A Marriage of Rogues

by Margaret Moore

  Getting closer to the study, she caught sight of a familiar male figure standing near the fireplace with his back to the doors, looking up at the portrait of Sir Randolf.

  That picture really ought to be taken down. Dev needed no reminders to be a good man. “Did you have a nice ride?” she asked after she opened the door and entered. “You were gone rather a long time.”

  The man who turned to face her was not her husband.

  Instead it was as if the late baronet’s portrait had come to life, except for the real man’s vivid blue eyes.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, instinctively backing toward the terrace.

  “I’m sorry if I startled you, my lady. I’m Roger Bessborough, Sir Develin’s solicitor,” the man who shared Dev’s broad shoulders and muscular build calmly replied. “I assume you’re Lady Dundrake.”

  The shape of his face was different from Dev’s—more square and angular. Nor did he sound like Dev. Mr. Bessborough’s voice was rougher, and she had spent enough time with people trying to affect an upper-class accent to recognize the solicitor didn’t come by his naturally.

  “Yes, I am,” she replied, wondering what he was doing there. “Won’t you sit down? Unfortunately I don’t think my husband is here at the moment. He may be out riding still. If he is, he should return shortly, should you care to wait.”

  Mr. Bessborough didn’t accept her invitation. “I have not come here to see your husband. I came here to tell you that he’s gone to Liverpool and isn’t certain when he’ll be returning.”

  “Why?” And why has he sent his solicitor to tell me instead of telling me himself before he left this morning?

  “He has business, my lady, that he felt required his personal attention.”

  “What sort of business?”

  “I regret I’m not at liberty to say.”

  Several business reasons came to mind, ones that her husband might prefer to keep confidential even from his wife or that he might not think a woman would either care about or understand.

  Yet in spite of those possible explanations, there was something distinctly odd about her husband’s unexpected departure. “He took no baggage with him.”

  The solicitor seemed unaffected by her concerned query. “I’ve spoken with the butler and he will see that the necessary articles are sent to Sir Develin’s hotel in Liverpool.”

  “Which would be?”

  “I have not yet been informed.”

  Thea’s eyes narrowed. Dev’s solicitor didn’t know where he would be staying? Or perhaps he did but didn’t want to tell her.

  Another possible reason for Dev’s abrupt departure and secrecy came to her, one that sent a spiral of dismay through her heart. She had given Dev leave to have lovers when she proposed they marry. Although it had seemed to her that all was well between them, perhaps he had a mistress in Liverpool. Nevertheless, that still didn’t explain why he hadn’t taken any baggage, unless the woman’s summons had been urgent.

  Perhaps Dev’s mistress had used his solicitor to convey her appeal to Dev to come to her and that was really why Mr. Bessborough had come to Dundrake Hall. It might have been convenient for Dev to have Mr. Bessborough tell his wife where he’d gone, too. That would certainly save him having to make his excuses himself.

  She raised her eyes and met the solicitor’s steadfast gaze. “Will you stay for dinner, Mr. Bessborough?”

  The solicitor flushed as if she’d asked him to strip naked before he shook his head. “No, thank you, my lady. I should start my journey back to London without delay. Please excuse me.”

  After giving her a slight bow, Mr. Bessborough strode from the room, leaving Thea to ponder her husband’s unusual actions and what she should do if the reason for her dread proved to be true.

  * * *

  Two days later, Dev felt soiled just walking into the gambling hell. Unfortunately he had no choice except to search such places in Liverpool if he wanted to find Thea’s father, who might or might not have sailed for Canada.

  He’d already visited the shipping offices and, as Roger’s agents had reported, hadn’t found Sir John’s name any ship’s manifest sailing from Liverpool in the past few weeks. But neither had he found any evidence to suggest Sir John had stayed behind. Thea’s father had stayed in no hotel, no inn, no tavern and none of the lodging houses Dev had visited thus far. There were a few more cheap ones to check. Not wanting to get bitten by fleas, however, he’d decided to try the gambling hells first. Perhaps after that, and even if he found out nothing about her father, he would write a letter to Thea. Every other time he’d started, he’d stopped, unsure what explanation he could give that wouldn’t cause her any alarm.

