Tempting the Marquess (The London Lords Book 3)

by Nicola Davidson

  “Claremont, you are s-scaring me!”

  “Good,” he hissed. “You should be scared. Because while you have been useful to me over the past twenty-one years—or should I say, while your eager and indiscriminate cunt has been useful—you are no longer required. I’ll soon be ruling England, and will have the women to match.”

  Her mother took a step backward. “Ruling England? How is that even possible? You’re an earl. And a lowly one at that.”

  A loud crack sounded, and Eva’s head snapped back from the force of her husband’s blow. Samantha barely stifled a scream. This was the man she had seen that day in the garden. Cold and violent. Her father—no, not her father, he was a stranger named John—hadn’t changed a whit, only pretending to be kind as he used her for information about William. But how could she run for help? Her mother and John were moving closer to the bedchamber door. If he saw her hiding, he would probably hit her as well. And if he hurt her unborn baby…

  “I am no such thing, you stupid bitch,” said John icily. “I am a loyal servant of the very generous Emperor of France. The man who will soon conquer the entire continent as well as this pathetic island. He’ll control the world. And I will be at his side.”

  “Napoleon? But that is treat…trees…”

  “Treason? Technically, yes. But it pays very, very well. Enough to keep you in your vulgar, showy manner, and still have plenty left over for a rainy day. And right now, Lady Claremont, it is pouring.”

  Eva sucked in a harsh breath, and made for the bedchamber door. Seconds later she sprinted past Samantha’s hiding place, straight for the staircase. “Help! Help!”

  “It’s no use, my dear,” called John, strolling after her. “Penn is waiting downstairs. You are only prolonging the inevitable.”

  Shaking with terror, Samantha rocked back and forth on her heels. It was like watching a gothic play, except it was all real. Her mother was gripping the banister at the top of the staircase, her head twisting back and forth between John advancing on her, and the butler standing at the bottom, an unholy grin on his face. And while John sounded the same as he usually did, he looked like a different man entirely. His jaw was hard, his belly flat, and his cheeks unflushed.

  Everything had been a lie.

  “Can’t you let me go?” said Eva beseechingly. “I’ll go away and never bother you again. I promise.”

  “After the things I have told you? Surely you must realize that is impossible,” said John as he methodically peeled her hands away from the railing. Then in one fast, brutal movement, he lifted her so only her toes were touching the ground and shoved her backward. Flailing, choking on a shriek, Eva rolled and thumped down the unforgiving staircase until she lay in a broken heap at Penn’s feet.

  Samantha screamed, “Mother!”

  Against all reason and good sense, she left her hiding place and ran down the hallway, skirting around John and hurrying down the stairs until she knelt next to Eva.

  “Mother? Mama? Can you hear me?” she cried anxiously. The sight of blood oozing from her mother’s temple, and the way her leg was bent in a very unnatural way, made bile rise in Samantha’s throat.

  Eva’s eyes fluttered. “He tried to kill me,” she croaked.

  “I know. I saw.”

  “Nonsense,” said John as he ambled down the stairs, then leaned over his wife and smeared blood across her face. “Your mother is terribly confused. She caught her heel and fell. Isn’t that right, Penn?”

  “Exactly, my lord,” said the butler, his eyes glinting with malice.

  “And on an occasion like this, one of such pain and suffering, who is it best to call? A physician?”

  “Yes,” said Samantha, tears running down her cheeks. “Right away.”

  “I disagree, m’dear. I think I know of someone else. A knight in shining armor who would fly to your rescue if he thought you were hurt. And then in one glorious afternoon, all my annoyances will be no more.”

  “No…” whimpered Eva. “You cannot mean to hurt Standish. Or Samantha. Not when she is with child…”

  Samantha’s stunned gaze flew to her mother. She knew?

  John burst out laughing. “Pregnant? Oh, this just gets better and better. Lord Standish will definitely arrive, and a man with that on his mind makes mistakes. Now, Penn,” he said, turning to the butler. “I need you to move Eva and Samantha to the parlor, and ensure they are secure. Then, write two notes. One to Phillipe, and the other to our dear friend the marquess.”

