The Wild Marquis

by Miranda Neville

  One of the things he liked about Juliana Merton was her adult and collected approach to life. Accustomed to thespians who couldn’t seem to avoid letting drama spill off the stage and into real life, he hadn’t realized how much he’d valued the bookseller’s calm good sense until she lost it and became as agitated as a soprano in a death scene.

  The explosion came slowly. Her skin turned impossibly white, the few freckles standing out in vivid ocher contrast. The little rosebud of a mouth dropped open. Small but capable fingers clenched handfuls of her skirt. Her eyes, glinting greener with emotion, stared at him.

  Then, in a flash, she turned and grabbed something from the table behind her and bashed him over the head. “I am not your mistress,” she cried.

  She’d hit him with a book. It didn’t hurt much. It was a small volume, and from her height she couldn’t summon enough leverage to inflict real pain. This was not, however, the usual reaction when he offered a woman a comfortable home in a good part of town.

  He laughed. “Darling,” he said. “What do you think we were doing upstairs last night?”

  “That,” she said, every muscle of her small body bristling, “was a mistake.”

  “No, no,” he said, trying to suppress his mirth at the sight of this tiny woman in a towering rage. She was shaking with such agitation that her cap fell off and her glorious golden locks tumbled down. In her passion she appeared infinitely desirable and he hastened to make up lost ground. “I’m sorry I laughed, sweetheart. Surely you didn’t think I’d want you for only one night? I want many more. And I hope you do too.”

  He moved to embrace her, hoping his touch would rekindle her passion. She held him off with the flat of her hand.

  “I am not any man’s mistress,” she said flatly.

  “Mistress, lover. What do words matter? The important thing is that we want each other.”

  “They matter a lot to other people and mistress is the word they would use. My association with you has already caused me damage, but I ignored the warnings of friends. What do you think my business would be if I lived under your protection? Would respectable book collectors patronize the mistress of a rake?”

  She spat out the last word and inwardly he cringed. He was only too aware how the world viewed him and for once he couldn’t shrug it off. Not when his years of dissipation might deprive him of what he wanted, something that had never happened since he achieved his inheritance.

  “And what of me, my lord?” she continued, her voice gathering pace and volume. “What of me when your fancy wanes and you are tired of me?”

  “I’d never be tired of you—”

  “Please don’t insult me with such nonsense. I’d be left with no means of livelihood, my reputation in tatters.”

  “I am not in the habit of leaving my friends, or my former mistresses, in the gutter,” he said.

  “So you would keep me as your pensioner for the remainder of my life? I am obliged to you, my lord.”

  The my-lording irritated him. She hadn’t been so formal trembling in his arms. His temper rose, a thing that never happened with him.

  “If you are so bloody respectable, Madam Bookseller, what did you mean by allowing me into your home and your bed last night? For your information, respectable women don’t entertain rakes late at night.”

  She’d been glaring at him, meeting him eye to eye, and now the soft green seemed to emit golden sparks.

  “If I hadn’t been afraid to be alone I would never have done anything so foolish,” she yelled. “It wasn’t just a mistake. It was the worst mistake of my life!”

  The fact that she was very likely correct only fueled his anger. “I was under the impression you quite enjoyed our little encounter but apparently I was mistaken. Well then, you don’t have to worry about your future because you have what it takes to succeed in another profession. A prime skill of the courtesan is the ability to feign pleasure in bed.”

  Pushing past him she strode through the shop and opened the street door. “Get out,” she said.

  “Wait!” How had he let this scene get away from him?

  “Out!” she repeated, low and deadly serious.

  Cain knew better than to argue with a woman in a rage. The door slammed hard against his back.

  Chapter 9

  Juliana would have slammed the door in Cain’s face when he turned up at the shop the next day, looking for all the world as though their exchange of words had never occurred. But she was arrested by the sight of his companion, a…Creature, dragged behind him on a leash.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “This,” he said, “is Quarto.”