  “Sir Develin! What a pleasure! It’s been too long!” the owner of the gambling hell called out when he spotted Dev at the entrance to the large, noisy room full of men wagering at games of chance. The smoke from cheroots swirled about like a fog in the candlelight, adding to the sense that Dev had entered some sort of underworld, one to which he no longer wanted to belong. Before he’d encountered Sir John, the lure of triumph, the need to prove he was better than other men at something, had made gambling seem like good sport. Since he’d learned the damage gambling could do, the hurt and harm it could cause to the innocent, he was sorry he hadn’t found something else at which to excel.

  “Hello, Bifkin,” he said, nodding at the large, pale man with a long gray hair and thick gray beard who approached him.

  Bifkin looked like Father Christmas down on his luck—rather an appropriate notion. Dev also doubted the fellow ever saw the light of day.

  “There’s a spot for you at that table,” Bifkin noted, pointing at a table where five men were engaged in a grimly silent, serious game of vingt-et-un.

  Dev shook his head. “I haven’t come to gamble. I’ve come for information.”

  Bifkin’s bushy gray eyebrows lowered. “You know I don’t ’peach,” the man growled. “If you’ve got a debt to collect, that’s naught my concern.”

  “It’s a family matter,” Dev said. “I’m looking for Sir John Markham. It’s quite likely he’d have come here if he was in Liverpool.”

  “Never saw him. Never heard of him.”

  “There’s a reward for any information concerning his whereabouts.”

  The bushy eyebrows drew together over Bifkin’s red and bulbous nose. “How much?”

  “Fifty pounds.”

  Bifkin let out a low whistle. “Blimey, wish I had met the man. That’s a lot of brass.”

  “I just want to know where he can be found. You don’t have to bring him to me. Send a message to the Regis Hotel here or if I’ve gone, to Dundrake Hall. If your information proves useful, you’ll be fifty pounds richer.”

  Bifkin scratched his beard and nodded. “I’ll do my best, gov’nor. Sure you won’t have a go?”

  “Not tonight,” Dev replied, turning to leave.

  And not ever again, here or anywhere, he vowed silently as he headed toward the door.

  Where he nearly collided with Leamington-Rudney. The viscount stumbled over the threshold, obviously drunk and smelling as if he’d fallen into a cask of wine.

  “Wha’re you doing here?” the viscount demanded as he straightened, glaring at Dev as if his very presence was an insult.

  “I’m searching for someone.”

  The florid color drained from Leamington-Rudney’s face and he steadied himself with one hand on the nearest wall. “Wha’ d’you care if she’s run off? You don’t give a brass farthing about her.”

  Dev stiffened, feeling as if an Arctic blast had hit him. Surely he couldn’t mean Thea. Please, God, don’t let him be speaking of Thea! “To whom are you referring?”

  “Did her father send you? Not that he cares about her. The duchess’s not much better.” Leamington-R
udney sneered and Dev began to breathe again.

  “Why shouldn’t Caroline run off with me, eh?” the drunken viscount continued. “I like her—at least in bed.”

  Dev’s relief was replaced by scornful disbelief. “Are you trying to tell me you and Caroline eloped?”

  The viscount gave him a wicked grin. “You might get tricked into going to Gretna Green. I’m not so stupid.”

  Dev grabbed Leamington-Rudney by the collar and shoved him up against the wall. “You rotten cur!”

  At the same time and despite his anger, he realized Caroline was still—and thankfully—free. Marriage to the viscount would be worse than hard labor.

  “Gentlemen! None of that, if you please!” Bifkin declared, hurrying to separate them. “Take your quarrel outside!”

