Undressed with the Marquess

by Caldwell, Christi

  Dare’s curiosity stirred all the more . . . as did his suspicion. He’d filched from enough powerful peers to know there was no friend for him amongst that class.

  “You don’t know who we are?” The gentleman put that question to Dare the moment Wylie shut the door behind him.

  Dare eyed the trio. He shook his head. “I don’t.”

  “I am the Duke of Pemberly.”

  He racked his brain, searching desperately for a reason that this man and his wife should be somehow . . . familiar. A sense of unease skittered along his spine, scraping it and icing it over. “And you think your title should mean something to me?” he asked impatiently, frustrated at being the only one in the dark. “I don’t give a damn about it.”

  I don’t care about his title . . . He’s not so very scary . . . He’s more fun than Father . . .

  An odd buzzing filled his ears. He jolted and looked unblinkingly at the duke.

  “The names mean nothing to you,” the duke murmured, more to himself. He indicated the old lady. “This is my wife, the Duchess of Pemberly.”

  Dare shifted his gaze over to the old woman.

  “Hullo.” The lady spoke in a quiet voice.

  Get down this instant, Darius, and kiss my cheek . . . Your grandmother orders it . . .

  A child’s laughter pealed around the chambers of Dare’s mind, and he curled his hands tight, fighting the need to dig his fingertips into his temples.

  His skin prickled from the weight of the stares on him, and he made himself relax his hands.

  Because he didn’t want to look too closely at these people. He didn’t want to look and see . . . anything.

  The duke stared at Dare. Moisture glazed the old man’s eyes.

  Unnerved, and unable to meet that gaze, Dare shot a desperate glance at the closed door leading out . . . away from these people and the gilded world they belonged to. And yet Wylie would be there. Dare was as much a prisoner now, before these lofty peers, as he’d been with a bag over his head and a noose around his neck.

  He made himself look to the last figure present: the young woman. She’d still not spoken, but rather continued to eye Dare cautiously.

  Smart lady.

  The duke gestured at the woman. “And this is Kinsley, your sister.”

  His sister.

  And the dais may as well have been kicked out from under his feet.

  He stared, unblinking, at the young woman . . .

  “I . . . don’t suppose that name means something to you?” the duke asked with a gentleness Dare wouldn’t have believed any nobleman capable of.

  It is better that you’re gone, Darius . . . I know it . . . You know it . . . Life has gone on without you . . .

  And not for the first time that day, his gut churned and tossed.

  The duke swallowed loudly. “Hello, grandson.”

  Hello, grandson.

  Dare made himself go absolutely motionless.

  All the while, wanting to flee.

  To escape.

  He was more cornered now than he’d been when his latest cell at Newgate had clicked shut, imprisoning him within its dank folds. And another cool sweat slicked his skin.

  “Grandson?” Dare scoffed. “You’re a long way from Mayfair, Duke. You don’t have any family in these parts.” They were the truest words he could have tossed to the old duke. Dare turned to go.

  The duke called out, halting Dare in his tracks. “Do you deny who you are? What you are?”

  What he was . . .

  Your brother is better suited . . . Your brother is better suited . . .

  Turning back, he curved his lips into a cold smile. “My name is Dare Grey. And if you’re here looking for anyone else? You are wasting your time.”

  “Wh-what does it mean, th-that he’d deny it?” The duchess’s voice crept up a pitch. “He’d rather be hanged than join us, Harold.” She wept against her fist.

  The duke ignored his wife. “You know what we’re talking about, Darius.” The elderly lord spoke with a quiet insistence. “We know Connor Steele came to you. We know you’re aware of who you are.”

  Aye, the same detective who had hunted Dare down in the streets and sought to bring him out of East London had been the one to contact his grandparents. “He went to you?” he asked, unable to keep the loathing from his lips. Dare had happily sent the man on his way . . . but it appeared he’d been undeterred.

  “He did,” the duke confirmed. “And it is a good thing.” He looked meaningfully toward the doorway Wylie no doubt stood outside, at attention.

