Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  Brashdon was half a block away, a thin, precise figure.

  Marcus strolled to meet him. A grin wanted to spread across his face, fierce. I’ve got you. “Afternoon,” he said, as Albin sniffed Brashdon’s boots.

  Brashdon stepped back, his mouth pursing in distaste. “Is it yours, Cosgrove? Keep it away from me. I can’t abide dogs. Filthy creatures.”

  Marcus snapped his fingers. “Here, Trojan.”

  Albin didn’t obey. He reared up and planted his paws on Brashdon’s breeches, his tail wagging.

  Brashdon recoiled. “Ugh! Disgusting creature! Away with you!”

  Albin’s tail wagged harder. He scrabbled at Brashdon’s breeches, leaping up as if trying to lick the man’s face.

  Brashdon batted with his hands, like a girl. “Get off me!”

  Marcus gave a contemptuous snort of laughter. “Trojan. Heel!”

  Albin stopped harassing Brashdon. He came and sat at Marcus’s feet, his tongue hanging out, grinning.

  Brashdon brushed fastidiously at his breeches. The look he gave Marcus was venomous. “Someone showed me a letter this morning. About you.”

  You wrote it. Marcus shrugged lightly, as if he didn’t care. “Half of London got one.”

  Brashdon stepped past him. “I shall enjoy watching your fall.”

  Marcus clenched his jaw, clenched his hands. He watched Brashdon turn the corner into St. James’s Street. “Tell me it was him,” he said tightly.

  The spaniel shook its head.

  Marcus hissed between his teeth. The letters had to be from Brashdon. He was cunning enough, conscienceless enough.

  He inhaled a deep breath and unclenched his hands. “Come along, lad.”

  At Brashdon’s house Albin sniffed the steps thoroughly. “Anything?” Marcus asked, and was unsurprised when the spaniel shook its head. “He must have had someone else write the letters. A clerk, perhaps.”

  Unless it wasn’t Brashdon.

  Marcus kicked the bottom step. He wanted it to be Brashdon. “Come on,” he told Albin. “Monkwood next.”

  * * *

  The black spaniel ran ahead once they reached Hanover Square. A cold wind whipped smoke from the tall chimneys, smearing it across a gray sky. Marcus crossed the square, watching Albin sniff Monkwood’s steps, sniff the door, stand up on hind legs and sniff the knocker and keyhole.

  The spaniel ran back to meet him when he was two-thirds of the way across the square. “Well?” Marcus asked, already knowing the answer. But instead of shaking his head, Albin uttered a small bark and pawed at Marcus’s pocket. “What? You want to smell the letter again?”

  Albin sat back on his haunches and nodded.

  Marcus unfolded the letter and let the spaniel sniff it. He resisted the urge to see whether anyone was watching; he was merely a man with his dog.

  The spaniel bounded away again and investigated Monkwood’s front door with his nose.

  “Well?” Marcus asked, when he reached the steps.

  Albin didn’t come down to meet him; instead, he lay down on the top step.

  “What?” Marcus said in disbelief. “You’re not telling me it’s Monkwood?”

  The black spaniel made an odd movement—a ducking of his head, a hunching of his shoulders. It took Marcus a few seconds to realize it was a shrug.

  “It might be Monkwood, but you’re not certain? Is that what you’re saying?”

  The spaniel sat up and nodded.

  Marcus shook his head. I don’t believe it. The letter had to be political. “Why on earth would Monkwood—”

  The door opened. The butler stood there, his face long and lugubrious. “Sir?”

  “Uh . . . hello, Sprott. I was just taking Trojan here for a walk and, uh . . .”

  The butler glanced down at the spaniel. His expression became even more mournful. “Do you wish to come in, Lord Cosgrove?”

  Albin cocked his head and looked at Marcus.

  Marcus shrugged. “Why not? Since we’re passing.”

  * * *

  Albin’s claws made delicate clacking sounds on the marble floor as they entered. Marcus handed Sprott his hat and gloves.

  “And the dog, sir?”

  “Oh, Trojan’s very well behaved,” Marcus said. “Aren’t you, Trojan?”

  Albin wagged his tail.

