by Julia Quinn
She selected a few novels, then pulled down a collection of Shakespeare’s comedies. A slim volume of romantic poetry joined the pile, and then, just as she was about to cross the hall back to Lady D’s drawing room, another book caught her eye.
It was very small, and bound in quite the brightest red leather Elizabeth had ever seen. But what was most odd about the book was that it was sitting sideways on a shelf in a library that gave new meaning to the word “order.” Dust wouldn’t dare settle on these shelves, and certainly no book would ever lie sideways.
Elizabeth set down her pile and picked up the little red book. It was upside down, so she had to flip it over to read the title.
HOW TO MARRY A MARQUIS
She dropped the book, half expecting lightning to strike her, right there in the library. Surely this had to be some kind of joke. She’d only decided that afternoon that she had to marry, and well.
“Susan?” she called out. “Lucas? Jane?”
She shook her head. She was being ridiculous. Her siblings, cheeky as they may be, would not sneak into Lady Danbury’s house and deposit a fake book, and—
Well, actually, she thought, turning the slim red volume over in her hand, when it came right down to it, the book didn’t really look fake. The binding looked sturdy, and the leather on the cover appeared to be of high quality. She glanced around to make sure that no one was watching—although she wasn’t quite certain why she should feel so embarrassed—and carefully opened it to the first page.
The author was a Mrs. Seeton, and the book had been printed in 1792, the year of Elizabeth’s birth. A funny little coincidence, Elizabeth decided, but she wasn’t a superstitious sort of person. And she certainly didn’t need a little book to tell her how to live her life.
Besides, when it came right down to it, what did this Mrs. Seeton really know? After all, if she had married a marquis, wouldn’t she be Lady Seeton?
Elizabeth slammed the book shut decisively and returned it to its spot on the shelf, making certain that it lay sideways, just the way she had found it. She didn’t want anyone to think she’d actually been looking at the silly thing.
She picked up her stack of books and crossed back to the drawing room, where Lady Danbury was still sitting in her chair, stroking her cat and staring out the window as if she were waiting for someone.
“I found some books,” Elizabeth called out. “I don’t think you’ll find many ‘begats’ in these, although perhaps in the Shakespeare—”
“Not tragedies, I hope.”
“No, I thought that in your current frame of mind, you’d find the comedies more entertaining.”
“Good girl,” Lady Danbury said approvingly. “Anything else?”
Elizabeth blinked and looked back down at the books in her arms. “A couple of novels, and some poetry.”
“Burn the poetry.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, don’t burn it; the books are certainly more valuable than firewood. But I certainly don’t want to hear it. My late husband must have bought that. Such a dreamer.”
“I see,” Elizabeth said, mostly because she thought she was expected to say something.
With a sudden movement, Lady Danbury cleared her throat and waved her hand in the air. “Why don’t you go home early today?”
Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open. Lady Danbury never dismissed her early.
“I have to deal with that blasted estate manager, and I certainly don’t need you here for that. Besides, if he’s an eye for pretty young girls, I’ll never get him to pay attention to me with you around.”
“Lady Danbury, I hardly think—”
“Nonsense. You’re quite an attractive thing. Men love blond hair. I should know. Mine used to be as fair as yours.”
Elizabeth smiled. “It still is fair.”
“It’s white, is what it is,” Lady Danbury said with a laugh. “You’re a sweet thing. You shouldn’t be here with me, you should be out finding a husband.”
“I…ah…” What to say to that?
“Very noble of you to devote yourself to your siblings, but you have to live as well.”
Elizabeth just stared at her employer, horrified by the tears pooling in her eyes. She’d served Lady Danbury for five years, and never had they spoken of such matters. “I’ll—I’ll be off, then, since you say I might leave early.”
Lady Danbury nodded, looking oddly disappointed. Had she been hoping Elizabeth would pursue the topic further? “Just put that book of poetry back before you go,” she instructed. “I’m sure I won’t look at it, and I can’t trust the servants to keep my books in order.”
“I will.” Elizabeth set the rest of the books down on an end table, gathered her things, and said her farewells. As she was walking out of the room, Malcolm jumped off of Lady Danbury’s lap and followed her.
“See?” Lady D crowed. “I told you he loved you.”
Elizabeth eyed the cat suspiciously as she headed out into the hall. “What do you want, Malcolm?”
He flicked his tail, bared his teeth, and hissed.
“Oh!” Elizabeth exclaimed, dropping the poetry book. “You beast. Following me out here just to hiss—”
“Did you throw a book at my cat?” Lady D hollered.
Elizabeth decided to ignore the question, instead jabbing her finger in Malcolm’s direction as she snatched up her book. “Go back to Lady Danbury, you awful creature.”
Malcolm stuck his tail in the air and stalked away.
Elizabeth let out a long breath and walked into the library. She headed toward the poetry section, scrupulously keeping her back to that little red book. She didn’t want to think about it, she didn’t want to look at it—
Drat, but that thing was practically giving off heat. Never in her life had Elizabeth been so aware of an inanimate object.
