A Ring From a Marquess

by Christine Merrill

  And through the glass of the shop window, she saw the shocked look on her sister’s face as the Marquess of Fanworth looked into the shop directly at her and gave her a knowing smile.

  Chapter Seven

  With a week to prepare for it, Stephen took special care to set the scene for their next tryst. There was a dinner ready in the main dining room, should she wish to sup with him. If not, there was a selection of dainties arranged in the sitting room of his bedchamber. Oysters, prawns, strawberries and chilled champagne.

  Perhaps it was too obvious that he had chosen foods that might inflame desire. Or perhaps not. She had known little enough about the act a week ago. Still, if there was a simple way to increase her ardour to the point where she might forget their ridiculous agreement and remain with him, he was not above resorting to it. He had no intention of letting her escape him after only three more nights. But such a strong-willed woman would wish to think the decision to stay had been hers.

  He had sent her another note, earlier in the day, reminding her of their engagement and informing her that there would be a carriage waiting for her when the shop closed that would take her directly to his door with curtains drawn for her privacy. She might still refuse and find her own way here, but he would not be so stupid as to leave his bedchamber to search for her, only to be surprised on his return. This time, he would claim the battleground for his own.

  For a moment, he considered greeting her as she had him, wearing nothing but his dressing gown. He rejected it, almost immediately. She would likely think it was vulgar. And he would feel more than a little ridiculous lounging about his rooms nearly naked. Instead, he took the time to change into his best tailored, dark coat and trimmed the lapel with a gold stickpin he had purchased in her shop.

  Then he had nothing to do but to wait. When, at last, he heard the sound of the footman escorting her down the hall, he did his best to gain control of what could only be described as boyish enthusiasm.

  That emotion was the parlance of Stephen Standish, the besotted fool who had fallen under the spell of the bewitching Margot de Bryun. The Marquess of Fanworth knew better. It was he who turned to face the door with a cool smile, as his lady entered.

  Once again, he faltered.

  He had not seen her in a week, other than brief glimpses through the shop window. No matter what he had promised, he could not manage to stay totally away from her. He savoured those walks along the street, pretending that he took them for his health. But if that was true, he must admit that a brief glimpse of her each day had become as necessary to his well-being as respiration.

  The glass of the front window and blinding whiteness of the shop’s interior must have dulled his perception, for he had noticed nothing unusual as he had glanced in at her. Could one week really so alter a person?

  To say she was pale was an understatement. Her normally luminous skin was as grey as moonstone and there were dark circles under her eyes. If he were to guess, he would say she had not slept since she’d dozed in his arms almost a week before. Her perfect brow was creased with worry. He had never seen her timid, but her step tonight was hesitant. She reminded him of one of the true invalids that came to take waters, hoping for miracle cure.

  ‘Sit.’ He came forward to her, taking her arm and leading her to a chair in the sitting room.

  She resisted. ‘I would prefer that we finish what I have come for.’

  ‘And I would…’ Prefer. He could feel the P tremble in his throat, ‘I would rather we sit.’ He poured the wine for her, wrapping her fingers around the stem of the glass.

  She downed it in one swallow. Then she looked over the rim of the glass. ‘Satisfied? May we begin, now?’

  He refilled her glass. ‘No.’ He pushed the tray of oysters towards her.

  She glanced down at them and shuddered. ‘They are out of season. I will likely end even more ill than I am already.’

  ‘Ill?’

  She gave him a wan smile and drank the second glass of wine. ‘Yes. Perhaps it is the prospect of lying with you that makes me so.’

  ‘The first time is always…’ painful, difficult ‘…awkward. Tonight will be…’ different, better ‘…more enjoyable.’

  She laughed. ‘For you, perhaps. But tomorrow, I will still be surrounded by people who know exactly what I have done and split their time between scolding me and worrying over me. I’ve had a week of that, while you grinned in the shop window at me like a dog at the butcher’s shop.’

  ‘Who knows?’ Damn them all. He had promised discretion.