  The butler gave a doleful sniff and set off down the corridor. Marcus followed, Albin trotting at his heels. He glanced down at the spaniel. Albin had to be mistaken. There was no earthly reason for Monkwood to send the letters.

  Sprott ushered them into the library. Monkwood stood at the window, looking out at the square. He turned. “Cosgrove. Thought it was you out there. New dog?”

  “Yes.”

  As always, sight of Monkwood brought memory of Lavinia flooding back. Gerald was a coarser version of his sister, his curls not as angelically golden, his eyes not as vividly blue, his face not as fine-boned. Lavinia had been slender, but if she’d lived to thirty, perhaps she’d have grown soft and plump, like her brother.

  Monkwood strolled to the fireplace. “Have a seat. Sprott will bring us some claret.”

  The butler withdrew.

  Marcus sat across from Monkwood. The friendly welcome was disconcerting. He was used to animosity, not smiling hospitality.

  Albin lay down on the rug between them.

  “I hear the Hazelbrook conservatory burned down. Such a terrible thing to happen. You must be devastated.” There was an undertone of ill-concealed glee beneath the sympathy. Monkwood’s lips twitched at the corners, as if he couldn’t quite hide a smile.

  “On the contrary. I’m pleased to have it gone.”

  “What? Nonsense! It was a jewel.”

  Marcus shrugged. “I didn’t like it. With it gone, I can sell Hazelbrook.”

  “Sell?” Monkwood stiffened, and uncrossed his legs. “You can’t sell Hazelbrook!”

  “The conservatory’s gone. My pledge to my mother no longer stands.”

  “But Lavinia died there!”

  Marcus felt an unexpected pity for the man. “You think I should keep Hazelbrook as a monument to her?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Monkwood.”

  Monkwood’s face flushed with rage, with distress, with hatred. “You never loved her!”

  Marcus’s own temper stirred. “Of course I did. I wouldn’t have married her otherwise.”

  “It’s your fault she’s dead!”

  “It was an accident,” Marcus said, keeping a grip on his temper. “She fell.”

  “Fell?” Monkwood spat the word. “Lavinia didn’t fall.”

  Cold rage washed through him. “What exactly are you implying, Monkwood? That I drove her to suicide? Or that I pushed her myself?”

  Monkwood pressed his lips together, not answering. Silence stretched between them, taut, brittle.

  I shouldn’t have come here. Monkwood loved her too much.

  Marcus’s rage drained away. “It was an accident,” he said. “Lavinia didn’t jump, I didn’t push her; she fell. Five gardeners and three house servants saw it happen. Didn’t you pay any attention at the inquest?”

  Monkwood lifted his lip in a sneer. “Servants? They’d lie for you if you paid them enough.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Marcus stood. “For the last time, it was an accident.”

  Monkwood pushed to his feet. Albin uttered a low growl. Monkwood didn’t so much as glance at the dog. “I received a letter about you today.”

  “So did a lot of people. It’s someone’s idea of a prank. Throw it in the fire.”

  “It’s about time society saw you for what you are.”

  “What?”

  “Accusations of rape. A young wife so afraid of her husband that she jumped—”

  “I never harmed Lavinia,” Marcus said, rage choking his voice. “Not once. Ask the servants if you don’t believe me.”

  “They’d lie—”

  “If I paid them enough?” It took all his willpower not to punch the
sneer off Monkwood’s mouth. “If you think that, you’re a bigger fool than I took you for!”

  * * *

  Marcus walked back along Brook Street, striding fast, driven by fury. How many people would jump to the same conclusion Monkwood had? That he’d abused Lavinia?

  The servants had been privy to the details of his marriage. They’d seen Lavinia in violent rages, smashing ornaments. They’d seen her pull books from the library shelves and hurl them across the room. Seen her storm, shrieking, through the house. And they’d seen that he’d never struck her. Not once. Even though it had been within his rights as a husband.

  When I next choose a bride, I shall interview her servants. Servants saw things, heard things. They knew their employers’ true faces, not merely the masks they showed the world.

  They emerged into Grosvenor Square. Above the rooftops, the sky was darkening. Marcus blew out a breath. He didn’t feel up to facing Phillip today. He’d had as much hatred as he could stomach.

