The Naked Marquis

by Sally MacKenzie

  "All right," James said. "But if you're not back in half an hour, Robbie and I are coming after you."

  "I'll be back—but yes, if I'm not, I'll be happy for your assistance."

  Charles tried to walk sedately through the ballroom— no need to give Lady Oldston, Mrs. Pelham, or the other society tabbies any tidbit of gossip to chew on. Once he cleared the door, he picked up his pace. By the time he reached the staircase, he was running, taking the stairs two at a time.

  He reached the long gallery and stopped. There was a pistol pointed at the center of his chest.

  Mr. Stockley smiled. "Just the man I was looking for," he said.

  Emma counted slowly to ten, then fumbled in the dark for the lever Charles had said was there. She wished now she had asked more questions—she wished she had asked to see the lever. He had said it was lower on the wall than he expected, but he was taller than she. Where was it?

  Something crawled across her hand. She screamed, jumping back, bumping into the passage's back wall. Something filmy brushed her face.

  Dear God. Spiders. She could not think of spiders. She would not. The real spider was Stockley. If she did not keep her wits about her, Stockley would entrap Charles in his web. The man was mad. And a murderer. There was no time for a fit of the vapors.

  She stepped up to the door again and carefully felt all around it. There, on the right side—the lever. Charles said to push it up, not down. It moved easily. The door opened—barely. Emma shoved as hard as she could.

  It was hopeless. The door would not move another inch. It was securely blocked by the heavy chair Charles and then Mr. Stockley had pushed in front of it.

  No one—certainly not she—was going to get out of the passage this way.

  She could try shouting, but there was no one on this floor—no one to hear her until Nanny and the girls came upstairs in the morning. By then it would be too late. Mr. Stockley would be gone and Charles—she wouldn't think about Charles.

  She would just have to find another door. She would have to make her way along this black, dirty, spider-filled passage.

  She had the sinking feeling Charles's life depended on it.

  She ran her hands carefully around this door so she could recognize an opening by feel alone. There was no hope of seeing anything in this stygian dark.

  She wished again she had asked Charles more questions. Were there other doors on this level? If the passages had been built to help the family escape, it was unlikely. There were no other family rooms up here. Which meant she would have to descend to the next floor, probably not by staircase. She had best plan on doing some climbing.

  She was happy the neck of her beautiful ball gown was so low—it made wiggling out of it somewhat easier. The thought that this exposed more of her person to spiders was one she firmly shoved aside.

  She would worry about spiders after she had warned Charles of Stockley's madness.

  She put her hand on the wall and shuffled toward the main hall. She hoped. It would be so easy to get lost in the dark.

  She shoved that thought away also.

  She wanted to move faster, but she forced herself to be patient. Somewhere ahead was the way down to the next floor—she would not do Charles any good if she took it flying head first.

  In a moment, she was glad of her caution. Her lead foot slid into air. She pulled it back quickly, leaning heavily against the wall, heart pounding.

  Once her legs stopped trembling, she stooped and ran her hands over the ground. There was a ladder. She grasped it tightly and carefully climbed down deeper into the darkness. When her foot touched the ground, she sighed, relief making her weak. She clung to the ladder for a moment, giving her heart time to slow its wild beating. Then she turned.

  And walked straight into a huge spiderweb.

  Charles swore he heard Emma screaming somewhere, though Stockley showed no signs he'd heard anything. Perhaps it was his imagination. The mind did odd things when faced with a loaded gun.

  "Where is Emma?"

  Stockley shrugged. "Upstairs. I haven't hurt her . . . yet. Cooperate and I won't have to."

  Charles tried to control his anger. "What do you want?" If he could keep the man talking for thirty minutes, Robbie and James would come charging up the stairs. They were men of their word.

  "I want the jewels Randall stole from my father."

  "Jewels? Stockley, I don't know what you are talking about."

  "Don't lie."

  Charles did not care for the way Stockley's gun jumped when he was angry. He hoped this pistol did not have a hair trigger.

