My Wicked Marquess

by Gaelen Foley

  Max harrumphed and turned to go, but paused. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “What is it?”

  “You know her better than anyone. Do I have…any chance left at all with her?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “How good are you at groveling?”

  Max absorbed this, then gave him a wry look. “If you hear from her, tell her to send word to her father. Old man’s distraught.”

  “I will,” Jonathan said. “And if you see her first, tell her I want my blasted carriage back!”

  Max waved him off as he strode back to his horse. He considered retracing her route from the location of the ball in Richmond-upon-Thames, but her father had said the younger girls’ governess had heard Daphne come home last night. Max decided instead to go back to the Starling villa and see if there was any news of her yet. No matter how angry she was, it seemed unlike her to let her family worry.

  As he galloped the stallion along the flat stretches of road toward South Kensington, he was beginning to feel rather frantic with worry for the girl, to say nothing of his guilt to know he was the cause of her running away.

  At last, he cantered up to the Starling estate, his horse in need of water. Trying not to wallow too much in remorse—after all, he would need a clear head—he braced himself to go into her house and see if there was any word of her. Perhaps she had come to her senses and returned in the meanwhile. He prayed it was so as Penelope, Lady Starling, answered the door.

  She was in a tizzy already, so Max did not bother addressing right now the issue of her prematurely sharing the news of their engagement with Society. The matronly troublemaker had made everything more complicated, but Max put it aside for now as Lady Starling confirmed that her husband and his trusty footman William were not yet back from making more inquiries.

  While they were talking, however, a messenger arrived, delivering a note for footman William. Max’s heart leaped as Lady Starling announced it was from his twin sister, Wilhelmina.

  Max remembered both twins, Daphne’s country maid and footman, from his observations that day in Bucket Lane.

  Mentally begging footman William’s pardon, he took the letter from Penelope, and with her permission, he quickly tore the note open and read it, his heart pounding.

  Deer Will,

  Tell the fammly not to wurry. We are safe at a inn called the Three Swans on the Great North Rd, where we are sune to meet with a very important person-ich. Please tell Lord S I am very sorry for this. Since I culd not stop Miss D from going, I thot it best to go along and help her to stay safe. Did not know what else to do. She was vry out of sorts. I better go. Shed be furious if she knew I’d wrote you, but I had to, in hopes that we don’t both get sacked.

  Yr loyal sister,

  W

  “Bless you, little Wilhelmina,” he murmured in soul-deep relief. “Can’t spell, but a heart of gold.”

  “Oh, my lord,” Penelope uttered dramatically, “whatever does she say?”

  “Exactly what I needed to know. Clever lass.” He handed her the note. “If you ever do see fit to sack these twins, Lady Starling, send them straight to me. The pair are worth their weight in gold.” With that, Max was out the door, back up on his horse again, and galloping off toward the Great North Road to bring the errant beauty home.

  Daphne felt caged inside her room at the Three Swans Inn. She kept looking out the curtained window for any sign of her great-aunt.

  Last night, she had driven this far in Jonathon’s phaeton—a hair-raising prospect in itself—but she had been forced to halt when she reached a fork in the road and saw a decision had to be made about which way to go next.

  The Dowager Duchess of Anselm owned four estates that lay in four different directions. Daphne had no idea at which one her great-aunt currently tarried. The formidable old woman liked to travel among her lands as harvest time drew near, holding annual audiences with her tenants, settling local quarrels, examining the year’s new babies, and keeping a watchful eye on the bringing in of the crops.

  Thus, thwarted by practicality, Daphne had had no choice but to stop and send messengers out to each of Her Grace’s various homes to find out if the duchess was there.

  Now it was just a matter of waiting to hear back. This could take a few days, alas. The waiting was already beginning to fray her nerves.

  It did not help that misgivings had begun to plague her. Strange doubts. Her heart felt as hollow as a bell inside her chest. She was still furious at Max at his cold highhandedness. Which made it hard to explain her deepening misery at the prospect of never seeing him again.

