Tempting the Marquess (The London Lords Book 3)

by Nicola Davidson

  This man was…broken.

  Robert’s skin bore the harsh evidence of years in the Spanish and Southwest France sun, and was burnished nearly bronze. And yet he was haggard and coated in sweat. His cheeks were sunken, as though he’d stopped eating. But far worse were his wounds. The French had done their best to hack him to pieces—three long, shallow slashes marked his chest, more crisscrossed his shoulders and arms, and one cut a path down the side of his thigh. But his face had fared worst, a deep jagged gash stretching from chin to ear. The wounds had been carefully stitched, and looked clean enough. But he would carry the scars for the rest of his life.

  Robert’s lips lifted in what might have been a smile, but his startling amber eyes were hollow and dull, as though he had already given up on life. “Standish. It’s really you.”

  “Damned right it is. I’ve come to take you home.”

  Samantha lasted a further week of no news before she ran out of items in her bedchamber to destroy with both her wayward dagger and restless hands.

  It was time for action. Surely if anyone knew what was happening in France, it would be the Duke of Southby. So like it or not, he was going to be paid a very impromptu visit.

  It had barely gone nine o’clock in the morning, far, far too early for calls, when she marched up the wide steps to the entrance of Langley House. Located on the other side of Grosvenor Square from William’s townhouse, it was a palatial three stories and constructed of golden brown stone.

  Plastering a smile on her face, Samantha sharply rapped the large brass knocker. Yet as soon as the door was yanked open, her nerves deserted her. Stephen had often joked about Southby’s fearsome butler Wallace, but nothing could prepare for standing face to face with the man mountain, almost as wide as he was tall.

  “Yes?” he growled, his freezing cold gray eyes boring a hole through her.

  Somehow she managed to lift her quivering chin. “I am Lady Samantha Buchanan, the Earl of Westleigh’s cousin. I need to discuss an urgent matter with his grace.”

  “And what might that urgent matter be?”

  “Lord Standish’s mission to rescue Lord Robert.”

  For one glorious moment the butler’s jaw dropped. Then his features smoothed into blankness, and he beckoned her inside. “I see. Wait here and I will inform the duke that you wish to speak with him.”

  A few minutes later the butler returned. “His grace is in the ground floor library. He’s a little...under the weather at the moment. Please follow me, my lady.”

  As her slipper heels clicked along the marble foyer floor, Samantha suppressed a shiver. Langley House was like a museum. An elegant, lavish, soulless museum. So perfect, so silent, and so tidy, it didn’t even appear that people lived here.

  They reached a wide oak door, and Wallace knocked sharply. When a muffled growl of “enter” came, the butler opened the door, shoved her into the room like a blasted side of beef for a tiger, then shut the door behind her with a firm click.

  Oh God. The library was even worse. Dark and oppressive, a neglected fire smoldered in the hearth, giving the wood paneling and ruby-red rugs a sinister air. The leather-bound books lining the walls were so pristine they didn’t even look read, and the priceless paintings offering a splash of color looked remarkably out of place. But it was the enormous carved desk that held her attention now, or more specifically, the man half-slumped behind it. That and the overpowering stench of stale brandy.

  Anger surged, quelling her nerves. “A little early to be in this state, your grace. I didn’t think William had a drunk for a best friend.”

  Southby choked on the gulp he’d just taken. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. I’m surprised to find you hiding in here, I thought you a far better man.”

  “I am not hiding. Not that it’s any of your damned business, but I’m recovering from a minor illness.”

  “If you say so,” she snapped, and his frigid eyes shot daggers at her.

  “Yes, I do. Now, as it is far too early for a morning call, is there something I can do to make you leave? Or must I throw your falsely cherubic little self out a window?”

  Anger turned to pure fury, overwhelming all good sense.

  Stalking over to the desk, Samantha picked up the half full glass and threw the contents in his face. He froze, staring at her with a comically stunned expression, and she almost wished she could sketch a keepsake. How positively human Alexander Langley, Duke of Southby, looked with brandy trickling down his cheeks and dripping from his ears.