  "I'm not. I really do not know what you are talking about. I was only seven years old when Randall died— he was my great-uncle and at sea most of his life." Charles moved casually away from Stockley's gun. 'You know far more about Knightsdale than I do. The hidden passages, for instance. I did not know they really existed; you, on the other hand, appear to be intimately familiar with them. How is that?"

  Stockley shrugged, following him toward the marble Draysmiths. Charles hoped to lure him close enough to knock one of the busts on to him. It wasn't a brilliant plan, but he didn't have much to work with.

  "My father had a diagram in his papers. He and Randall were partners." Stockley snorted. "Da was a fool to think he could trust one of Randall's kind. They were supposed to share the jewels. Randall took them. Thought his aristocratic nephew would protect him. Well, his fancy nephew wasn't there to catch him when he stumbled into the harbor, was he?"

  "I wonder if poor Randall had a little help into the water."

  "Bloody right he did. If my da had had an ounce of sense, he'd have snaffled the jewels before he bashed Randall on the head."

  "Hmm. That was more than twenty years ago, however. I find your sudden interest somewhat peculiar." Stockley was standing next to Great-Uncle Randall's bust. It would be fitting if that was the Draysmith sculpture to take him down. Charles stepped closer.

  "Move back." Stockley motioned with his pistol.

  Charles moved back. It was unwise to argue with an armed man.

  "It ain't so sudden. My da died in the spring. Surprised he lived that long." Stockley frowned. "God, what we could have done with those jewels! If I'd known about them, you can be sure I'd have been here sooner. But I didn't know. I only found out about them when I found Da's papers in a box under his bed."

  His voice dropped to a mutter, but he kept his gun up and pointed at Charles.

  "Bloody hell. I thought your brother had the jewels with him. Went to Italy, tore that damn carriage apart looking for them. Knightsdale tried to be a hero; his wife screamed like a banshee—shot her first to shut her up. Had to kill the servants, too. And then the bloody jewels weren't there."

  He waved his gun at Charles.

  "They have to be here, damn it. They have to. Why can't I find them?"

  Charles moved closer to Great-Uncle Randall's bust.

  "I said move back, you bastard." Stockley's gun pointed squarely at Charles's chest. "If you want to live, tell me where I can find the bloody jewels."

  Charles measured the distance between him and the bust. Stockley was standing right next to it, but that did Charles little good. Unless Stockley was an abysmal shot, Charles would be dead before he could get a finger on Great-Uncle Randall. Apparently thirty minutes had not yet elapsed—he did not hear Robbie and James pounding up the stairs to his rescue. "Talk, damn it."

  Charles took a deep breath. "I'm afraid we have a minor problem, Mr. Stockley. I truly have no idea where these jewels are."

  "Liar. Goddamned liar."

  Stockley raised his pistol and pointed it directly between Charles's eyes. "You've told your last lie, Knightsdale."

  Sanity came back to Emma gradually. She shuddered, clasping her hands together tightly to stop the trembling. She had gotten the last strand of sticky web off her face. She was certain of it, but she still felt its horrible, nasty touch.

  Were there still threads of it in her hai
r—threads and . . . spiders?

  The madness threatened to swallow her again. She could not let it. She had to get out of there. She had to find Charles.

  But where was she? She had completely lost any sense of direction when she walked into that web. Dear God, when she had felt the sticky threads all over her face, she had turned into a mindless animal. She had screamed and jumped and spun as if she could shake herself free. She'd scrubbed her face with her hands, then rubbed her hands against the corridor walls trying to get any hint of spiderweb off. She shuddered.

  She would pick a direction. Any direction. She would go as far as she could, then she would try another way. Panicking did no good.

  She edged along the wall. Almost immediately she heard men's voices. She slid her feet a little faster over the floor. There was no guarantee that she would find a door by these men, but perhaps she could bang on the wall and get their attention. She could tell them about Mr. Stockley. They could warn Charles.

  The voices were getting louder. Thank God. She was going in the right direction. She shuffled faster and her fingers bumped against an upright piece of wood. It was the edge of a door. She sagged against it in relief.

