Regency Romp 03 - The Alabaster Hip

by Maggie Fenton

  Montford’s defection with Astrid years earlier had been hard enough, but to lose Sebastian to the marriage noose so soon afterward had been a blow. Even during Marlowe’s brief, disastrous marriage to Caro, Sebastian had never been far removed. But then Lady Manwaring had to go and drag her new husband off to rusticate in the country—a fate Sebastian would have once thought worse than death. And while of course Sebastian had invited him to visit, Marlowe had never brought himself to accept.

  But now, seeing Sebastian again after so many months apart, Marlowe was surprised to find that his admittedly juvenile resentment was gone. It seemed that he’d finally come to terms with the loss of his boon companion. Sebastian was no less his best mate than he’d ever been. He saw that plainly now, gazing into his friend’s concerned eyes—concerned but content eyes. Katherine had healed Sebastian in a way that Marlowe had never been able to. And he couldn’t begrudge him that.

  He was happy for Sebastian; of course he was. The fool had mooned after Katherine forever, and while Marlowe had, of course, little faith in love, much less the marriage state, even he recognized how good Katherine was for his friend. He would never have encouraged the match with his ridiculous ploy at the Montford Ball had he not.

  And he had to even grudgingly admit that Astrid was a good match for the duke. The stick up the man’s backside only rarely made an appearance these days.

  But Marlowe could not deny that it was hard to bear witness to the wedded bliss of his two best mates. Hard to stomach. For he had once been that happy with Caro, and it had all turned out to be a lie. And now . . . now he had lied—or at least heavily edited the details—and he feared that brief glimpse of happiness he’d had with Minerva was forever lost to him. Wouldn’t Montford’s and Sebastian’s relationships similarly crumble one day? Wouldn’t the romance soon be stripped down by time and a thousand little betrayals?

  Or was it just Marlowe? Was he just that unlovable? That contemptible? He wasn’t sure which truth would be worse. He’d cocked things up with Minerva before they’d barely begun—wasn’t that further proof that he was simply not built for that sort of love?

  “You two are worse than gossiping fishwives,” Marlowe muttered. “I blame your wives entirely.”

  Sebastian grimaced. “You are really in a dudgeon, aren’t you? What, has the governess finally scarpered? Is that it? To her credit, she’s lasted longer than the other ones. I thought perhaps she’d finally tamed the little beasties.”

  He knew Sebastian was just joking, but as usual, his friend had blundered upon the truth of the matter. He tried valiantly to keep his expression blank, but he didn’t succeed. Whatever Sebastian read in Marlowe’s face made his eyes pop wide. “I’m right, aren’t I? You’re sulking over the governess.”

  He could hold his peace no longer. “She’s decamped to Montford’s.”

  Sebastian’s eyes grew even wider, and he looked vaguely nauseated. “Monty’s? How could she think that an improvement over your household? It’s absolutely crawling with Honeywells.”

  Marlowe abandoned even the pretense of looking at the horse and stalked out of the stables, Sebastian at his heels. He’d find no consolation at Tattersall’s today. “Astrid’s made a project of her,” he hedged.

  “The poor girl,” Sebastian murmured.

  Marlowe snorted. Poor indeed. Miss Jones would land on her feet, of that he had no doubt. With Dr. Lucas, in all likelihood.

  He couldn’t say the same for himself. “Don’t worry about her. If Astrid has her way, Minerva . . . Miss Jones will be married to Dr. Lucas before the month is out.”

  “Lucas!” Sebastian cried in disgust. “The devil you say! First Katie, now your governess. Has the man no shame?”

  Sebastian’s aversion to the sawbones was legendary, ever since the man had had the audacity to pursue Katherine after she was widowed . . . though Marlowe was convinced that Dr. Lucas’s tendre for Katherine existed more in Sebastian’s own jealous mind than in actual fact. The doctor’s pursuit of Minerva, however, was very annoyingly real.

  “It’s those damn whiskers of his,” Sebastian was muttering to himself. “Demmed if I know how he makes those look so bloody attractive.”

