The Marquess of Secrets (The Hornsby Brothers Book 3)

by Karyn Gerrard

  “Yes.” Sam’s brows furrowed. “Nothing too large or elaborate. What do they mean?”

  “I asked the earls that exact question. Shaftesbury believes we should start at fifty beds. With room for expansion.”

  Sam gave a sharp bark of laughter. “We have hundreds at terminus on any given night.”

  Harrison sighed as he stared into the depths of his brandy. “Yes, we do. But let us be truthful, it was to be a temporary solution. The cesspits are nearly full. I’m surprised the human waste hasn’t spread disease before now. Terminus is a glorified soup kitchen, a shelter that offers the thinnest veneer of medical care. This will be an actual clinic for the truly destitute.”

  “And what of those with nowhere else to go, those who are not ill? Do we turn them away as the infirmaries do? Isn’t that defeating our purpose of starting our underground shelter?”

  A bolt of pain shot through Harrison’s head and he rubbed his temple to dull the throb. “Damn it all, I have run through nearly all my inheritance, Sam. The well is dry. I’ve no more to give financially for the long-term.” And he was beginning to believe he had no more to give physically or emotionally either. Never in all his thirty-four years had he felt this fatigued.

  Sam’s eyes widened. “You’re destitute?”

  “No, not as yet. When my brothers and I came of age, my parents bestowed a fair-sized legacy to each of us to use in any manner we wished. Investments and such, mad money more than anything. I still have an income from my country estate in Eastbourne, and I’ll inherit other properties and money when I become the duke. But in the short-term it is not enough to keep the clinic running. Hell, I should have invested some of the money; the profit would have allowed the clinic to remain open longer.”

  Another secret he’d kept until tonight, his precarious financial situation. How extravagant of him to gift the town house and its furnishings to his mistress. He could have sold it and used the proceeds to fund terminus for the rest of the year. No, he wanted to ensure Annie had sufficient funds to survive. He truly was grateful for her friendship and the occasional respite from his exhaustive and secretive life.

  What he did not reveal to Sam is he may have to give up this town house before the end of the year. When in London he could stay at the Gransford’s residence in Mayfair. His father would allow it, surely. This residence was an extravagance he could no longer afford.

  Sam absently swirled the brandy. “Invested some of your inheritance? You have invested— in hundreds of lives. Are you aware how many people all of us have assisted? Especially you. Your time, your money, your very soul. Not only did you assist with physical maladies, but in allowing those in need to rejoin society. We all offered hope for a better life, but you gave more than any of us. Now that is a true legacy.”

  Damn it, tears welled in his eyes. More proof he was beyond weary. “A legacy we can all be proud of. The nuns are angels of mercy. This would not have worked without their dedication,” Harrison whispered. “And yours.”

  “I agree.” Sam sipped his brandy, his expression showing he was deep in thought. “Could we not propose a clinic-shelter amalgam? Along the lines of what we are running now?”

  “We could try. Let us hash it out over the poached salmon. I would like to return to this William Robins you spoke of. You see, the woman I found in the alley is the same one I told you of that departed from terminus.”

  “When the arrogant detective showed up?” Sam placed his empty snifter on the oak table next to him. “What is the woman to you?”

  Yes, what? How could he explain it to Sam when he could not comprehend the wherefores himself? “I am not sure. I’m compelled to assist her. There is more to her story.” He took a sip of brandy, draining his glass. “I will not deny that I am attracted to her,” Harrison murmured in a soft voice. “Before you say anything, I will remain cautious in my dealings with her.”

  “You might want to hide the silver,” Sam retorted. When Harrison gave him an admonishing look, Sam shook his head. “No, I will not be chastised by your irate glare. You do not know this woman or her story. All this could be a ruse to gain entry into your house to rob you blind. Or worse, murder you in your bed.”

  “May I suggest you cease reading the Police Gazette as your imagination has run away with you? Give me some credit for assessing a person’s character.”

  Sam shrugged. “Well, you’re in the market for a new mistress are you not?”