  Penn bowed. “At once, my lord. But may I suggest your usual, ah, apparel is put in place prior to visitors arriving?”

  “Hmmm, I don’t think so. I’m ready to meet everyone as my true self. Although, thanks to Eva, I do need to wash my hands. You’ll have to excuse me, Buchanan women, it won’t do to not be ready for our most esteemed guests.”

  “Monster!” Samantha screamed, and tried to grab his ankle.

  But John easily kicked her away, and hurried back up the stairs.

  Oh God.

  They were all going to die.

  William crumpled the innocuous note in his hand with a roar of rage. Just a few lines, with the potential to destroy him.

  Standish,

  Come to the Claremont townhouse at your earliest convenience. Unfortunately, there has been a terrible accident involving Lady Samantha and her mother. They need your help. It is a matter of life or death. Of course, come alone.

  “My lord? What has happened?”

  He glanced at Jensen. “Arrange for an unmarked carriage to be brought around at once. Fetch my pistols. And send a note to White. Tell him to come right now, Claremont townhouse, possibly injured hostages.”

  “Lady Samantha?” said his butler, sucking in a harsh breath.

  “And her mother. Go!”

  After putting on a thin, hammered iron breast plate Mrs. Kingsley had found while tidying one of the storage antechambers, and re-securing his shoulder bandages, William was on his way. He urged the driver to show no mercy for others meandering around Mayfair, and they took off at a fast trot. It was barely a few miles to Sackville Street, but when carriages and carts and phaetons and curricles were all trying to out-jostle each other, sometimes even a short distance could take forever.

  Today, thank Christ, he was lucky.

  He ordered the carriage to pull up a little way down from the Claremont townhouse, and ran the rest of the way. No doubt there would be men posted to watch for him, but there was no need to announce his arrival with trumpet fanfare. After inching down the narrow alley next to the townhouse, he forced open a wooden gate and slipped into a small courtyard garden. If his calculations were correct, the kitchens were just up to his right.

  Interestingly, he couldn’t see many people around. Not even footmen or guards. Perhaps they were all inside the house. Or perhaps Claremont was arrogant enough to consider his skills so superior he didn’t need extra protection.

  Taking a deep breath, William retrieved one pistol from where he’d tucked both into his waistband, and pushed open the kitchen door. Inside, three servants were attending to food preparation, but none stopped him or called for help when he walked in. In fact, they gave him the barest of glances. Clearly a man wandering about with a weapon didn’t shock anyone in this household.

  He opened the door between the kitchens and hallway a fraction, and glanced up and down. All clear. Lifting his pistol higher, he started walking toward the front of the house.

  A soft whistle had him whirling around to see a middle-aged, sturdy-looking maid standing in a shadowed alcove, beckoning him over.

  “Front parlor, my lord,” she whispered. “Lord and Lady C, and Lady Samantha too. But the earl’s French connection is on his way.”

  William nodded cautiously, utterly unwilling to trust anyone in this household. “Is that it?”

  “Penn the butler is guarding the door, making sure no one goes in or out who shouldn’t be, of course.”

  Inclining his head with a grim smi
le of thanks, he continued toward the parlor, until her soft voice halted him again. “The countess has been badly hurt. That evil bastard pushed her down the stairs. But Lady Samantha is unharmed, as best I know.”

  “Thank you,” he said tersely, swallowing his rage and fear with difficulty. “There are others on their way—this will soon be over.”

  The maid frowned at him. “Aye, and you should have bloody well waited for them. White is not going to be happy with you, my lord.”

  His jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m an operative like you. Trudy is my name. I was assigned to be another set of eyes and ears around Lady Samantha. You must know White always has a second, just in case. Are you ready to begin?”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  Trudy grinned, then darted past him and hurried down the corridor to the front parlor. “Mr. Penn. Mr. Penn!”

  A moment later, Claremont’s butler stepped into his line of sight. “I’m rather busy at the moment, Trudy,” he snapped irritably to the maid.

