Tempting the Marquess (The London Lords Book 3)

by Nicola Davidson

  Curiosity won.

  Samantha leaned closer. “I am not long back to town, Mr. Ashcroft. Has Lord Standish assisted the government for a long time?”

  “Indeed. Both he and Paul were recruited by the Home Office straight out of Cambridge. Smart young whips they were, very good with languages.”

  “Ha! Yes. I remember my Uncle Andrew once scolded Lord Standish because he broke a vase and cursed in French, Latin, and Spanish!”

  Mr. Ashcroft chuckled. “My word, Paul was the same. Ran rings around his poor mother with his mischief, and still has a wicked gleam in his eye to this day. Actually, I must say my grandson misses his old friend since Standish transferred to another division.”

  “Oh?”

  “I shouldn’t judge,” he said, his smile fading. “No doubt you will think I am a stuffy old boot. But I cannot approve of his new placement.”

  Under the table, Samantha’s hands clenched in the folds of her gown. “What is he doing? Is it…is it dangerous?”

  “It could be, but my opposition is more, well, moral in nature. Covert interrogation of women and children just doesn’t seem a gentlemanly thing to do.”

  Her uneasiness returned in full measure. Suddenly she wished she had never started this conversation. “I’m sure Lord Standish would never do anything underhanded. He is not that kind of person,” she said firmly.

  “Forgive me, you are quite right. Other men with no conscience or integrity might question under the guise of friendship or pretend an attachment to stay close to their target, but not the marquess. As you say, he is a good and honest man. Would you like some more dessert?”

  “No thank you, Mr. Ashcroft. Actually, I am not feeling well at the moment—I might excuse myself from the table.”

  “My dear! I certainly hope I haven’t said anything to upset you,” he said, his face creasing in a frown of concern.

  “No, no, just a touch of the headache. Good evening, sir.”

  Pushing back her chair, she made her way around the table and leaned down to whisper in her mother’s ear. Eva frowned in irritation, but granted her permission to leave with an impatient wave. After curtsying to the others in the room, Samantha left, ensuring three doors were shut behind her before she picked up her skirts and hurried to her chamber.

  Her bed looked welcoming, but her feet wanted to pace.

  Why had that conversation with Mr. Ashcroft made her feel so wretched? He surely must be incorrect. William would never involve himself in anything devious or deceitful—he wasn’t that sort of man. Even when she’d been a little girl trailing along behind her cousins and demanding they have a tea party with her, William had always been kind. A protector.

  Perhaps Mr. Ashcroft was wrong. Or his grandson had been misinformed.

  Taking a deep breath, Samantha perched on the side of her bed and kicked off her slippers. Asking William about this matter would be awkward, but she needed answers for her own peace of mind.

  Besides. Nothing could be that bad. Surely.

  Absently drumming his fingers on his thigh, William stared out the Forsyth House morning room window while he waited for Aunt Jane to appear. She had expressed a desire for some tasteful culture, so he was escorting her to the British Museum.

  The sound of the door opening had him twisting around, ready to joke about the years it took a woman to get ready, but instead Stephen marched into the room with a face like thunder. It was almost comical, yet William got the feeling amusement would result in a forced and rapid exit via the window he’d just been gazing out of.

  “Something the matter?” he asked mildly.

  His foster brother stalked toward him, huge fists clenched. “I wondered when you might dare show your face.”

  Hell. “Calm down, Stephen.”

  “Don’t bloody say that. Not when you and Samantha were allegedly seen leaving an antechamber within ten minutes of each other at the Hartley soiree. You better have an excellent explanation, or you’ll be visiting an infirmary rather than the Museum.”

  William sighed and surreptitiously flexed his own still-tender knuckles. This wasn’t the time or place, but if Stephen wanted a brawl in his own house, he would get one. “Really? This bear woken from hibernation act is because of some damned musicale gossip?”

  “So you deny you were with her?”

  “No. I talked to her. Same as the other guests.”

