Despite all the men who’d occupied Sasha’s bed, she’d still been, first and foremost, a mother. She’d made certain that her children were fed and clothed. Extra coin went for tutors and afternoons and evenings spent about London: the museums, the playhouses, and occasionally, a day trip to the countryside not far outside London proper.
Like her mother, Marce would continue to do her best for everyone involved.
Glancing at the clock atop the hearth mantel, she was surprised to see how quickly her morning had passed. In just ten minutes, the tall clock in the foyer would chime midday. Two hours until she and the few women under her care who did not have employment would meet in the dining hall for a meal. Two hours until she must look each in the face, smile, chat about her day and theirs, and not mention one word about their impending troubles. They all counted on her, had accepted her offer of a house and safety—something Marce had no right to offer anyone. Once she purchased her own home, she’d be free to promise these women something as grand as a fresh start at life or a bed to sleep in until their situation improved. But at this moment, they were all living on borrowed time, at the mercy of the duke. It was everything she’d feared all these years.
He could arrive at any moment to shatter their hopes and cast them from their lodgings and out into the cruel London streets.
Would Natasha be forced to return to her punishing husband? Would Abbigail rather sleep in a filthy alley off Oxford Street than seek her father’s home once more? Marce carried the burden of options. She could fall at Garrett’s feet and beg for shelter or go to Ellington for a room. She even had the possibility of seeking out Lord Cartwright’s mother, Jude’s mother-in-law, for housing. Where would all the others go until Marce could secure rooms for them?
Marce needn’t squander her energy on that front until the time presented itself.
With luck, Mr. Adams would write to her about a suitable property within her price range.
The door opened, slamming on its hinges, and Marce let slip a startled yelp as she nearly leapt from her seat.
“I told you she’d be here,” Payton, her youngest sibling hooted with victory. “Now pay up.”
“I don’t think our wager was—” Garrett’s deep tone rebutted.
“You fawning, fly-bitten coxcomb!”
“Payton Samuels,” Marce warned, regaining her seat. “Where in all that’s holy did you gain such a foul mouth?”
Both Garrett and Payton halted before her desk, and Payton managed a remorseful glance in her direction.
“Well?” Marce prodded.
“The baron’s children, they have been left fallow for far too long.”
“Then you, as their new governess, should teach them better ways,” Marce scolded. “If I hear anything to the contrary, you will return home immediately and never be allowed from your room again.” Marce only hoped she had a room to put Payton in if the need to fulfill her threat presented itself.
“I am doing my best, sister, but these children…they are demons.” Payton threw herself down on the lounge Garrett favored, leaving their brother to sit in the chair Abbigail had vacated not long before. “I swear, they will be the death of me.”
“The death of you?” Marce’s brow arched high. “One is six, the other eight. Barely out of the nursery.”
“They are a troublesome and quarrelsome pair.” Payton laid her arm across her forehead. “I swear I will do my best to show them the correct decorum a young lady should exude.”
For not the first time since relenting to Payton’s badgering requests to take the paid position, Marce doubted that her youngest sibling was in any way qualified to instruct proper young girls on the correct ways they should conduct themselves. Yet, she knew it was more prudent to have Payton away from Craven House and removed from the turmoil soon to come.
Garrett snorted, throwing a bookend across the small room at Payton.
It landed on the girl’s stomach and brought forth an oof. Payton shot to a seated position to glare at their brother.
“Stop with your whining,” Garrett chastised. “Always with the whining and sulking.”
“I do not su—”
“You do,” Marce and Garrett said in unison.
Marce pinched the bridge of her nose, begging for some of the solitude she’d had directly before leaving for Hadlow the previous week. “My apologies, Payton, I did not mean to offend you; however, you must remember that you are the adult, and the children are your pupils. They are under your care and guidance.”
“Then mayhap a switch to the backside will halt their—”
“No!” Garrett shouted at the same time Marce voiced her objection. “I know nothing of children—besides you heathens”—he nodded to Payton, and she suspected that he also meant Jude and Sam—“however, perhaps sweets and toys are a better method for gaining their compliance.”
For a split second, Marce feared all her sacrifices and hard work in raising her siblings in a loving home had been for naught. That was until Garrett and Payton turned wide-eyed stares on her and fell into fits of laughter. Garrett’s deep and hearty, and Payton’s more of a light giggle more suited to a girl half her age.
“You two are incorrigible.” Marce turned her attention to the mess of papers and files littering her desk to hide her grin. She would miss these moments with her family. Once she moved out of London, their visits would not likely be regular. Her smile faded as she asked, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“Payton needs funds.”
“I most certainly do not need money,” Payton countered. “I gain a handsome wage from the baron and whatever else I need, I get from—”
Marce narrowed her glare on her sister and said through clenched teeth, “You best not be about to say the gaming tables.”
To Payton’s credit, she widened her stare and made to look innocent. “Of course not, dear sister, I was going to say…”
Marce waved her hand, making it known that silence was favored over a lie. In no way was Marce prepared to punish or judge the vices of others when her own hands were stained with deception.
