How to Master Your Marquis (A Princess in Hiding Romance)

by Juliana Gray

  Lady Charlotte whispered, “I have been a fool.”

  He was silent. How could he speak into the waves of grief and shock that radiated from that small pale pink body, with its face of paper white?

  “I’m sorry to have caused you any pain,” he said at last.

  “Very well,” Lady Charlotte said. “I see where my duty lies.”

  She turned and walked to the door.

  Hatherfield bolted after her. “You are not to say anything of what you’ve seen, is that clear?”

  She shrugged off his hand. “You will not address me half dressed, Lord Hatherfield.”

  “She is my affianced wife. You will put her in gravest danger.”

  The door slammed shut.

  He turned to Stefanie, who now stood tying her mask around her head with calm hands. He was already buttoning his waistcoat. She picked up his tailcoat from the floor and handed it to him.

  “Go to her,” she said. “Be kind. Forgive her. She loves you so.”

  He shrugged into his tailcoat and took her by the cheeks and kissed her hard. “My wife,” he growled fiercely in her ear, as if saying the words really would make it so. “Stay here. Sit right on that chaise until I return. Do you understand me?”

  She sank obediently on the chaise and lifted her hood over her hair. Her cheeks were still outrageously pink. “I understand you.”

  He dashed out of the room, straightening his tie as he went.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Old Bailey

  August 1890

  By the time Mr. Fairchurch had finished his questioning, the afternoon was well advanced, and the audience in the packed courtroom—jury included—was beginning to doze off.

  Hatherfield’s outward face remained grave and guileless, but his interior walls smiled with satisfaction. Good. A complacent jury was a conservative jury, and a conservative jury might just be inclined to acquit him, in absence of any direct evidence linking the Marquess of Hatherfield to the crime itself.

  Mr. Duckworth circled around his table, his hands tangled in a thoughtful knot behind his back. “Your lordship, your lordship,” he said, as if puzzling to himself. “A very neat story. A neat story indeed, and delivered with convincing effort. I applaud you.”

  Hatherfield tilted his head expectantly.

  “There is one . . . one small article of confusion. Or perhaps I’ve only muddled things in my head.” He tapped the skull in question admonishingly. “Would you perhaps do me the honor, Lord Hatherfield, of repeating your account of your actions at your parents’ house in Belgrave Square, on the night of February the—” he checked his notes “—the twenty-first of February?”

  “I have already recounted them at length, Mr. Fairchurch. I should hate to weary the long-suffering gentlemen of the jury.” Hatherfield turned his head to the nodding gentlemen in question, and nodded in sympathy.

  “Nonetheless. A brief summary will do. Let me start you off. You arrived at the house in Belgrave Square at a quarter past nine and proceeded to speak with”—again, consulting the notes—“the Viscountess Chesterton, and then to dance with briefly Lady Charlotte Harlowe.” He removed his spectacles. “And then our mysterious woman in silver arrived, and you danced with her until approximately ten o’clock, at which point you—well, it seems you disappeared from the witness account altogether. Do I have this correctly, Lord Hatherfield?”

  Hatherfield smiled his best self-deprecating smile. “Not altogether. There was one witness.”

  “Oh?”

  “The lady herself.”

  The gentlemen of the jury shifted about. The audience, under no obligation of dignity, tittered freely.

  “Yes, of course. And this lady, where is she now?”

  Hatherfield spread his hands. “I’m afraid she slipped away into the night, and I haven’t seen her since.” Which was true, in its way.

  “Hmm. Slipped away.” Mr. Duckworth’s voice dripped with skepticism. “Let us suppose, then, merely for the sake of argument, that this lady of yours had been persuaded to stay within the circle of your charms, Lord Hatherfield”—cue the tittering—“instead of slipping away into the night.” He made a skittering motion with his fingers. “Let us suppose that she has given us sworn testimony to the effect that she remained in your company for the rest of the evening. Why, then, does no one report seeing the Marquess of Hatherfield leaving the party that evening?”

