The Wild Marquis

by Miranda Neville

  Apparently she didn’t pick up the reference. Her face showed nothing but polite interest melting into sympathy. “And both your parents have died, my lord? I am sorry.”

  “Cain,” he insisted, ignoring the question. He never talked about his family. “What about you? Any embarrassing childhood names I can use?”

  “My name is Juliana.”

  “Juliana as in J. C. Merton?”

  “It so happened that my husband and I had the same initials. He was Joseph Charles.”

  So her middle name began with C. Was it Cassandra? The mystery he had sensed connected with the owner of Tarleton’s Romeo and Juliet popped into his mind.

  The coals in the tiny fireplace began to warm the room. Juliana let her voluminous shawl slide from her shoulders, and some of her fatigue seemed to go with it. A gulp of wine diminished the exhausted pallor of her face.

  Unfortunately the gown beneath the shawl remained as hideous and unflattering as ever. But assessing her appearance was no more than Cain’s reflexive reaction to a woman. Seduction was not what he had in mind for the evening.

  He had come here to learn everything she knew about Sir Thomas Tarleton. Then, purely for his own amusement, he’d discover where Cassandra Fitterbourne came into the picture. There was no rush. He liked Juliana Merton, and making her comfortable gave him pleasure. He looked forward to an evening of companionship and conversation.

  The footmen kept bumping into each other in the cramped quarters. “Wait for me downstairs, lads,” Cain said. “We can look after ourselves.”

  Even without those improbable servants, the room seemed very small, Juliana thought, smaller than usual when filled with Chase’s potent presence. Agreeing to dine à deux in her own home with a gazetted rake was hardly wise, but Juliana hadn’t been able to refuse. She’d been so pleased to see him, as though she’d opened her workaday door to admit exotic splendor into her dreary surroundings.

  And the food! Not since her guardian’s death had anyone served her a meal in her own home, and Chase’s cook far surpassed the one at Fernley Court. She followed a mouthful of tender ham with a second gulp of claret and allowed herself to relax into a delicious sense of warmth and well-being.

  “Tell me, Juliana, how do those bookseller’s codes work?”

  Her companion sat across the table, with his engagingly open grin. Her stomach gave a little flip. But since, for once, his voice and manner bore no hint of the flirtatious, she allowed herself to simply enjoy looking at him.

  “It’s quite simple. You choose a ten-letter word with no repeated letters and assign a digit to each. Or some people use a nine-letter word and X for the naught.”

  “Do you use a code? What word?”

  “I do, my lord”—he raised an admonitory eyebrow—“Cain, but I am certainly not going to tell you what it is.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t choose to let you know how much I’ve paid for the books in my shop.”

  “Are your profits so shocking?”

  “I sell books for what they are worth, regardless of their cost to me. And I don’t believe a man who spends five pounds on a poor copy of Herrick would care what I charge.”

  “Tarquin Compton said I got a bargain because the book is complete, and in good condition aside from the binding.”

  Juliana was impressed. “I congratulate you.”

  “Beginner’s luck, no doubt.”

  “Perhaps you will be a lucky collector. Some are like that. The best books somehow magically land in their hands.”

  “Was Tarleton lucky?”

  “He didn’t leave things to fortune. He made his own luck.”

  “What do you mean?” Cain asked.

  “He wasn’t always scrupulous in his dealings.”

  “You intrigue me. You said something the other day about the Shakespeare folios.”

  “He stole those folios,” she said darkly. “Not literally but morally. A certain collector had tracked them down, and the owner agreed to sell to him. They would have been the crown jewels of his collection. But Tarleton was on the same trail. He persuaded the seller to break his word.”

  “Persuaded? Did he offer a better price?”

  “I don’t believe that was the case. Not in the opinion of the disappointed collector. He believed Tarleton threatened the seller with disclosure of something embarrassing or scandalous.”

  “Blackmail!”

  “Yes. And that’s not the only such story I’ve heard.” It felt good to tell the truth about Tarleton to an appreciative audience.

  “You say the folios were ‘tracked down.’ How would one do that?” Cain asked.

  “Most important books are recorded at some point in their history. So you find the last known owner and follow the trail.”

  “I understand the Burgundy manuscript was lost for centuries. Do you have any idea how Tarleton would have found it?”

  “I’ve never researched its history. But I can do so if you wish.”

  “Thank you. If I’m to buy it I suppose I should know everything about it.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, why do you want it?”

  Cain shrugged. “Just a whim. And it’s beautiful. Let’s talk about some other books I’d like to buy.”

  Juliana was delighted, though anxious to divert him from thoughts of Shakespeare. “What did you think of the Aretino?” To her irritation she couldn’t manage the question without blushing.

  “You know, Juliana, I’m not really interested in erotic literature.”

  “I’m sorry…”

  The reappearance of his grin cut off her apology. “I prefer the real thing.”

  Her blush deepened. To disguise her embarrassment she picked up her glass.

  “I have decided to collect plays,” he said.

  She drained her wine and tried to sound businesslike. “Any titles in particular?” Please, not the quartos.