She reshelved the volume of poetry and stomped to the door, starting to get really annoyed with herself. That silly little book shouldn’t affect her one way or another. By avoiding it like the plague, she was actually giving it power it didn’t deserve, and—
“Oh, for heavens sake!” she finally burst out.
“Did you say something?” Lady Danbury called out from the next room.
“No! I just—uh, I just tripped over the edge of the rug. That’s all.” Elizabeth muttered another “Good heavens” under her breath and tiptoed back over to the book. It was lying face-down, and much to Elizabeth’s surprise, her hand shot out and flipped it over.
HOW TO MARRY A MARQUIS
There it was, same as before. Staring up at her, mocking her, sitting there as if to say she didn’t have the gumption to read it.
“It is just a book,” she muttered. “Just a stupid, garishly red little book.”
And yet…
Elizabeth needed money so desperately. Lucas had to be sent to Eton, and Jane had cried for a week when she’d used up the last of her watercolors. And both of them were growing faster than weeds on a summer day. Jane could make do with Susan’s old frocks, but Lucas would need clothing befitting his station.
The only road to riches was marriage, and this brazen little book claimed to have all the answers. Elizabeth wasn’t so foolish as to believe that she might capture the interest of a marquis, but maybe a little advice could help her snare a nice country gentleman—one with a nice comfortable income. She’d even marry a Cit. Her father would turn over in his grave at the thought of her making an alliance with someone in trade, but a girl had to be practical, and Elizabeth would wager that there were a number of wealthy merchants who’d like to marry the impoverished daughter of a baronet.
Besides, it was her father’s fault that she was in this bind, anyway. If he hadn’t…
Elizabeth gave her head a shake. Now wasn’t the time to dwell on the past. She needed to concentrate on her present dilemma.
When it came right down to it, she didn’t know much about men. She didn’t know what she was supposed to say to them or how sh
e was supposed to act to make them fall in love with her.
She stared at the book. Hard.
She looked around. Was anyone coming?
She took a deep breath, and quick as lightning, the book found its way into her reticule.
Then she ran out of the house.
James Sidwell, Marquis of Riverdale, liked to go unnoticed. He liked nothing better than to blend into a crowd, his identity unknown, and ferret out plots and facts. It was probably why he’d so enjoyed his years of work for the War Office.
And he’d been damned good at it. The same face and body that commanded such attention in London ballrooms disappeared into crowds with startling success. James merely removed the confident gleam from his eyes, stooped his shoulders, and no one ever suspected that he was of noble lineage.
Of course the brown hair and brown eyes helped, too. It was always good to have common coloring. James doubted there were very many successful redheaded operatives.
But one year earlier, his cover had been blown when a Napoleonic spy had revealed his identity to the French. And now the War Office refused to assign him to any mission more exciting than the occasional rounding up of low-stakes smugglers.
James had accepted his boring fate with a heavy sigh and an air of resignation. It was probably time he devoted himself to his estates and title, anyway. He had to marry at some point—distasteful as the prospect might be—and produce an heir to the marquisate. And so he had turned his attention to the London social scene, where a marquis—especially one so young and handsome—never went unnoticed.
James had been alternately disgusted, bored, and amused. Disgusted because the young ladies—and their mamas—viewed him as nothing so much as a large fish to be hooked and reeled in. Bored because after years of political intrigue, the color of ribbons and the cut of a waistcoat just didn’t strike him as fascinating topics of conversation. And amused because, to be frank, if he hadn’t held on to his sense of humor throughout the ordeal he would have gone mad.
When the note from his aunt had arrived by special messenger, he had nearly whooped with joy. Now, as he approached her house in Surrey, he pulled it out of his pocket and reread it.
Riverdale—
I need your help urgently. Please report to Danbury House with all possible haste. Do not travel in your best finery. I shall tell everyone that you are my new estate manager. Your new name is James Siddons.
Agatha, Lady Danbury
James had no idea what this was all about, but he knew it was just what he needed to alleviate his boredom and allow him to leave London without feeling guilty over shirking his duties. He traveled by hired coach, since an estate manager would not own horses as fine as his, and walked the last mile from the center of town to Danbury House. Everything he needed was packed in one bag.
In the eyes of the world, he became plain Mr. James Siddons, a gentleman, to be sure, but perhaps just a little down on funds. His clothing came from the back of his closet—well-made, but worn at the elbows and two years out of style. A few snips with the kitchen shears effectively marred the expert haircut he’d received just the week before. For all intents and purposes, the Marquis of Riverdale had disappeared, and James could not have been more pleased.
Of course his aunt’s scheme did have a major flaw, but that was only to be expected when one let amateurs do the planning. James hadn’t visited Danbury House in nearly a decade; his work for the War Office hadn’t afforded him much time to visit family, and he certainly hadn’t wanted to put his aunt in any kind of danger. But surely there was someone—some aging retainer, the butler, perhaps—who would recognize him. He had, after all, spent most of his childhood here.
But then again, people saw what they expected to see, and when James acted like an estate manager, people generally saw an estate manager.