One could only play the hypocrite for so long before—
A pounding drifted down the hall from the front of the house. Another unexpected visitor?
“Are you expecting someone?” Garrett asked, his stare focused on her.
“I—well…I do not think so,” she replied.
“You appear a sickly green, sister.” Payton leaned across the desk, poking Marce in the cheek. “And your arms are covered in goose pimples.”
Marce hadn’t any need to look in the mirror or down at her exposed arms above her gloves to know how she appeared. It was the physical representation of the sense that came over her each time she heard an unfamiliar sound at Craven House—doom, dread, and disaster.
She only prayed she could hold the inevitable at bay until after her siblings had departed.
Chapter 20
Rowan stared up at the townhouse that was etched on his memory with such vivid imagery that it was inconceivable to think he’d only stepped foot inside the home once—the night he’d propositioned Marce. The exterior had been freshly painted in the last several years, the windows scrubbed to shine without a hint of the grime so common about London, and the minimal landscaping trimmed and manicured to precise perfection. Even the sign that hung out front proclaiming the place as Craven House held not a speck of dirt where it swung evenly from its post.
Visualizing Marce within was no great feat.
This house was innately her.
Proper, refined, and perfectly outfitted.
A hand landed on his shoulder, and Rowan turned to Tobias, sitting across from him in the coach. “Are you getting out, or shall I have the driver take us to my townhouse instead?”
“I’m getting out,” Rowan growled.
As if on cue, the door opened, and two women dressed in plain, grey dresses with white aprons exited the house, then walked down the drive past
Rowan’s waiting coach and continued on down the street. Neither glanced in the coach’s direction nor slowed to show that they even noticed its presence.
Rowan glanced at the front window of the townhouse. The drapes were pulled closed, but a sliver of light shone through the gap between the hanging pieces of fabric. Closing his eyes, he pictured the layout of the room—two long lounges, several chairs and tables, an open hearth with a roaring fire, and his father positioned in the middle, surrounded by unfamiliar children. The woman he now knew to be Sasha, pressed close to his side as he read from a book to the gathering of kids. His father hadn’t been alone, despite his misdeeds and the betrayal of his family. And Rowan had done everything in his power to make certain his mother fared better. Yet, he was ever alone. Those around him seemed happier with others—his mother with Miss Pearl, and Tobias with Marce.
A shudder went through him as he pushed the memories aside and opened his eyes to once again stare at Craven House.
He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to possess the property. He never expected to again set foot inside the place that did nothing but bring back the hurt and betrayal his father’s actions had caused.
Eight years ago, he’d come here with clear intent: to strip everything from the family who’d stolen from his.
Now, Rowan had no plan. He hadn’t any notion what to say or what he meant to accomplish with this visit to Craven House. Certainly, he was not here to propose renewing their ruse, yet neither did he see his other option as favorable. His mother learning of his deception was unacceptable and would only be cruel to her. The mere shock of it all would likely further diminish her health. Rowan would not be responsible for his mother’s decline.
She’d fallen further and further into the clutches of her illness because of his father.
While his sire had needed to go outside their home to find happiness, the duchess had withered without him—and he either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care.
“Must I throw you from the coach by your trousers?” Tobias prodded, reclining on his seat. “I can say that a week ago, I would have been opposed to such a thing, but today, I would consider it an honor to push you toward your fate, Ro.”
Tobias intertwined his fingers, cracked his knuckles, and chuckled.
“My fate, huh?” Rowan hadn’t ever pondered such a thing as fate or how Marce—or his long-deceased father—played any role in his future. Certainly, he’d spent countless hours with his solicitor discussing future business ventures, and many days with physicians regarding his mother’s health, but his own future had always seemed far less important. “And what, may I ask, do you know about fate?”
“Just that it is a woman and she has a long memory…”
Rowan rapped on the ceiling of the coach, and his driver, Charles, pulled the door wide. When he made to set down the steps, Rowan called him off and leapt from the conveyance.
Straightening his coat and smoothing the wrinkles from his trousers, Rowan rounded on the coach to see Tobias framed in the open door.
“Fate may be a woman with a long memory, but is it not also my choice?” At that moment, he was uncertain what his future held—or even what the coming hour had in store. He would not allow his doubts to cast a shadow over his confidence. Defeat started inside oneself, and Rowan would not let the feeling take root and corrode him.
Instead, he moved toward the door to Craven House with Tobias’s mutterings following him on the afternoon breeze, “Fool enough not to know when loss is almost upon you.”
Rowan hadn’t lost anything.
“I will present myself, Charles,” he called to his driver. He couldn’t afford for Marce’s servants to turn him away, and it would be simpler for them to bar his entrance if his driver announced his arrival.
Walking up the drive, Rowan concentrated on his even, slow steps as if someone were watching his every move, attempting to spot his weakness. He made certain that his shoulders were not laced with tension and ensured his footfalls were solid as he once again marveled at how normal Marce’s home appeared, especially in the light of day. Would anyone guess the debauchery that commenced within once the sun set? Rowan would be hard-pressed to believe that these walls contained one of London’s most famed brothels if he didn’t know it already.