  Hatherfield shrugged. “It was a considerable crush, after all. Any number of guests milling about, most of whom I don’t even know by sight. Come to think of it, any chap might have walked in off the streets that night, without being noticed by a soul.” He delivered this point with particular emphasis in the jury’s direction. “Besides, there was the lady’s honor to consider.”

  “Oh, of course!” Mr. Duckworth snapped his fingers. “The lady’s honor! You left discreetly, then. A rear exit, perhaps?”

  Hatherfield paused. “Perhaps.”

  “You are under oath, your lordship.”

  “Yes. Yes, we departed from the mews.”

  “I see. Sneaking away, as it were.” A glance at the jury.

  Hatherfield willed himself not to look at Stefanie, but he could feel her energy, her scintillating need to spring to her feet and identify herself as the lady in question, to strip herself bare in an effort to save him from the snare Mr. Duckworth was evidently trying to lay. Stay down. He willed the word to her. Stay low. Let me do this.

  He shrugged. “As I said, the lady’s honor was at stake.”

  “Strange, that she never offered to return the favor. To save your honor, by testifying in your defense.”

  Stay down, Stefanie. Please.

  Hatherfield brushed at his sleeve. “Perhaps she did make this offer, Mr. Duckworth. But a gentleman does not purchase his honor at the price of his lady’s good name.”

  A sympathetic murmur traveled across the courtroom, concentrating with particular emotion among the damsels in the corner. Under the guise of acknowledging their support, Hatherfield gazed across the benches, and in the upper right quadrant of his vision he saw Stefanie’s shoulders sink downward in relief.

  Ah, little one. How could you doubt me?

  Even Mr. Duckworth had the grace to look down and cough slightly into his closed fist. “Naturally. But the fact remains, your lordship, the court has no positive proof that you remained in the company of this lady throughout the course of the evening, and that you left the house in possession of her.”

  “Nor have you positive proof to the contrary.”

  The judge banged his gavel. “You are to answer the questions put to you by the prosecution, Lord Hatherfield, not to offer unsolicited statements of observation.”

  “I beg your pardon. Have you another question for me to answer, Mr. Duckworth?”

  Another round of tittering.

  Mr. Duckworth looked up. “Perhaps, your lordship, you can find it within the bounds of your honor to inform the court which room you and the lady repaired to, when you first—er—slipped away from the ballroom?”

  Hatherfield hesitated. “To the library, I believe.”

  “You believe? You’re not certain?”

  “Yes, it was the library.” Hatherfield smiled. “Quite certain.”

  Mr. Duckworth turned to the judge. “My lord, the prosecution wishes to recall an exhibit to the court’s attention.”

  “For what reason, Mr. Duckworth?”

  “For possible identification by the witness.”

  Hatherfield frowned. What the devil was this?

  Mr. Duckworth was conferring with the officials in the corner, bailiffs or whoever they were. Hatherfield drummed his fingers against the rail and looked at Stefanie. She was watching Mr. Duckworth, and her face had compressed into grave lines. She leaned toward Mr. Fairchurch and whispered something in his ear.

  Like a premonition of evil, a vague sensation began to stir at Hatherfield’s gut. He studied Mr. Duckworth’s lips, as if he could somehow di
vine his words. Divine his purpose.

  The courtroom stirred, too. Whispering, murmuring. The gentlemen of the jury adjusted their collars in the hot afternoon air. Hatherfield remained quite still, his eyes fixed on the activity among the prosecution, the gravitational shift of the room from amused somnolence to anticipation.

  An official emerged from the door at the side, carrying a small silver object in his hand.

  “The murder weapon,” said Mr. Duckworth. “The object used by the murderer to stab Her Grace, the Duchess of Southam, several times, in a most brutal fashion.”

  The official held it aloft. A slender sword, a foot long, honed to sharpness at one end. At the other end, a graceful handle, engraved with the ducal crest.

  “Can you identify this object, Lord Hatherfield?”

  “I believe it’s commonly used as a letter opener, Mr. Duckworth.”