  She already felt bereft, as if she’d lost a friend.

  Striving again to put him out of her mind, she turned her attention back to the more pressing task of figuring out what she would say when she faced the Dowager Dragon.

  No doubt there must first be some scolding. Her Grace did not sanction indecorous behavior and was sure to disapprove greatly of her running away.

  But she hoped that when she explained the tyranny that was being thrust on her against her will, the grand old dame would unleash her dragon powers on Daphne’s behalf.

  Beyond that, Daphne thought, Her Grace should be somewhat appeased that at least she had not ventured out totally alone in this madcap adventure. At least she’d had the sense to bring her maid.

  Actually, though, she couldn’t take credit for that. It was Wilhelmina who had insisted on coming along.

  Last night upon arriving at the Starling villa, Daphne had sneaked in to collect her things when a sleepy Wilhelmina had stumbled in as usual to attend her mistress returning from the ball.

  Daphne had discovered then that her humble little maid knew her too well for any lie to be successful. In her distraught state, she had finally admitted to Willie that she was fleeing because of Lord Rotherstone; upon failing to talk her out of it, the stouthearted girl had informed her she was coming with her, bless her heart.

  To be sure, it was a great comfort to have a loyal ally near. Her maid’s bustling presence lent an air of normalcy to the aftermath of her brash flight. Unfortunately, today, poor Willie seemed even more nervous than she was. Already, the girl had unpacked and refolded Daphne’s things twice now just to keep herself busy. Daphne shared her agitation. With every moment, it was growing more difficult to sit still.

  “Oh, I can’t take this anymore,” she declared at length. “I’ve got to get out of this room.”

  “Where will you go?” Willie squeaked.

  “Just downstairs,” Daphne assured her. “Maybe they’ll have a London paper.”

  “I can check for you!”

  “It’s all right. A walk about will do me good.”

  Fighting to block thoughts of Max from her mind with every step, Daphne walked down the hotel corridor and made her way downstairs to the busy lobby.

  The long-coated guard for one of the stagecoaches was blowing his horn in the final summons to all ticketed passengers to come aboard. Daphne curiously watched the mad scramble of travelers hurrying to settle up with the innkeeper’s wife for their supper’s bill of fare.

  A few moments later, the lobby was empty, its chaos changed to silence; the crowded stagecoach rumbled off from the cobbled yard behind its team of six dusty horses.

  Daphne approached the cheerful, bustling landlady of the coaching inn, who was neatening up the benches in the adjoined pub, wiping the tables, and no doubt enjoying the temporary lull that would last only until the next coach came gusting in for a quick respite on its journey.

  “Ma’m?”

  The landlady looked up with an apple-cheeked smile. “Can I ’elp you, dearie?”

  “Has there been any message come for me yet—Miss Starling, in room fourteen?”

  “No, miss. Not since the last time ye asked. We’ll let you know at once when it arrives.”

  “Er, thank you.” She supposed she had been a bit persistent. “Have you got the Post in yet?”<
br />
  “That we do.” The woman nodded and marched back to the counter in the lobby.

  Daphne bought a copy of the famed London paper that was known for having the best Society page. There was sure to be a bit on the End of Summer Ball.

  She needed to know but dreaded to see if the gossip writers had caught wind of the rumor Penelope had spread about the supposed impending nuptials between herself and Max. As she sat down and scanned the newspaper, she was relieved to find no mention of it—yet!—nor, for that matter, any gossip of the wild Demon Marquess further darkening his own reputation by punching Albert Carew in the nose. Lowering the paper again, she fought a reluctant smile at the memory.

  But her twinge of vengeful pleasure was short-lived when she recalled Albert’s claim about the real reason that Max had chosen her to be his future wife. Her faint smile faded. All those lies he had told her about her lovely qualities—and she had believed him!

  He had told her he wanted her because she was kind to strangers and cared about the orphans. All that rot. In reality, it all boiled down to yet another man wanting to use her for his own purposes and ignoring the fact that she was a person, with feelings that could be hurt.