  And heard shouting. She pressed her ear flat on the wall. It was Mr. Stockley. He was close, just on the other side of the wall. She could almost make out his words. They sounded angry, threatening. She heard Charles's calm response. Mr. Stockley shouted back.

  She was certain that in a few minutes something very bad was going to happen.

  She scrambled for the door, her fingers flying down to find the latch. It wasn't there. Panic surged through her. She forced herself to concentrate only on the door. There. The catch was just a little farther to the right. She pulled up on it. Nothing happened. This door had not been opened in years.

  Stockley shouted again. This time she could make out the words.

  "You've told your last lie, Knightsdale."

  She had run out of time. Desperate, she yanked up on the latch and flung herself against the door. This time, it gave, swinging open. She heard a crash and then an explosion as she tumbled out of the passage and onto the floor.

  Charles looked down the barrel of Stockley's gun. He knew he could not stall any longer. He hoped for a miracle and readied himself to dive to the side when the man pulled the trigger.

  A miracle arrived. Part of the wall behind Stock-ley flew open, knocking Great-Uncle Randall's bust into Stockley's arm just as Stockley fired. The gun discharged harmlessly into the portrait of the first marquis.

  Charles tackled Stockley, shoving him on to his stomach and twisting his arm up behind his back.

  "Damn. We missed all the fun, Robbie." The Duke of Alvord appeared at the top of the stairs.

  "I told you your watch was slow, James." Robbie turned to Charles. "If he'd listened to me, we'd have been here five minutes ago. But no, the Duke of Alvord could not possibly have an imperfect timepiece."

  "I was wondering what was keeping you." Charles jerked up on Stockley's arm as the man bucked under him. "Would you care to come help me deal with this fellow?"

  "Be delighted to, wouldn't we, James? What exactly happened?"

  "I'm not certain. If you'll take charge of Stockley. . ."

  ". . . you can clean up the mess." James nodded. "I quite understand. So untidy to have emeralds and diamonds lying about, isn't it, Miss Peterson?"

  Charles twisted around. Emma sat on the floor, covered in dirt and cobwebs, her hair flying all about her face. She looked beautiful.

  "Emma!"

  James grabbed Stockley as Charles scrambled to his feet.

  "Watch your step," James said.

  Charles finally looked somewhere other than into Emma's eyes. On the floor scattered around her were tiaras, bracelets, necklaces, and rings. Gold and jewels. Great-Uncle Randall had split in two, spilling all his secrets.

  "Well," he said, "it looks like we have found Mr. Stockley's treasure."

  Chapter 18

  "That was an interesting end to the house party." Emma sat by the fire, drying her hair. She'd come upstairs as soon as Charles had picked her out of the rubble. He'd given her a thorough kiss and sent her off to her room before he took Stockley downstairs and dealt with his curious guests. She'd heard a few of the men, drawn by the sound of the gunshot, coming up the stairs as she left.

  She'd had a long, warm bath, washing away every last wisp of spiderweb. If the water hadn't started to cool, she might still be in the tub. Then she'd waited for Charles to come upstairs. It hadn't been very long. She'd heard him in the other room, talking to Mr. Henderson. Then he'd sent his valet away and come in to her.

  She had wanted to go to him immediately, but she had hesitated. He'd had such a remote look on his face. He sat in the chair next to hers and stared at the fire, his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown.

  "What did you do with Mr. Stockley?"

  "James is taking charge of him. He'll stand trial for killing my brother. I have no doubt he'll swing."

  She brushed her hair and studied his profile. His lips were pulled into a hard, thin line.

  "It was bad enough having Paul die, but to learn now he was murdered . . ."

  She leaned over and put a hand on his knee. "Don't think about it. There's nothing you can do to change what happened."

  Charles slumped lower in his chair. "I should have asked more questions. I should have insisted someone investigate as soon as I got the news."

  "Why? An investigation would not have brought anyone back to life."

  "It might have turned up Stockley. Then you wouldn't have had that unpleasant time with the spiders."