  Yes, if it hadn’t been for that intervention, even now Dare’s lifeless body would be getting cut from the gibbet.

  He balled his hands tightly and damned the duke for being correct. About so much.

  This was the world Darius had been born to. The one he’d only briefly considered rejoining . . . and only a very long time ago. Back when he’d been a boy of fourteen.

  It is better without you here . . . It is better without . . .

  His mind balked at that also long-buried memory. For even then, he’d known the truth: he’d been away from that fairy-tale world too long, been too wicked, and done even more scandalous things—criminal ones, and not just the mischievous stunts of boys. As such, there was no other place for him.

  “I can’t help you,” he finally said, his voice deadened. He resumed his march to the door. He’d take his chances with Wylie over the group assembled here. Dare had reached to knock when the duke called out, freezing Dare’s hand midmovement.

  “But we can help you . . . Darius.”

  And given that when he rapped upon the panel, he’d seal his fate with that inevitable trip to the gallows, Dare let his arm fall to his side.

  “If you are, in fact, the person I believe you are—my grandson?” This time, there was a question from the duke.

  If you are, in fact, the person I believe you are—my grandson?

  All he need do was just deny it. To confirm that the other man was dicked in the nob and that Dare had no bloody idea what nonsense had spared him the hanging he’d been moments away from.

  A sound of impatience escaped the young lady standing there. “Let us just leave.” She clipped out each syllable. “I’ve already told both of you, this is a waste of all our time.”

  A memory intruded, made stronger by the disdain emanating from the young woman across from him.

  You’ve wasted your time in coming here . . .

  “I trust that would be best for you, wouldn’t it?” Dare taunted her.

  The young lady’s jaw tensed. “If it means protecting the title from a common street thief whom my grandparents are desperate to believe is the grandson they lost, then yes . . . that would be best, indeed.” She angled her shoulder dismissively and spoke in more gentling tones to the old woman. “Grandmother, come. I told you . . . Darius is dead.”

  They prefer you dead, Dare Grey . . . Live your life . . .

  And yet . . . if he walked out and sent these people on their way, there would be no life.

  Fixing a smile on, Dare looked squarely at his late mother’s father, the duke. “Hello, Grandfather. How long it has been.”

  Chapter 2

  Living in the Cotswolds, a small village on the outskirts of London, Mrs. Temperance Swift had discovered there were different rings of hell.

  Dealing with old Mrs. Marmlebury, the town’s nastiest widow and gossip, was the last and most miserable of all the rings.

  Mrs. Marmlebury tapped her wooden fan on the counter. “Are you listening to me, Mrs. Swift?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Marmlebury.” After all, it would be nigh impossible to tune out the old woman, who was deafer than her late husband had been blind.

  “Because if you were,” the elderly lady went on as though Temperance hadn’t spoken, “you should know that I quite prefer pink. I look lovely in the shade. Mr. Marmlebury always said I was a vision in it.” She dabbed at her eyes with a kerchief. “God rest his soul.”


  “God rest his soul,” Temperance murmured, bowing her head in the requisite display of contrition and respect. More like God rot it. When he’d been living, the gentleman had made a habit of visiting the dressmaker and assaulting the staff, all under the pretense of “shopping for my beloved wife.”

  “Mr. Marmlebury insisted it was the only color I should wear.”

  Temperance bit her tongue to keep from pointing out that the late Mr. Marmlebury had been blinder than a bat, with a penchant for mixing blue and red in his own attire.

  Alas, if a client couldn’t be reasoned with, then any dressmaker determined to keep her business adhered to the adage “the patron is always correct.” After all, ultimately their pleasure and happiness were of the utmost importance.

  “I like pink. It’s not shameful, like red.” She glanced pointedly at Temperance’s modest vermilion dress. “Would you gather me pink, Mrs. Swift.” No one would ever dare confuse the widow’s words as a question, but neither could a seamstress afford to make presumptions with clients.