  Harrison shot to his feet, his free hand clenched into a fist.

  “Ah,” Sam said in a soft voice. “As I suspected. You are interested in her, beyond the surface attraction.” Sam looked up and caught his gaze. “Assist her by all means, but remain vigilant. I would not see you hurt for the world.”

  Harrison’s breathing calmed. Interested beyond the surface attraction. Should he fight it? Stubbornly continue to search for a young lady among the peerage? Never felt all at sea like this before. It worried him—and exhilarated him beyond all imagining.

  Chapter 8

  Lydia had barely seen the marquess the past two days. Granted, she spent most of the time sleeping, he could have looked in on her then. Today she was determined to sit upright at least. Although it took effort, she was sitting up straight when Mrs. Wickes entered with a tray.

  “Good for you, my girl.” She placed the tray on the bed, then plumped up the pillows behind Lydia. “I’ve brought something a little more appetizing than beef broth.” Picking up the tray, she then laid it on Lydia’s lap. “Oatmeal. Brown sugar to sweeten it. Two pieces of toast and fresh honey in this container. Hot tea. If you eat this all down, we can try cold meat and assorted cheeses for teatime. Perhaps a scone.” Mrs. Wickes turned to leave.

  “Wait, Mrs. Wickes. Can you stay for a moment?”

  The older woman nodded briskly. “I can spare you but a few.” She sat in the chair next to the bed. “Eat up, my girl.”

  Lydia immediately drizzled a teaspoon of the golden honey on a piece of toast and took a bite. Heavenly. “Does the marquess make a habit of bringing strangers into his house?”

  Mrs. Wickes frowned. “Here now. His lordship is not in the habit of picking up young ladies from the street and bringing them to his town house for immoral purposes. Get that right out of your mind. The marquess is a generous master. He does have rakish ways, but why wouldn’t he, unattached and handsome as he is?”

  Lydia inwardly breathed a sigh of relief as she took another bite of toast. She assumed he would require payment of the physical sort for his generosity. When did any man of the peerage do anything out of the kindness of his heart? What did she know of the upper classes except what she read in books or in the papers? Or the salacious gossip she overheard at the hospital?

  “Did someone bathe me the first night I was here?” Lydia sipped her tea, keeping her gaze locked on the housekeeper, watching for any change in her expression.

  “You were suffering from a terrible fever. His lordship insisted you be placed in a cool bath to bring down your temperature. You floated in and out of consciousness, babbling words that made no sense. You did call for your papa at one point.”

  Tears gathered on her lashes at the mention of her father. “He died five years ago.”

  “I’m that sorry, lass.”

  She gave Mrs. Wickes a shaky smile. “Thank you for everything. You’ve been kind and solicitous. As has his lordship. And the maid who comes in to keep the fire going.”

  “You have a touch of quality about you, I saw that right off. Not a true street waif at all.”

  Lydia took a sip of tea. “I’m not. Never did I think it would come to this…” She shook her head as if to dismiss the past several months. If only she could. “Concerning the bath, was the marquess in the room? I remember seeing a man’s face though I couldn’t make it out.”

  A small smile curved about the housekeeper’s mouth. “Well, he was. He was that concerned. Don’t look panicked; I kept your threadbare chemise on the entire time he was in
the room. After he stepped out, I removed it and washed you all over. As I told you earlier, everything had to be burned. You have flea bites on your torso. The doctor treated them.”

  “So a doctor did see me? Will he return?”

  Mrs. Wickes stood, straightening her apron. “You best take that up with his lordship. Eat up, girl. I’ll return later for the tray.” The woman bustled out of the room.

  The marquess was concerned? He’d been in the room when she was all but naked? It’s not as if she were an innocent virgin. But still, how strange. Why would a peer be interested or concerned for her care? It made no sense. Why even take her in? Lydia couldn’t puzzle it out this minute, for her head ached. And he called a doctor for her? What an expense. How generous.