He was nearly to Danbury House—practically on the front steps, actually—when the front door flew open and a petite blond woman came tearing out, head down, eyes to the ground, and moving just a fraction slower than a filly at full gallop. James didn’t even have a chance to call out before she’d run right into him.
Their bodies connected with a dull thump, and the girl let out a feminine squeak of surprise as she bounced off of him and landed inelegantly on the ground. A clip or ribbon or whatever it was females called those things flew from her hair, causing a thick lock of white-gold hair to slip out of her coiffure and settle awkwardly on her shoulder.
“I beg your pardon,” James said, holding out his hand to help her up.
“No, no,” she replied, brushing off her skirts, “it was my fault entirely. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
She didn’t bother to take his hand, and James found himself oddly disappointed. She wasn’t wearing gloves, and neither was he, and he felt a strange compulsion to feel the touch of her hand in his.
But he could not say such things out loud, and so he instead bent down to help her retrieve her things. Her reticule had flown open when it hit the ground, and her belongings were now strewn around their feet. He handed her her gloves, which caused her to blush.
“It’s so hot,” she explained, looking at the gloves with resignation.
“Don’t don them on my account,” he said with an easy smile. “As you can see, I have also chosen to use the fine weather as an excuse to leave mine off.”
She stared at his hands for a moment before shaking her head and murmuring, “This is the oddest conversation.”
She knelt to gather the rest of her things, and James followed suit. He picked up a handkerchief and was reaching for a book when she suddenly made the strangest noise—nothing so much as a strangled cry—and snatched it out from beneath his fingers.
James found himself really wanting to know what was in that book.
She cleared her throat about six times and said, “You’re very kind to help me.”
“It was no trouble, I assure you,” he murmured, clearly trying to get a look at the book. But she’d already shoved it back into her reticule.
Elizabeth smiled nervously at him, letting her hand slip into her bag, just to reassure herself that the book was really there, hidden safely out of sight. If she was caught reading such a thing, she’d be mortified beyond words. It was a given that all unmarried women were looking for a husband, but only the most pathetic of females would actually be caught reading a manual on the subject.
He didn’t say anything, just looked her over in an assessing sort of way that made her even more nervous. Finally she blurted out, “Are you the new estate manager?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” She cleared her throat. “Well, then I suppose I ought to introduce myself, as I’m sure our paths will cross. I am Miss Hotchkiss, Lady Danbury’s companion.”
“Ah. I am Mr. Siddons, recently of London.”
“It was very nice meeting you, Mr. Siddons,” she said with a smile that James found oddly engaging. “Terribly sorry about the accident, but I must be off.”
She waited for his acknowledging nod, then dashed off down the drive, clutching her bag as if her very life depended on it.
James just stared as she ran off, strangely unable to take his eyes off of her retreating form.
Chapter 2
“James!” Agatha Danbury didn’t often squeal, but James was her favorite nephew. Truth be told, she probably liked him better than any of her own children. He, at least, was smart enough not to stick his head between iron fence beams. “How lovely to see you!”
James dutifully bent down and offered his cheek for a kiss. “How lovely to see me?” he queried. “You almost sound surprised by my arrival. Come, now, you know I could no more ignore your summons than one sent by the Prince Regent himself.”
“Oh, that.”
He narrowed his eyes at her dismissive response. “Agatha, you’re not playing games with me, are you?”
Her posture suddenly became ramrod straight in her chair. “You would think that of me?”
&nb
sp; “In a heartbeat,” he said with an easy smile as he sat down. “I learned all my best tricks from you.”
“Yes, well, someone had to take you under her wing,” she replied. “Poor child. If I hadn’t—”
“Agatha,” James said sharply. He had no wish to involve himself in a discussion of his childhood. He owed his aunt everything—his very soul, even. But he didn’t want to get into this now.
“As it happens,” she said with a disdainful sniff, “I am not playing games. I am being blackmailed.”
James leaned forward. Blackmailed? Agatha was a crafty old thing, but proper as anything, and he couldn’t imagine her having done anything that might warrant blackmail.
“Can you even fathom it?” she demanded. “That someone would dare to blackmail me? Hmmph. Where is my cat?”
“Where is your cat?” he echoed.
“Mallllllllllllcolmmmmmmm!”
James blinked and watched as a monstrously obese feline padded into the room. He walked over to James, sniffed, and hopped up onto his lap.
“Isn’t he just the friendliest cat?” Agatha asked.
“I hate cats.”
“You’ll love Malcolm.”
He decided that tolerating the cat was easier than arguing with his aunt. “Do you have any idea who your blackmailer might be?”
“None.”
“May I ask why you are being blackmailed?”
“It is so very embarrassing,” she said, her pale blue eyes growing bright with tears.
James grew concerned. Aunt Agatha never cried. There had been few things in his life that were completely and utterly constant, but one of them had been Agatha. She was sharp, she had a biting sense of humor, she loved him beyond measure, and she never cried. Never.
He started to go to her, then held back. She wouldn’t want him to comfort her. She would only see it as an acknowledgment of her momentary display of weakness. Besides, the cat showed no inclination to get off his lap. “Do you have the letter?” he asked gently. “I assume you received a letter.”