  "And you would not have had that unpleasant time looking down the barrel of Mr. Stockley's gun."

  Charles shrugged. He stared at the fire for a while. Emma stared at him. When he spoke again, his voice was low.

  "I was just so angry when they told me Paul was dead. I hardly considered Paul. I could only think about what his death had done to me. How I was trapped."

  "Charles, we can't control what we feel, just how we act. You did all that was proper. No one thought Paul's death was anything but a random crime." She sat back, twisting her fingers in her wrapper. "If anyone should feel guilty about their feelings, it is I. I tried to keep my father from finding happiness with Mrs. Graham."

  Charles's frown deepened. He looked away from the fire to her. 'Your feelings were natural—"

  "My feelings were childish and selfish. I see that now. But I can't go back and change them, much as I would like to. Just as you cannot go back and change how you reacted to Paul's death. We can only go forward."

  He hunched a shoulder. "I don't know . . ."

  "I do. And much as I dislike saying anything critical of the dead, especially your brother and his wife, I think the girls will be better off with you as their papa. And the estate will be better as well—you do intend to stay here, don't you?"

  "For part of the year, yes."

  "Only part of the year?"

  He finally smiled. "Well, I guess I should take this peer business seriously. Take my place in Lords. And you should see London during the Season. The girls might enjoy Astley's Circus and Hyde Park. I think leaving Knightsdale for part of the year is acceptable, don't you?"

  "Yes." Emma smiled back. "You can leave Knightsdale as long as you don't leave us."

  "No danger of that, sweetheart." His smile widened to a grin. He leered at her. "I have to get an heir, don't I? I believe we determined I cannot accomplish that goal with you in Kent and me in London."

  Emma felt the throbbing start low in her stomach. She certainly understood that concept now.

  He leaned closer. "What? You aren't going to throw something at me this time? No china canines to shatter?"

  "No." She still saw sadness lurking in his expression. She smiled. She believed she knew a way to chase the darkness from his eyes. "I was angry with you then. I am not feeling anger now."

  "No?"


  "No. I am, however, feeling a number of other strong emotions."

  "Really? That sounds promising."

  "Exactly. You made a promise to me this evening that you have not yet kept."

  Charles's eyebrows rose. "I did? What did I promise?"

  Emma stood, turning to face him. She let her wrapper slide down her arms to pool at her feet so she stood naked in the firelight. She smiled, noting how lust and love burned the last shadows from Charles's face. "You promised to misbehave more than I could possibly imagine."

  He reached out to cup her breasts, trace her hips, stroke her thighs. She felt wet heat, and spread her legs slightly.

  "I warn you," she said, "I've recently developed a very vivid imagination."

  He couldn't talk. He could barely think. He stared at the sweet white of her thighs, her dark silky hair. He breathed in the heat of her. He ran his hands over her smooth hips. She parted her legs wider and he dipped his finger inside.

  "Emma."

  She put her hands on the chair arms and leaned forward to kiss him. Her tongue licked over his lips and then darted inside. He put his hands on her full breasts, swaying in front of him. He stroked them, kneaded them, felt their nipples harden. Emma moaned softly in the back of her throat and spread her legs wider, sitting on his lap, putting her wet center exactly where he most wanted it. She spread the top of his dressing gown and slid her hands inside, skimming over his heated skin.

  He did not want to take her in this chair. He wanted her in his bed. In the Draysmith bed. He needed her there to free him from the last of his ghosts.

  He put his hands on her face and drew back from her lips. "I thought I was the one who was supposed to misbehave," he said.

  "What?"

  "You said I had promised to misbehave more than you could imagine, but you are definitely the one misbehaving now, Miss Peterson. More than I could imagine."

  The minx gave him what looked like a very self-satisfied smile. He spanked her lovely bottom very lightly, and she laughed and stuck out her tongue. He sucked on it gently.

  "I am not going to let you seduce me here, my love." He lifted her off his lap, setting her on her feet. "Some day, but not today." He shrugged out of his dressing gown. She grinned and reached for the most prominent part of him, but he caught her wrists.