Unmasked by the Marquess

by Cat Sebastian

  “I didn’t know what to think,” Gilbert replied with infuriating calm. “You were behaving in a dashed odd manner, and you always seemed to be deep in conversation with Selby. When I asked you what you were doing at the Selbys’ house the other day, you said you had proposed marriage, and that you didn’t consider Louisa’s opinion of any importance.”

  “And so I don’t. I have no intention of marrying her and never have.”

  “Well, I know that now. You’re after Selby. Or Miss Church, rather. Whatever she’s calling herself.” He paused, his mouth open, his finger poised in the air, as if suddenly realizing something. “Or himself?” He shrugged. “Can’t say I understand the half of it, but if it doesn’t bother Louisa it’s no business of mine.”

  “Quite right. I did ask Miss Church to marry me, but she feels disinclined, so I’ll beg you not to mention it overmuch.”

  Gilbert patted Alistair’s knee in a manner he doubtless thought comforting. “Why are you covered in feathers?”

  “That’s from the goose.” A frightful animal, that goose had been, and it had been the devil’s own work to get it into the curricle. “Where is the aunt?” was the only question Alistair allowed himself to ask about the elopement.

  “Oh, we left her with an acquaintance in Hampstead.”

  Astonishing. It was coming to seem that Robin was the most reliably levelheaded member of the family. “She didn’t feel that her niece might benefit from a chaperone?”

  “She said it didn’t matter since we were eloping anyway, and that my carriage bounced too much for her comfort.”

  “Were you aware that, in order to clear the way for Miss Selby’s escape, she dosed Miss Church with laudanum?”

  “What? Of course not. And Louisa can’t possibly have known, either. She would never have allowed such a thing.”

  Alistair supposed he’d have to fetch the old witch from Hampstead at the same time he acquired a special license to marry these two young fools; that way the bride would have at least one relation present. It occurred to him that any idea he might have once had of using the Selbys to discourage people looking for favors had gone up in smoke in the most spectacular way. By the time this was through, he’d have spent a small fortune and gone quite thoroughly out of his way to oblige Robin and her family.

  “What are you laughing about?” Gilbert asked.

  “The best laid plans, little brother.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  From the small window of Louisa’s upstairs room, Charity watched an ancient-looking chaise-and-four pull into the dooryard. She ran outside in time to watch an elderly woman, of approximately the same vintage as the carriage that had conveyed her, alight from the vehicle.

  “This, I dearly hope, is the Trout residence,” the woman said in tones of patient weariness. “I’ve been this entire day on the road, and such a road it is.”

  “This is the Trout farm and I’m Charity Church. May I ask—”

  “Oh, yes, my dear. You’re the one I’m supposed to ask for.” She was short and stout, with iron-gray hair and a traveling costume of much the same shade. “His lordship sent for me to look after the young lady. I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to be set down from a carriage.” She looked doubtfully at her surroundings and seemed to rethink her relief. “Do you suppose these people have tea?”

  Alistair had hired a nurse? Presumptuous, arrogant bastard. But how was Charity to send this woman away? She was rubbing the small of her back with obvious discomfort and looked to be in no condition to travel another mile. Besides, even now the coach was driving away.

  Mrs. Potton—for that was how she introduced herself to a bewildered Mrs. Trout—pulled a crisp apron and a great quantity of knitting from her bag before stationing herself in the hard-backed chair by the bed.

  “Take a walk, Miss Church. Get some air while the young lady sleeps. I’ve tended invalids much worse off than this lady.” When Charity did not move, she added, placatingly, “I looked after his lordship and Master Gilbert when they were nothing more than babies, and I’ve been in sick rooms for more years than you’ve been alive. I’ll do right by the lady.”

  “My dear ma’am, I don’t doubt it. If there’s anything I’ve learned about Lord Pembroke, it’s that he doesn’t compromise his standards.” Alistair, interfering aristocratic shite that he was, required exact correctness from everyone around him. Surely if he had sent his own childhood nurse to care for Louisa, she could be trusted to do precisely that.