  “Of course.” Rushing across the shop, Temperance made her way over to the bolts of fabric, the pathetically skimpy selection of pinks. While her client angled a fabric before her wide frame, Temperance considered the choices.

  She picked up a pale piece.

  Pink.

  God, what a hideous, garish color. Any and all shades of it. What was it about pink that so many women should prefer such a hue?

  Nay, with warm brunette coloring, Mrs. Marmlebury would be far better suited in—Temperance skimmed her gaze quickly over the drearily limited selection—peach or apricot . . . or even an apple green. Temperance lowered the bolt. Perhaps the old widow could be persuaded?

  A small figure slid into position beside her, briefly startling a gasp from Temperance.

  “She can’t,” Gwynn Armitage, a fellow seamstress at Vêtements Français, said from the corner of her mouth. Temperance and all the girls who’d been employed here had become adept at hiding their speech while working.

  “She can’t what?” Temperance spoke in matching hushed tones. She and Gwynn had met in the Cotswolds nearly five years ago when the other woman, a young widow, had just been hired. They’d clashed from the start . . . until they hadn’t. Until they’d realized they shared the same frustrations at their lot in life. And somewhere along the way, the two enemies had become sisters in a world where one was fortunate if she had even a single person whom she might rely upon. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. She can’t be reasoned with.” Gwynn collected a swath of pink and held it aloft, concealing her mouth and affording them brief privacy from their employer. “That’s what you were thinking.” She paused. “And you can’t. Pink is her decision, and she cannot be swayed. Mayhap if we were real seamstresses in a fashionable modiste shop on New Bond Street. But the Cotswolds? This isn’t that place.”

  Alas, at the end of the long working day, they’d always been practical enough to know that these were the best circumstances they were likely to ever know.

  “Mrs. Swiiiift?” Mrs. Marmlebury called out. “Hallooo?”

  From where she stood, helping a more distinguished, plumper-in-the-pockets-for-Cotswolds client, Madame Amelie paused to glance in Temperance and Gwynn’s direction.

  “Just a moment, Mrs. Marmlebury,” Temperance said loudly so the nearly deaf woman might hear her. “I am just searching for the perfect options.” She reached for the apple green.

  Gwynn pushed it from her reach and gave her a long look.

  They locked in a silent war over the bolts.

  It had taken a lifetime of mistakes to learn anything of true import; however, one area she’d always had remarkably in order and under control, the one thing that had made sense, was color. Temperance released a frustrated sigh. She made one more appeal. “No decent seamstress worth her weight in bolt would dare put that woman in this color.”

  “Not Bond Street,” Gwynn repeated. “As such, no wise woman intending to keep her post would argue with the late Mr. Marmlebury.” She bowed her head in mock solemnity. “God rest his soul.”

  A sharp bark of laughter burst from Temperance, and even as her customer and employer glanced her way, she had already disguised that mirth for a cough. “Stop,” she mouthed.

  “Take the pink.” Gwynn enunciated each syllable.

  “Mrs. Swiiiift. I do not have all day,” Mrs. Marmlebury whined.

  In the end, Gwynn stole the decision. Grabbing the apple-green bolt, she thrust several pink ones against Temperance’s chest.

  Temperance grunted and collected the armful.

  Gwynn waved over at the old widow. “We’ve found lovely options for you, Mrs. Marmlebury. I trust you’ll be very pleased. Mrs. Swift is just bringing them over. Now,” her friend added under her breath for Temperance’s benefit. She followed that with a hard nudge in Temperance’s lower back, knocking her forward.

  “Ouch.” Over her shoulder, Temperance flashed a frown. “That hurt.”

  “Do you know what hurts worse than that?” Gwynn answered her own question. “Having no employment or funds to feed oneself or pay for rent or—”

  “You’ve made your point,” Temperance muttered under her breath. Yes, her friend was correct. It was the unfortunate circumstance of the street-born that in the position they held, they didn’t have the luxury of speaking as freely as they wished. Or of having complete say over decisions that they were best equipped to make.