  He glanced at his watch. In a couple of hours he’d meet with Miss Brown.

  His black mood eased fractionally. “Wait here,” he told the spaniel. “I’ll open the window.”

  * * *

  Charlotte dressed in Albin’s clothes—stockings, breeches, shirt. The earl poured two glasses of brandy and brought her one. “Well? What did you smell?”

  “The scent on the letter isn’t Hyde or Keynes or Brashdon,” Charlotte said, buttoning the waistcoat.

  Cosgrove leaned against the mantelpiece, his glass in one hand. “And Monkwood?”

  “It might be him.”

  “Or it might not.”

  “The scent on the letter’s too faint. I just . . . I can’t be certain, sir.”

  Cosgrove pushed away from the mantelpiece. “I don’t think it’s Monkwood. I think Brashdon hired someone to write them. A clerk.”

  Charlotte pulled on one boot. It wasn’t her place to disagree with him, but . . . “I think it’s Monkwood, sir.”

  Cosgrove sat on one corner of his desk. “You do? Why?”

  “He hates you, sir.” She reached for the other boot. “More than you realize.”

  “I think it’s fairly obvious how much he hates me,” Cosgrove said dryly. He took a long swallow of brandy.

  “No, sir, before that! I felt it from the moment we entered the library.” She gripped the boot. How to verbalize what she’d sensed? She wasn’t even sure what it had been—a scent, something in Monkwood’s voice, something in the way he’d turned to greet the earl. He wanted Cosgrove dead. Of that, she was absolutely certain. His desire to kill the earl had come off him in waves, as if exuded from his skin, as if he breathed it out with each exhalation. “If you want my opinion, sir, it was Monkwood who sent the letter.” She pulled on the second boot. “He wants you ruined. And he wants you dead.”

  Cosgrove didn’t believe her—she saw it on his face—but he didn’t scoff or dismiss her words. He merely said, “Thank you, lad. I shall bear it in mind.”

  Charlotte picked up her neckcloth and looked for a mirror. There was none. She looped the length of muslin around her neck, squinting down as she tried to tie it.

  “Let me do that,” Cosgrove said, putting down his glass. “You’re making a mess.”

  Charlotte relinquished the neckcloth. “I didn’t smell the Smiths anywhere, sir.”

  “If you smell them, it’ll be at Phillip’s.” Cosgrove tied the knot, a slight frown of concentration on his brow.

  The last time he’d done this, she’d been painfully conscious of his closeness, his maleness. This time, there was no awkwardness, just a quiet hum of contentment in her chest. When Cosgrove’s knuckles touched the underside of her chin, blood didn’t rush to her cheeks. Her pego didn’t stir. Her tongue didn’t tie itself in knots when she spoke: “What about Mr. Langford, sir?”

  “We’ll deal with him tomorrow. I have an appointment this evening.”

  With me.

  Soon she’d be as close to him as one human being could be to another.

  The earl tightened the knot. “That’ll do.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Charlotte picked up her coat and shrugged into it. She straightened her cuffs, then picked up the brandy glass and took a sip. It filled her mouth with heat.

  Cosgrove returned to his desk. He glanced at the clock. “It’s five o’clock. Off you go, lad. Have a good evening.”

  “Yes, sir.” I shall. But it wasn’t Cosgrove’s lovemaking she craved as much as what came afterwards, when he held her close and she listened to his breathing, heard his heart beat, felt him still inside her. Those were the moments that took her breath away: the quiet, still, precious moments that came afterwards.

  Charlotte swallowed the last of the brandy and placed the glass on the sideboard. “Sir . . . if you’re going out, you’ll be careful? Take the carriage and footmen?”

  “You’re a mother hen, aren’t you, lad?”

  “Yesterday—”

  “Yes, the Smiths.” Cosgrove lost his smile. “I’ll be careful. I promise.” He sketched a salute with his glass, as if she were the one who gave the orders, not he. “Now, away with you!”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Marcus took a bottle of champagne and two crystal glasses to the Earnoch Hotel.

  “Are you celebrating something, sir?” Miss Brown asked as he opened the bottle.

  Marcus shook his head. “Today has been . . . a trial.” And he needed a drink. Several drinks.