  Marlowe had to grudgingly agree with Sebastian. The doctor had spectacular facial hair. And profile. And figure. And damn fine eyes . . . if one found impossibly blue and commanding things attractive. Which droves of women did. Hell, if he went in for that sort of thing, he’d be after Dr. Lucas as well. The man even appreciated good whisky.

  He’d not stood a chance with Minerva, had he? Not even after that night . . . a mistake, she’d no doubt call it. A moment of madness for which the stoic Dr. Lucas was the antidote. He’d expected her to be angry, but not this. And he’d never foreseen her finding out before he could tell her himself—though he probably should have.

  Hours. He’d been hours away from his confession. She would have been upset, but at least he’d have the hope of salvaging the situation. Now he didn’t even have that.

  God, she’d never forgive him.

  That dull ache he’d been fighting all morning rose up inside his breast with renewed intensity.

  Sebastian looked a bit bemused by his rather extreme reaction, but he clapped him once more on the shoulder companionably. “It’s a blow, to be sure. But one can’t begrudge your Miss Jones the match, I suppose. Better a doctor’s wife than a governess the rest of her days.”

  Or his viscountess. But he was not about to confess his impossible infatuation to Sebastian in the middle of Tatt’s. Especially now, when Minerva had made it clear she was done with him. Better Sebastian never know. He’d never hear the end of it. He sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Course I am. Now let us go to White’s for a meal,” Sebastian said. “I need a bloody fillet and a good glass of claret to fortify me. Katie has me eating nothing but rabbit food these days. Being in such proximity to the livestock has addled her brainbox. She categorically refuses to allow pork of any sort on our table, owing to her attachment to that damn pig of Astrid’s she adopted.”

  Marlowe shuddered at the mention of Petunia. Then he shuddered again at the plight of his friend’s larder. The marchioness had Sebastian thoroughly and utterly whipped.

  At least Marlowe had the good sense to fall in love with a woman who had a healthy appetite for things that had once had a pulse. For someone so small, Minerva could really murder a good cut of beef.

  He sighed yet again. He had a feeling he was thoroughly and utterly whipped as well, to be daydreaming about the eating habits of a woman who wanted nothing more to do with him.

  “Let us hope she doesn’t adopt a cow, then,” he offered to Sebastian, and they took themselves off to the club to further commiserate.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  IN WHICH THE TWINS BROOD OVER MARLOWE’S POOR LIFE CHOICES

  MARLOWE HAD KNOWN Pymm wasn’t going to work out the day the valet had tried to dispose of his banyans in the dustbin, but Mrs. Chips’s foreboding eyebrows had insisted that he keep the man. She’d had enough trouble finding decent staff willing to work for him, and she was certainly not prepared to lose a valet who had once been employed by George IV. Marlowe rather doubted the man’s résumé (for Prinny would have never tolerated a crier like Pymm), but he had learned years ago not to cross Mrs. Chips.

  Besides, who was he to deny Chippers her dream of running a household with a full staff (sans butler, as Marlowe highly doubted she would ever cede so much of her powers to a man) and a properly turned-out employer? His housekeeper had been starting to molder without anyone but the poor little chambermaid to terrorize. Thus he had, in the past few weeks, endured far too many trips to the tailor and days wearing proper footwear than he was entirely comfortable with.

  But entering his chambers after his luncheon with Sebastian to find the valet in tears, surrounded by the remains of his wardrobe, really was the last straw. He’d sack Pymm, see if he wouldn’t, for if any man under this roof w
as going to weep, it was going to be Marlowe, damn it.

  But then he really took in why Pymm was weeping and decided to hold off on the sacking.

  Coats, waistcoats, cravats, and breeches lay murdered at the valet’s feet, cut into ribbons by a pair of marauding shears. Pymm cradled his newest acquisition—a navy cutaway with gold buttons and a full skirt that Marlowe had to grudgingly admit was rather dashing—to his chest as he glanced at his master with mournful, tear-filled eyes. “My lord, we have been burgled! Shall I . . . shall I call for the magistrate?”