  She stood up as another wave of restless anger swept her. At least now she knew why Max had not shared his heart with her: Obviously, the marquess did not have one.

  Still left with too much time to kill, she decided to go and check on Jono’s horses. She was responsible for them, after all, and besides, the equine race always had such a calming effect on a troubled human spirit.

  Striding outside, she crossed the shady porch, then walked down the few steps to the cobbled inn yard basking in the afternoon sunshine.

  The first day of autumn was fine and breezy, the cloudless skies bright blue. Before going into the stable, she walked to the edge of the inn yard and checked the road for any sign of a liveried messenger sent back from the Dowager Duchess, or perhaps even the magnificent lady herself in her queenly coach.

  There was only a twenty-five percent chance that Great-Aunt Anselm was at her Milton Keynes estate, the closest of her properties, and Daphne would not put it past Her Grace to arrive in person if she indeed were there.

  Once more, however, the Great North Road was empty.

  With a sigh, Daphne shrugged off her impatience and crossed the inn yard to the wide-open doors of the inn’s vast livery stables.

  As soon as she walked in, she immediately noticed the three bored stable grooms who watched her pass with an admiring interest that she was in no mood for.

  Daphne ignored them and strode on into the shadowy dimness of the vast stable. She found the two numbered stalls where Jonathon’s pair of white horses had been quartered side by side.

  She made sure they had been fed and watered, but as she petted one, she looked over and saw the three grooms sauntering toward her, smiling, staring. They looked a little soft in the head, frankly.

  “D’ye need ’elp, miss?”

  “No. Thank you. I just thought I’d check on my horses. They seem settled enough,” she added in taut courtesy. “That will be all.”

  To her dismay, they did not leave.

  “Are you sure there’s nothin’ we can do for you, miss? We’re ’appy to ’elp such a pr-pr-pretty lady,” the lad stuttered.

  “No, thank you,” she clipped out sternly. “I am fine, I assure you.”

  “You are that,” the toothless one on the end said under his breath.

  The others laughed: three witless cousins.

  “I beg your pardon?” She gave him an indignant look, her back to the closed stall door.

  “Forgive my friend, mum. It’s just we don’t often see your kind ’round ’ere very much. It’s an honor!”

  “My kind?” she exclaimed.

  “It’s all right, we ain’t the sort to judge!” They began nodding and laughing eagerly, and Daphne thought if all three of their brains were added together, they might combine to be almost as smart as one of Jono’s horses.

  “We ’ave a wager, y’see. Bones says you’re in the theater, but I says you’re one o’ the opera dancers, so which is it?”

  Daphne’s jaw dropped as she grasped their mistaken assumptions about her status. It dawned on her they thought her—not a lady! She snapped her jaw shut quickly.

  True, ton debutantes did not usually go off traveling independently in a flashy high-perch phaeton, with only a maid to assist them. Indeed, only one sort of woman was free to do that—the ladybird mistress of a wealthy man.

  Some of their scarlet breed were quite notorious celebrities, and Lord knew, they often dressed just as expensively as fine ladies.

  Well, no wonder these rubes had been staring at her so slyly! She was mortified by their error, but slightly more disturbing were the lewd grins on their faces, their leering stares.

  “I don’t think your employer would want you talking to me,” she announced, ignoring a fleeting twinge of guilt remembering the sinful things she had allowed Lord Rother-stone to do to her.

  Maybe she was not quite scarlet like a real theater woman, but she was certainly not pure white, either, not anymore, thanks to him. She supposed she was an indeterminate shade of pink.

  Literally.

  Her rosy blush at thoughts of parlors and marquesses’ roaming hands must have summoned up a look that the simple grooms took as confirmation of her profession.

  Dear God, that brothel-mongering libertine had made a harlot out of her, and somehow these three hayseeds were the first to find her out.

  Their smiles widened as they began crowding closer, smelly and dirty and hideously rude.

  “Who do you go with? Tell us!”

  “You’re byoootiful!”