  He put down his knife and fork and refilled both their glasses. Then he reached back to the side table for the Tarleton catalogue.

  “I noted some that sound better than the usual fare at Drury Lane,” he said, flipping through the volume. “She Ventures and She Wins. Good for her. The Nice Wanton. What other kind is there?”

  His farcical list, and the quizzical play of his mobile face, had her giggling.

  “Win Her and Take Her. Thank you, I will. The Town Fop? Perhaps not. But The Woman Turn’d Bully I simply must have.”

  Juliana had read every word of the Tarleton catalogue without the absurdity of the titles striking her. Generally more interested in the rarity of books than their content, she wondered what these plays were about.

  “I suppose you intend to read what you buy,” she groused.

  “Certainly I do.” He turned another page. “Here’s a good one. The Rampant Alderman. How could I resist? It arouses certain ideas that the Lord Chamberlain might object to seeing portrayed on stage.”

  He threw her a wayward look, as though expecting her to faint at the vision he conjured. But wine had made her bold.

  “May I ask you a question, Cain?” she asked, her laughter subsiding as she examined his face intently.

  “Why not?

  “Why are you so anxious to shock people?”

  “Do I shock you?”

  “A little. But I find you amusing. And I think you do it deliberately, not because you mean what you say.”

  “I behave the way people expect me to.” He spoke flippantly and continued to smile, but the light left his eyes to be replaced by a harder expression.

  “So you do it to please?”

  “I didn’t say that.” His voice, always low, dropped a notch in both volume and pitch.

  “And why do people expect you to shock them?”

  “Because, and you are likely the only person in London who doesn’t know it, my dear innocent bookworm, I am steeped in vice, a being so depraved that I was cast out of my ancestral home at the tender age of sixteen.”
<
br />   “What could you possibly have done at that age that was so terrible?”

  “Acts too depraved for your ears.”

  “Really?” She was fascinated.

  “My long slide into iniquity began at the tender age of twelve when I leered at one of the maids during evening prayers.”

  “Surely your father didn’t send you away for that?”

  “No, he merely beat me. The maid he sent away, without a reference. The first recorded instance of my getting a woman into trouble. The sin that caused my exile was far, far worse.” He continued to speak in a light, humorous tone but Juliana detected an underlying bitterness and defiance.

  “What did you do?”

  Cain misinterpreted her question, deliberately she was sure. “I left,” he said. “My father had me delivered to the nearest coaching stop with a hundred pounds in my pocket, and told me never to darken the doors of Markley Chase again.”

  And she knew he wasn’t going to tell her why.

  “What of your mother? Didn’t she object?”

  “My father was a saint—”

  “I don’t find it saintly to cast out a boy of sixteen,” she said indignantly.

  “My father never did anything wrong in the eyes of his wife, or indeed of the world. So I found my way to London and proceeded to live up to his opinion of me.”

  “So young to be alone! How did you manage?”

  “I went to live in a brothel. I liked that.” The amused light was back in his eyes.

  “Good Lord!”

  “And then I developed a close relationship with the theater. Or rather a succession of ladies who adorned the stage.”

  “You don’t make a secret of it, I notice.”

  “What would be the point? I am, I believe, notorious. Five years later my father died. Sadly for him, it wasn’t in his power to disinherit me.”

  “Did you return home?”

  “Just for the funeral. A despicable act of hypocrisy on my part. My mother remains there. She is no more anxious for my company than my sire was. I live a life of blissful self-indulgence and ease in the family’s London mansion, and she keeps Markley Chase as her province.”

  He didn’t ask for her compassion but he had it. Juliana knew the pain and loneliness of being exiled from the only home she’d ever known.

  “So you haven’t been home in how many years?”

  “Three.”

  “You are only twenty-four years old then, just a year more than me. I thought you older.” Not that Cain’s dissipations had marred his looks, but there was a world-weariness, a certain cynicism in his face when in repose that communicated a wealth of hard experience.

  “Thank you for the compliment. My debauchery must be affecting my features. I shall have to speak to my valet about a skin tonic.”

  She suspected something in his tale affected him far more deeply than he liked to reveal, that his habitual glibness disguised a sorrow she felt the urge to comfort.

  Then his expression shuttered for a brief but perceptible instant and he regarded her with a careless grin, the blue eyes as mocking and dangerously suggestive as ever. He’d erected a barrier against trespassers.

  Cain had been enjoying himself, especially the early part of the conversation when he’d learned of Sir Thomas Tarleton’s propensity for extortion. That might explain why his father had relinquished the Burgundy Hours, though he couldn’t imagine what scandal threatened the Saintly Marquis.

  Then he’d started talking about himself, far more than was his habit. Juliana’s indignation on his behalf would be more gratifying if she knew the whole truth. When he sensed her sympathy turn to pity his mood changed. He loathed pity, resented it.

  “Enough of my wretched life. Let’s get back to books. If I’m going to collect plays, naturally I should buy Shakespeares.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Nothing but the best for me.”

  “They’ll go high,” she said weakly.

  “I believe I’ve made clear that my fortune is adequate.”

  “You should buy the folios,” she said firmly.

