by Mia Marlowe
No one sent word asking Rhys to come home.
But the marquis was tougher than the wags at White’s had credited him. By spring, his father was on the mend and well enough to terrorize the House of Lords once again.
However, the cut to Rhys’s spirit went deep. Even languishing on what was rumored to be his deathbed, Lord Warrington hadn’t asked for his second son.
Rhys was almost certain his mother would have written. The only explanation was that she had been forbidden to do so. The rebuke couldn’t be stronger. Nothing would restore him in his father’s estimation.
Unless Mr. Alcock really could clear him of the scandal.
“Suppose we are interested in your information,” Rhys said, settling back into the wing chair. “What do you expect from us in return?”
Mr. Alcock stopped puffing on his pipe and smiled. Drawing his skin tight across his face, it was not a pleasant expression.
“In the years since your disastrous defeat at Maubeuge, the three of you have developed a talent of singular note. As it turns out, I have need of such men for missions of vital importance.”
“What is it you need us to do?” A frown cut a deep cleft between Nathaniel’s sandy brows.
Espionage or fighting, whatever it was, it would be better than the wastrel life Rhys had been living.
“In due time, my lord. First, you must appreciate the situation which drove me to my…unorthodox plan. You see, the people are weary of our mad king and his unlikeable son. We hoped for better things from Prinny’s daughter and the child she carried.” Mr. Alcock’s mouth turned down in a grim line. “Surely even dedicated rakes such as yourselves noted that the princess passed away after the birth of her stillborn son in late autumn.”
“It was hard to miss.” Rhys drained the rest of his tea. Even the coffeehouses and clubs had closed down for two weeks last November after Princess Charlotte died. “The whole country donned crepe.”
“All except Princess Charlotte’s uncles, the royal dukes,” Jonah said.
The unmarried sons of King George saw a chance to put themselves, or at least their progeny, on the throne if they could produce a legitimate heir. Unfortunately, His Majesty’s sons were more inclined to mistresses than marriage. Only the Prince Regent had presented King George with a grandchild who didn’t bear the stain of bastardy.
And now Princess Charlotte was dead.
“The ‘Hymen Race Terrific’ is engaged in earnest. The sons of ‘Farmer George’ are hot to wed, bed, and breed,” Alcock said. “Three of the royal dukes have gone a-courting with the Crown as the ultimate prize, but I intend to see that their plans are thwarted.”
“Are you suggesting that not everyone wants to see the House of Hanover continue on the throne?” Rhys guessed.
“Did I say so? Certainly not,” Mr. Alcock said. The mere thought bordered on treason. “But for the sake of argument, suppose someone did want to see the Crown devolve to another ruling line. If one could confound these marriage-minded dukes, the task would be half accomplished.”
Nathaniel laughed mirthlessly. “You’ll need more luck than you deserve. What woman wouldn’t jump at the chance to wed a royal duke and perhaps wear a tiara of her own if she manages to pop out a royal heir?”
“No doubt, the dazzle of a possible crown does tend to outweigh the general distastefulness of the sons of King George,” Alcock said, his lip curling. “But since it would be impolitic to publicly point out their many deficiencies, I intend to marshal my forces in another direction.”
“How so?” Rhys asked.
“Only the young, fertile, and chaste need apply for the position of royal duchess, you understand. I merely need to make sure the ladies in question are disqualified from consideration on account of impurity,” Alcock explained. “I ask you, who better to make sure the dukes’ intended brides don’t remain virgins than three determined rakes?” He skewered them each with a pointed look.
“You mistake me, Alcock.” Rhys rose and strode toward the door. The last wisp of rum-soaked fog lifted and his mind was suddenly clearer than it had been in weeks. “Thus far the depth of my depravity does not stoop to debauching virgins. Pray, do not include me in your machinations.”
“Or me,” Nathaniel said, falling into step behind him.
“Too bloody right.” Jonah brought up the rear.