  “What is your name? Are you famous?”

  “O’ course she is. Look at ’er.”

  “Are you one of the Regent’s pretties? Maybe Wellington?”

  “No, she’s one of Harriet Wilson’s sisters, ain’t ye, mum? Lass like ’er can have any bloody fool she wants.”

  “Gentlemen, you really do mistake me.” She believed that they were harmless from the moment they’d opened their mouths, but she backed away all the same, more mortified than threatened.

  Oh, this was awkward.

  “Bet you tread the planks at Drury Lane, right?”

  “No, I am actually not an actress, nor a dancer. Nor a singer, I’m afraid—”

  “An artist’s model!” A gasp escaped one. “You been painted in the naked?”

  “Please. I’m just a regular person! Now, as much as I’ve enjoyed this, I really must go.” She kept walking backward toward the stable door, talking calmly, smiling—as if that had worked on the gang members in Bucket Lane.

  Why were they following her? They looked like three enchanted thralls, one more of a blockhead than the next.

  “It would be best, I think, if you, um, nice lads went back to your duties—”

  “Get away from her.”

  The curt command came from a few feet behind her. Daphne froze; the low, curt tones of that deep, familiar voice seemed to vibrate through her body.

  With a gasp, she whirled around and saw Max striding into the stable at a smart pace, his black greatcoat flowing out behind him. His face was etched with tension, his pale green eyes as hard as marble.

  Beyond him, through the distant, wide-open stable door, she could see his black stallion being handled by another groom out in the courtyard.

  “Max!” she burst out in shock. “What are you doing here?”

  The three grooms who had been pestering her took one look at him and fled.

  This seemed to her an eminently sensible idea as well, as he marched toward her, drawing off his black riding gauntlets.

  “Hullo, Daphne,” he clipped out. “I’ve come to take you home.”

  Chapter 13

  Oh, no, you don’t!” Jolted out of her shock to see him, Daphne turned and fled, her heart pounding. She had no idea how he had tracked her do
wn, but intimately familiar by now with his relentless ways and implacable will, she dared not let him take control again.

  “Daphne, come back!”

  She ignored him, gritting her teeth at the order.

  “Don’t run from me.” His footsteps came on faster behind her.

  She focused on lengthening her lead before him, hurrying down the stable aisle in the opposite direction.

  He followed at a quick, undaunted march. “Would you please just stop and talk to me?”

  “We’ve got nothing to say to each other, my lord.”

  “At least tell me if you are all right!”

  “Of course I am!” she shot back over her shoulder as she sped on. “Do you think I’m too helpless to take care of myself without you? I’m fine!”

  “Well, your father’s not. He’s sick with worry.”

  “Humph,” she replied. “He deserves it.”

  “Don’t blame him. Blame me.”

  “I blame you both!” In her haste to stay out of Max’s reach, she almost stepped on a barn cat that raced across her path. She shot a scowling glance over her shoulder. He was gaining on her. “Leave me alone!”

  “No. I didn’t spend all day searching for you just to let you dash off again.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “That’s not important.”

  “It was Willie, wasn’t it? She was acting too suspicious by half this morning. I had a feeling she might’ve ratted me out! I take it she wrote home?”

  “Daphne, the girl was scared to death—for her livelihood, and for both your safety. We all were. How could you run off like this?”

  “Oh, did your merchandise escape?” she taunted as she hurried past a groom leading a spotted horse out toward the courtyard. “Don’t worry. You will get your money back once I’ve spoken to my great-aunt.”

  “I don’t want anything back from anyone. Damn it, would you stand still and talk to me?”

  “I have nothing further to say to you.”

  He let out a low sigh and stopped following her.

  Daphne’s heart was pounding. Reaching what she thought was an intersection at the end of the aisle, she swerved to the left, but promptly found herself trapped in a dead end: The aisle ended with the tack room. She would have to retrace her steps, but Max was on the move again; she could hear his footsteps and, with a glance behind, saw him coming through some of the stall bars.