Never Marry a Viscount

by Anne Stuart

  She put her arms around her husband, ready to wake him, when her worst nightmare came to fruition. The door to their bedroom was slammed open, light streaming in from the gas lamps in the hallway.

  Maddy shrieked and tried to dive under the covers as Luca came up, a knife already in his hand, when a familiar voice broke through.

  “Oh, good God, Maddy!” Bryony said in her brisk, older-sister voice. “Tell your husband to put down his knife and put on some clothes.”

  “Though I can see why she married him,” drawled an unfamiliar male voice. “Darling Bryony, I may start feeling inadequate.”

  “Behave yourself, Kilmartyn!” Bryony said, but there was pure indulgence in her voice. “The day you feel inadequate is when hell freezes over.” She turned back to Maddy, her eyes running over both of them. “Thank God the two of you are here. I was afraid you might be down in Plymouth or even worse, out at sea. When you can manage to get dressed, come down to the library. We need to figure out where in the world Sophie’s gotten to.”

  Maddy heard the door close once more. Luca was making an odd, choking sound, and she cautiously peeped out from beneath the enveloping sheet to see her husband laughing, laughing at what had just transpired. A moment later he’d turned the gaslight up full, looking down at her and laughing again.

  “You should see your face, love,” he said. “It’s bright red. Is the rest of you that same lovely color . . . ?” He started to pull the sheet away from her body and she slapped at his hands.

  “Stop it,” she hissed. “What’s my sister going to think?”

  “I expect they know what we were doing,” he said amiably, sitting back down on the bed. “I don’t suppose we have time for a bath. We both fit so nicely into that tub.”

  “Luca!” She probably was red all over, she reflected. She felt hot beneath the sheets.

  “All right, but we’ll have to get a bigger tub in Devonport.” He reached for his discarded clothes. “You want me to call for some water for you?”

  “No!” She was mortified. Bryony was older than she was, and had always been the voice of reason and proper behavior. To have been caught in bed with a naked man, even if he was her husband, was beyond embarrassing, and Maddy wanted to pull the covers over her head and stay there.

  He turned and knelt on the bed, reaching for her. “Sweetest one, I expect they do just what we’ve been doing.”

  “Ew!” Maddy said. “I don’t want to picture that.”

  “Well, your sister’s already had proof when it comes to you,” he replied cheerfully, and, sinking forward, Maddy hid her face in the covers and moaned.

  They dressed in record time, making do with the tepid bowl of water left from earlier in the day. Maddy didn’t bother with a corset, shoes, or her hair—Luca was right; it was a lost cause. She slid her arm through his, more for courage than anything else, and they descended the wide front stairs to the first floor and the library.

  Bryony was sitting on the sofa, curled up against a stranger. No, not a stranger—Maddy had met him when she’d visited the shipyards with her father. It was Adrian Bruton, the Earl of Kilmartyn, her sister’s husband.

  Her sister Bryony, who’d insisted she’d never marry, was sitting there positively glowing with happiness. Maddy blinked. It was almost as if she’d never really seen her sister before. She was a beautiful woman.

  Fortunately for her new brother-in-law, he was looking at his wife with complete adoration. The two of them rose when Maddy and Luca entered the room, and Maddy had the vain hope that the heat in her face came from the small fire that was taking the dampness from the air and not an embarrassed flush.

  The polite introductions that followed were almost comical, Maddy thought, giving Kilmartyn a fierce perusal. He was quite good-looking, though of course he couldn’t hold a candle to Luca’s dark beauty, and Maddy could remember vague tales of his libertine reputation.

  “I should warn you,” Maddy said in a quiet voice, once they’d all taken seats, “that if you hurt my sister, I’ll have my husband gut you like a herring.”

  “Herring are too small, darling,” Luca said solemnly. “I’d more likely gut him like a shark.”

  “How about a swordfish?” Kilmartyn suggested. “I rather fancy the sword, and then I’d be more edible.”

  “Sharks can be very good eating,” Luca offered.

