn toward her cousin. “Now, apologize to Lord Arundell, Cousin Cecilia, and let us resume our walk.”
Miss Polkinghorne pressed her lips together and shook her head, staring at the ground.
“Very well. We apologize again, Lord Arundell.” She slipped a firm hand through the crook of her cousin’s arm. “Would you care to join us?”
He touched the brim of his hat and held Miss Stainton’s gaze for a moment. The sense of sharing thoughts with a compatible mind grew strong enough to make him take a step closer.
He brushed the sensation away. “Unfortunately, it is you who must accept my apologies, now. I cannot join you.” His hand brushed over the lapel of his jacket, feeling the hard, round shape of his pocket watch despi
te his gray gloves.
Did he detect an infinitesimal droop to Miss Stainton’s lovely mouth before she glanced away and nodded?
With only an expression of polite interest, Miss Stainton took a step along the path. “Then we must bid you good day, my lord.” She gave her cousin’s arm a little tug.
Miss Polkinghorne let out a relieved breath and smiled. “Good day, my lord.”
Before he could respond, she dragged Miss Stainton forward, setting a good pace toward the Serpentine.
Grinning with sardonic amusement, he watched them go before heading in the direction of Grosvenor Gate. He considered hiring a hansom cab, but in the end, he walked to the Second Sons Inquiry Agency, just off Clerkenwell Road. Although he arrived a trifle early for his appointment, he was shown immediately into Mr. Gaunt’s office.
Mr. Gaunt, a very tall man with dark hair just going silver at the temples, stood. He walked around his large desk to shake hands with Marcus and gesture to the chair in front of the desk. A few lines around his eyes and mouth suggested an age somewhere in the forties, and he had a long aesthetic face and shrewd gaze uncomfortably reminiscent of those aristocratic Spaniards one saw staring out of portraits painted during some of the more distressing periods of the Spanish Inquisition. He had the same air of calm confidence with an edge of impatience.
Gaunt’s confidence suited Marcus, however. He’d liked the man’s somewhat sardonic humor—it matched his own remarkably well. Over the last month, he’d learned to trust Gaunt’s measured, thoughtful approach to the mystery Marcus had handed to him.