  “No, it’s not.” The Creature was knee-high to Cain, rather taller to her, and its wrinkled face managed to combine misery and pugnacity in equal measure. “It’s a dog. Isn’t it?”

  “Yes it’s a dog. His name is Quarto. It remains to be seen whether he’s a good Quarto or a bad Quarto. So far his behavior has tended toward the latter, but his former owner assures me he’s good-natured.”

  Cain remained in the doorway, as though uncertain of his welcome. The Creature pushed past him and strained to sniff at her. She stepped back hastily.

  “I don’t know much about dogs. What kind is it?”

  “A poodle.”

  “I see.”

  He looked at her incredulously. “Of course it’s not a poodle. Can’t you recognize a bulldog?”

  “My guardian didn’t allow animals in the house. They’re bad for books.” She looked at the Creature nervously, expecting any moment that it would leap up at a bookshelf and start eating a volume. Or do something worse.

  “Since I named this boy for a book, I expect him to treat them with respect. Won’t you, Quarto.” He leaned down to pat the brindled head, and the Creature growled. “He doesn’t like me much but that doesn’t matter. He’s yours. You see, he likes you. Perhaps he only likes women, sensible fellow. He wants to lick your hand.”

  Juliana drew back from the animal’s tongue. It made her think of a wet slice of ham. “I don’t want him. Why would you think I want him?”

  He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Isn’t it obvious? He’s a watchdog. And he’ll be company for you.”

  That took the wind out of her sails.

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, my lord. But it isn’t necessary. I’m certain my fears are irrational.”

  “Better to be safe. I insist. I’ll leave you now. Here.” He handed her the end of the leash and, before she could say another word, left the shop.

  “Wait!” She rushed to the door. “Come back,” she cried at his retreating back. Her voice grew shrill with panic. “Don’t leave me with him. I don’t know what to do. What does he eat…?”

  He disappeared around the corner and she turned back to confront her new companion, who sat on his haunches, panting and smiling at her, drool dripping from that hamlike tongue. Ugh. She might never eat the stuff again.

  “What am I going to do with you?”

  Quarto collapsed to the ground, front paws forward like a sphinx, his expression just as inscrutable.

  “Company! You’re not much of a conversationalist, are you? I’d rather have your late master for company and to keep watch at night.”

  She clapped her hands over her mouth, unable to believe she’d thought such a thing, let alone uttered it aloud, even to a dog.

  “And don’t think you’re sleeping on my bed.”

  Don’t think about beds. She swatted her unruly mind into submission. The wretched man, however attractive, had made it clear he regarded her as little better than the whores who were his usual companions. It galled her greatly that Arthur and Mr. Gilbert had been right about him.

  “So what do you eat?”

  The dog pricked up his ears and lumbered to his feet. Apparently eat was a word he recognized. He followed her upstairs into the kitchen. Rummaging in the cupboard she found the heel of a loaf and a morsel of cheese. He wolfed down the latter quite ha
ppily, not caring about its thin coating of mold, but surveyed the bread dubiously.

  “It does look dry, doesn’t it,” she said, and spread some honey on it.

  The dog liked the honey. “Good boy. Good Quarto.” The name made her smile. The Marquis of Chase might be a louse but he was a witty louse.

  “You know, Quarto, I may be crazy talking to a dog, but I suppose it’s no worse than imaginary discussions with book collectors.”

  It occurred to her she hadn’t had one of those dialogues since Cain had come into her life. She’d enjoyed having someone real who talked back.

  An ominous sound emerged from Quarto’s throat, followed by a neat pile of vomit.

  “Quarto! If you’re going to live here, we’re going to have some rules.”

  The shop bell rang and Juliana set aside the book she was collating.

  “Behave yourself,” she said sternly to Quarto, who looked longingly at the volume. After a couple of unfortunate incidents she’d managed to persuade him that a book was neither a meal nor a toy. He showed a particular penchant for morocco. A dog with expensive tastes. She intended to call at the binder’s and look for an inexpensive piece of leather on which he could slobber without ill effect.