  Dev ignored the owner of the gambling hell and held the squirming nobleman where he was. “Where is Caroline?”

  “Still in bed,” Leamington-Rudney gasped, his face growing redder.

  “Where?” Dev snarled.

  “The Ship’s Inn.”

  It could be worse. That was a decent place, if not the finest.

  Dev let go and Leamington-Rudney sank to his knees.

  “If you’re wise, my lord,” Dev said to the coughing nobleman, “you’ll get on the first ship out of port.”

  “She won’t go with you!” the viscount shouted in the silence as Dev started for the door, for even the most hardened gamblers had stopped their games to stare. “Not now!”

  Dev paused on the threshold and turned to regard the blackguard with all the disdain he felt. “Despite her unaccountable lapse of judgment running off with you, she’s still my friend and worthy of my aid and protection, and she will have it.”

  “You can have her, then,” the viscount retorted, rubbing his throat. “She’ll be better in bed than that coldhearted wife of yours.”

  Dev took one step toward the viscount, who quickly moved behind Bifkin.

  “Here, get away from me!” Bifkin cried, sidestepping away from Leamington-Rudney. The owner of the gambling hell scowled at Dev. “Do what you like to the bounder, but not here. I can’t have no murder in my place.”

  “I have no intention of laying a hand on that poor excuse for a man,” Dev replied before he turned on his heel and left them there.

  * * *

  After Dev had gone, Bifkin glared at the red-faced viscount. “You’d best leave, m’lord,” he said, his hands on his broad hips.

  “After I have a drink,” Leamington-Rudney said hoarsely, “or I’ll have this place shut down.”

  Bifkin nodded, albeit with obvious reluctance, then called for a servant to bring the man some wine.

  Leamington-Rudney downed the wine in a gulp and wiped his thick lips with the back of his hand before heading for the door. “He’s going to pay for this,” he muttered.

  Bifkin rolled his eyes and no one else paid the least attention. They were all once again absorbed in their games of chance.

  * * *

  As soon as Dev left Bifkin’s, he hailed a hackney coach and got to the Ship’s Inn as quickly as he could. The tall, narrow building had once been home to a shipping merchant and bore the signs of excellent construction, from the oaken beams in the ceiling to the smooth, wide, pegged floorboards beneath his feet. Items decorating the main room, like the Turkey carpet and delicate lamps of Venetian glass, had come from all over the world.

  Dev had no sooner entered than a young man with wispy brown hair and a weak chin appeared from a door beneath the wide stairway. “Good day, sir. We’ve a wonderful room vacant,” he said eagerly.

  “Thank you, but I don’t require accommodation,” Dev replied, doing his best to keep his voice calm and level so as not to alarm the fellow. “I’m looking for some acquaintances of mine, Lord Leamington-Rudney and a lady.”

  The young man frowned and rubbed his hands together nervously. “We have no one here by that name.”

  “The viscount may not wish his true name to be known, or the young lady’s,” Dev said. He decided on a lie of his own. “I’m the lady’s solicitor and it’s very important that I speak with her, Mr....?”

  “Whitcombe.”

  Dev dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. “I fear there may have been some misinformation regarding the extent of the young man’s fortune, Mr. Whitcome, that has only now come to light and may affect the marriage settlement.”

  The young man’s pale blue eyes widened. “Oh dear! And her such a pretty—”

  He flushed and fell silent, perhaps regretting that he’d betrayed Caroline’s presence.

  “Yes, she is,” Dev agreed. “She’s also a fine young woman deserving of a man’s assistance, wouldn’t you say?”

  Whitcombe seemed to come to a decision and, to Dev’s mind, the right one. “She’s in the room at the far end of the hall on the second floor. The gentleman isn’t with her at the moment.”

  “Thank you,” Dev said sincerely, “and I’m sure she’ll be most grateful, too.”

  He hurried up the stairs and along the corridor to the room the young man had indicated. Once there, he knocked briskly.