  “There will be no gutting of anyone!” Bryony said.

  “Speaking of eating, I’m starving,” Kilmartyn announced.

  “In due time, Adrian,” Bryony said, casting her husband a sneaking glance. She turned to Maddy. “Do you have the slightest idea where Sophie is? She’s not in the cottage at Renwick—the place was deserted.”

  “Oh, lord,” Maddy groaned. “And who knows what kind of trouble she could have gotten herself into this time?”

  “I told you to stay with her,” Bryony said severely. “It wasn’t safe for you to go gallivanting off on your own, nor was it safe to leave Sophie behind without someone to rein her in, and we both know Nanny’s not that good at saying no to Sophie.”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, you’d disappeared, and I can only presume that Lord Kilmartyn’s name is off our list of suspects, or you’d never have married him.”

  The man beside her brightened. “Is that true, darling? Did you truly believe I was capable of such a villainous scheme?”

  “Of course you’re capable,” Bryony replied. “You just didn’t happen to do it.”

  Maddy ignored their byplay. “I decided we couldn’t just sit around and wait, so I went after Captain Morgan to see whether he had anything to do with it. And I made an excellent housemaid,” she added with an air of triumph.

  “And was the old gentleman guilty?” her sister asked.

  “Why does everyone persist in thinking me an ancient mariner?” Luca demanded. “I’m only thirty-three.”

  Bryony looked at him in shock. “You’re Captain Morgan? I thought you said your name was Luca.”

  “It is,” he replied unhelpfully.

  “It’s a long story. We go by the name Morgan,” Maddy said.

  Bryony looked from one to the other. “Do you love her?” she demanded, sounding like a disapproving parent.

  “Bryony!” Maddy wailed.

  But Luca simply laughed. “Do you think I’d put up with her if I didn’t?”

  Bryony nodded. “And there’s no need to ask you, sister mine. I’ve never seen anyone so foolishly besotted.”

  Maddy wasn’t about to take this without a fight. “Have you looked in a mirror?”

  Bryony, calm, sensible Bryony, actually blushed, and a feeling of satisfaction warmed Maddy’s insides. Now if they could just find Sophie . . .

  “Then do we assume, since neither I . . .”—Kilmartyn glanced at Luca—“. . . nor the pirate captain is guilty in your complicated conspiracy theory, then the man who took your country house is the culprit? Don’t look so surprised, Mrs. Morgan—of course I know everything.”

  “Viscount Griffiths,” Maddy supplied. “And there’s no guarantee—you three were just the most likely.”

  Kilmartyn’s smile was dazzling. “And of course you could be wrong about me or the captain. I may have seduced Bryony with my abundant . . . er . . . charm, and convinced her of my innocence when I was actually a hidebound villain . . .”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Bryony said, her ravishing smile taking the sting out of her words. “We don’t have time for games. We need to find Sophie.”

  “Yes,” agreed Maddy. “And besides, no one ever fools Bryony. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

  “So the question is,” Luca interrupted, his businesslike tone at odds with his gypsy lilt, “did your sister head to London or Devonport to find us, or did she go after Griffiths on her own?”

  “We don’t know how bad the situation is. Sophie’s not used to being on her own, and who knows what kind of monster she’s gotten herself involved with if she decided to go to Renwick. The man suppose
dly murdered his wife.”

  “Ah, a fellow in arms,” Kilmartyn said cheerfully.

  Bryony cast him a stern glance before continuing. “And we know accusations like that can have little to do with the truth. We need to send word to Renwick, as well as back to Devonport, to see if anyone’s seen her. There was that private detective we hired after Father died . . .”

  “He was clearly rubbish,” Kilmartyn said. “We can find someone better.”

  “I know someone,” Luca said suddenly. “He can find out almost anything if given enough incentive. He and I go way back, and he tends to get quick results. I’ll go talk to him.”

  He rose, and Maddy looked up at him in shock. “Now? It’s the middle of the night.”