  Stephen’s gaze narrowed. “Sam is technically my cousin, but you know she has always been more like a little sister to me. If you have done anything…anything at all…”

  “Back off. I know exactly who she is, but you don’t know half the situation.”

  “Then enlighten me.”

  “I can’t,” William bit out, as anger and frustration threatened to boil over yet again. God, if his foster brother knew about the assignment, or what he’d done in that antechamber...

  With a low growl, Stephen grabbed him by the cravat, twisting the fabric around his fingers and yanking hard. “Can’t? Or won’t?”

  Reaching up, William encircled the offending wrist and bent it back. “Can’t.”

  They glared at each other, him nearly choking, Stephen on the verge of a broken arm. Both unwilling to concede.

  “Stephen! William! What on earth?”

  Aunt Jane’s horrified voice broke the deadlock. They released their grips, and Stephen walked back to where his mother and—bloody hell—Samantha stood, disbelief etched on their faces.

  “It’s nothing, Mama,” said Stephen. “Enjoy your outing. Excuse me.”

  “William?” said Jane, staring perplexedly at her son’s retreating back.

  “A difference of opinion, nothing more. Shall we go?”

  “Yes…I invited Samantha. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” he lied. Naturally his assignment looked especially beautiful today, in a close-fitting brown-striped gown that matched her eyes.

  The carriage ride to Bloomsbury seemed to take forever, and he sighed in relief when they pulled up at Montagu House. The enormous but now shabby building housed a treasure trove of artefacts from Britain and the continent.

  An hour into strolling the exhibits, Aunt Jane stopped and gasped. “Why, it’s Millie Montgomery. I haven’t seen her in years! Why don’t you two view the, er, leaf etchings while I say hello.”

  His lips twitching as she near-sprinted away, William turned to Samantha. “So. We’ve been not-so-subtly abandoned in an appropriately public place. Aunt Jane wishes us to talk. Do you?”

  She hesitated, biting that sweet and plump lower lip. “Perhaps.”

  Christ. So sweet.

  “Perhaps? Shall I make observations about the weather while you decide? Or I could find a leaf expert. Imagine the enthralling conversations you could start.”

  “Lord Standish—”

  “William. You must agree we should be on a first-name basis, if only due to our long association.”

  “Fine,” she replied irritably, cheeks pink. “Since you are feeling verbose, my lord, why were you and Stephen fighting?”

  “As I said earlier, a difference of opinion.”

  “Oh please. It looked like he wanted to rearrange your nose.”

  Exactly true.

  William shook his head. “Not at all. It’s been a while since Stephen has made it to Mr. Jackson’s; he wished to test his reflexes.”

  “Poppycock,” she snapped. Then she sighed and fiddled with her reticule clasp. “If you don’t want to say…”

  He let the silence lengthen, until she broke it with a determined smile. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to pass on greetings from an old friend of yours. Well, the grandfather of an old friend. He was Papa’s special guest at dinner the other night.”

  “Oh? Which old friend?”

  “Mr. Ashcroft. Paul Ashcroft’s grandfather.”

  William felt his brow furrow. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “Yes you do! Mr. Ashcroft said you and Paul have bee
n good friends since Cambridge. And that you both have special, secret duties for,” her voice lowered, “the Home Office.”

  His blood iced. No. No!

  Somehow he managed a short laugh. “Ashcroft! Sorry, I thought you said Anscroft. How is the old reprobate? Does he still have a gaze to stop you in your tracks?”

  “Yes!” she said, grinning. “I’ve never seen such pale gray eyes before. But he seemed very nice. Although he did tell me a terribly odd tale about a new role you had. Something about, er, interrogating women and children in pursuit of others. I’m sure he’s misinformed. You wouldn’t be involved in anything so underhanded.”

  William sucked in a breath. Bad enough the accuracy which meant a serious security breach, but Claremont the probable traitor had sat a deadly enemy next to his own daughter.