  “Did you have any luck finding the Smiths, sir?”

  “No. They’ve left London.” The Smiths and Phillip were minor problems; the letters were his most pressing concern. His hand paused in its pouring. “You’ve heard about the letters? Did your employer receive one?”

  “I heard about them. I’m sorry, sir.”

  His grip on the champagne bottle tightened. “Do you know the details of what I’m supposed to have done?” Did Miss Brown think him a rapist?

  “I do. And I know it’s untrue.”

  Marcus finished pouring. Rage was building in him again—and he didn’t want to be angry tonight. He wanted to be relaxed. He handed Miss Brown a glass. “To your health.”

  “To yours, sir.”

  He swallowed a mouthful of champagne. It was cool, the bubbles popping and fizzing on his tongue. It wouldn’t dull his rage as fast as brandy would, but if he drank another couple of glasses, it should do the trick.

  A hip bath stood half-hidden behind a screen. The water steamed faintly.

  Miss Brown’s skin would be warm, clean, soft, smooth.

  Marcus transferred his gaze to her, standing in her faded blue gown, with her hair pulled back from her face. He’d thought her plain the first time he’d set eyes on her, dowdy and drab. How could I have been so blind? Miss Brown wasn’t as beautiful as Lavinia, but she was more attractive than Lavinia had ever been. It was the freckles, he decided, and the candid brown of her eyes. Lavinia had looked like an angel; Miss Brown looked like a real woman. He wanted to kiss her mouth, unpin her hair, strip off her clothes and bare her skin.

  The lingering remnants of rage evaporated, and with it, his need for alcohol. Arousal stirred in his blood. Marcus put down the glass. He stepped closer to Miss Brown, tilted up her chin, and laid his lips on hers.

  Miss Brown shyly kissed him back. She tasted of champagne.

  Marcus unpinned her hair. It tumbled down her back, just as he’d imagined. He gathered her closer, deepening the kiss, burying his hands in warm, silky hair.

  Long, heated minutes passed. His arousal built, his body demanding that he do more than merely kiss Miss Brown. Reluctantly, he released her. They were both breathing raggedly.

  Marcus set to work unfastening her gown. He kissed Miss Brown’s cheek as he undid the buttons, kissed the curve of her jaw, kissed her throat as the gown fell away from her shoulders. Petticoat and stays rapidly followed the gown. When she was dressed only in her chemise, he halted.

  He stripped off his o
wn clothes until he was naked except for the bandage at his throat. She glanced at his erection, not boldly as a whore would, but shyly.

  Marcus took her hand and drew her to the bed. Slow, he told himself as he lifted the chemise over her head. Don’t hurry.

  But even so, it went quickly. Her body welcomed him eagerly inside and once he’d started he couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down. Their lovemaking was rushed and intense, his orgasm a brief, savage release of tension. “I apologize,” Marcus said afterwards, ashamed of his lack of control. He eased himself off her. “Did I hurt you?”

  Miss Brown shook her head and smiled at him. “No.” She lifted a hand, as if to stroke the hair back from his brow, and then hesitated, her fingers curling into her palm. “May I touch you, sir?”

  The words were like a slap across his face. Did she feel she needed to ask permission to touch him?

  Marcus frowned and thought back over the times they’d lain together. Had she never stroked his skin? Never caressed him?

  No. He’d done the touching, not her.

  His sense of shame deepened. He’d taken Miss Brown’s virginity, bedded her four nights running—and yet she didn’t feel free to touch him.

  “Of course you may.” Their positions in society might be poles apart, but while they lay naked together, they were equals. He took her hand and placed it on his chest, looked her in the eyes. “Touch me as much as you like.”

  “Are you certain, sir?”

  Marcus found himself unable to look away, unable to speak, almost unable to breathe. Her hand was warm on his skin, but it wasn’t her touch that held him frozen, it was the directness of her eyes, that searching gaze, as if she looked inside him, as if there were no need for words because she could see his answer before he uttered it. Yes, I’m certain.

  Silence stretched between them—her hand on his chest, her eyes holding his, his tongue frozen in his mouth—and then perhaps she truly did see his answer, because she looked away.