A Marquess for Convenience (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 5)

by Bianca Blythe

  “I didn’t realize you were so interested in gems,” she said.

  “I am a man of varied interests.”

  “I imagine the newspapers will have information for your perusal,” Madeline said.

  “Perhaps.” Arthur shrugged.

  She took a thread and directed it at the eye of her needle.

  Or at least, she attempted to direct it at the eye.

  The task seemed to be of greater difficulty than she remembered, and she frowned at the offending turquoise thread. Her hands trembled, a fate that did not often befall them, even under the more questionable corners of the continent, but she supposed even then she did not have Arthur’s presence.

  He might not be standing up, might not even be leaning toward her in his armchair, but she felt every inch of his six three height, as surely as if he were standing over her in a coat of medieval armor and waving a newly sharpened sword.

  Madeline refused to let her expression falter, and she concentrated again on threading the needle. Her heart galloped inside her chest.

  He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know.

  The words rushed through her mind, as strong as any prayer.

  A noise sounded, and she realized that Arthur was sauntering toward her. His shadow covered her, and then his hand reached toward her.

  The scent of sweat and cotton wafted over her, and she inhaled. She stiffened, resisting the urge to close her eyes.

  She hadn’t realized how much she missed his scent.

  Surely she should have forgotten the particular mingling of masculine aromas that reminded her of him.

  “Madeline.” His hands swept toward her, and she closed her eyes, already imagining the touch of his lips against her own.

  He removed the cotton from her hand and took the needle. “Allow me.”

  She watched, horrified, as he calmly threaded the needle and returned it to her. “Three younger sisters,” he said. “Makes me rather an expert.”

  He did not say that she should be rather an expert herself.

  He did not mention that everyone associated her with perfecting the ways of the female ton members.

  Embroidery certainly should be well within her capabilities. Hadn’t she learned when she was five?

  Heat flooded her face.

  “That’s a nice painting of Venice,” he said, glancing on the wall above her. “Is that a real Canaletto?”

  She stiffened. “No, it’s not.”

  “I could have sworn…”

  “Do you fancy yourself an art expert?” She kept a condescending note in her voice, but the man only shrugged.

  “I’ve been doing some studying.”

  “Studying?”

  Oh, no.

  “Reading. My new interest.” He grinned, and her heart leaped involuntarily.

  “Quite a labyrinth of canals,” he said, musing at it.

  “I like looking at it,” she confessed. “Makes me less lost if I ever visit Venice.”

  “I was under the impression that you’d already been there.”

  She gave him a tight smile. She hadn’t expected him to follow news of her through the gossip chains. But then, perhaps he’d only heard her cousin Fiona mention it.

  “I’ve only ever had short visits,” she said.

  “I’m particularly interested in Venetian jewelry.”

  “Oh?”

  It was best not to dwell on her knowledge of Venice. She couldn’t have him associate her with the Costantini family.

  Thank heavens Gabriella was not here.

  She hadn’t wanted a member of the Costantini family to be seen in London on the night of the jewel theft. She’d arranged for her to be at a house party in Cambridgeshire where many witnesses might testify to her presence.

  So far no magistrate had linked either of them to the thefts.

  She’d been successful in stealing four of the five pieces in the jewel set. She only needed to find the fifth one, and then she would have fulfilled her promise to Gabriella to restore her family to at least some of its pre-Bonaparte glory. Arthur’s eyes remained narrow, and she was grateful when the housekeeper arrived with the tea.

  “Don’t you admire these teacups and saucers, Lord Bancroft?” she said in her most girlish voice. “The shade of green is really most fine. But perhaps you have a preference for blue and white teacups?”

  “Green is fine,” he said.

  “Just tolerable? Mrs. Humphreys,” she called out. “Perhaps you should bring the other tea set. The marquess does not seem to care for these.”

  “Very well.” The housekeeper gave Arthur a disdainful glance. Likely Grove had shared his negative opinion of Arthur with her in the kitchen.

  “It’s fine,” Arthur hastened to say. “These are quite—er—lovely.”

  “You don’t find the color makes you want to cast your contents?”

  “Er—no.” Arthur’s face did seem to grow somewhat greener, and Madeline strove not to smirk. Or at least, to keep her smirk to a moderate size.

  “I’ll ring for you if the marquess finds he has overestimated the strength of his stomach,” she told the housekeeper, satisfied Mrs. Humphreys still looked appropriately disapproving at Arthur.

  “I will not require that.” His tone conveyed an icy outrage, and his eyebrows soared upward. The man resembled an angry warrior.

  “Then I shall leave you to it.” Mrs. Humphreys sniffed and left the room.

  Madeline picked up the silver teapot and poured some tea into a cup. She added a modicum of milk and three scoops of sugar and passed the cup and saucer to Arthur.

  “You remember how I take my tea,” Arthur said.

  “Everyone drinks tea this way.”

  “I seem to remember you preferring tea without sugar.” Clearly the man had recovered from her insult of his stomach capabilities.

  He smirked.