  Her visitor wasn’t Cain which was a relief. Just as it had been a relief every time the bell had rung in the last two days. She hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him since he’d deposited Quarto at her feet. Which, really, was a relief.

  Instead of the marquis’s graceful figure and flashing blue eyes, Sir Henry Tarleton awaited her. And he was a fine-looking man. Very fine.

  “Mrs. Merton, what a pleasure to see you,” he said with a low bow over her hand, not at all the salutation she was accustomed to receive from customers.

  “How do you do, Sir Henry. Welcome to J. C. Merton. Is there anything in particular I can show you?”

  “I would like to examine your shelves later,” he said, “but first let us attend to another matter. I believe Gilbert spoke to you about representing me at my uncle’s sale.”

  “And I would be honored to assist you, sir, as long as it doesn’t conflict with my other commitments.” She hoped she gave the impression of juggling the interests of a string of gentlemen, when in fact she wasn’t certain she had even one client.

  “That is Gilbert’s quandary. Perhaps you aren’t as busy as he.”

  Of course she wasn’t. Mr. Gilbert acted as adviser to the cream of English bibliophiles, and Sir Henry must know it.

  “Do you intend to make extensive purchases?”

  “Before going into details, let me explain my situation. I know I can rely on your discretion.”

  She nodded and he continued. “I don’t need to tell you that Sir Thomas was an eccentric man. He never changed his will after the death of his son, and since he spent a fortune on books, he died in debt and his creditors demanded immediate satisfaction. Once the legal questions are settled, I shall inherit what remains of the proceeds, which I expect to be substantial. I was unable to persuade the courts to let me take the pick of the collection so I must compete for them like anyone else. And the pick of the collection is what I want. I must be careful how I apportion my resources, which are not, alas, unlimited.”

  In other words, like any other collector, he needed a strategy to make sure he got what he wanted most.

  “I understand that you won’t want to tell me exactly what you are pursuing until we come to an agreement, but could you give me some slight indication?”

  Sir Henry rattled off the names of a dozen books, all rare and precious volumes but none of them items that interested Cain. “Some of the Shakespeares, of course. But what I want most, what I must win, is the greatest treasure of my uncle’s library. The Burgundy Hours.” He sighed reverently. “I fear the price will be very high. Who could resist such a magnificent work of art?”

  Although not altogether a surprise, since Mr. Gilbert had mentioned Sir Henry’s interest in the Hours, Juliana was disappointed. She’d been calculating the commission on the books Tarleton had mentioned and come up with a truly glorious sum of money. Yet if it was the single thing both Cain and Sir Henry wanted most, she couldn’t act for both of them.

  “How did Sir Thomas come to acquire the manuscript?” she temporized, unwilling to say adieu to such a wonderful client. “Its provenance is a mystery.”

  “I wish I knew. Once I have full access to my uncle’s papers I hope to discover the source.”

  Chase’s family had guarded its secret well. She wondered how Sir Thomas Tarleton had persuaded the late marquis to part with the manuscript. Given what she knew of Tarleton’s ruthlessness, she wouldn’t be astonished to find something underhand.

  “Well, Mrs. Merton. What do you say? Will you act for me?”

  Juliana bit her lip. If she was wise she’d say yes and forget all about the Marquis of Chase. She didn’t even know that she retained his custom and, as Gilbert had argued so starkly, Sir Henry was a much better bet as a future customer. Yet she knew how much Cain wanted the manuscript, and why. Aside from any ethical question, it didn’t sit well with her to be involved in depriving him of it.

  She was still wondering if she could have it both ways when Quarto emerged from the back room, no doubt ready for another meal.

  “Goodness, who’s this?” Sir Henry asked. “What a handsome beast.”

  Juliana couldn’t agree. She’d reached an accommodation of sorts with the animal, was even grateful for his presence. But truly the creature was ugly as sin.