  As his gut churned, he widened his eyes in rueful amusement. “Interrogation of women and children in pursuit of others? What an extraordinary story to tell. I am attached to the Home Office, but my talents run as far as translations and a bit of research, I’m afraid.”

  Pure relief lit up her face. “I knew it. I knew he was wrong. I’m so sorry, I hope you aren’t offended.”

  “Not at all. By the by, did Ashcroft look well? I believe the poor man suffered a brain fever last year.”

  “Very well, actually. His whiskers needed a trim, they nearly reached his jaw, but he looked in good health. I’d have never known he was ill—his color was good, he had a sweet tooth, and a belly like Papa’s to prove it,” she finished with a giggle.

  “What is so amusing, Sam?” Aunt Jane enquired, as she rejoined them.

  “Your niece is explaining the pitfalls of dessert.”

  “How disappointing. I was about to suggest we retire to Gunter’s and order an excessively large platter of sweets.”

  William forced a smile. “I wish I could. Unfortunately, I have a meeting that cannot be postponed. But I’d be delighted to escort you another time.”

  After returning both ladies to Forsyth House, William immediately made his way to Whitehall. Knocking perfunctorily on White’s door, he entered the room to see the man himself examining some shipping maps with an eager gaggle of clerks.

  “Ah, Standish,” White announced as though he’d been expecting him. “That will be all thank you everyone.”

  The clerks scattered. White folded his arms and tilted his head. “Your grim face suggests news I won’t want to hear.”

  William sat on a chair so he didn’t throw it. “A few nights ago, the Claremonts hosted a dinner. Apparently I have an old Cambridge chum and Home Office colleague named Paul Ashcroft. His proud grandfather spent hours regaling Lady Samantha with tales of our youthful misadventures. But alas, he doesn’t approve of my newest duty, thinks interrogating women and children in pursuit of others is ungentlemanly.”

  White went rigid. “Was Lady Samantha able to provide a description of her dinner companion?”

  “Gray eyes, scruffy whiskers, well-preserved, and a penchant for dessert.”

  “So. The enemy knows of your friendship with the chit, your background, and role in the Claremont investigation. The question is, what to do next.”

  “Arrest the earl?”

  “At this stage we don’t have quite enough indisputable evidence on Claremont or his cohorts. Perhaps a radical change is necessary.”

  William frowned. The man had a distinct gleam in his eye. “Such as?”

  “Ending your involvement.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Samantha could be in danger!”

  “If she is in danger, it’s because of your friendship. If you’re no longer part of the equation...” White trailed off meaningfully, as he perched on the edge of his desk.

  “I suppose. But how will Claremont discover that? Are you going to have me thrown into Newgate? Ensure I catch a serious illness?”

  White sighed. “Please credit me with at least some plausible ideas. Actually, we’ll soon be sending a diplomatic mission to France to bring home Colonel Lord Langley. Turns out he was badly injured. With your flawless French, and background, not to mention longtime acquaintance with the man, your inclusion wouldn’t be questioned.”

  “And then?”

  “You return home and carry on with life as a marquess. But to protect yourself, the young lady, and our investigation, you must not see or speak with her. At all.”

  “I see,” William bit out, the thought far more abhorrent than he cared to admit.

  “Or…”

  “There is an or?”

  “Always. But it depends on your willingness to become involved in a rather elaborate deception.”

  William snorted. “As opposed to all the truth and honesty so far?”

  “Now, now. I’m referring to something quite different. You want to stay close to Lady Samantha, I freely admit it would be beneficial having someone keep an eye on her. This way it could be you.”

  “For God’s sake, enough of the theatrics. Just say it.”

  “Very well.” White shrugged. “You travel to France, but it goes horribly awry and you are shot in an ambush.”

  His jaw dropped. “What?”

  “Oh, calm yourself. Not really, but it will be staged in a manner so everyone believes it. And your recuperation in France will be, shall we say, protracted.”

  “Go on.”

  White plucked at a loose waistcoat thread. “In reality, you’ll return in disguise as Mr. David Underwood. Older man, never married, related to several leading families but rarely seen in town. Quite a rascal. The black sheep, as they say.”