  Marlowe snorted, knowing very well who the culprits were, and clapped Pymm on the shoulder in a brusque show of comfort. The reedy man lurched forward a few steps and gasped.

  “Don’t panic, Pymm. We’ll sort it out. No need to involve the magistrate over a few pieces of cloth.”

  Pymm looked like he disagreed mightily with this assessment of the situation but held his tongue.

  Then Marlowe spotted his banyans—or what was left of them—among the carnage, and he began to understand Pymm’s pain. Fortunately, he was wearing his favorite Chinese red silk since he’d been too down in the mouth to bother getting properly dressed for the trip to Tatt’s that morning, but it didn’t lessen the blow of losing the rest of his collection.

  “Who would have dared, my lord?” Pymm breathed.

  Oh, he knew exactly who had dared. This had the twins’ handiwork all over it. He would be meting out some sort of punishment for this desecration, though he suspected he knew what had provoked it—knew he probably deserved this. They’d been quite clear on whom they blamed for Minerva’s departure.

  After reassuring Pymm that the world was not going to end and promising (while gritting his teeth) a future trip to the tailor to replace his entire wardrobe, Marlowe made his way to the nursery.

  He found Beatrice on her bed, looking far too innocent as she turned a page of her book, pointedly ignoring him. There was no sign of Laura, but he supposed that in this case, a bit of dividing and conquering might be in order. He tended to forget what he was punishing them for when two pairs of big brown eyes were staring mournfully up at him.

  “You have cut up my entire wardrobe,” he said without preamble. Another advantage to cornering Beatrice alone. He never had to worry about delicacy around her the way he did around Laura.

  Bea gave a nonchalant shrug but didn’t deny it. She flicked to another page.

  He tried again. “Poor Mr. Pymm is in tears over it, so I hope you’re happy.”

  Bea, who had immediately (and inexplicably) taken to Pymm, looked a bit distressed over this, but not enough to apologize.

  “You made Miss Jones leave, Father,” she countered.

  His hope that this was about something other than the giant hole in both of their lives fled. He sat dejectedly on the edge of the bed. “I know,” he said and sighed.

  “We quite liked her, you know. And we thought . . . well, that you liked her too.”

  “I did. I do.” So very much. “I didn’t want her to leave. But she is very cross with me right now.”

  Bea rolled her eyes as if that were obvious. “She found out you were Christopher Essex, didn’t she?”

  He’d thought he’d learned not to underestimate his daughters, but apparently he still did. “How did you know?”

  Bea gave him a pitying look. “We’re nearly ten, Father. We’re very good at what we do. Besides which, we’ve lived with you all our lives. Of course we know how much you love to write.”

  “Of course you do,” he said softly, wondering how he ever thought he could fool his daughters.

  “But it was a shock to Miss Jones to find out. You know how much she loves your poetry,” Bea scolded.

  “I know, Bea. You might have spared my banyans, though,” he grumbled.

  “I cut them up first,” she declared unrepentantly.

  “Of course,” he muttered.

  “It was Laura’s idea,” she finally admitted, the concrete proof he needed to confirm his long-held suspicions that the quiet, sly Laura was the true mastermind of their little schemes, Bea merely the blunt instrument. “She’s very mad at you. She’s been mad at you for a long time, but you’ve really gone and done it now.”

  “You shouldn’t do everything Laura says,” he said. “But you’re not mad at me too?”

  Bea shrugged. “Not especially. Because I know you’ll fix everything. You came for us at that dreadful school. You fixed Auntie Betsy’s problems and Uncle Sebastian’s, when Aunt Katherine wouldn’t marry him. I know you’ll get Miss Jones back.”

  Again he had underestimated her. He pulled Bea into his arms and held on tight. Pymm’s tears must have been catching, for suddenly moisture welled in his eyes. Soft and fluffy indeed. Bea hugged him back with a resigned sigh, her embrace firm and sure, comforting him when it should have been the other way around.

  “You sound so certain, Bea,” he managed to wobble out.

  “Of course I am. Even when you make a mistake, you always fix it. ” She pulled away and fixed him with a sober look. “I know this because you make a lot of mistakes.”