  “It’s the best time to find people like the Wart,” Luca said. “And don’t even say it. You’re not coming with me—you’d stick out like a peacock in a group of nuns. Not only would it be dangerous, but he’s more likely to talk freely if it’s just me.”

  “And I’ve got someone in mind if your friend doesn’t work out,” Kilmartyn offered. “But unlike the pirate captain’s delightfully sordid acquaintances, I need to wait until morning to call on him.”

  “Would you mind not calling me ‘the pirate captain’?” Luca said plaintively. “It sounds ridiculous.”

  “That was rather the point, old man.”

  Only Maddy could hear Luca’s soft snarl. He bent down and kissed her, hard, and a moment later he was gone.

  There was a brief silence. Bryony glanced speakingly at her husband, and Kilmartyn laughed. “All right, I am not totally obtuse. You wish to speak to your sister without me around, do you not? Are you going to reveal secrets of the marriage bed?”

  Bryony turned a fiery red. “Of course not.”

  Kilmartyn’s smile was angelic. “Just make certain to praise me lavishly. Having seen the pirate captain in the altogether makes me wonder if I have . . . er . . . fallen short in some way.”

  “Go away, Adrian,” Bryony said in a patient voice. “I’m certain we have better things to talk about than your manly attractions.”

  “Well, then, I’ll go on down to the kitchens and see if I can convince Mrs. Harkins to feed me, shall I?” Bowing extravagantly, he left, and Bryony turned to look at her sister.

  “Well?” she said.

  Maddy was confused. “Well, what?”

  “Tell me about him! He’s quite gorgeous, though not nearly as pretty as Adrian,” Bryony said, moving to sit next to Maddy on the sofa. “Did he know who you were the moment he saw you, or were you able to fool him for a bit? And when did you fall in love with him? How long have you been married; tell me everything!”

  Maddy looked at her doubtfully. Living the life of a recluse, Bryony had always seemed muted, shy, quiet, except with her immediate family. Now she was bright and happy, humming with energy.

  “Only if you’ll tell me about Kilmartyn, who is, by the way, very nice to look at, but nowhere near as handsome as Luca. Then again,” she added fairly, “I haven’t seen him naked, so I can’t make an informed comparison.”

  The sound of their giggles followed Kilmartyn down the hall of the house he’d once hated.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  SOPHIE SAT CURLED UP on the window seat of her allotted bedroom, surveying it with a doubtful eye. The room was lovely, done up in dark shades of blue that probably matched her eyes. Very bad paeans had been written about her golden tresses, her dark blue orbs, her ivory skin tinged with rose blush.

  She’d never been much for poetry, particularly the bad stuff written by her admirers. She could just imagine the kind of thing Alexander would write in her honor.

  “My bride is like a red, red rose,

  Full of thorns and beetles . . .”

  Not that he’d even go to that much effort. She leaned back against the wall and surveyed her toes, wiggling them. She needed her shoes, though she had to admit that going without them felt quite . . . freeing. It was an illusion—she needed her shoes if she was going to have any chance of escaping from Alexander and his ridiculous insistence on marrying her.

  He still hadn’t given her a reason why he was doing this. Then again, she hadn’t told him her reasons for refusing him. She didn’t want to examine those reasons too closely, for fear she might weaken. Marriage to the Dark Viscount was far too tempting simply because she . . . no, she wasn’t going to think about that, about him. She was going to find some way to get out of there, and she had a strong suspicion that his brother would help her cause.

  She didn’t like Rufus Griffiths. She wasn’t sure why—he was perfectly charming. She would have to get over her instinctive distrust of him. He was her most obvious ally. He’d made it more than clear he didn’t want her to marry Alexander. She needed to discover if he’d back up that dislike with action.

  She stared out into the gathering darkness. It stayed light for a long time during these spring days. Even this late there was still just a hint of a glow on the horizon, past the spires and rooftops of the massive city. There were still people she knew living here—she just couldn’t trust them to take her in. She could probably find writing utensils in the small escritoire over by the door—she should start composing some glowing recommendations. She’d need them to find work until one of her sisters returned. Though how they’d go about finding each other was another question.

