A MATCH FOR THE MARQUESS

by Lillian Marek

  Sprackett licked his lips and tried to look for a safe place to hide. He could not find one.

  Penworth turned back to the books. There were shares and funds in the five percents, all transferred to Craddock in one set of books, but still in trust for Anne in the other set.

  “Tell me, Sprackett,” said Penworth softly, “if Greystone had never returned from India, if Whyte had never appeared on your doorstep, which set of books would have survived?”

  Sprackett simply looked away.

  Then there was the money that left Sprackett’s books for “Lady Anne’s maintenance.” That money appeared in Craddock’s books as “investment income,” and went out to pay modistes (for the Craddock ladies’ clothing), milliners (for the Craddock ladies’ hats), and drapers (for the Craddock ladies’ sundries), to say nothing of the outlays to provide a carriage in which Anne did not travel and horses she did not ride. The list went on and on.

  Penworth slammed the ledgers shut and glared at them. It was not simply that Craddock had been stealing from Anne. It was the way he had treated her, the deliberate humiliation. There they had been, living in luxury on her money, in her house, and treating her like a servant. He wanted to smash the bastard.

  “Oh oh,” said Whyte, staring out the window and straightening up.

  “Craddock? He’s early?” Penworth stood and spoke eagerly.

  “No, I am afraid it is your wife and Lady Augusta.”

  He should have known. Whatever had made him think Anne would wait quietly at home? He did not want her to know this, not all the details. He knew how it felt to discover that your own family, those who should take care of you and protect you, could not be bothered. He might have been able to soften it when he told her about it. Though how he could disguise betrayal on this scale he did not know.

  She began talking the moment she came through the door. “I know you wanted me to stay docilely at home, my lord, but I simply could not sit there for another minute and listen to Aunt Craddock dithering and Corinne wailing. It is really too much to expect.”

  “Much too much,” Lady Augusta echoed.

  Then Anne looked at Penworth. He held out his arms and she walked into them, hiding her face on his shoulder. He held her tight against him. I have you, you are safe now, he thought. Believe me. Know that I will protect you, no matter what.

  She sighed and lifted her face to look at him. “I am sorry. I could not stand the waiting, and I had to see for myself. It is as you suspected, then? My uncle has stolen some of my inheritance?”

  “Not some of it, my love. This is peculation on a grand scale. He has endeavored to steal everything you have, and you have a great deal.”

  She still looked at him. He managed a smile and led her to a chair. “It seems that I have married an heiress. Your father left you everything that was not entailed.”

  “I do not think I understand. Are you telling me that I was not poor until Uncle Herbert stole it all?”

  “Actually, you are not poor now. It was all in trust, with Sprackett here as your trustee. His cooperation with Craddock meant that your uncle and his family have been able to live in your house on your income. He tried to have some things transferred to his own name, but they have now been transferred back.”

  “Living in my house?” She looked incredulous. “On my income?”

  Penworth nodded.

  She looked at Whyte and Sprackett. They nodded.

  She looked at Jeremy. He nodded.

  She turned back to Penworth. “And to keep me from discovering that, he needed to marry me off? To a simple-minded idiot?”

  Penworth nodded.

  She looked at Lady Augusta. The two women grabbed hold of each other’s hands and burst out together, “How dared he!”

  Anne stared at Lady Augusta. “He told me no one cared about me. He kept me from you and Uncle George.” She leaped to her feet and her voice rose. “He stole years of my life!”

  “You are not going to start crying, are you?” Penworth spoke nervously.

  “I am not crying. I do not cry.” She straightened her back and held her head up, ignoring the tears that insisted on rolling down her cheeks. “I am furious. That…that…bastard!” She picked up the inkwell and threw it against the wall, where it smashed satisfactorily, splattering ink over wall, floor, ceiling and Sprackett, who did not move quickly. Then she snatched up a ledger, but Penworth caught hold of it before she threw it as well.

  “Easy, my love, easy.”