  “Go away!” a woman answered, a woman whose voice he recognized.

  He stood close to the door and spoke just loud enough for her to hear. “Caroline, it’s Dev. Please open the door.”

  He waited for what seemed an age, then called to her again. “Caroline, please open the door.”

  This time, he heard someone moving in the room before the door opened a crack, yet it was a gap wide enough to see a portion of Caroline’s face. And a black eye.

  “For the love of God, Caroline, please let me in!” he exclaimed, shoving his foot in the crack to prevent her from closing the door again.

  To his relief, she moved back. She wore one of her day dresses, a pretty confection of silk and lace, but it had been torn at the sleeve, no doubt by Leamington-Rudney.

  The room itself was a shambles, the bed in the corner unmade, dirty linen bunched up on the washstand, the water in the basin gray. Articles of clothing, male and female, were strewn about or half out of the two valises on the floor. Only ashes were in the hearth.

  Caroline turned her back to him and gave him an order. “Go away, Develin.”

  “I’m not leaving without you,” he said just as forcefully.

  She whirled around and glared at him, revealing the black eye and another purple bruise on her cheek. “Go back to your home and your wife. You’re married and happy.”

  He didn’t care if Caroline hated him. There was no way in heaven he was going to leave her there. Fortunately he’d chosen not to stay in his usual hotel this trip. The staff at the Regis Hotel were much less likely to care if he asked for an additional room for a young lady and only for one night. “Pack your things. We’re leaving.”

  Caroline’s hands balled into fists at her sides. “I can’t. I’ve got no home left except with Charles.”

  “He told me himself he doesn’t intend to marry you.”

  “I know. He made that clear enough after he...we...” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t go back with you. Mama won’t even let me through the door.”

  “Your father will,” Dev said, certain the kindhearted duke wouldn’t deny food and shelter and comfort to his daughter.

  “Mama rules there, not him.”

  “Then come back to Dundrake Hall and I’ll speak to your father. I’m certain he’ll help you.”

  “How? Send me off to Europe where nobody knows me or my shame? Maybe he would, but it wouldn’t be the way he sent Paul, with all the spending money a person could want. He’ll pay for some little hole for me to hide in and give me an allowance barely enough to survive on.” She walked up to Dev and jabbed him in the chest with her finger. �
��What do you care what happens to me? You have your bride.” She turned away. “Leave me to my misery.”

  “No. I won’t leave you like this, with him.” Dev walked around to face her and took her hands in his. “I care about you, Caroline.”

  “Only because I’m Paul’s sister,” she charged, choking back a sob and pulling her hands free.

  “And because you deserve better than Leamington-Rudney.” Dev could also easily imagine her fate when the viscount tired of her, as he surely would. “At least let me take you away from this place, to another inn or lodging house. Please, I beg of you.”

  “What’s this? Sir Develin Dundrake is stooping to beg?”

  “For your sake, I will.”

  Caroline raised her chin. “If I do go with you, your wife won’t like it.”

  “Thea will understand.”

  “I doubt it. I wouldn’t.”

  No, Caroline probably wouldn’t, but she wasn’t Thea.

  Caroline straightened her shoulders and he could see how much she wanted to believe her next words. “Charles will come looking for me.”

  Dev shook his head. “No, Caroline, he won’t,” he said quietly.

  She glared at him another moment, and then her face crumpled and she fell, sobbing, into his arms.

  * * *

  Sometime later that day, Leamington-Rudney thundered down the stairs of the Ship’s Inn. “Where is she? The woman I was with?” he demanded of the young man watching him.

  “She has left the inn, my lord,” Whitcombe replied with the appearance of meek deference. In truth, he was rapidly contemplating summoning aid.

  “What? When?”

  “Some time ago,” Whitcombe said, surreptitiously reaching for the cosh he kept in the left front pocket of his jacket.

  “By herself?”

  “No, sir. A gentleman was with her.”