  “But Mr. Penn, Cook and Kitty are fighting again, and this time it is bad. He pinched her behind, so Kitty picked up a knife and threatened to cut off his male parts!”

  “I thought Cook had gone to the fishmonger.”

  “He returned a quarter hour ago, sir. But Kitty, she’s got a wild look in her eyes. Please come, Mr. Penn, you know they won’t listen to anyone else.”

  William could only watch in astonishment as the butler made a growling sound, but actually followed Trudy back down the hallway toward him. Several feet past where William stood, she paused to adjust her apron, giving him the opportunity to step out from his hiding place and hit the butler across the back of his skull with the pistol. The man slumped to his knees, and William hit him again for good measure, sending him toppling to the floor.

  Trudy leaned down and tore a strip from the hem of her dress. “Here. Tie his hands with this.”

  He did, and the man’s feet, then shoved the butler into a nearby linen cupboard. “Trudy, my thanks.”

  “Quite all right, my lord. I’m going to fetch help—there are a few men in a safe house down the street. Try not to get yourself killed before we return.”

  William bowed. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Godspeed sir. Today must be the day.”

  “I know,” he muttered, as she ran back to the kitchens. He crept in the opposite direction, inching his way down the hallway until he reached the parlor door.

  The time for reckoning was now

  Chapter 20

  The parlor had become a prison.

  Two doors, and Penn stood guard outside one, while John lounged beside the other, staring out the window, and waiting for William to arrive. Her mother lay as still as death on a chaise, blonde hair matted with dried blood and starkly pale skin mottled with the start of terrible bruising.

  Samantha dashed a hand across her eyes, then knelt down so their faces were nearly level. “Mother? Can you hear me?”

  Her eyelids fluttered and eventually prized open, revealing the dull, unfocused gaze of someone in so much pain they had retreated deeply within themselves.

  “You should never have come back,” Eva mumbled. “Should have stayed with Jane. You love her most, anyway.”

  “You’re my mother.”

  “I carried you, at least. Awful time. That’s how I guessed about your baby. You had me bent over a chamber pot every day. And labor…ugh. I wasn’t sorry when they said only one child for me.”

  Samantha reached over and took her hand. “But who is my father?”

  “Oh. You heard that, did you?”

  “I did. And…I’m glad. Very glad. But my real father is dead?”

  “So many questions,” said Eva, closing her eyes. Eventually she opened them again, and turned her head. “I hate looking at you.”

  The words struck like a full-body blow. “Am I really so ugly?”

  “Not ugly. You just look so much like him, it hurts me. Those nasty curls of yours, they are from him. And your eyes. Exactly the same as Charlie’s. Gazing at me and wanting more.”

  “Charlie?” Samantha said carefully.

  “Charles Buchanan, 3rd Earl of Claremont. He died of a fever not long after I became pregnant. Charlie was so excited…so eager to be a father. He thought Samuel for a boy.”

  “He d-did?”

  “Yes. But then he got sick. And he didn’t fight. He didn’t try to get well. He didn’t love me enough, and he died. I hated him then. So I went to the man who hated him also. John…” her mother finished with a pained cough.

  Both speechless and anguished, Samantha stared at Eva. But there was no smirk on her face or even a vacant expression indicating a descent into madness, just stoic resignation. Someone with nothing left to lose finally unburdening a long-held secret. “Would you ever have told me the truth?”

  “Never. But you are Samantha Charlotte so I wouldn’t forget what he did to my heart…damn you, stop looking at me. Go. Go, and never come back.”

  “No.”

  “Run, you stupid girl,” hissed Eva, her temples dripping with perspiration. “Marry Standish. He’ll give you lots of money and gowns. There is nothing for you here.”

  Samantha took her hand and gently squeezed it. “I won’t leave you alone, Mama.”

  “Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl,” said Eva, but a single tear rolled down her rouged cheek, leaving a pink streak in its wake. Then the lightest return pressure came back.

  After twenty years of indifference the gesture made Samantha want to sob her heart out, but crying was a luxury she didn’t have right now. She had to keep her wits about her, especially with John getting visibly more agitated, the longer there were no arrivals outside.