  The same smirk he’d thrown toward her when she was eighteen, and when she’d believed they shared private amusements together.

  She cursed that the sparkle in his eyes still forced her heart to flutter in an inappropriate fashion.

  “Nonsense.” She added three scoops of sugar to her already milky tea. “This is the ideal way to drink it.”

  She swallowed the warm liquid and tried not to grimace at the overly sweet taste and the grainy texture of not yet melted sugar.

  Arthur lifted one of his eyebrows.

  “It’s delicious.” She set the teacup down. The china clanged against the matching saucer, and she forced herself to smile brightly.

  The cockiness in Arthur’s face wavered. “I remember that you were very interested in art.”

  “I’m interested in many things.”

  He glanced at her abandoned embroidery. “Sewing?”

  She despised the mirth in his tone. “Music. And—rambling.”

  “Rambling?”

  “I adore rambling,” she said defiantly. “Why look at art when one can walk outside?”

  “Even in mud?”

  “The uneven surface makes the activity more delightful.”

  “I did not realize you had such a fondness for slippery activities.”

  “It has been quite a while since I’ve had any interest in art.”

  “Oh.” He assessed her. “That is a pity.”

  His voice seemed so serious. His sudden earnestness to learn about her opinions on the subject was so endearing, and she needed to remind herself that no good could come of disclosing her knowledge of the Costantini jewels.

  After all, he didn’t care for her.

  He never had.

  She may have spent too much of their time together lauding the art galleries in London. She’d been from Yorkshire. Her family’s collection had been the best in the area, but when she had her season, and first visited the townhomes of families with even more wealth than her own, she realized how much she’d missed.

  She’d rapturized over the glories of Titian and Raphael, Poussin and Rubens
.

  When she wasn’t dragging her chaperones to museums, she was reading texts about art. London had seemed everything wonderful, and she hadn’t understood when her cousin Fiona, who had debuted at the same time, had not embraced the experience.

  She’d been so eager to move to London, to embrace life, but in the end she’d spent too much time talking about her plans with the dangerously handsome, and even more dangerously roguish, Arthur Carmichael than securing a match. In the end Arthur had left London, and Madeline had been lucky to find someone to marry.

  She wasn’t going to confide in him again.

  Especially now.

  “Please tell me you haven’t mistaken me for some appalling bluestocking. Still, aren’t pretty things preferable?” She picked up her teacup again, forgetting the overly sweet liquid. “Like this Staffordshire.”

  She fluttered her eyelashes and kept her voice at a girlish pitch.

  Most men would laugh at that point and call her a lovely little lady.

  Arthur was not most men.

  She wondered how his gaze managed to always remain so frustratingly intelligent. He might have a reputation for being a rogue, but he was cleverer than the set that lingered in gaming halls and tittered in balls, ranking the new debutantes on a numerical scale.

  She knew the rumors about his work. She’d memorized every passing comment anyone had made about him.

  She doubted he’d been the Corinthian he was rumored to be. And if there was only the slightest chance he was working for the government—

  “Goodness.” She grabbed a sweet and munched on it. For the first time she cursed the small size. Larger sizes might be less elegant to eat, and though she prided herself on her elegance, tackling a weighty scone might give her more time to think.

  “You wouldn’t know anything about why someone may have chosen to steal the pieces? It’s important to know what type of person to look for.”

  She forced herself to smile. “I assure you that I am not acquainted with the criminal class.”

  I don’t know other thieves.

  His eyebrows rose. “Oh, of course I wouldn’t expect it of you.”

  “I would hope not,” she said primly, doing her best to channel Mrs. Humphrey’s indignant rebukes.

  “I merely thought…”

  She gazed at him innocently, and he coughed.

  “Your late husband was an accomplished art theorist.”

  “Ah…yes,” she told the familiar lie. This time, strangely, it did not come as easily as it usually did. She forced herself to continue, “But Lord Mulbourne’s accomplishments were never my own…”

  Chapter Four

  Arthur swallowed the last of the tea down and set his cup down with a clatter.

  He’d been mad to visit Madeline. She’d given him haughty looks, and then, when he’d finally asked her for help, she’d transformed into the sort of silly woman of the ton everyone told him she was.

  Perhaps he’d really just been taken in all those years ago by her appearance.

  He wanted to believe that she had more sense than she showed. She’d always been a paragon, a woman whom he contrasted favorably against other women.

  Her passion for paintings and sculptures, jewels and architecture, had seemed so real. And unlike other women, she did not simply copy them, she actually analyzed their meaning. She was able to tell him why a particular piece had resonated with its audience.

  When she spotted novel brush techniques or interesting perspectives, she’d seemed to grow so excited and he’d felt excited with her. When they’d strolled through a ballroom together, she was able to tell him when it had been constructed and if the hostess had taken any liberties in changing the style.

  She been elegant, yes, but it was her observant nature and keen intelligence that had drawn in him. He didn’t want to believe that his memories had been false.

  “I noted you recently found some books your late husband wrote,” Arthur said. “They were published posthumously.”