  ‘My sister. Her friend. The rumours of your new lover were all about town before I’d even climbed from your bed. My employees guessed, just by looking at me. But they, at least, are too afraid to comment on it. Except for Mr Pratchet.’

  ‘He can be damned.’ Some words came easier than others and the curse flew unhindered. When he had visited the shop, he had seen Pratchet watching her just as she accused him of doing, as though she was the juiciest chop on the platter.

  She gave Stephen a false smile and held out her glass for more champagne. ‘You should not say such things about the man who is likely to be the father of your natural son.’

  ‘I b-beg your p-p-pardon?’ The suggestion shocked him out of his sang-froid.

  ‘He has promised to marry me, should a pregnancy result from my indiscretions. For all I know, I am pregnant now. I feel like death warmed over.’

  ‘You are simply overwrought,’ he said. But if she was not? A mixture of terror and elation ran through him at the prospect that she might be carrying his child.

  ‘Perhaps I am,’ she said, then sprawled on the couch before him, almost spilling what wine was left in her glass. ‘Or perhaps it will happen tonight, when you take me. And then I will end by marrying Pratchet to salvage my reputation and give the child a name.’

  ‘That is nonsense,’ he said, without a second thought. ‘I would…’

  ‘You would what?’ she said with a bitter laugh. ‘Give me money? I have more than enough to raise a bastard, I assure you.’ She laughed again. ‘You must have realised that yourself. I assume that is why you tricked me into dishonour, instead of making the simple monetary offer my friends and family warned me about.’

  ‘I tricked you?’ He had done no such thing. She had no right to act the innocent in this.

  ‘Did you think Pratchet would keep your secret?’ She gave a sorry shake of her head. ‘He wants the shop for himself, you know. He was only too happy to buy the necklace when you brought it to him. In the end, he knew I would be the one to face the consequences.’

  ‘When I sold the necklace…’ he repeated. There was only one place she could have got such a ridiculous idea. Pratchet had misled her, probably hoping to leverage the lie into a quick marriage to a helpless, panicking female. It served the goldsmith right that the revelation had driven Margot straight into his bed. If he thought that Stephen would let her go again, he was sadly mistaken.

  He looked at her, on the couch beside him, exhausted, but still beautiful. It was as if, for the first time in days, he could see her clearly. She was his beloved, not the conniving female his brother had…

  Arthur.

  It was all coming clear now. He had been tricked, right enough. And his offended honour had led him to punish an innocent.

  She went on with her story, not noticing his silence. ‘You could not have picked a better ally in Pratchet. How neatly the spoils are divided between you. You took my virtue and, when you are through with me, he will take my shop.’ She reached for the bottle on her own this time, filling her glass to the brim and drinking deep. ‘I thought you were my friend. Or, perhaps, something more than that.’

  ‘I was. I am.’ He reached out to stroke her hair.

  She gave no indication she had heard his words. But instinctively, she leaned into the pressure of his palm, as though seeking comfort. ‘Everyone warned me. They told me that you were dangerous and wanted to bed me. But I refused to believe.�
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  ‘They were right.’ Though he could not have helped himself, it had been careless of him to love her. The world had assumed the worst.

  ‘Then you needn’t have bothered with trickery,’ she said, in a small, hopeless voice. ‘You were so handsome, so charming.’ She let out a shaking breath, half-sigh, half-sob. ‘There was no reason to steal the rubies or to threaten my business. If you needed money, I’d have given it to you. And if you wanted me, you had but to ask.’

  His hand tightened on her shoulder, hiding his feelings of elation in a caress. She’d loved him, just as he’d hoped. ‘I want you,’ he said softly.

  ‘Then take me. Do what you wish with me, so I may go home and rest. For I am so tired.’ The defiance he had seen in her a week ago was gone now. She was too exhausted to resist him.

  Which meant she was also too weak to accept. He removed his hand from her shoulder and stood. ‘Eat.’

  ‘I told you I could not.’

  ‘I have no wish to make love to a corpse.’ He pushed the tray to her, turning it so she might reach quail eggs, strawberries and cream. ‘If you wish something else, then ring.’