  The sound of determined footfalls outside the door he stood next to had her scrambling to her feet, the better to protect the limp form of her mother. Seconds later, a startlingly familiar man strode into the room, closely followed by an elegant middle-aged woman.

  “Mr. Ashcroft?” blurted Samantha. “What are you doing here?”

  “Lady Samantha,” he replied, bowing as though they were acquaintances greeting each other at a soiree. “Actually, I prefer Phillipe. And this is my companion, Mabel.”

  Chills danced up her spine. At the dinner, Phillipe had sounded like an upper-class British gentleman; now his accent was unmistakably French. And he was so calm, and so cold, as though the sight of her mother lying broken on the chaise was no more interesting than a discarded napkin on the floor. Meanwhile, Mabel was smiling and holding out her hands as though they were the oldest and dearest of friends.

  “Hello, lovie,” said Mabel in a broad London accent. “It is lovely to make your acquaintance—I’ve heard so much about you. And your marquess, of course. What a tricky opponent Lord Standish is! Almost a pity he must die.”

  Samantha swallowed hard against a rising surge of nausea. Who were these people who could commit such vile acts and speak as though it were nothing?

  Deliberately she turned away, ignoring Mabel’s hiss of anger when the slight registered. Instead she glared at the man she had called Papa, and clenched her fists behind her back. It was possible. It was actually possible to loathe someone so much you wanted to tear them apart with your bare hands. How could she ever have thought him a flawed but essentially decent man?

  “Fine company you keep, Uncle John.”

  Claremont laughed. “Eva, chronically unable to keep her mouth shut. Or her legs, for that matter. But I would advise you, Samantha, to keep a civil tongue.”

  “Why?” Samantha snapped. “I see no gentlemen, or ladies, in front of me.”

  Phillipe’s genial smiling mask slipped away into pinched cheeks and pursed lips. Then he reached into his satchel and pulled out a pistol. “You are entirely too free with your opinion, mademoiselle. I’d shoot you right now, except I won’t deny myself the pleasure of killing you in front of Standish so he is forced to watch you die. Then he’ll meet the
same fate.”

  “Not just her,” drawled Claremont. “An unborn child as well.”

  Mabel clapped her hands together. “Oooh, does Standish know? It’s always interesting to see what a man does when his woman is with child. So unpredictable. So passionate.”

  “Indeed, chere,” said Phillipe. “But I am being rude. Lady Samantha, I must take this opportunity to thank you for all the information you passed on to your, er, uncle. You made our task so much easier.”

  Samantha lifted her chin. “And yet you still failed. No match for Lord Standish’s bravery and intelligence and skill.”

  “Again, an unpleasant tone, Lady Samantha. Especially in front of your maman, who looks to be in terrible discomfort. Perhaps we should assist. I believe Mabel has some laudanum…”

  Spinning on her heel, Samantha leaped forward to stop the other woman, but Claremont grabbed her by the arm in an unrelenting grip. “Now, now, you’ll only be in the way, Samantha. I don’t know why you’re even concerned—it’s not like she ever loved you. Remember?”

  “You were a worse father. I won’t stand by and watch you kill her!”

  The earl frowned. “If you won’t stand, then sit. Here will do,” he snapped, half-dragging, half-shoving her into a chair near the wall. Then, yanking the cravat from around his neck, he tied her hands together behind her back.

  “Excellent,” Phillipe purred. “We are now ready. All that is left is to wait for the arrival of dear Lord Standish.”

  Hardly daring to breathe, William peered around the slightly ajar parlor door to assess the location of each person in the room. Samantha now sat perched on a chair in the far corner, her stiff posture demonstrating exactly how tightly her wrists were bound behind her back. Rage bubbled in his veins, but he had to remain calm and concentrate. A cool head would win this day, and he already knew the enemy never allowed emotion to get in the way of the task at hand. That was why they had been so successful in their deadly games—nothing was too brutal or difficult. And they never gave up. The sheer number of prison escapes and dead witnesses attested to that.