Craven House clung to the outskirts of a respectable neighborhood, on the fringes of being socially acceptable; however, its exclusivity was so high that Rowan had yet to meet a lord who’d frequented the establishment in years. No one spoke of what went on inside the brothel, and never had he come across even so much as a hint of a bet regarding the bawdy house in White’s betting book.
What was required for a lord to sample the delights only available within the house’s walls? What had Madame Sasha offered his father that had stolen him from his family and led him to purchase the establishment, giving control of it to his mistress?
If it were a mere ounce of the passion he’d sensed hidden under the surface of his and Marce’s kiss, then perhaps it was worth something grand, indeed. Had he found the connection with another person so lacking in Rowan’s life? What he’d searched so many years to find had been given to Julian, and all he’d needed was to overlook neglecting his family.
Startled, Rowan realized he stood on the stoop, his fist held high to knock.
With a deep breath, he rapped his fist on the door.
The portal was quickly answered; however, the young woman who greeted him was not at all what he’d expected. Before him stood a tall, thin girl of no more than sixteen or seventeen, her mahogany hair swept up into a loose coil atop her head. Her gown was reserved, but not that of a servant.
When the girl openly smiled at him as he searched his mind for the correct words, Rowan wished he’d brought Tobias to the door with him. He hadn’t wanted his friend to witness his failure at Craven House, but neither had he expected to be utterly at a loss for words.
“May I help you, my lord?” she asked, her brow rising in question as she crossed her arms protectively over her chest. When she continued to stare, Rowan realized it wasn’t because of any need to protect her person but simply as a common stance—almost verging on defiance. “May—I—help—you?”
Rowan cleared his throat and gave the woman his most charming smile. She looked oddly familiar, as if they’d seen one another at some point. “I am here to call on Lady Marce Davenport.”
It was the first time he’d spoken her true name to anyone besides Tobias, and it rolled off his tongue far easier than he’d expected.
“May I inform her of who is calling?” Her intense gaze traveled from his face, down his chest, and lower, before returning to meet his stare.
“The Duke of Harwich.” No recognition crossed the woman’s face at his name. Could she be completely unaware that she stood on the threshold of his property? He’d never guessed that Marce had kept their arrangement from her family—at least in her own household. However, the woman before him clearly had no clue whom he was. “Is she in residence?”
He hadn’t stopped to think Marce would be away from Craven House when he arrived.
“She is, however”—she paused, glancing over her shoulder—“it is not yet the proper hour for social calls, Your Grace.”
“I hope you can overlook my faux pas as I have only just now arrived in London and came directly to speak with Marc—Lady Marce.” Rowan donned his most reticent smile, hoping the girl took pity on him and allowed him entrance. “I suppose I should have consulted my timepiece before coming.”
The girl scrutinized him in silence. Perspiration gathered at his collar before she finally stepped back and gestured for him to enter.
Though he’d been nearly overcome by his rage and hurt on his last call to Craven House, he remembered enough to see that the foyer hadn’t changed in the slightest. The rug, while made of expensive material, was now aged, and the wooden railing, while pitted, was polished and dust-free. The interior of the dwelling was as precisely maintained as the
outside—everything in its place and a proper place for all.
“This way.” The girl walked to the left and pushed open the door to the one room Rowan had vowed never to enter—ever. “I will inform my sister she has a guest.”
Sister? This young woman was Marce’s kin? Perhaps their blooded relationship was why the lingering notion of familiarity clung to his thoughts.
Rowan held the girl’s eye contact as he strolled past her with a nod and entered the room—to await Marce’s attendance.
Instead of hurrying off to collect her sister, the girl leaned against the doorframe and once again examined him. Was she sizing him up? Did she know exactly who he was and sought to punish him for his years of mistreatment? The girl was far too young to be well-versed in the art of torture, though this game she played certainly heightened Rowan’s anticipation of the confrontation to come with Marce. It had only been a few short days since he’d last seen her, but even now, he wondered what color her gown would be, whether her hair would fall freely down her back or be pinned in its usual style…and what of her manner? Would she be angry he came or relieved?
To avoid matching the young woman’s intense stare, Rowan turned his attention to the drawing room in which he stood. For the first time, he was an insider looking out, except the drapes were drawn, and he was alone—just as he’d been when he stood outside on that dark night.
Alone. An occurrence he’d grown accustomed to in recent years due to his travel.
No, not always alone. He had his mother and Tobias. Halting his wayward thoughts, he refused to include Marce in his short list of those who kept him from being utterly alone.
Things were different today from that night. No fire lit the hearth, casting a warm glow across the room’s occupants. No one cluttered the space, causing the area to appear smaller than its actual size. No voices mingled with laughter. Often, in his youth, Rowan had gone so far as to imagine the aroma of the drawing room. Had Madame Sasha served his father warm, spiced rum? Had they enjoyed fresh, sweet orange cakes or date pudding? Had Sasha sent the children off to bed so the pair could cuddle for all to see through the large window?
The Madame Catches Her Duke Page 16