  Charity slipped down the stairs and into the barnyard. The ground was still muddy from the other night’s storm and dotted with foul-looking puddles. She rucked up her skirts to avoid dirtying the dress, and set out along a lane that appeared to wind between the Trouts’ fields.

  This countryside wasn’t so different from nearby Cambridgeshire—mostly flat, shockingly green. Nothing like hard, craggy, windblown Fenshawe. She had spent her years at Cambridge trying to gorge herself on what she couldn’t get enough of at home—sun, books, conversation. She had done the same thing these past weeks in London, only maybe more frenetically, because she knew the end was near.

  She ought to be glad. The end of this part of her life was drawing to a close, but after that she could go wherever she wanted. She could be whoever she wanted. A forged reference—what was a harmless forgery after so many years of deception?—and she could have a post in Italy or India or any other warm and lively place. Surely, that thought ought to buoy her spirits, should it not? Instead she felt something like mourning, but for what she did not know. It was like imagining her own funeral.

  A horse was coming down the lane, and she scrambled to the side, gathering her skirts close around her to keep them clear of splashing mud. But the horse came to a stop a few yards away.

  “Robin, is that you? Of course it is. No bonnet, shaggy hair. It could hardly be anyone else.”

  Alistair. She probably looked like a scarecrow, gangly limbs and straw-colored hair, all wrapped up in someone else’s clothing. Shading her eyes with her hand, she looked up at him. He had no right to appear even half so decadently perfect. His cravat was a marvel. His boots were shined to a mirror finish. Had he sent for his valet from London? She wouldn’t put it past him.

  “You’re too big to ride Mab.”

  “Hardly, and if you think I’ll ever again ride one of the innkeeper’s job horses, you’re sadly mistaken.” He slid off the horse and came to her side. “Since you’re out here and not in the sick room, I take it that Nurse Potton arrived.” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Give me your arm and I’ll walk you back to the house.”

  He pulled her gloveless hand into the crook of his arm and steered her down the lane. All this talking and bustling her about wasn’t like Alistair. She glanced up at his face and saw his jaw set firmly. Beneath his immaculately tied cravat, his throat worked as he swallowed.

  He was nervous, or at least ill at ease. Likely he was terrified that she’d take him up on his offer of marriage. Well, she’d be gone soon and he’d have nothing to worry about. She nearly told him as much. Take heart, we only have to get through the next week or so, and then I’ll be as good as dead. But that would only have embarrassed him.

  The fine wool of his coat was out of place on this muddy farmstead, but it was reassuringly familiar after the tumultuous past few days. She checked her impulse to rub her face against it like a cat. But as they walked, she let her fingers drift along his sleeve, down to the cuff where smooth wool met the warm leather of his riding glove. She didn’t let her touch linger there, but skimmed her hand back up to the crook of his arm. She wanted to memorize what Alistair felt like—expensive cloth covering lean muscle. Taking a deep breath, she could make out the scent of his customary shaving soap. Oh, he had definitely sent for his valet, then.

  Suddenly, he seized her hand, checking its progress back down his sleeve. Presumably he didn’t appreciate being petted in such a daft manner.

  But he kept his firm grip on her ha
nd as they walked back to the house, intertwining their fingers. “How is Miss Selby?” he asked.

  “Sleepy, and her head hurts. But there’s been no fever or any other cause for alarm.”

  “Well, in that case I don’t mind telling you that I’d very much like to take her and Gilbert and knock their heads together for all the trouble they’ve caused. It’s just as well that they’re both too injured for me to do so.”

  “They’re very young, and I suppose I can’t blame them for flights of fancy or rash actions. Louisa is usually so steady, I sometimes forget that she’s only eighteen.”

  They had reached the door, but he still hadn’t dropped her hand. Now he raised his eyebrow and shot her a quizzical look. “Gilbert is precisely your own age, Robin. Four-and-twenty.”

  “Is he? Well, I don’t think I was ever that young.”

  “Ah, Robin.” He squeezed her hand.