  He let her wax lyrical for a few minutes about the beauty, condition, and brilliant provenance of the four volumes.

  “I rather fancy those neat little quartos,” he cut in abruptly.

  Juliana dropped her knife with a clatter. She stood up. “Please excuse me for a few minutes.”

  Cain had intended to rattle her, not drive her from the room. But he took advantage of her absence to check a hunch. He’d already spotted a plain-looking Bible on one of the shelves; not, he thought, a collector’s item. He snatched it up and checked the signature on the flyleaf before replacing it. Juliana Cassandra Wayborn.

  She stumbled into the tiny water closet in something of a panic. Wine had dulled her brain. How could she stop him from buying her books without revealing the truth about herself?

  The thought of simply asking him not to bid on the quartos occurred to her, only to be dismissed. In her experience men didn’t respond well to straightforward expressions of either her desires or her opinions. Her guardian had never welcomed her assessment of a book when it conflicted with his own, preferring to willfully ignore the occasions when she had been proven right and he wrong. Her respect for all he had taught her let her accept his attitude, but when Joseph displayed the same outlook she’d resented it. And developed tactics for making him accede to her judgment. The male animal had to be made to think it was his idea.

  She hadn’t taken the Marquis of Chase’s measure enough to know how to manipulate him to her will. Never mind the uneasy thought that she might never be able to outwit his quicksilver personality. For the moment she would return to her previous strategy of distraction. An idea buzzed into her head to join the second glass of claret. Did she dare? Last time she’d offered him an erotic book. And he’d made it quite clear he preferred the real thing.

  Not that she had any intention of actually seducing him. A small flirtation should be enough. There was an attractive man in the next room, and the prospect of engaging him—just a little—on those terms appealed to her.

  There was, of course, the problem that she had little experience in flirtation. But the man was a rake. How hard could it be? There was nothing she could do about her unappealing garb, but she had one asset men had always admired. She’d start with that, then improvise. Her heart racing, unsteady fingers untied the strings of her cap.

  When Juliana returned, Cain was sitting innocently at his place, toying with his wineglass. He guessed she had withdrawn to think up a new ploy to distract him from the vexed subject of Shakespeare quartos, and looked forward to discovering it. And then he’d find out her connection to the lovely Cassandra Fitterbourne. His earlier irritation had melted away. He found the diminutive bookseller and her secrets entertaining.

  Well, this was a surprise.

  Right from the beginning he’d known Mrs. Merton was pretty under those gruesome widow’s weeds. He hadn’t suspected she had the most magnificent hair he’d ever seen. Tumbling from her head scarcely restrained by pins, shining curls caught the flickering candlelight in shades of honey, caramel, and pure gold. She was beautiful, a perfect pocket Venus. For the first time he felt a genuine urge to delve into more than the mystery of her background.

  She swayed a little as she approached the table. “I decided to remove my cap. I hope you don’t object to the informality.”

  She patted at her head with a self-conscious air, and a shower of hairpins tinkled on the floorboards. The shining masses flopped over her shoulders to her breasts.

  “Not in the least,” he said, eyes riveted.

  Her brow, milky white beneath the gold, creased in annoyance. “I’m not very good at hairdressing.”

  “Dear me, Juliana. There seem to be a number of things you aren’t very good at. Cooking, hairdressing. What else, I wonder.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, awaiting her response.

  “I’d rather talk about the th
ings I am good at,” she said softly.

  By God, he did believe she was flirting with him.

  “I am all ears.”

  She struck a pose and her figure curved nicely, despite its unpromising casing of bombazine, then her eyes met his with an expression both come-hither and uncertain.

  Definitely flirting, but not very good at it. Did she know what she was starting? He couldn’t believe her goal was to bed him, but she played a dangerous game with a master of the sport. He could have her naked beneath him in minutes, and there’d be no turning back. She wouldn’t want to turn back.

  She cleared her throat. “I can enter a library and pick out the best books within five minutes.”

  That was an unusual beginning to a seduction scene. Resisting the urge to laugh, he merely cocked an inquisitive eyebrow.

  “Even from among several thousand volumes. I have an unerring intuition for quality.”

  “Intuition should always be followed,” he said encouragingly.

  “I know a volume from the cradle of printing by its scent, as well as the incised impression of deep black ink on heavy paper, so crisp it might have been made yesterday.”

  Better. While he hadn’t yet found the smell of a book arousing, he was always ready for a new experience.

  “Show me any book binding and even blindfolded I can tell you what it’s made of.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “Just a stroke of the fingertips is enough.” She moved over to the bookcase. “Close your eyes.”

  In the dark he heard her make a selection of books and detected her faint clean scent, violet soap. Then she took his hand in her small one and brushed his fingers over the smooth cover of a volume.

  “Feel this one. Glossy with a hint of roughness. Polished calf.”

  She might not be an experienced flirt but her instincts were superior.

  “The finest vellum,” she said, offering another. “Slippery as silk yet hard.”

  The warmth of the room, her proximity, her soft hand manipulating his over the cool surface of the book affected him. The book wasn’t the only thing that was hard.