Mistress

by Amanda Quick

  “Ah, so that’s the problem.” Marcus’s hand tightened on the handle of his knife. He cut into his sausage with grave precision. “Did I embarrass you?”

  “Marcus, are you going to spend the rest of your life titillating Society with your bizarre behavior?”

  “I did embarrass you.” Marcus forked up a bite of sausage and chewed meditatively. “Try not to take it to heart, Bennet. Society has seen worse.”

  “That’s hardly the point, is it?” Bennet slathered butter on his muffin. “The thing is, a man of your years should behave with some sense of propriety.”

  Marcus nearly choked on his sausage. “A man of my years?”

  “You’re thirty-six. You ought to have remarried years ago and settled down to the business of building your nursery.

  “Bloody hell. From whence springs this sudden concern with my nursery? You know full well that I do not intend to remarry.”

  “What about your obligation to the title?”

  “I’m quite content to see the title go to you.”

  “Well, I don’t particularly want it, Marcus. It’s yours and it should go to your son.” Bennet scowled in obvious frustration. “It’s only right and proper that you should see to your responsibilities.”

  “I perceive that my actions last night have, indeed humiliated you,” Marcus said dryly.

  “You must admit, it’s a trifle awkward to have an older brother, a thirty-six-year-old unmarried earl, no less, who has no compunction about becoming the latest on dit.

  “This isn’t the first time.”

  “It’s the first time that you’ve caused a scene in the middle of a fashionable ballroom.”

  Marcus cocked a brow. “How would you know? You’ve hardly spent any time at all in Society.”

  “Miss Dorchester told me as much,” Bennet retorted, clearly goaded.

  Marcus stared. “Juliana Dorchester?”

  “I had the great privilege of dancing with her last night,” Bennet muttered.

  “I see.”

  “Whenever you say ‘I see’ in that particular tone, it generally means you disapprove. Well, you had best not say anything unpleasant about Miss Dorchester to me, Marcus. She is a beautiful young lady with extremely refined sensibilities who would never dream of getting involved in a scandalous scene.”

  “This is Juliana Dorchester’s second Season,” Marcus said grimly. “She has to secure a husband this time around because the Dorchesters cannot afford a third Season for her. Do you comprehend me, Bennet?”

  “You’re trying to warn me off her, aren’t you? Well, it won’t work. She is an unrivaled paragon of womanhood and I shall he forever grateful that she allowed me into her presence last night.”

  “She is no doubt thanking her lucky stars right this minute that you took notice of her. She’ll be plotting to appear in whatever ballroom you happen to show up in this evening.”

  “Damnation. She’s not the type to plot anything. She’s too innocent, too gentle, too sweet-natured to plot.”

  “She’s plotting right this minute. Trust me.”

  “How would you know?”

  “She’s Dorchester’s daughter and I know Dorchester. He’s desperate to marry Juliana into money. And her mother wants a title in the family so badly she can taste it.” Marcus pointed a fork at Bennet and narrowed his eyes. “You’re a prime catch on the Marriage Mart, Bennet. You’re rich and there’s every expectation that you’ll inherit the title. You must be on your guard.”

  Bennet flung down his napkin. “That’s outrageous. Miss Dorchester is not the type to concern herself with money and titles.”

  “If you really believe that, then you are infinitely more naive than I thought.”

  “I am not naive. But neither am I as cold-natured and rigid and set in my ways as you are, Marcus. And I certainly don’t hang about with outrageous females such as your Mrs. Bright.”

  “You will speak of Mrs. Bright with respect or you will not mention her name at all, is that understood?”

  “She’s your mistress, for God’s sake.”

  “She is my very good friend.”

  “Everyone knows what that means. You have some nerve criticizing Miss Dorchester. Your Mrs. Bright could take a few lessons in decorum from her, if you ask me.”

  Marcus slammed his coffee cup down onto the saucer. “No one asked you.”

  The door of the breakfast room opened. Lovelace loomed. He had A small silver tray in one gloved hand.

  “A message for you, m’lord. It just arrived.”