  She gave him a militant look.

  He glared back at her to hide his smile. ‘When you are through?’ He pointed at the bed. ‘Wait for me there.’

  ‘And where will you be?’

  ‘Out,’ he said. There were things he needed to think about and the thought of Margot de Bryun in his bed left him deliciously unclear. If he was not firm in his resolve, he would be back with her, before he had done anything to earn a place at her side. He walked quickly to the door and through, shutting and locking it behind him.

  * * *

  The next morning, despite an uneasy night spent on the couch of his sitting room, the Marquess of Fanworth was nearly as resplendent as he had been while waiting to greet his lover. When he had returned to his rooms an hour after ejecting himself, Margot lay huddled under the covers, asleep in the middle of his great, soft bed. She looked tiny and helpless, curled in upon herself as a protection against God knew what indignity.

  How could he have thought this innocent child was a devious jewel thief, entrapping him with her feminine wiles? Not a child at all, even if she looked like one in sleep. Her clothing was piled neatly on a chair, as it had been on their last evening together. He tried not to think of the naked flesh beneath the sheet, as he examined the empty wine bottle and the few bites of food missing from the tray. She would have a foul head in the morning, but at least she would sleep uninterrupted. If her colour was not better after some rest, he would call for a physician.

  * * *

  And it seemed exhaustion had been her problem. When he left the house at eight, she was still sleeping.

  Stephen didn’t bother calling for a carriage. There were times when it was better to walk. The exercise cleared his head, though it did not lessen his anger one bit. When he arrived at de Bryun’s, his hand hit the door hard, causing it to spring open and bang against the wall. The little bell at the top that usually tinkled, lett out a rattling clank at the assault.

  The shop girls and clerks looked up, alarmed at his entrance, but none had the nerve to approach him. It was strange to go to her shop, knowing full well that she was not there to meet him. But better that the world assume he did not know where she was than that she was asleep in his bed.

  He went to the nearest clerk, a gawky boy with red hair and ears like jug handles, and favoured him with his most terrifying frown. ‘Where is she?’

  The boy was quaking in his shoes, but did not desert his post. ‘Miss de Bryun is not here, my lord.’ No attempt at pretending he was not titled, then. Had his ruse really been so thin as to be transparent?

  He glared towards the back room and gave a dismissive gesture. ‘Then…’ Pratchet was nearly as hard to say as de Bryun. ‘What’s his name…?’ He snapped his fingers, as if trying to remember.

  The polite thing to do would have been to excuse himself and get the man. But in the absence of his mistress, the ginger clerk had reached the end of his nerve. ‘Mr Pratchet!’ The call came not as an answer, but a plaintive, rabbit’s bleat for mercy.

  The goldsmith appeared in the curtained doorway. His annoyance disappeared when he realised the reason for the disturbance. At the sight of the marquess, his face went a shade of white that rivalled the walls. ‘Lord Fanworth.’

  Stephen contained his glee at finding someone so obviously at fault and so worthy of his anger. He redoubled his glare, raised a finger, dire as death, and spoke the single word. ‘You.’

  As Stephen advanced, Pratchet shrank back, out of his reach, until they had passed through the doorway and were standing in the middle of the workroom. There would be privacy, in theory, at least. If half the shop clerks were not listening in at the doorway, he would be most disappointed in their lack of curiosity.

  He backed Pratchet up until his arse hit the edge of his work table, sending a shower of loose gold chain-links scattering on the floor.

  ‘I can explain, my lord.’

  Stephen stared down at the man who had caused him to ruin his own future. ‘Really?’ He let his frown deepen, staring with even more intensity at the little man before him.

  ‘When I was given the rubies, I did not know they were yours.’

  ‘Liar.’ Stephen swept an arm across the desk beside him, spilling its contents on the floor and tipping over the spirit lamp that Pratchet had been using to melt casting wax.

  The goldsmith rushed to douse the flame, beating it out with the wool mat he had been working on, looking up frantically at Stephen. ‘All right. I knew they were the Larchmont rubies. But I was too afraid to refuse.’