  “Ah. A letter opener.” Mr. Duckworth smiled. “And where, Lord Hatherfield, was your father the duke accustomed to opening his letters?”

  “Not having lived beneath his roof in many years, I don’t feel myself qualified to say.”

  “I will rephrase the question, then. Where, your lordship, do you last recall seeing this object, this letter opener, belonging to your father and with the crest of the Dukes of Southam plainly to be seen on its handle?”

  Hatherfield set his lips.

  “Your gentlemanly honor, no doubt, will compel you to answer me with the utmost honesty.” Mr. Duckworth smiled again. “Your lordship.”

  The courtroom had gone silent. Astonishing, that so loud and so miserably restless a group of British subjects could hold themselves so entirely without sound. From the damsels, not even a sigh of trepidation.

  Hatherfield sent a resigned glance to Stefanie.

  “In my father’s library. I believe I last saw it in the library.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Belgrave Square, London

  February 1890

  Stefanie meant to sit quietly and wait for Hatherfield’s return. After all, what else could she do, dressed as she was? Double disguised as she was?

  But her nerves were jumping, her blood still rushing deliriously through her veins after Hatherfield’s lovemaking. She couldn’t sit still on the chaise, the sacred chaise they had occupied together mere minutes ago. My wife. The words still rang in her ears.

  She jumped to her feet and walked along one wall, shelves over cabinets, stuffed with books that looked as though they hadn’t been moved from their places in ages. Old leather bindings, long and obscure titles, mostly in Latin. A small collection of more modern novels. Stefanie concentrated fiercely on reading the titles. Occupying her mind, to keep her impetuous body from turning to the door and running outside and making matters worse.

  It had been a mistake to come, of course. But how could she resist the urge to dress herself in her true colors? You are nothing, Lady Charlotte had sneered. The dust under my slippers.

  Well, she’d shown Lady Charlotte, all right. Now the damage she’d done might be incalculable.

  She wandered along the shelves and came upon the large claw-footed desk at the end, heavy and substantial, like a great rectangular mahogany lion. Her fingers dragged along the gleaming surface, bare except for a lamp at one corner and a single framed photograph at the other.

  Something about the photograph caught the corner of her eye. She reached out one hand and lifted it up.

  Among the blurred sepia figures assembled on an unknown stone step, Hatherfield’s face leapt out at her. His was the only smiling mouth, and she knew that smile, that automatic and charming social smile, familiar and yet different from the smile he gave her in private. He stood in the center, tall and muscular in his racing jersey, golden hair gleaming ivory in the sunshine, holding a silver cup in his broad hands. The caption, scratched in white on the photographic print, read: University Boat Race, 1883. Won by Oxford, J.M. Lambert, Captain.

  Her eyes began to sting with tears. She’d put him in danger yet again, her gallant Hatherfield, and still he went running to chase down her enemies. To hunt and destroy every threat to her well-being. He would kill for her. He would die for her. If she spent her whole life pouring her love into him, if she gave up her crown and her birthright to live by his side, if she gave him children and laughter and the comfort of her body until the end of her days, it would not be enough.

  Without warning, the door swung open, crashing into the wall with a fearsome thump.

  Stefanie straightened and hid the photograph behind her back.

  The Duke of Southam stood before her in an avenging thundercloud. His white hair sprang boldly from his head, and his fists clenched against the shining black wool of his tailcoat.

  “Who are you, madam?” he demanded, in a booming ducal roar. “And what the devil are you doing in my private library?”

  But Stefanie was a princess of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof, the daughter of Crown Prince Rudolf. She had danced with the Kaiser, she had faced down the Tsar at a state banquet and told him she didn’t particularly care for Black Sea caviar. She outranked this puffy old English duke with one gloved hand tied behind her back.

  On the other hand, he was practically her father-in-law.

  She told him so.

  “Tut-tut, sir,” she said. “When I’m practically your daughter-in-law.”

  “What?”

  “I’m afraid it’s rather hush-hush at the moment. I suppose Hatherfield would rather tell you himself, in fact, but there it is.”