For a moment, Rhys’s chest swelled with an unfamiliar sensation. Satisfaction. His old friends had backed him. Not that refusing to deflower a green girl was all that praiseworthy. In good conscience, what gentleman wouldn’t? But at least Rhys and his friends had found common ground at the bottom of the pit into which they’d sunk. It felt good to have Nate and Jonah on his side again.
“So you care nothing for your honor?” Alcock said.
“Honor bought at such a price can hardly be worth the name,” Rhys said, stopping with his hand on the parlor door.
In all his sexual adventures, Rhys had never seduced a virgin. A green girl was sacrosanct. Rhys had always been fond beyond the common of his younger sisters. If some rake had preyed on them, used them, and tossed them aside, nothing would have stayed him from demanding satisfaction and killing the bastard.
Now Fortescue Alcock wanted him and his friends to do the same despicable thing to someone else’s sisters. Rhys balled his fingers into fists. The urge to throttle Alcock to within an inch of his miserable life was almost more temptation than he could resist.
“I wouldn’t be so hasty to be noble were I you,” Alcock warned. “You see, aside from information about the true traitor of Maubeuge, I can amass enough evidence to damn each of you as well.”
“You lie.” Rhys narrowed his eyes at Alcock.
“Perhaps,” the man said with a deceptively affable smile. “It may well be that my informant is untrustworthy. But people are ever willing to believe the worst, whether it’s true or not. Should I choose to launch an investigation—and rest assured, if you fail to comply with my wishes, I will do so—you will each be brought before Parliament to answer for your crimes. And this time, no amount of influence from your families will save you from the full weight of the law.”
Rhys’s throat constricted. If convicted, they’d be fortunate to escape with transportation. More likely, they’d be made examples of in a public execution. But worse than that, Rhys dreaded further shame to his family.
Alcock seemed to sense his dread.
“Sir Jonah, your brother’s grasp has exceeded his reach in courting the daughter of an earl, and according to my information, the lady seems willing. But what do you think a public trial will do to his hope of wedding Lady Penelope?” Alcock asked.
Jonah’s shoulders slumped a fraction of an inch. Rhys knew his friend was caught.
“And you, Lord Nathaniel,” Alcock went on, hooking his thumbs under his lapels as if preparing to launch a filibuster. “I believe your younger sister is coming out next Season, isn’t she? How would a convicted traitor in the family affect her chance of making a good match?”
A muscle in Nathaniel’s cheek ticked, but he said nothing. Like Rhys, Nathaniel was devoted to his sisters.
“And you, Lord Rhys, of all people, should wish to avoid further disgrace. Your father may try to hide it, but word about town is that the marquis is not as hale and hearty as he tries to appear,” Alcock droned on. “Imagine what it would do to Lord Warrington to see his son in the well of the House of Lords. In shackles.”
The familiar red haze that was a precursor to visions from his past threatened to descend again, but Rhys shook it off. He had to keep his wits about him. Sometimes when the dark spells overtook him, he lost track of where he was. Wandering in the past, he sometimes feared he’d never find his way back. He couldn’t afford flashes of Maubeuge intruding into his present reality. So he forced one foot in front of the other and returned to the chair by the fire.
One at a time, his friends followed suit.
“Very wise, gentlemen,” Mr. Alcock said. “Why be
my enemies when you can be my friends?”
Moving with speed that surprised even him, Rhys leaped up, grasped Alcock by the collar and lifted him off his shiny-booted feet. The man’s eyes bulged as his hands clawed at Rhys’s grip, but he couldn’t wiggle free.
“You will never be our friend, Alcock,” Rhys said, giving him a quick shake, like a terrier would a rat. “Answer one question and you won’t see us again until we come to collect what you owe us.”
“What’s that?” he croaked.
Rhys glanced at his friends. When they both nodded grimly, he lowered Alcock until his toes brushed the ground.
“Who are we to seduce?”
Chapter 3
Two weeks later
Barrowdell Manor in the Lake District
“For heaven’s sake, poppet, the duke’s new emissary is waiting,” her mother said, hastily tucking a fichu into the neckline of Olivia Symon’s drab bombazine day gown. When Princess Charlotte died, the Symon household had donned full mourning. Black was not Olivia’s best color, and adding more of it so close to her face only served to wash her out completely. “Hurry up, child.”