  “Indeed.” She paused and tilted her head. Blonde, satiny locks fell against her slender neck. “What brings about this interest?”

  “I like beauty,” he said.

  For some horrible reason the words came out huskier than he intended. Heat seemed to fill the room, as if he’d conjured up Cairo or the Caribbean instead of just allowed his mind for a single second to linger on Madeline’s light locks, her blue eyes, and the exact shade of pink of her lips that made him remember—

  He cleared his throat. “Art. I’ve developed an interest. Art is beautiful. Or at least that is its purpose and I meant—” He raked his hand through his hair.

  “The critics have been enthusiastic about my late husband’s work. I shall have to see if he left any other documents. I was overwhelmed by the enthusiasm from critics. I’ve—I’ve never read them. They are rather dull.”

  For the first time that day, a blissful smile appeared over Madeline’s face.

  She was pretty without it, but the sheer force of her beam made him avert his gaze.

  Madeline’s husband might be dead, but he still didn’t like Madeline’s obvious pride in his capabilities.

  It had been a mistake to come here.

  A mistake to see this obviously still grieving widow.

  While Arthur had never read Lord Mulbourne’s much lauded work, he had met him before. The man had never impressed him, but it was natural his wife wouldn’t feel that way.

  After all, she’d chosen Lord Mulbourne over him, all those years ago.

  It had been foolish for him to believe she could help him. She might have rambled over various paintings’ beauty, but perhaps her interest was similar to the manner in which she might exclaim over a nicely cut pelisse in a Matchmaking for Wallflowers spread. He’d known so little about paintings and he’d likely given her words a greater significance than they’d deserved.

  Perhaps he’d been searching for an excuse to see her again, grasping at a ridiculous reason. He had a jewel thief to find. He shouldn’t spend valuable time conversing over tea with a woman he’d courted nearly a decade ago.

  He’d acted foolishly, just as when he’d rushed to defend his brother Percival once, perhaps intrigued by the possibility of seeing Madeline again and of appearing heroic before her.

  He’d acted that way when she’d been married, and then he’d had to see her stand beside her husband. Despite the man’s gray speckled hair, they’d seemed like any other couple on good terms. They’d stood beside each other and laughed at each other’s jokes.

  Thank goodness Percival had dragged him away.

  He rose. “I should go.”

  “Are you leaving London?”

  He nodded. “The Côte d’Azur.”

  “Oh! I do enjoy the French Riviera. Which town will you be visiting? Nice? Cannes?”

  “Antibes.”

  “How curious! What brings you there? I did not take you for a man who enjoyed his privacy.”

  “There will be plenty of people there,” he assured her. “Comte Beaulieu invited me.”

  There was no need to keep it a secret from her. She would likely discover it from Fiona.

  “How splendid. You are very fortunate, Lord Bancroft.” Her voice was smooth, and she smiled.

  Was it a genuine smile, or the kind developed as a hostess? He wasn’t certain, but as he bowed, and she lowered herself into a curtsy, he strove to avoid the temptation to stare. It was most frustrating that bows gave one such a splendid view of cleavage.

  He didn’t like Madeline to think he was still pining for her. It was sufficiently humiliating that she’d forced him away, no matter her supposed sadness at losing his friendship.

  “I wish you a pleasant crossing,” she said.

  “Thank you.” He smiled tightly. Likely the only thing she was pleased about was that he would be out of the town and less prone to unannounced visits.

  “And of course,” she glanced at the pale green tea set, “I hope the waters are
still. Are you going via Calais or Le Havre?”

  “Calais.”

  “How wise. The crossing will be shorter.”

  “I do not suffer from a weak stomach,” he reminded her sternly, and she smiled.

  Perhaps Madeline had traveled somewhat. That didn’t mean she knew anything about jewel thieves. And from Madeline’s indications, she hadn’t even read her husband’s work.

  Where was the clever woman he’d met all those years ago?

  He tried to conjure excitement for the trip, but when he returned and found his trunks packed, he couldn’t stop thinking about Madeline.

  Arthur took out his reading material as the carriage jostled over dirt lanes on its path to the coast. The images of jewels faded to curly blonde locks and bright blue eyes.

  It was ridiculous.

  Likely he just needed to bed a woman.

  Not get married.

  If he’d been certain about Madeline all those years ago, only to discover that the woman she’d become was nothing like the debutante he remembered, how could he hope to choose an actual wife whom he felt less strongly about even in the beginning?

  *

  Madeline didn’t wait to hear Arthur’s footsteps fade. She strode to her desk, opened it, and wrote down a name. Comte Beaulieu.

  Arthur’s expression of a newfound delight in art was nonsense.

  A man like him wouldn’t enter her house on an unplanned visit to chat about Venetian jewels.

  No.

  She’d always suspected Arthur of working for the Crown on some secret missions.

  The man cared about his country. Some members of the ton spoke about him dismissively, contrasting him unfavorably with their own sons, and saying he’d run away from the war.

  Madeline knew that war had also been waged in the Caribbean. France had had colonies there, and Britain had sought to limit the flow of goods to the continent.