  “I will not be easy! I will be as angry as I like.”

  Penworth smiled at that. “Very well, my love. Be as angry as you like. I cannot imagine that you can be any angrier than he deserves.”

  She paced back and forth, her skirts swishing behind her like the tail of an angry cat. “I want to chop him in little pieces or boil him in oil,” she spit out. “No!” She stopped and looked at Penworth. “I want to see him exposed and humiliated. I want to see him reduced to penury. I want to see him beg.”

  He wanted to laugh. Why had he ever feared that she would be stricken? She had never been beaten down. She had simply been biding her time during those years when everyone thought her meek and obedient. She had been playing a role and Craddock had never suspected. The more fool he.

  Then she turned on Sprackett, who was hunched behind his desk, trying to avoid notice. “Mr. Sprackett, Uncle Herbert could never have done this without your knowledge. How could you abet him? My father trusted you.”

  Sprackett tried to shrink down a little further. “I didn’t really know, you see. And I didn’t dare…” His voice trailed off. Then he whispered, “He was blackmailing me.”

  Anne just looked at him, waiting for him to speak again. He sighed. “I had…borrowed some money.” He shrugged helplessly.

  “In short, you turned a blind eye to what he was doing because you had done the same thing.” Anne turned away in disgust and went back to pacing.

  Whyte chimed in at this point. “At least Mr. Sprackett here kept an accurate accounting of the estate in addition to the one for Mr. Craddock’s eyes. He also prevented the actual transfer of the house, and saw to it that the title remained in your name.”

  “Clever, that,” commented Jeremy. “Probably hoped it would keep him off the gallows if worst came to worst.”

  “Good heavens,” said Lady Augusta. “I just thought—do you suppose Mrs. Craddock and Miss Craddock knew about this?”

  Anne came to a halt and thought for a moment. Then she shook her head decisively. “Aunt Margaret could never keep up a deception for any length of time. Besides, she’s foolish, not cruel. She believes anything Uncle Herbert tells her.”

  “You’re probably correct, though she is so irritating I would not mind if she were guilty of something. She seemed quite convinced when she was telling me how generous her husband had been to provide for you.” Lady August sighed. “It really is a pity that stupidity is not a legally punishable crime.”

  Anne turned to Penworth. “What will happen to Aunt Margaret and Corinne? They are silly and thoughtless, but I do not think they ever set out to deliberately harm me.”

  “Do not tell me that you are going to turn softhearted and forgiving.” Penworth frowned at her.

  Anne gave a short laugh. “No, not that.” She thought for a moment. “Uncle Herbert hated my father. I always knew that, and I have had plenty of opportunity over the last years to think why. Part of it, of course, was the fact that my father was an earl, a nobleman, and never doubted his position. He was friendly to Uncle Herbert, but he was just as friendly to, to anyone, to the stable boy. Uncle Herbert must have found that insufferably condescending. I think he must have stored up every slight, real or imagined, and they all festered. Then he hated me simply because I was my father’s daughter.”

  “Did your father not realize this? How could he have named such a man to be your guardian?”

  Anne shook her head. “I doubt Papa was even aware of Uncle Herbert’s resentment. People
almost always liked my father, and it would not have occurred to him that someone did not. He probably thought Greystone would be the one to take care of me, and named Uncle Herbert so he would not feel insulted at being passed over. He is, after all, my uncle.”

  “And Fate, deciding to be fickle as usual, sent Greystone off to India for five years, leaving you to your uncle’s tender mercies. I will not let you forgive him, Anne.”

  “I have no intention of forgiving him,” said Anne firmly. “However, that leaves Aunt Margaret and Corinne. If I take my anger out on them, I will be acting just as he did to me. I expect better of myself.”

  Penworth gave a short laugh. “Very well, wife. We will find someplace where they can be tucked away safe and sound. But I warn you, I will not live in the same house with them. They would drive me mad within a week.”

  “Indubitably,” put in Lady Augusta. “A few hours of their caterwauling and I was ready to drown them.”