  “I am fond of bulldogs,” Sir Henry said, holding out his hand to be sniffed. The dog examined the visitor and seemed to approve. Quarto might not like Cain but his scorn didn’t extend to the entire male sex.

  “I recently acquired him as a watchdog.”

  “A wise decision for a lady living alone.”

  “Since you seem to know about the breed, perhaps you can tell me what to feed him. He likes bread and cheese. And honey. But it doesn’t seem quite right.”

  He looked amused. “Dogs are generally fond of a bone to gnaw.”

  Juliana slapped her forehead. “Bones! Of course.” Then frowned. “Just bones? That doesn’t seem very filling.”

  “And meat. Dogs love meat. It doesn’t have to be an expensive cut.”

  “Does the meat need to be cooked?”

  “A strong animal like that will eat raw meat, but he might prefer it stewed and it will keep better. You don’t have to concern yourself with the seasoning.” The humor in his eye belied his serious tone.

  Juliana wished she could accept Sir Henry’s commission. Unfortunately the entrance of that dratted dog reminded her that Cain had treated her kindly. She couldn’t betray him.

  “I thank you for your advice, Sir Henry, and I wish I could reciprocate with my own, but on careful consideration I believe I will have to decline your offer. My other commitments would make it impossible to serve you as you deserve.”

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am to hear that.” For a moment she fancied he looked more angry than regretful. “I am sorry not only because I will be losing the services of a very knowledgeable lady. I had hoped I might assist the ward of Mr. Fitterbourne.”

  Sir Henry’s repeated wish to help her for this reason struck Juliana as odd. It wasn’t as though he were responsible for any offenses of his uncle. As far as most people knew, Juliana’s connection to the Fitterbournes was a distant one. She wondered if, somehow, he’d learned the truth about her birth.

  Three days passed and Juliana was worried. She’d turned down Sir Henry, yet she hadn’t heard a word from the Marquis of Chase, about buying books or any other subject. Three days of Tarleton books had gone under the hammer and she had no reason to attend the auction, let alone buy anything.

  An hour spent going over her accounts did nothing for her mood. The improved state of her balances wouldn’t last long without a client to represent.

  She looked up eagerly when the door opened, but it was only the bin
der’s delivery boy with a package.

  “Wait, please. I’m not expecting anything.”

  She recognized the volume, bound in opulent red morocco, the spine lavishly gilt and the covers emblazoned with a coat of arms. She didn’t need to open it to recognize Herrick’s poetry.

  “There’s been a mistake. This should go to the Marquis of Chase in Berkeley Square.” About to rewrap and return the book, she changed her mind. “Never mind. I’ll deliver it to Lord Chase myself.”

  Truth to tell, she was glad of an excuse to seek out Cain. Yes, his offer to set her up as his mistress was insulting, but on reflection she realized he hadn’t intended it as such. It was simply his way of dealing with women. And his final riposte had been in response to her own jeers. However much he might try to disguise it, Juliana knew he was sensitive about his poor reputation.

  She recalled the evening at the Misses Berry’s house when he’d made it his business to introduce her to so many people. At the time she wasn’t sure how he did it. He didn’t hover at her side but stayed in the background. But as soon as a conversation lagged he was at her elbow, steering her in the direction of the next meeting and not incidentally sending shivers up her arm each time he touched the bare skin between the sleeve of her gown and her glove.

  She had noticed that his own reception by their fellow guests was less enthusiastic than her own. Not that anyone was overtly rude. Just that he was avoided by many and treated with reserve by most.

  Further intimacy was impossible for her own reputation and peace of mind. But Lord Chase was a man who needed friendship, and that she could offer.

  And she needed a client.

  And Quarto needed a walk.

  Though deliveries sometimes took her into the more rarefied areas of London, most of Juliana’s life was spent in streets where commerce dominated. By the time she had threaded her way through the traffic-clogged lanes surrounding the building of the new Regent Street and into the quieter quarters of Mayfair, she was beginning to doubt the wisdom of the expedition.