  Nay, she’d learned firsthand with several sackings and docked pay that her words couldn’t be freely given. Not truly. Not if she wished to eat and survive and live . . .

  There will come a day, love, when you’re going to do more than survive . . .

  That voice slipped in, an echo of long ago, and yet still so very fresh in her mind.

  You’re a damned fool still, all these years later, allowing him any real estate inside your mind . . .

  “Mrs. Swift? Mrs. Swift?”

  A kick to her shin, coupled with her name being called, brought her back.

  Gwynn gave her a look. “What is going on?” she mouthed.

  “I am fine.” Temperance retrained all her focus on her client. Returning to Mrs. Marmlebury, she guided the older woman back over to the mirrors. Temperance proceeded to hold the fabrics up, draping the silk over her client’s frame so she might see the color against her skin.

  She didn’t think of Dare Grey often. Oh, in those earliest days, she’d been bereft . . . heartbroken . . . incapable of anything but tears and terror. Then she’d fought the memory of him because it had been too painful . . .

  Until it hadn’t been.

  “You’re the last man I should marry, Dare Grey . . .”

  “That’s no doubt true, Temperance,” Dare, the most arrogant thief in London, said somberly. He flashed his devil-may-care grin. “But I’m also the only man you’ll ever want . . .” He reached for her . . .

  The echo of her squealing laughter pealed around her mind.

  Even as she’d been distracted, Temperance had also given her friend the truth.

  She was fine. Far better off these years than she’d been . . . ever. Born to the ugliest drunk in London, one of the hands of gang leader Mac Diggory, Temperance had spent her earliest years in hell, and the only brief respite had come from a London thief.

  She’d been hopelessly weak for him, and it had very nearly destroyed her.

  This new life was far better.

  Or rather, it was the best she could hope for.

  Temperance went about draping Mrs. Marmlebury, creating the illusion of a dress for the older woman to assess.

  All the while, she let her mind wander.

  Where in blazes had thoughts of Dare Grey come from? It had been at least a year that she’d managed to keep him buried. Not that his memory was always an unwelcome one. It wasn’t. For the pain had receded at some point, and with all remembrances of him came a stark reminder of w
hat happened when a woman wasn’t resourceful, when she allowed herself to care too deeply for someone who wasn’t so very deserving, and allowed herself to put feelings and emotions before building a foundation and future all her own.

  The tinny bell at the front of the shop jolted her from her musings.

  Disinterestedly, she glanced over to the latest customer—

  Not a customer.

  His arms laden with several crates, her brother, Chance, stepped inside. “Ladies,” he called out in greeting, and seemingly effortlessly balancing that enormous burden against his hip, he doffed his hat with the other hand.

  Her brother was a moderately successful weaver for one of the most successful mill owners in England, and Temperance couldn’t have been prouder of how far he’d come from their beginnings in East London if she’d given birth to him. But then, their own mother having died when he was just a babe, Temperance had stepped in to fill that role.

  She watched as he moved deeper into the shop. Smiling as he went, he possessed an urbane charm that no one was immune to, not even Temperance’s employer, Madame Amelie.

  Of course, it did help that he was the favored employee of a more-than-successful textile mill owner.

  As the shopgirls called out greetings, Chance flashed his usual charming grin before settling his focus on one.

  Gwynn blushed under that look.

  Temperance stared on wistfully, proving herself to be a disloyal sister and an even more disloyal friend for the flash of envy she felt at what the pair shared. At what she’d hungered for, for herself . . . and what she’d never have. There was that, too.

  But you almost had it . . .

  And for a very, very brief while . . . she had.

  She went absolutely still at that whisper of a past long forgotten.

  Something sharp stung her arm, startling her from that reverie. Madame Amelie had her flicking finger out once more. “You were distracted, Mrs. Swift. You don’t get distracted.”

  No, Temperance was the second in command at the shop, and the reason why she was never a recipient of that notorious flick.