  “Throw me out, your grace? Fighting words from a drunk lounging in his library. To think my William is risking his life to save your brother. If something...if something should happen...” she finished on a choked sob, the agonizing thought too awful to even contemplate.

  Southby pulled a square of linen from his pocket and wiped his face, before getting to his feet and walking over to where she stood. “Lady Samantha, I know—” he began, reaching out to touch her shoulder.

  She shrugged him off with a neat sidestep, and instead started hitting his broad chest with tightly clenched fists. “Damn you! Damn you a thousand times! Why did it have to be William? Anyone could have gone! What if he is hurt?”

  “Stop it! William is extremely skilled and capable. He is...doing his duty.”

  “Duty? Duty! Only you could say something so stupid. This goes far beyond duty!” she shrieked, wanting to pummel him to the ground. Unfortunately, he had trapped her flying knuckles in his big hands.

  “I said stop,” he snarled. “William must indeed be love-struck to want an unhinged harpy like you.”

  Samantha halted, so stunned she collapsed against him. Love struck?

  “What?” she asked cautiously, stepping back so she could peer up at him.

  “You should be sent to a nunnery. For your own and others safety.”

  “No, before that.”

  Southby scowled, the stark contrast between his black eyebrows and pale green eyes even more ominous than usual. “I didn’t say anything. Now, at the risk of inciting further violence, is there a purpose to your visit?”

  She ignored the words and studied him instead. Lines and dark shadows under his eyes made him look much older than thirty. A few days growth of dark beard covered his jaw, he wore no jacket or cravat, and his loose muslin shirt was crumpled with the sleeves rolled up.

  England’s iciest, most assured noblemen looked a wreck.

  “Yes, there is,” she said slowly. “I need to tell someone the waiting is unbearable. How I cannot eat or sleep, and every time there is a knock at the door I am hopeful and terrified at the same time.”

  “Then imagine it doubled,” Southby replied flatly, but his clenched jaw indicated a wealth of tightly leashed emotion. “I may be granted the return of both. Or one. Or neither.”

  Shame engulfed her. “I’m so very sorry. I didn’t come here to commit assault but to find out if you had received any word.”

  His lips quirked, like the effort of a smile was too great. “They made it safely to Pontoise, a town outside of Paris. That is where Robert was evacuated to after…after the incident. But they were delayed by transport issues. That is all I know.”

  “Oh,” she replied, her shoulders slumping.

  “So, you care for William then?”

  “I love him. Madly and completely. Not being able to see him, to talk to him or touch him, is the worst feeling in the world.”

  Something flickered in the duke’s eyes, but it was gone before she could identify it. Then he sighed. “William fought against his feelings for you, which resulted in some appalling displays of temper at Whitehall. Half the clerks refused to go near him, and your cousin almost called him out. I believe most recently after some musicale.”

  Samantha choked on a cough, suddenly finding the edge of the heavy oak desk extremely interesting. Perhaps their behavior at the Hartley’s hadn’t been nearly as discreet as they thought. “Mmmm.”

  “No comment
, my lady? No left right jab combination?”

  Cheeks burning, Samantha gave him the primmest look she possessed. But she couldn’t sustain it, not when his eyes were glinting and he actually forgot himself long enough to grin.

  “Not right now,” she mumbled.

  Shaking his head, Southby walked over to the bellpull and gave it a firm yank, sending a chime throughout the house. A knock sounded at the door, and Wallace appeared.

  “Yes, your grace?”

  “Please inform Owens I need hot water, a shave, and a change of clothes; Mrs. Clifton to arrange breakfast; and a carriage to return Lady Samantha home after she has revived herself with some tea and cakes.”

  Wallace blinked. Then he bowed low, his hard eyes actually softening. “At once, your grace. If you will come this way, Lady Samantha?”

  He escorted her to a small parlor. Soon a tall, slender woman wearing a plain brown calico gown with a crisply starched white apron, and her salt and pepper hair pinned back in a bun, bustled in with a tray of hot tea and cream cakes.