  Marcus frowned as he took the note from the tray. He read it quickly and silently.

  M:

  I must see you at once. Very urgent. The park. Ten o’clock. The fountain.

  Yrs.

  H

  Marcus glanced at Lovelace. “Have Zeus saddled and brought around at nine-thirty. I believe that I shall ride in the park this morning.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Lovelace backed out of the breakfast room.

  Who sent you the note?” Bennet asked.

  “A friend.”

  “Mrs. Bright, I expect.”

  “No, as a matter of fact, it’s not from Mrs. Bright.”

  Bennet’s mouth tightened. “I’ve never seen you quite so touchy about one of your paramours.”

  “She is my friend.” Marcus tossed down his napkin and rose to his feet. “Do not forget that Bennet.”

  At five minutes before ten, Marcus rode Zeus, his heavily muscled black stallion, into the park. He took the graveled path that led toward the center of the vast wooded swath of green. It was the least traveled of the many paths.

  Hannah, Lady Sands, was waiting for him in a small closed curricle. She was dressed in a dark maroon carriage gown. The high fluted collar accentuated the graceful line of her throat. Her lovely face was concealed beneath the veil of her stylish maroon hat.

  “Marcus. Thank God you have come.” She lifted her veil and gazed at him with stark, anxious eyes. “I have been beside myself for days. This morning, when I learned that you were back in Town, I sent my note at once. I feared you would not be free to see me on such short notice.”

  “You know that I am always available to you, Hannah.” Marcus did not like the tense set of her delicate features or the shadows in her gray eyes.

  Hannah was twenty-nine, married to the wealthy, likable Lord Sands and recently blessed with an infant son.

  She had been widowed seven years ago. Her new marriage, which had taken place three years previously, had appeared to be a happy one. Marcus had been glad for her. He had thought her days of fear were behind her, but this morning he recognized the old haunted expression in her eyes.

  “What is it, Hannah?”

  “I am being blackmailed,” she whispered. Her face crumpled in despair. “Oh, Marcus, someone knows everything.”

  Marcus did not move. “That’s impossible.”

  “No, it’s true.” Tears formed in her eyes. “Oh, God, he knows, do you comprehend me? He knows how Spalding died. He knows that I killed him.”

  “Hannah, get hold of yourself. Are you telling me that someone has demanded money from you?”

  “Yes. Five thousand pounds. I have already paid it. I was forced to pawn some earrings.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “I fear there will be more demands.”

  “Yes.” Marcus tapped his riding crop against his boot. “I think we can safely assume that there will be more demands. There always are when one is dealing with a blackmailer.”

  “Dear heaven, I am so afraid, Marcus.”

  “Hannah, listen carefully. When did you get the first demand?”

  “Six days ago. I would have sent a message to you at once, but I did not know where you had gone. I only knew that you were out of Town for an extended period of time.”

  “I was at Cloud Hall.”

  “I have been absolutely desperate. I haven’t slept in days. Sands is becoming very concerned. He keeps asking me what
is wrong. He wants me to summon a doctor. What am I going to do?”

  “Nothing for the moment,” Marcus said gently. “I shall deal with this.”

  “But what can you do? Marcus, did you hear me? This person knows that I… that I am a murderess.”

  “Hush, Hannah. Calm yourself. You did not murder Lynton Spalding. What you did was done in self-defense. Do not ever forget that.”

  “No one will believe it. What will Sands say if he ever learns the truth?”

  “I suspect that your husband would be far more understanding about this than you believe,” Marcus said. It was not the first time he had tried to talk Hannah into telling Sands the truth about her first husband’s death. But Hannah was adamant in her refusal to do so.

  “I dare not tell him, Marcus. He would never he able to accept the knowledge that he is married to a woman who had actually killed her first husband. How would you deal with such a revelation if you were in his shoes?”

  Marcus shrugged. “Knowing what I do about Spalding and his treatment of you, I would congratulate you on being such an excellent shot.”

  Hannah gave him a stricken look. “Please, I beg you, do not tease me.”

  “I’m not teasing you. It’s the truth. I think you underestimate your new husband.”