  “Try spending ten hours in a carriage with them,” muttered Whyte under his breath. Then he gave an attention-getting cough. “Before you worry too much about the ladies’ future, might we give our attention to Mr. Craddock, and what is to be done about him?”

  The next hour or so was devoted to convincing Penworth that he should not personally kill Craddock, a course of action Lady Augusta was inclined to favor, though she would have preferred to do the deed herself. Jeremy suggested solutions of various permanencies—ranging from a slit throat to a berth as a common sailor in a ship heading for distant insalubrious ports. Anne was not sure what she wanted the final outcome to be: hanging had its attractions, but transportation would last so much longer.

  Since they did not know precisely where to lay hands on Craddock at the moment, it seemed sensible to wait until the next day. He would be coming to Sprackett’s office, and they could set a trap and have a Bow Street Runner on hand to take him into custody. Penworth’s unspoken wish was that Craddock would resist arrest.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  In which Mr. Craddock finds himself foiled again

  Fearing that Sprackett might need a bit of encouragement to fall in line with the orders he had been given, Craddock had decided it would be advisable to pay his partner a visit. He arrived just in time to see Penworth and another fellow strolling down Lombard Street.

  With a curse, he backed into an alley. He clung to a hope that it might be mere chance that brought Penworth to this part of the city…but no. They went right past the polished brass nameplates and shining paintwork on the doors of half a dozen bankers and businessmen to enter the grimy building where Sprackett had his office.

  Hellfire and damnation! He had been betrayed!

  Sprackett had no more spine than a slug. He would collapse under the slightest pressure. Pressure? All Penworth would have to do was raise his aristocratic brows and Sprackett would dissolve into a puddle of remorse and excuses.

  He should never have waited.

  The minute he had heard she was married, he should have gathered everything into his hands and fled the country. It had been madness to think he could snatch her back, as if there had been no wedding. But how could he have been expected to think that Penworth would want the stupid chit? He should have been delighted to go along with the suggestion that the marriage was not valid.

  Now Elsworth’s precious daughter had not only escaped him, but she was a marchioness? Intolerable. He could not bear it.

  A carriage pulled up in front of the Sprackett’s office—not a filthy hackney, but a gleaming equipage drawn by a matched pair, with a pair of footmen to leap down and help the passengers out.

  The first one was one of those supercilious old bitches, whose fancy clothes couldn’t disguise her age. But then—it was her! Dressed up in fancy silks with one of those idiotic hats perched on her head, but a glimpse of her face was all he needed.

  Elsworth’s daughter. The sly trollop. The minute his back was turned, she’d snuck off and ruined everything. Smiling, curse her!

  This was all her fault!

  He almost fell to the ground with the pain of it. As it was, he had to lean against the wall until the agony in his gut subsided.

  No. This could not be permitted. She could not be allowed to lord it over people the way her father had, just because of her birth. Not when others were far more competent, more intelligent—more everything worthy of respect.

  Never. He would not let that happen.

  He would show her.

  But he had to plan. He needed to know what she was doing here, where she was staying. Not at Mount Street—he had just left there. He was going to have to follow her, follow all of them. Discover as much as he could. Then he could make plans.

  Damnation!

  He should have killed her when he had the chance. But he could still grind her into the dirt.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  In which a villain is not captured

  Anne absolutely refused to be left behind.

  She was seconded in this by Lady Augusta, who also refused to be left behind. “I have been wanting to give that man a piece of my mind ever since I saw those pitiful rags that constituted Anne’s wardrobe. This may be my only chance to speak to him.”

  “I don’t need to speak to him, but I do need to see his downfall,” Anne said. “I can’t believe there is any danger…” She held up a hand when her husband obviously wanted to protest. “I can’t believe there is any danger, but to satisfy you, I promise to stay out of the way and only peer through a doorway.”