  “Morning, my lady, I am Mrs. Clifton, his grace’s housekeeper.” Stepping closer she curtsied low and whispered, “If you’ll pardon me, Mr. Wallace told me what you did and we are very, very grateful. We were so worried about his grace—he has barely left the library in days.”

  Then, stepping back, she continued, “Mr. Wallace also said you are a friend of the Langleys, and Lord Westleigh’s cousin?”

  That was a shocking statement. A Buchanan, friends with the Langleys? It didn’t even sound right in her head. Not to mention…

  Samantha swallowed hard. Damn and blast. If her mother found out she’d been here at this unearthly hour, there would be hell to pay for Southby. And none of it would be of his making. “Yes. Thank you for your trouble, but I really should be going.”

  “Do not fret, my lady. A friend is the same as family. We are all concerned about the mission. Very concerned. But Lord Robert’s men are well trained. Lord Standish will return safely to his true love’s arms.”

  Heat scorched across Samantha’s face, but thankfully the housekeeper merely curtsied and left the room.

  “Are the cream cakes adequate?

  Shaking her head in bemusement, she turned to the duke. Southby looked himself again, his jet-black hair combed, jaw shaven, and perfectly turned out in dark trousers and jacket, an embroidered silver waistcoat, and intricately folded cravat. She could see how so many women found him handsome, but he didn’t make her heart skip a beat or her skin tingle when he had touched her. Sky-blue eyes and brown hair were far more appealing.

  “Quite.”

  “That’s an odd look. Do I have a spot on my face?”

  “No. I can see how some women might find you attractive, but I much prefer William.”

  Southby made a strangled sound and she wanted to crawl under the table. Why had she blurted that? Why couldn’t she converse in a normal, or at least partly intelligent way?

  “I mean—”

  “My vanity may have been dealt a crushing blow, but you are a refreshing change from the intrigues, gossip, and falsehoods I must sift through every day.”

  “I’m very sorry. Again. Sometimes the words come out before I have time to stop them. Imagine me as a criminal,” she joked weakly, “the Runners wouldn’t even need to ask a question and I would be telling them everything.”

  “They’ll be relieved to know they can count on you and your rosy cheeks. If you’ll excuse me, I have matters to attend to after my library sojourn. An unmarked carriage is waiting to take you home. And…thank you for coming here. I shall not be so foolish again, knowing there is someone else just as worried as I am about this situation. William is indeed lucky to have your affection.”

  With a bow, he walked toward the door, but Samantha hastily pushed her chair back and stood. “Wait, please. If you hear anything from France, you will let me know?”

  Southby stilled and turned. “I will dispatch a footman at once.”

  “Thank you, your grace.”

  “You are welcome, but no need for such formality in private. Only a friend would dump brandy on my head and attempt to beat some sense into me. Call me Alexander.”

  Smiling briefly at her startled look, he inclined his head again and strode from the parlor.

  Chapter 9

  The sky remained a brilliant blue even as the setting sun sent golden beams dancing across the countryside, but John ignored the surrounding beauty. Instead, he concentrated on the dirt pit below him where two young men knelt, bloodied, beaten, and shaking with terror, as they awaited execution for passing on secrets to the British government.

  He had decided their fate. He held the power of life and death. After years as the powerless younger son, and then holder of a pathetic and rather poor Claremont earldom, his now-lofty position was so stimulating he would shortly be needing at least several women to fuck. Perhaps a few men, too. Virtuous sons and daughters of minor country gentry were his favorite treat; when they were lured from safety, repeatedly violated in front of an audience, and paid like whores, it broke their minds as well as their bodies.

  Ah, such lovely sport.

  “My lord. How do you fare this fine evening?”

  John turned and inclined his head at Phillipe, a Frenchman he both admired and feared. Phillipe was a master of intrigue, without a single moral, and more cold-blooded than a frozen snake. Unfortunately his latest ladybird, a pretty but irritating Londoner named Mabel, was with him. “Rather well. It is always pleasant to discover an information leak and bring them to justice. Those two in the pit have been assisting the Home Office, and actually mentioned my name. So they’ll be arriving at Whitehall in a few days. In pieces.”