  “I know him better than you do. He thinks I am a paragon. I simply cannot tell him the truth.”

  “Apparently the blackmailer knows that, too,” Marcus observed. “Interesting.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I believe that I shall have a long talk with someone who appears to know more about this situation than I had realized.”

  “What on earth are you saying?” Hannah wailed. “Marcus, you must not tell anyone about any of this.”

  “Do not concern yourself. I shall not give away your secret. But I do intend to seek a few answers to some questions I neglected to ask last night.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It appears I was somewhat hasty. I did something I rarely do: I leaped to a conclusion.” Marcus steadied the prancing Zeus. “I thought I was being treated to a very inventive banbury tale, you see.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Never mind. It’s a long story and I do not have time to tell it at the moment. Rest assured that I shall look into this matter at once, Hannah. And do not pay another penny in blackmail without consulting me first, do you understand?”

  “Yes.” Hannah’s elegantly gloved fingers tightened on the reins. “I am so relieved to be able to talk to you about this. I was going mad.”

  “It will be alright, I promise you.”

  Hannah smiled mistily. “That is what you said the night you helped me dispose of Spalding’s body.”

  “And I was right, was I not?”

  She gave him an odd look. “You kept my secret but at a great cost to yourself. You know very well that there are still those who say that you murdered Spalding in cold blood in order to gain control of the investment pool.”

  Marcus smiled. “No one could ever prove that he was not killed by a footpad, and that was all that mattered. Gossip does not bother me, Hannah. I am accustomed to it.”

  Her mouth curved wryly. “Sometimes I think that nothing bothers you.” She hesitated. “I read the morning papers. I could not help but see the gossip about a certain exhibition at the Fenwicks’ ball last night.”

  “Did you?”

  Hannah gave him a quizzical look. “Come now, Marcus. You and I are old friends. You can confide in me. We both know that you are not the type to become besotted with any female. Did you actually carry Mrs. Bright out of the ballroom in your arms?”

  “She fainted.”

  “You have never gotten involved with anyone who made scenes, Marcus. You are infamous for demanding absolute discretion from your paramours.”

  “Mrs. Bright is not my paramour,” Marcus said coldly. “She is my very good friend. She fainted and I made certain that she got some fresh air so that she could recover. That was all.”

  Hannah sighed. “You’re in a strange mood today.” She reached up to tug her veil down over her face. “Forgive my intrusion. Your connection to Mrs. Bright is entirely your affair.”

  “I must be on my way. I told Sands that I was shopping this morning.”

  Marcus gentled his tone. “Try not to worry unduly about the blackmailer, Hannah. I shall look into the matter.”

  “Thank you.” She gave him another sad smile. “I am very fortunate to count you as my friend.” She flicked the reins and drove off down the graveled path.

  Marcus studied the sparkling fountain for a long while and then he turned Zeus’s head and rode back toward the western entrance of the park.

  “But he’s supposed to be dead,” Zoe, Lady Guthrie, wailed. “Why isn’t he?”

  “Hush, Aunt Zoe.” Iphiginia cast a quick glance about at the uncrowded showrooms of Hornby and Smith, Upholsterers. Fortunately, no one appeared to have overheard Zoe’s lament. “I cannot say, but it’s an encouraging development, don’t you think?”

  “It confuses the issue, if you ask me,” Zoe declared.

  Amelia, dressed in one of the dull bombazine gowns she favored, nodded in agreement. “Your aunt is quite right. This whole thing is a great tangle. I do not like it.”

  “Please keep your voices down, both of you. Someone will hear you.” Iphiginia glanced anxiously around the showroom again.

  The proprietors hovered behind a counter at the rear of the shop. Mr. Smith was a broad, plump man garbed in a shocking pink waistcoat and the latest style of pleated trousers. Hornby, gaunt, stooped, and balding, was wearing a paisley printed waistcoat. It contrasted sharply with his purple coat.