  That wasn’t the end of the discussion, of course, but Anne ultimately prevailed, as she had known she would. Her husband was feeling protective, and she had no objection to that, though as far as she could see, there really was nothing to fear. They had the numbers on their side—aside from Penworth there would be the man from Bow Street, Whyte, young Jeremy, and even Greystone, all to subdue one viperous but hardly athletic and far from young man.

  They arrived at Sprackett’s office well in advance of the appointed hour. The runner, whose name was Johnson, had brought Sprackett, his hands manacled, with him, and sat him down behind the desk. “To make it look all right and tight when our pigeon walks in.”

  Penworth glowered and hurried Anne into the inner office—more a store room than anything else.

  She heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Really, my lord, we have almost an hour before Uncle Craddock is due.”

  “He might be early. I want you safely out of sight.” Penworth pulled out a chair, set it to the side of the door, and sat her down in it.

  That was very sweet of him, but… Oh well, she supposed she could humor him. “We’ll need two more chairs. For Lady Augusta and Greystone.”

  Soon everyone was in place: the three noncombatants behind a not-quite-closed door, Whyte and Jeremy where they would be hidden by the door when it opened, Johnson behind a cabinet, and Penworth by the window so that he could watch for Craddock’s approach. They waited.

  And waited.

  “Should’ve brought a deck of cards,” Greystone grumbled. “Could have played three-handed whist.”

  They waited some more.

  Greystone dozed off while Anne and Lady Augusta walked around the tiny room, examining anything that was there to be examined.

  “Dear me, is this what a lease looks like?” Anne picked up a sheaf of papers inscribed in beautiful copperplate. “It goes on for ages. Do you suppose gentlemen actually read all this before they sign it?”

  “Probably not nearly as often as they should,” her godmother said. “Let’s see what it says.”

  They were still engrossed in the accompanying inventory, which seemed to note the location of every chip and scratch in the furnishings, when a thoroughly disgruntled Penworth came in. “He made the appointment for three. It’s more than an hour past that now.”

  Johnson followed forlornly. “He must have gotten wind of the trap.”

  Anne felt as frustrated as Penworth looked. “What do we do no
w?”

  “Never fear, my lady,” Johnson said, cheering up. “Wherever he’s taken himself to, I’ll find him. Just in case, as soon as his lordship spoke to me, I sent word to the ports for people to keep an eye out for this Craddock. Would you know if he had any friends in the free trade?”

  “Free trade?” Anne looked confused.

  Penworth’s good humor made a brief return, and he grinned. “He means, is your uncle likely to know any smugglers?”

  “Goodness, no. Uncle Craddock has always been insistent on respectability.” When her husband made an incredulous noise, she added, “An appearance of respectability.”

  “That makes it easier,” Johnson assured her. “He’ll not be able to slip out of the country and a respectable gent won’t be able to hide himself in the rookeries.”

  A gurgle of laughter bubbled up in Anne’s throat. The image of pompous Uncle Craddock trying to hide himself among the criminal poor of London’s worst slums was priceless. This was almost as good as seeing him in chains.

  Craddock was not skulking in the rookeries or doing any skulking at all. He was staying at Mivart’s Hotel, which provided all the luxury and privacy that a wealthy gentleman could desire. Possessed of the foresight that had led him to pack a trunk before he left the Mount Street house, he now presented the solid, if not supremely fashionable, appearance that a hotelier valued.

  No one could see that the only actual cash that he possessed was the fifty pounds he had retrieved from the safe hidden in his library—the extra one, which had been small enough to be overlooked. The money would be insufficient to pay his hotel bill, but since he had no intention of doing so, it was quite sufficient for him to present the appearance of a wealthy visitor to town.

  Once he had recovered from the shock of seeing Anne arriving at Sprackett’s office, it had been child’s play to follow the carriage when she and her associates left. The carriage could have been pulled by a dozen horses and still been unable to move through the crowded London streets at anything speedier than a slow walk. It had led him straight to Grosvenor Square and the town residence of the Earl of Greystone.