  “I don’t think you ever were either.” With her free hand she traced the line between his eyebrows.

  “No, and thank God for it.” They stared stupidly at one another for a moment. Then, to her horror, he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it.

  “Alistair!” she cried, wiping her hand on her skirts. “Don’t you dare behave gallantly to me.”

  His eyes were sparkling with merriment, damn him. “Forgive me. I couldn’t resist.”

  “Like hell you couldn’t. I can’t wait to burn these godforsaken dresses.” Belatedly, she realized how ungrateful she must sound.

  “Don’t even think of it,” he retorted, and for a minute she feared he was going to feed her some utter shite about how becoming the gown was. “At least pawn them.”

  Now she was smiling at him like the besotted idiot she was. God help them.

  He swung back onto the horse, which had been following meekly behind them.

  “You don’t want to see your old nurse?” she asked.

  “Of course I do, but I’ll save that for tomorrow when she’s more settled. Until then—Wait.” He put on his spectacles and peered at something at the edge of the barnyard. “Robin, what is that goose still doing alive and uncooked?”

  “Louisa told Mrs. Trout you meant it as a present.” She opened her eyes wide with feigned innocence. “They both thought it very gracious of you.”

  He looked so outraged at the idea of being considered gracious that she couldn’t hold back her laughter.

  “I wrestled that creature into my curricle—”

  “Alistair, you did not.”

  “I certainly did. I’m not practiced in goose wrangling and I hope never to have the time to acquire that skill. But if it’s not to be cooked, I’ll have the innkeeper send over pie. Although the food at the inn is very indifferent, and you’ll wish you had cooked the goose.”

  “You don’t need to do any of this.”

  “Quite true. But I will anyway.”

  “The dresses, the books, Mrs. Potton.” She shook her head, the scope of his generosity too great to put into words. “Thank you.”

  He waved his hand dismissively. “It’s my pleasure, Robin. And before I forget, I have another trifle for you.” He produced a parcel from the saddlebag and handed it to her before cantering away.

  She tore open the package in the Trouts’ deserted sitting room. It contained a bottle-green coat, two shirts, several cravats, a waistcoat, and breeches.

  There was also a note that read, “R—Just in case. Yours etc., A.”

  While there was still enough light to see by, Alistair walked from the Duck and Dragon back to the farm, partly because he was bored at that terrible, terrible inn with only lovelorn Gilbert as his companion, but also because he wanted to see Robin again.

  Mrs. Trout opened the door and regarded him with wide-eyed panic before dropping a curtsy and stammering something that sounded like his title. The woman was plainly at a loss as to how to deal with someone of his background. He felt faintly embarrassed in her presence, unaccountably guilty, as if he were imposing on her by being a marquess instead of a blacksmith or a ship’s mate.

  Come to think, he was imposing on her.

  “Thank you for the girl and the chickens, your lordship,” she said, dropping a series of curtsies as she backed away toward the kitchen.

  Alistair took her statement to mean that the maid had arrived. He knew that housing three additional women and the recuperating coachman would cause the Trouts a good deal of extra work. So he found a village girl in need of employment, gave her a few coins, and sent her to wait on Mrs. Trout.

  He had also sent chickens, because barnyard fowl seemed to be an acceptable gift in Little Hatley. When in Rome, he told himself.

  Climbing the stairs, he heard Robin’s voice. She was reading aloud from one of the books he sent over yesterday. He paused at the threshold, taking in the scene before anyone spotted him.

  Miss Selby was propped up on several pillows, and apart from a bandage around her forehead she looked quite normal, which is to say she looked like a Dutch doll. He could see what had attracted Gilbert, if one’s tastes ran to extravagant prettiness instead of, say, unruly hair and winsome smiles.

  Mrs. Potton, who had seemed quite sufficiently old when Alistair was a child and now appeared to be at least eighty, was bent over her knitting.