  He gave a hoarse laugh and pulled her back into his arms. “You have such faith in me, Bea. I don’t know if I deserve it.”

  “You do, because you are the best father in the world.”

  He didn’t know where Bea had inherited her more agreeable disposition, for it certainly hadn’t come from either of her parents. But he must have done something right to have received such absolution from Bea.

  His heart melted completely, though he could hardly agree with such an optimistic pronouncement. Something told him that Laura wouldn’t either. Laura hadn’t Bea’s stubborn optimism or capacity to forgive so easily. She had, he was afraid, taken entirely after him.

  He’d have to try a little harder with Laura. He’d known since he’d retrieved them from West Barming that his battle to heal Laura’s wounds was an uphill one. But Minerva’s departure had undone all of the progress he’d made these past few months.

  “I think Laura might have it right,” he admitted.

  “She doesn’t,” Bea said briskly and turned back to her book, nudging him on his way with her toes. “Now, I’m truly busy reading, Papa. Perhaps you might go find Laura and beg her forgiveness.”

  He stood. “Imp, don’t think you won’t be punished for my banyans.”

  “As long as you fix things with Miss Jones, I don’t care,” she said primly.

  “I will do my best. Where is your sister, by the way?”

  Bea paused, and her expression went blank—the same look she always had when she was feeling guilty about something.

  He felt the first stirrings of unease.

  “Well, actually,” she began slowly, cringing slightly, “she might have, maybe, possibly, run away.”

  His heart sank with dread.

  THE DESPERATE HORROR that had gripped Marlowe the moment he realized Bea’s words were true was worse than anything he’d felt before. Nothing had come close, not even his time on the Peninsula shooting at Frenchmen or Caroline’s betrayal and subsequent death. Even when he’d woken from his fever and discovered the earl had taken the twins away, he’d not felt half so panicked, for he’d at least known they were relatively safe in that horrid school, if not happy.

  This time, however, he didn’t know if Laura were safe, could barely even think through the terror of imagining his nine-year-old daughter lost on the streets of London, cold and afraid—or even worse, snatched up by some opportunistic blackguard, never to be seen again.

  He barely even remembered the journey to Montford House, Laura’s alleged destination, or how he managed to navigate the streets on his horse without trampling someone. Even though it was only a few blocks, a thousand horrible things could have happened to a little girl between his house and the duke’s. Every alleyway he passed by, his heart was in his throat, for he was half expecting to see his daughter’s broken corpse lying in the detritus.

  An o
verreaction, his mind said, yet he couldn’t seem to convince his heart of this. Even Mayfair wasn’t immune to the rampant crime that infested the city—he knew this all too well.

  When Marlowe reached Montford House, he pushed past the staid Stallings before the butler had the door even halfway open. All he was aware of after that was a blur of movement and a raised voice—his raised voice, he’d realize much, much later, shouting for Laura like a lunatic.

  Stallings looked terrified of him as he scurried away to fetch his employers. Only a few seconds passed before Montford was there with Astrid on his heels, both of them taking Marlowe by the arm to calm him down. He only barely resisted the urge to buck them off and rampage the hallways, but one last shred of sanity told him this would be a horrible idea. He tried to steady his breathing, though it was impossible. For some reason, stepping inside of Montford House had made Laura’s disappearance even more real.

  Finally their jumble of words began to penetrate the panicked haze in his brain.

  “. . . just sent a footman to tell you Laura is here,” Astrid was saying soothingly. “Miss Jones found her sleeping in her bed.”

  He felt no relief, not yet, and let Astrid pull him down the hallway. “Is she hurt?” he demanded. “Where is she?”

  “She is perfectly fine. They’re in the parlor having biscuits,” Astrid soothed.

  Marlowe didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he finally saw Laura, sitting on a divan next to Minerva. He released it in a gust, feeling light-headed. She was munching on a biscuit, looking a bit rumpled and teary, but otherwise unharmed. He wobbled where he stood, relief and inexplicable grief flooding through him with the force of a blow.