  London was the largest city in the world, teeming with people, and if she was working in a kitchen she would hardly be moving in the same circles that even the disgraced Misses Russell would be. How in the world would she know if her sisters came anywhere near the city?

  She would deal with that later. After all, as a cook all her daily needs would be met, including, most likely, uniforms. She would have a bed, enough to eat, warmth when needed. Any money she made, including the money she had remaining from the small bit that Maddy had left her, could be used toward finding her sisters.

  In the meantime she simply had to face things as they happened. There was no way Alexander could get a special permit tonight, nor would anyone be willing to marry them at such an absurd hour, so she was safe, at least for now. Tomorrow was a different matter entirely, and she had to find a way to turn Rufus from an enemy to an ally, though the very thought was uncomfortable. She didn’t like him, and she didn’t know why.

  So, one more night. One more night, and she’d be free, never to see Alexander again, never to feel his touch, his kiss. She put her face down on her knees and sat there, dry-eyed and miserable.

  Rufus Griffiths sat alone in the library that had been his own for the last few weeks, pondering his good fortune. Just when everything seemed lost, the one Russell daughter he hadn’t been able to find had been delivered into his lap. Clearly it was a sign. He must have done them in the wrong order. Not that he would consider he’d made a mistake with the eldest daughter who married Kilmartyn or the bossy one. He had done everything he could to kill Bryony and her new husband. Kilmartyn should have been charged with his wife’s murder—it had been planned out so carefully—and Bryony’s as well. But bad fortune had plagued Rufus, things out of his control. He’d brought them both to the charred remains of the house he’d burned down, the house where he’d interred Kilmartyn’s bitch of a wife’s body, along with her maid, and if things had gone as they should have, their corpses would all be down in the ruins of the Russell town house, and Rufus would have disappeared with nothing to ever connect him to Eustace Russell and all that lovely money he’d managed to embezzle with the help of Kilmartyn’s wretched first wife.

  But instead the back end of the house had collapsed beneath him, and he’d barely managed to crawl away. He’d endured shards of wood in his leg and a wrenching twist to his hip that made walking excruciating.

  Kilmartyn and the Russell chit had escaped to the Continent before he was able to walk again, and despite everything, the police decided Kilmartyn hadn’t murdered his wife after all, the idiots. Rufus had planted so much evidence onl
y a fool could have missed it.

  And then, to make matters worse, he’d failed . . . no, he’d miscalculated with the middle one. It had been surprisingly easy to trace Maddy Russell to the household of Thomas Morgan, the former privateer who had been Eustace Russell’s favorite captain. Rufus had hired the best people to get rid of her, but they’d failed, twice, and when he’d given in and gone after her himself he’d almost died. Had it not been for some damned Frog fishermen he would have drowned.

  But once more fate had been with him, proving to him that he was following a righteous cause. He’d been biding his time in the house that should have been his, brooding, when he should have trusted fate would bring things around and drop the third Russell sister right in his lap.

  This time he would allow nothing to chance. This time his mother would be proud of him, proud that he’d come up with his own plan, and it worked. Perhaps it was simply that her convoluted plotting had been flawed. He didn’t want to think it—she was everything to him. But this was beautiful in its simplicity.

  It was more than obvious that the pretty little brat didn’t want to marry his half brother. He couldn’t imagine why—he despised Alexander but he had no illusions. Alexander was everything he was not, or so his mother had always told him. But the girl would want help in getting away, and he’d provide it. Over the rooftops, where a slip was such an easy thing. And once again Alexander would take the blame for it, and this time he wouldn’t escape from the trap Rufus had set. One murdered wife was a misfortune; two murdered wives was unacceptable.

  They hanged peers for murder. It would put a blot on the title, but Rufus had little doubt he could charm his way out of the shadow. He’d be noble and grieving for a bit, then slowly recover and take his place in society, and no one would ever guess the complicated machinations that had gotten him there.