  “I’m no bloody actor.”

  “Haven’t you ever wondered what it might be like to be, with all due respect, a nobody? To do and say whatever you want? To not be the main dish on the matrimonial platter? To be liked for yourself, rather than a title or estates or fortune?”

  William stilled. “No.”

  “Liar.”

  Damn the man. It was tempting. But more to the point, if this insane plan kept Samantha out of harm’s way… “How long would I have to play Mr. Underwood?”

  “For as long as it took to bring Claremont down. The way the cards are falling, I’d say a few months at most.”

  “My responsibilities?”

  “I’m sure Westleigh would step in to oversee your holdings. Or Southby, considering the incident occurred fetching home his brother.”

  William hesitated. Playing David Underwood was one thing. But the story of William Hastings being shot would be incredibly difficult for his foster family and friends. Especially after the past traumas they had been through themselves. “I don’t know...the communications would need to be so clear. No one could think for a moment that it was anything other than a minor wound. The reasons for delay would have to be unseasonable weather. Or transportation.”

  “Of course. I would personally oversee the messages. But Standish, Claremont and his cohorts are responsible for countless deaths. To help end such a reign of treason and terror, you would have done the greatest service possible for king and country. And earned a glorious retirement.”

  “Christ. How many times did you practice that in the mirror?”

  “No idea what you are talking about,” White sniffed disdainfully. “But for once, adequate mission funds have been allocated. You would travel in relative comfort and be afforded every assistance in France and when you return.”

  “Now you’re frightening me.”

  “We do try. However, I must know your decision right away, so I can finalize plans and write letters before the ship departs.”

  “Which is when?”

  “Dawn tomorrow,” White replied, with a small smile.

  William exhaled slowly. Aggravating didn’t begin to describe this man. “Very well.”

  “Excellent. You won’t regret this, Standish. Godspeed.”

  As decadent as Cleopatra, Samantha lay sprawled on several oversized and plump cushions on the window seat in her bedchamber. This was her
special refuge, and on an afternoon like this, where the last remnants of the sun sent golden beams straight through the glass and bathed her skin in warmth, it was easy to set aside troubles for a while.

  Well, troubles that weren’t in the glorious form of William Hastings at least.

  The man was so hot and cold. Sometimes it seemed like they were so in tune they were almost the same person. When they shared a joke. When they bantered. When they kissed. But other times…it felt like there was a high stone wall complete with moat and barbed wire between them. Unlike so many lords who only cared about themselves, he actually asked about her. Yet he rarely spoke of himself, even when there were questions in need of answering.

  Like today. It had been a huge relief to know Mr. Ashcroft was wrong, but that didn’t explain the flare up between Stephen and William at Forsyth House. How could both of them have lied so blatantly and called it a mere difference of opinion? They’d both looked so angry. Hopefully it wasn’t about the Hartley musicale. If Stephen was defending her honor, he was rather too late. Yorkshire had stolen that already.

  A sharp knock sounded, and Trudy poked her head around the door. “Lady Samantha?”

  “I’m here, come in.”

  “Quickly, quickly, ma’am, you have a caller!”

  Samantha frowned. “Really? I wasn’t expecting anyone. And we didn’t organize an at-home for today.”

  Her maid hopped from one foot to the other. “It’s Lord Standish. He’s in the parlor.”

  What? Scrambling off the cushions, Samantha hurried over to her dressing table. “Can you do something with my hair? I know that is a tall order. But anything, really. Just so it looks passably human rather than bramble bush.”

  “I shall do my best,” said Trudy, grabbing a brush with a steely look of determination.

  Ten minutes of eye-watering pain later, Samantha shook out her skirts and made her way downstairs to where the marquess stood waiting.

  “Hello,” she said cautiously. “I thought you had a meeting.”

  William gazed at her for the longest moment, so long her cheeks began to heat. “I did. It’s because of that meeting that I’m here.”