  Eating leisurely, Lydia glanced about the room. A fair size and feminine in style from the brass bed to the flower-patterned wallpaper to the white wood furniture and light rose colored drapes. With the fire going it made the room cozy. Against the opposite wall was a lovely vanity. Lydia sighed. She’d always longed for one, so she could sit in front of the mirror powdering her nose and applying a touch of scent behind her ears. They were the hopeful dreams of an idealistic young girl with her entire future ahead of her. Now all of it was dashed and smashed beyond recognition.

  As she ate the last of her toast, a knock sounded at the partly open door. “May I come in?”

  Lydia’s heart skittered in her chest at the sound of his masculine tone. Blast it all for she shouldn’t be reacting to him. “Yes, my lord.”

  The marquess stepped into the room, but stayed near the entrance. “You’re sitting upright. Wonderful.” He turned away and sauntered toward the window. Standing in front of it, he clasped his hands behind him. All she could see was a partial profile of his face.

  “What is your name?” he asked, his voice soft. “The truth, if you please.”

  “My name is Miss Lydia Chesterton, my lord.”

  His lordship’s shoulders straightened. Perhaps she imagined it for how could he know of her name? If that is the reason he reacted. Several minutes passed. Lydia pushed the tray off her lap and the china clinked together.

  “How long were you living on the streets?” he asked.

  “On and off for close to two weeks. I ran out of money, could no longer afford the small room I rented since I left…a precarious situation. I could not even afford a dosshouse, my lord. I had no choice but to seek shelter in various alleys.”

  “Do you have secrets, Miss Chesterton?”

  Lydia squirmed uncomfortably and pulled the quilt up to her shoulders as a chill moved through her. “Yes. I suppose most people do, my lord.”

  The marquess walked back and forth, his head down. Then he stopped in front of the window again. “I do as well. I would not expect you to reveal secrets without revealing some of my own. Would you be amenable to an exchange of such intimacies?”

  Good God. He did want her to repay him in a physical sense. How on earth could she be horrified and intrigued all at the same time?

  Because, Lydia, you are wicked. To the very core.

  The marquess turned toward her. “Secrets only, Miss Chesterton. Do not distress yourself.”

  She could not see his face for the early afternoon sun blurred his features. It was if a heavenly halo of illumination surrounded him.

  “Why did you bring me here, my lord? You could have walked away and left me to the fates. Many would have.” Her voice was shaky, and it revealed her vulnerability. Not exactly what she wished to do in this circumstance.

  “I believed that you would receive better care here than if I’d taken you to a hospital. Many hospitals would have turned you away. If not at once, then after I’d left you there.”

  Lydia knew the truth of the statement well enough. She’d seen it occur at St. Thomas. Yes, the hospital took in a smattering of charity cases, but they turned away more than they treated. How did the marquess know of this? Seemed to her an aristocrat would hardly care about those beneath him.

  “Then I’m grateful, my lord.” A coughing fit overtook her, but she collected herself and wiped her mouth with the napkin from the tray.

  He took a step or two toward her, then halted.

  “Mrs. Wickes said a doctor treated me when I first arrived,” Lydia said.

  “Hmm. Yes.”

  “Will he return, my lord?”

  “I’m keeping the doctor informed of your condition. If you should take a turn for the worse, I’ll recall him. Meanwhile, you appear to be recovering well enough.”

  “Of course, thank you, my lord.” Lydia could not ascertain his emotions. He spoke with the detached air she imagined aristocrats used. Why she hoped for any warmth was beyond her.

  “Considering your homeless state, there is no one you can turn to in your hour of need?” he asked.

  Lydia clasped her hands to keep them from shaking. “There is no one, my lord.”

  He took a step toward her. “No man in your life? A suitor?”

  “Not any longer. He’s out of my life. I hope.”

  The marquess moved closer, his movements reminding her of a jungle cat she’d seen at a circus years before. A sleek animal stalking his prey. Her heart skipped a beat, but not in fear.

  “It was not a mutually beneficial relationship then?” he asked, his voice husky.

  “No, my lord. Not in any way. In fact, I would categorize it as unhealthy.”

  “You agree then, to the exchange of secrets?”

  She gulped. “Yes.”