  He took two quick steps toward her and stopped. His face was deathly white. His blue eyes, paler than Hatherfield’s, stared out from a pair of defeated red-rimmed sockets. “You have no right to spread such lies. My son is under a different engagement entirely, to Lady Charlotte Harlowe. We are about to announce the alliance, this minute.”

  She lifted her eyebrows in exactly the way Miss Dingleby used to do, when Stefanie presented her with a hastily scribbled essay and demanded to be allowed outside to play. “How extraordinary. Have you bothered to confide the fact of this imminent disclosure to Hatherfield himself? I’m sure he’ll be delighted by the surprise.”

  The duke brought his fist down on the desk with a crash. “You have no right! No right to destroy this family. No right to destroy my son’s happiness with your strumpet’s costume and your loose ways . . .”

  “Destroy his happiness? How dare you. How dare you, sir. It’s you who have tried to destroy him, you and your evil wife. Do you have any idea what she’s done to him? Or did you stuff your pillow over your head and pretend that her late-night expeditions were due to some digestive complaint, or some mysterious desire to repair to her boudoir and catch up on her correspondence?”

  “What in God’s name are you saying?” he whispered.

  “You ruined him. She ruined him, and you let her. You failed in the single inescapable duty a father has to his son: to protect him. And he’s suffered all his life for it, without ever saying a word, without once complaining. His noble soul, and she did her best to destroy it, except she couldn’t. Because he’s too strong for her, too good for her.”

  “It’s not true.”

  “It is true. You know it’s true, don’t you? You’ve always known, in your heart. Damn you to hell.” She leaned forward. “And if you harm him again, if that horrible woman even speaks to him again, I will destroy you, do you hear me? You don’t even begin to know my power.”

  “Get out.” But the note of command had vanished from his voice. “You are not welcome here.”

  “Very well.” Stefanie withdrew the photograph from behind her back and placed it in his hands. “But look at him. Just look at him, won’t you? That smile of his. Just think what it cost him, to smile like that. He’s your son, Your Grace. He needed you.” She lowered her voice to a soft plea. “He still needs you.”

  She left him there, standing by his own desk, with the silver-framed photograph cradled in his hands and an expression of utter vanquish on
his face.

  Stefanie halted in shock on the curving marble stairs.

  The tepid party she’d left an hour ago had grown into a crush of historic proportions. In the entrance hall below, a kaleidoscope of silk dresses ebbed and flowed and shifted; a thousand jewels glittered in the blazing light of the chandelier; a frantic twitter of conversation threatened to raise the stained glass dome at the very top of the staircase. The Duchess of Southam’s ball had turned into a success after all.

  At least Stefanie wouldn’t be conspicuous.

  She skimmed down the remaining stairs and plunged into the miasma of perfume and damp wool and perspiration. Moving about was nearly impossible. She squeezed between tailored black shoulders and bare powdered bosoms; she smiled her best royal smile and pardoned herself for jostling a dowager. The dowager appeared not to notice. She was discussing something in animated detail with her companion: something about musicians and police. Stefanie didn’t pause. She soldiered on, searching out Hatherfield’s golden head in the crowd, or Lady Charlotte’s spray of pale pink ostrich feathers. Hardly anybody wore a mask. Perhaps they were all too hot. Stefanie tried not to breathe the warm and stagnant air. She had always hated these stifling long affairs, had always escaped at the earliest opportunity to breathe the good clean air of the palace garden. Emilie would come with her. They would bring cake and stolen champagne and set up a contraband picnic near the roses.

  Emilie. Stefanie’s heart squeezed painfully. If all went well tonight, this charade would be over at last. She could greet her sisters openly again. Everything would be as it was, only better, because now there was Hatherfield. Hatherfield and Ashland. What a lovely life they would have together, if only she could survive the night.

  She spent nearly a quarter of an hour simply pushing her way to the ballroom, which proved little better. The musicians were still playing, sawing away at yet another waltz, but nobody seemed to be dancing. There wasn’t room. She rose on her toes and scanned the room. No sign of Hatherfield’s head, no glimpse of Lady Charlotte.