“I’m not a child.” Olivia pulled out the fichu and let it drop to the floor. The gown was perfectly acceptable without it, especially since she had no bosom of which to speak. Her breasts were the size of carnation blossoms, and rather small carnations at that. It was bad enough she’d been yanked from the hothouse she loved before she’d had time to finish repotting her orchids. Having her mother try to dress her as if she were a china doll was an indignity that danced on her last nerve. “I’m not your poppet either. And I will not hurry just because the Duke of Clarence has sent another of his hounds.”
“Hush.” Her mother put two fingers to Olivia’s lips. “Hounds, indeed. Must you be so vulgar?”
“Well, what would you call it?” A lock of hair had escaped her lacy snood. Olivia tucked it behind her ear to forestall her mother reaching for it. “The duke is using the poor fellow exactly like a hunting dog to flush the quarry from the brush.”
Her mother made a tsking noise. “Your father never should have taught you to shoot.”
“He shouldn’t have taught me to do lots of things.” Like think for myself, Olivia added silently as she headed down the corridor toward the house’s grand main staircase.
“I trust you’ll keep those unladylike accomplishments to yourself.” Beatrice Symon almost had to trot to keep up with Olivia’s strides.
Not that Olivia was in a hurry to meet with the duke’s man. She simply knew she’d have no peace until the interview was over, so she might as well have done with it.
“Don’t fret,” she told her mother. “It doesn’t matter a fig what I say to the man. I could be as dotty as a March hare, and it wouldn’t change a thing. The Duke of Clarence isn’t nearly as interested in me as he is in the forty thousand pounds Papa is settling on me.”
“Don’t be silly. He’s a royal duke. What does he need with money?”
“Maybe to pay his debts?” Olivia read every copy of the London Times her father brought home, and according to all reports, the Duke of Clarence—all the royal family, in fact—had amassed mountains of debt. “Perhaps Clarence is merely tired of trying to wrangle funds from Parliament and considers me a tidy little personal bank.”
“It’s gauche to speak of such things.”
Wonder if she’d rather I mention that I do, in fact, possess a virgin womb, which I know is the duke’s other main interest. The Duke of Clarence had managed to sire ten children on his mistresses, all of whom were received in Society and were granted the surname Fitzclarence. He’d proven his potency. Olivia was the eldest of six daughters, and large families ran on both sides of her pedigree, facts not lost on the royal duke’s advisors, she was sure. Her chances of being fertile were as high as her father’s pockets were deep.
“Now promise me you won’t mention money to the nice gentleman,” her mother demanded as they descended the grand curving staircase together.
Olivia rolled her eyes. “How do you know he’s nice?”
Most gentlemen she’d met hadn’t been at all nice once one scratched beneath the surface of their courtly manners. She didn’t believe, as her mother apparently did, that “blood will out.”
Olivia’s family boasted no blue blood, but her father, Horatio Symon, had returned from India with wealth to rival the most decadent maharajah. Despite being rich enough to buy all the trappings of the Upper Ten Thousand—the expansive country estate, a well-situated Mayfair townhouse, and the latest fashions and buckets of jewels for Olivia, her mother, and sisters—the Symons still weren’t considered “good ton” by the elite.
But in some circles, well-moneyed trumped wellborn. More than one heiress had bought herself a title when a land-rich, cash-poor peer decided he’d overlook his bride’s pedigree in favor of her father’s purse.
A royal duke was the largest of all possible noble prizes for a wealthy common girl to bag in the “title hunt.” Her mother would have been horrified to hear her daughter put it that way, but to Olivia’s mind, her dowry was merely the bloody bait. His Highness, the Duke of Clarence, was sniffing about it, trying to decide whether to risk a bite.
If the royal dukes could admit they were on a hymen hunt, why should she not admit what having such an exalted title in the family would do for her siblings?