  He sat by her bed, and his wonderful spicy scent filled her senses making her slightly dizzy. “Then allow me to reveal first. Until recently, I kept a mistress. Set her up in a fancy town house for more than three years. It was a ruse.” He crossed his long legs. “Oh, I visited her occasionally, but on the whole she supplied a ready excuse for my many absences.”

  Did he expect her to react? Surely he wasn’t proposing she step in as his mistress? Lydia waited and kept looking straight ahead. His sitting so near made her nervous. Not for her safety, but certainly for her peace of mind. Since she left John Huntsford her nerves were frayed. Why was she reacting to this man? Lydia was well aware of the varied physical reactions of attraction: the tumbling insides, the rush of excitement, the accelerated heartbeat. She was experiencing all of these.

  Not wise. Not at all.

  “Did I haunt opium dens?” he continued. “Brothels? Gambling houses? No, those vices of the upper classes bored me in my early twenties. I indulged a few times, enough to give me a reputation. I decided to use the reputation as a cover. I even kept my secret life from my family.” He crossed his arms. “Your turn, Miss Chesterton. Quid pro quo.”

  What? He was going to leave his story there? Frustrating man.

  “You do know what that means?” he asked.

  At least his tone was not condescending. “I do. My father was a schoolmaster. I understand a little Latin. It means ‘this for that.’ I will return the exchange.”

  “Did your father also teach you Greek? I ask because within your bundle was a copy of Republic by Plato. It must be a prized possession if you hauled it about London with you.”

  “Yes, my late father taught me many things. Greek included. It’s a prized possession because it was his. My father tried to instill common sense along with his lessons. It did not take. I became involved with a man that has ruined my life. But the fault does not all lie with him. The signs were there for me to read, I chose to ignore them. Because when my father died, I was left alone. I did not want to be alone. As a result, I gave all my love and attention to a man who did not deserve it.”

  The marquess stood, and out of the corner of her eye, she watched as he pulled his gold watch from his waistcoat pocket and opened it. He then snapped it shut and returned it to his pocket. “Unfortunately I am expected at Westminster today. I’ve plans tonight and will not return until late. We will continue this conversation tomorrow.”

  He stood near. The spicy s
cent contained a hint of cloves. She’d always liked that scent.

  “But you’re not going to a brothel or gambling den as some would believe. Are you, my lord?”

  “No. I’m not.”

  Lydia met his gaze. Staring back at her were the most mesmerizing silver-gray eyes fanned by incredibly long lashes, the same shade of dark brownish-black as his hair.

  He gave her a slight bow. “I bid you good afternoon, Miss Chesterton.”

  The marquess left the room.

  It hit her. The revelation so startling she gasped. Lydia had seen those eyes before. The exact same penetrating gaze. The voice was similar now that she thought on it. She understood where the marquess was going. Why he didn’t need to bring the doctor in to see to her care.

  The Marquess of Tennington was…Dr. Damian.

  Chapter 9

  The distance between his town house on Marylebone Road and Westminster Abbey was a little over three miles. Most days, because time was of the essence, he caught a hansom cab. Harrison hadn’t bothered with setting up a carriage and horses of his own. Sometimes he borrowed his mistress’s, and briefly did consider taking them for his own once the accounts were settled. Eventually, despite his precarious financial position, he decided to gift her with the lot. Annie deserved it.

  If he kept a brisk pace, he could reach the parliament buildings in about thirteen minutes. It would give him adequate time to clear his mind and regain control. Sitting close and speaking intimately with Miss Chesterton—Lydia—aroused him. What a surprising reaction, but not entirely unwelcome.

  What pleased him was she’d passed the test. Harrison decided that if she gave him her correct name, he would propose the “exchange of secrets” in order to learn of her story. Perhaps he wanted her to know him better as well. On the chance that she stuck with the “Miss Best” name, he would have seen her recovered, assisted her in finding a job and lodgings, and continue on with his life and with his pursuit of finding a suitable bride. He stubbornly held to the belief that he must marry as is expected of him as the heir.