  But Robin, though. Her dress warped his understanding of the body within. He had taken some pleasure in rifling through the dress shop in Biggleswade for the gowns she would find least objectionable, but hadn’t given much thought to what his own reaction might be to seeing her so attired. This morning he had been bewildered, alienated. When she wore her ordinary clothes—which was to say, men’s attire—he never paid any attention to the perfection of her collar bones or thought about how very much he wanted to kiss her neck.

  She noticed him standing on the threshold and stopped reading, abruptly rising to her feet and letting the book fall to the floor.

  He bowed, presented Miss Selby with a letter from his brother, and submitted to Mrs. Potton’s remarks about his appearance.

  “You look more like his late lordship than I ever might have thought,” the elderly lady said. Alistair let himself take this as a compliment since she had rocked his father’s cradle and witnessed his first steps and was perhaps ignorant of his later exploits. And also because he heard the fondness in the nurse’s voice.

  The nurse stepped out, announcing that she would return before midnight to relieve Robin. And so the three of them were left together. An awkward business. He couldn’t speak freely with Robin in front of Miss Selby; he doubted Miss Selby and Robin could speak in front of him; and he was damned if he could think of a single thing to say to Miss Selby under any circumstances.

  Alistair bent and retrieved the book Robin had dropped. “I’ll read, if you’ll allow me.”

  Sitting in the chair the nurse had vacated, and angling himself so the book caught the last rays of the setting sun, he read three chapters. He scarcely paused even when the sun set and Robin lit a candle. Occasionally he felt her eyes on him from across the bed, but when he looked up she hastily glanced away. Was she remembering what had happened the last time he had read out loud? He certainly was.

  “Louisa’s asleep,” she whispered.

  He closed the book. Miss Selby was indeed fast asleep, and now he and Robin could have some privacy. “We’ll have to let them marry, you know.” He kept his voice low. “They’ll need to marry by special license or there will be no end to the gossip.” He had already sent to London to arrange for it.

  “Oh, indeed. The de Lacey reputation must be protected.” She rose and turned to face the dark window.

  “I was thinking more of Miss Selby’s reputation.” He stood as well, the ingrained habit of rising when a lady stood. “Besides, they love one another.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought you cared much about that sort of thing.”

  “Did you not?” He was at her shoulder now, close enough so that if she turned he could take her in his arms.
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  She remained silent, her arms crossed and braced on the sill of the room’s one, high window.

  “I wonder what I’ve done to give you that impression,” he murmured. Had he been as cold as that, so wrapped up in his own pride and sense of duty that she thought him incapable of anything else? He brushed the fine curls off the nape of her neck, then ran his fingers just along the inside of her dress. She made a soft sound that seemed to Alistair’s ears equal parts pleasure and dismay.

  “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “How can you tell how I’m looking at you?” he said into her ear. “You’re not even facing me.” He smoothed his hands down the sides of her bodice, tracing the outline of her silhouette.

  “I can feel it. You’re looking at me all gawking-like.” She rounded on him, and he took the opportunity to draw her against his chest. “I feel like a ninny, all trussed up like this,” she said into his lapels. “I can’t wait to get this off of me.”

  “I can’t say I object.” She smelled different. Likely she had borrowed Miss Selby’s soap, but he missed her usual scent.

  “Oh, to hell with you.” But he knew she was smiling. “It’s such a hoax.”

  “A hoax?” he repeated.

  “The dress. It’s . . . not me.”

  After years spent dressed as a boy and impersonating a dead man, she felt that it was this dress that constituted the hoax? He took a moment to recalibrate his notions of fraudulence so they might be more in line with her own. “Well, I can see that,” he said, although the sentiment was more aspirational than actual. “But regardless of what you’re wearing, you look like my Robin.” And it was true. She could wear animal skins, she could wear a black robe and a barrister’s wig. It didn’t matter to him. But it mattered to her. “Only a few more weeks and you’ll be back to your usual self,” he offered.

  She took a sharp breath and abruptly pulled away from him. In the scant light he could see tears in her eyes. “What a mess, Alistair.”

  “Nothing that can’t be fixed.” He willed himself to believe that he spoke the truth.