  Hornby gazed longingly down the length of the shop at where Iphiginia, Zoe, and Amelia stood together around a pattern book. He was clearly waiting for an opportunity to pounce. He had been rebuffed twice already, but Iphiginia knew that he was on the verge of making another attempt to offer his assistance.

  The walls of the long room were lined with drawings and designs that purported to offer suggestions for decorating one’s residence in the latest fashion. Samples of the newest styles in chairs and tables were arranged in a row down the center of the room.

  Pattern books containing drawings of lavishly decorated interiors for every room in the home were set out on several tables.

  Iphiginia, Zoe, and Amelia were making a show of studying a design for a combined library and statuary hall. But the real reason they had all met at Hornby and Smith’s this morning was to discuss the latest developments in the crisis.

  “Obviously the blackmailer was lying about having murdered Masters,” Iphiginia said. “He was attempting to frighten you, Aunt Zoe, so that you would meet his demands.”

  “He succeeded. To the tune of five thousand pounds,” Zoe muttered. “It is really too much. I finally regain control of my own money after all these years of watching Guthrie fritter it away on horses and women, and what happens? Some nasty blackmailer happens along and tries to take it away from me again.”

  “I understand, Aunt Zoe. We shall identify him and put a stop to this, I promise you,” Iphiginia murmured sympathetically.

  She was very fond of her aunt and had every intention of doing her best to free Zoe from the blackmailer’s clutches.

  At forty-five, Zoe was an energetic, vivacious woman with a flair for the dramatic. Her hair, once the same tawny shade as Iphiginia’s, was attractively streaked with silver. She had the cleanly etched profile that characterized all the women on the Bright side of the family.

  Twenty-five years earlier Zoe had not only been quite striking, she had also been an heiress. The handsome portion her doting parents had settled on their only daughter had attracted the eye of Lord Guthrie. No one had discovered until too late that Guthrie was nearly penniless. By then Zoe was married and her husband had gained legal control of her portion.

  Having secured the money he had covete
d, Guthrie promptly lost interest in his new bride. Fortunately, he had not been a complete idiot. He had managed to avoid squandering all of Zoe’s inheritance. He had, however, gone through the income and had started to make serious inroads on the capital before conveniently suffering a stroke.

  As Zoe had once said to Iphiginia, it was typical of Guthrie that, even in the act of departing this mortal plane, he had managed to humiliate her. He had died in a brothel.

  Zoe let it be known far and wide that the only benefit she had ever received from marriage was her lovely daughter, Maryanne. She was thrilled with Maryanne’s recent betrothal to the handsome and, as Zoe had taken care to ascertain, wealthy Sheffield.

  During the long years of her unhappy marriage to the obnoxious Guthrie, Zoe had taken comfort in her liaison with Lord Otis. Otis had been devoted to her from the moment they had been introduced. He had never married. The fact that he was Maryanne’s real father, however, had been a deep, dark secret until the blackmailer had somehow discovered it.

  Maryanne, a charming, warmhearted young lady, was exceedingly fond of Otis. She treated him as though he were a favored uncle. Otis doted on her.

  After the death of her husband, Zoe had, in the manner of so many of Society’s widows, finally come into her own.

  The first thing she had done was gather together what remained of her inheritance. She had invested the whole of it in Iphiginia’s first property speculation venture, Morning Rose Square.

  When the initial income from that investment had been realized last year, Zoe had promptly settled a handsome portion on Maryanne. She and her daughter had both set about replacing all the drab, unstylish gowns in their wardrobes with new clothes fashioned by elegant modistes who possessed French accents. When all was in readiness, Maryanne was launched on Society. The offer from Sheffield had come shortly after Maryanne’s first ball.

  Zoe’s mouth tightened as she studied the illustration of the combined library and statuary hall. “Otis says there very likely will be more demands, and soon. He claims blackmailers are like leeches. They usually return time and again until they have succeeded in bleeding their victims dry.”

  Iphiginia shuddered. “What a ghastly analogy. From what I have heard, he is right.” She frowned over the frustration in the pattern book, her mind on her aunt’s problem. “It is unfortunate that Masters thinks the entire matter is merely an amusing jest.”