  Phillipe laughed. “Excellent. I hope the clerks have strong stomachs. May I add to your enjoyment?”

  “By all means, take a seat. I’d offer wine, but this is English swill, not a decent drop of champagne or burgundy. You have news?”

  “I do. Fresh off the boat. His Imperial Majesty sends his regards, and wishes you to know he greatly appreciates your efforts, both in assisting with his release from Elba and sending information regarding English plans. He has sent you a token of his friendship—Mabel, the bag, s’il vous plait.”

  “Here you are, lovie,” said the blonde woman, handing John a small drawstring bag with a come hither smile. Ugh. Mabel was just like Eva. Phillipe could do so much better for himself.

  Suppressing his distaste, John opened the bag and peered inside, and a genuine smile curved his lips. His favorite currency: uncut diamonds, along with some emeralds, sapphires, and rubies for color. Napoleon was nothing if not practical, always thinking ahead. “Please pass on my gratitude.”

  “I will. His Imperial Majesty was especially pleased at your delightful tidbit regarding the Marquess of Standish and Colonel Lord Langley. Both have been a thorn in his side for some time, and the party has finally been located.”

  He smiled. “That is good news. I was terribly disappointed to learn that Langley survived that initial attack, but perhaps it was a blessing in disguise. This way we can present Paris with the heads of Langley and Standish. Something amusing for the artists to capture. When?”

  “Very soon,” said Phillipe, stroking his short beard. “I was not impressed that the Englishmen made it to Calais unscathed. But they were disguised as French farmers. Standish spoke for the group each time, and fooled everyone with his accents. I am personally going to remove his tongue for that insult. And then they will all die by the kiss of Madame Guillotine.”

  John shuddered as his cock strained against his trousers. How he would love to watch that particular massacre. Although if it were up to him, he wouldn’t permit a mercifully quick killing for Standish. Instead it would be slow and torturous until the mighty marquess begged for execution.

  “Speaking of pending deaths, now that Langley and Standish are as good as in the ground, what about Samantha? Playing papa is so very tiresome.”


  “Ha!” said Mabel, winking at him. “Aren’t you a cold one, my lord.”

  Oh, my dear, you don’t know the half of it. If it weren’t for your lover, I would hurl your grating whorish self into the execution pit right now.

  Phillipe cleared his throat. “I know it is tiresome. But the girl has powerful friends, not least your sister and nephew, and they are all close to Standish and Langley. So let her be, for now. Patience, mon ami.”

  He folded his arms. Jane, his milk-mouthed bitch of an older sister, could burn in hell for all he cared, as could Stephen, the bookish fool. He’d always loathed them, but more so since the deaths of Andrew and Gregory hadn’t broken them, but made them stronger. Yet Phillipe was right—too many connected deaths would cause suspicion. And patience was a virtue when it came to murder; he and Phillipe wouldn’t have been nearly as successful in their long-standing partnership otherwise. Besides. Even the bumbling fools at Whitehall, much like a broken clock, could be right occasionally.

  “As you wish.”

  Chapter 10

  May

  As yet another rider galloped away from the small inn on the outskirts of Calais without delivering the message he most wanted to hear, William cursed under his breath.

  The two-week mission had already turned into a month, and if he received one more note informing him of this delay or that issue, he might well do some arranging of his own. Like having every one of White’s toes broken.

  This nonsense had gone on for long enough.

  He should be home, in England. They all should be. Not here, twiddling their thumbs while the most incompetent men on the whole bloody continent attempted to organize a fake ambush. How hard could it possibly be, for God’s sake? A few guns, a few men, some fighting, Robert safely to a ship, and him following a few hours later in a barge to begin his temporary life as David Underwood.

  “Anyone would think...you were waiting for something, Standish,” a rough, pain-filled voice rasped. “I might not be the... prettiest of sights right now, but I can’t believe, day after day, you continue to choose...dull ocean views over me.”