  ‘You told her they came from me,’ he said and watched the man squirm beneath his wrath.

  ‘Not in so many words,’ he argued. ‘Is it my fault if she misunderstood?’

  ‘It was your intention, all along.’ Stephen continued to stare. When, at last, he spoke, he did so slowly and deliberately. It guaranteed the clarity of his consonants and had the added advantage of making each word sound as if it was to be the last thing Pratchet might hear. ‘Who. Was. It?’

  ‘Lord Arthur!’ he blurted the expected answer, backing away from the table. ‘Your brother brought them here. Who was I to refuse them? I went to the day’s receipts and gave him everything we had. Then I hid the stones in the safe and made the transaction disappear.’

  ‘You lied to her.’

  ‘I did not. I said your family could not be trusted. I said I was frightened for her,’ the man said, gathering what nerve he could, and spilling a torrent of words. ‘It is clearly the truth. Your own actions prove that you do not care for her. Nor does she understand her place. She is getting above herself by running the shop at all. She needs the aid of a strong husband to protect and advise her, or it will all end in ruin.’

  He had thought such a thing himself, two weeks ago. But he’d not been thinking of Pratchet as a font of wisdom.

  ‘Aid from you?’ He snorted. ‘For your help, she might have been hanged as a thief.’

  ‘You would not have let it come to that,’ Pratchet said, still sounding surprisingly confident. ‘If she was dead, you’d not have got what you truly wanted from her.’

  That had been true, of course. But he had never considered that their affair would leave her vulnerable to a loveless marriage with this worm. ‘So you spread rumours about her?’

  ‘Her sister deserved to know the truth.’ The man raised his chin, as if Margot’s humiliation had been a righteous act and not despicable.

  But it proved that what she’d said last night was true. All around her had known of their bargain and berated her with it until she could neither eat nor sleep. This man deserved whipping. Or at least he would have, if so much of what had happened had not been the result of Stephen’s own unchecked pride.

  But some punishment was definitely in order and it must suit the criminal. Stephen smiled. ‘Since you are fond of tr
uth telling, my agent, Smith, must hear some as well. I will explain that Margot is not at fault. It was you.’

  ‘You would not dare,’ Pratchet said, ruffling his feathers like a cockerel who did not know he was a capon. ‘Your brother is equally guilty.’

  ‘My brother is Larchmont’s son. And you?’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Are no one.’ Then he smiled with satisfaction at the thought of Pratchet squirming on the dock. It would likely not come to that. The man would run like a rabbit the moment he turned his back. But he would be seeking employment without reference and lie down at night in fear that the law might take him before dawn.

  It was very similar to the ruined reputation and perpetual fear he had sought for Margot. In Stephen’s mind, it seemed quite appropriate. He turned and walked away, to show that the interview was at an end, calling over his shoulder, ‘Until we meet again, Mr…Ratchet.’

  As he left the room, he heard the beginning of correction. But the goldsmith got as far as ‘Pra…’ before he realised that if the powerful, and likely vengeful Fanworth could not remember his name, it was probably for the best.

  He turned back to give the man a final glare and exited the shop with a slam of the door that was almost as violent as his entrance had been.

  * * *

  Arthur had rooms in a hotel on the Circus. It was there that Stephen went next. He entered as he had at the jewellery shop, with much noise and no words. He pushed past the valet, going directly to where Arthur sat, nursing his usual morning hangover. Then, he grabbed his brother by the lapels and lifted him out of the chair, until his feet dangled, barely touching the floor. ‘Explain.’

  Arthur laughed with much more confidence than Pratchet had been able to manage. ‘I suppose this is about the rubies.’

  ‘You suppose?’ Stephen punctuated the words with a little shake.

  Arthur did his best, in his constrained position, to shrug. ‘I needed money. Gambling debts, old boy. I could hardly ask his Grace. And I knew Mother would cry if she was forced to defend me, yet again. Better that she weep for her lost necklace than for her useless son.’