And of course as a royal duke’s consort, I’d be far too lofty a person for Mother to nag, Olivia thought with a wry grin.
“Promise me,” her mother repeated. “Let your father handle any discussion of money.”
Olivia sighed. “Very well, Mother, I won’t mention my most obvious charm.”
“Nonsense, child.” Beatrice Symon turned to give her a quick assessing gaze. “You have plenty of charms. You’re perfectly…well, you’re entirely…oh, hang it all, you’re attractive enough for ordinary purposes.”
Ordinary. Olivia bit her lower lip. Unlike her curvier younger sisters, she was all knees and elbows, too thin for fashion, but she never could seem to add any weight. Her mother complained it was because she spent too much time riding or puttering in the garden like a common servant. But aside from the freedom of being in the saddle, there was nothing Olivia loved more than burying her fingers in rich loamy soil and helping green things grow.
Olivia knew she was no beauty. It was part of how she’d managed to stay unmarried despite her status as a great heiress.
But would it hurt her mother to pretend once in a while that it was possible for a gentleman to become interested in her for her instead of her father’s fortune? Olivia refused to believe she was destined merely to be some man’s bottomless purse.
Somehow, some way, she’d know love, she decided. If not, she’d just as soon die alone.
Her mother stopped at the parlor threshold.
“You’re not coming?” Olivia asked.
“No, his lordship asked to speak with you in private, and since he’s here on behalf of the duke, I decided it would be perfectly appropriate,” her mother said.
“No doubt if he wants to examine my teeth and check my limbs for soundness, that will be appropriate too,” Olivia muttered.
Her mother puffed up like a guinea on the nest. “Honestly, Olivia, where you get such outlandish notions I’ll never collect. Don’t fret, dear. I’ll be nearby should you need me.”
“Listening at the keyhole, no doubt.”
“Hush, chi—I mean, oh, never mind.” Her mother gave her a little pat on the shoulder. “Remember your sisters are counting on you and, well—” Her mother’s fingers fluttered in a helpless gesture. “Just do your best, dear.”
Olivia stifled a groan. Trust her mother to remind her once again that her sisters’ expectations would catapult skyward if she managed to capture the Duke of Clarence.
And plummet to perdition should she muff this chance of a lifetime.
She pushed through the double doors and swept into the meticulously a
ppointed room. Despite the fact that the Symons were nouveau riche, and her mother had questionable ideas when it came to appropriate situations with strange men, Beatrice Symon did possess excellent taste in home furnishings. The country estate sparkled with elegant understatement rarely found, even among the bon ton.
The man on the settee rose to greet her, and Olivia dipped in the requisite curtsey.
“Good afternoon, my—” She raised her gaze to the man’s face and her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. The last emissary the Duke of Clarence sent had been a loathsome little toad of a fellow who snickered when he spoke, finishing his sentences with an upward lilt and a nervous giggle.
But this man was…magnificent.
It was more than merely flawless features. It was the balance of the individual parts that created such an arresting whole. His strong jaw matched his firm lips and fine straight nose. The high cheekbones of a man of action were tempered with the broad forehead of a poet.
And his snapping brown eyes. They were dark wells of intelligence and…did she detect a hint of amusement glinting in their depths?
Well, of course she did. The man was looking at her, wasn’t he?
It was rare to see a human face with this kind of symmetry and pleasing proportions. Usually a nose would be outsized for the rest of the features or a person’s eyes would be too wide set. Olivia ordinarily found this sort of perfection in flora, not fauna.
The only bit of him that seemed out of place was a streak of silver marring his seal-brown hair at one temple. Judging from the lack of lines around the man’s eyes and mouth, he was young to have that shock of gray. But even what should have been an impediment to his arresting appearance instead lent him an air of mystery.
“It is my honor to meet you, Miss Symon. Lord Rhys Warrington, your servant,” the man said with a correct bow from the neck. His ramrod straight back proclaimed him no one’s servant, but he followed proper conventions to the last jot and tittle. “Allow me to present this letter of introduction.”
