Brides of London: Regency Romance Collection

by Alec, Joyce

  A surge of compassion caught at her heart. “It is only a thought, Lord Marchmont,” she told him, reaching to wrap her free hand around his arm as though that might make him aware of just how little she blamed him for this. “It may not be as we have thought. Besides which, even if it is so, it is not as though you are at fault in any way.” She smiled at him, wanting to lift the heaviness from his shoulders and, much to her relief, he finally sighed, nodded, and smiled back, the tension leaving his frame as he did so.

  “Then all we must discover is who will benefit from your marriage,” Lord Blackridge suggested, drawing both Ophelia and Lord Marchmont’s attention. “Will that not give us the answers we seek?”

  Lord Marchmont squeezed his eyes closed and rubbed at his forehead, coming to a sudden stop. “If only it should be as easy,” he muttered, making Ophelia’s heart squeeze with sympathy all the more. “I have no family save for my brother, for my father was an only child. I simply cannot think of who might benefit in the way you suggest.”

  Lord Blackridge did not seem to be phased by this. “It may be someone you have not thought of,” he told Lord Marchmont firmly. “Might we meet tomorrow to discuss matters further?”

  Lord Marchmont glanced down at Ophelia and then back to Lord Blackridge. “If you would both call upon me in the afternoon, then that might very well suit us all,” he told his friend. “And mayhap you will wish to bring Miss Smallwood also, Miss Grey?”

  Ophelia nodded quickly. “But of course.”

  “And after we have discussed matters and taken some refreshments, I thought to go to the boarding house where I was discovered and speak again to the proprietor,” Lord Marchmont finished, now looking back at Ophelia. “And yes, Miss Grey, I would be pleased if you would accompany us there also.”

  Having just been about to protest that there was no reason why she, too, might not join Lord Blackridge and Lord Marchmont at the boarding house, Ophelia closed her mouth quickly and felt heat rise in her cheeks. “You know me a little better than I expected, Lord Marchmont,” she told him, unable to hold his gaze given the laughter that was within his expression. “You knew I would not be particularly enamored with the idea of remaining behind.”

  “Indeed, I did,” he replied with a small chuckle. “But regardless, Miss Grey, I should be glad of your company for I know you have a quick wit that may prove very useful as we discuss things with the fellow. It may be that your manner of speaking will surprise him so much that he will have no choice but to answer your questions truthfully.”

  Ophelia’s color heightened even more. Lord Marchmont patted her hand as it rested on his arm, peering down into her face.

  “I did not mean to embarrass you, Miss Grey,” he said, sounding deeply apologetic. “It is just that I think you will do wonderfully as we search for the required answers, truly.”

  Nodding but still feeling deeply ashamed, Ophelia looked up into his face and saw the frustration at his own lack of consideration written in his expression. Her heart lifted from her mortification, seeing that he truly had not meant to shame her but had meant to encourage her that her unusually honest manner and sharp tone would be put to good use come the morrow. Sighing, she looked away and let her lips quirk gently.

  “It seems I am not the only one who can, on occasion, speak without due consideration,” she replied, seeing him give her a wry smile. “Thank you, Lord Marchmont. Thank you for including me in your plans tomorrow. I look forward to speaking to this proprietor and doing what I can to aid you in your search for answers.”

  “I am truly grateful to have your support,” Lord Marchmont told her, his hand squeezing hers gently. “It has been a comfort to know that you are willing to help me in my struggles.”

  Ophelia smiled and, for a long moment, it seemed as though there were just the two of them in the gardens, all sound and distractions fading away. Even Lord Blackridge’s presence had become nothing more than a shadow in her eyes, looking up keenly into Lord Marchmont’s face and finding a comfort there.

  “Shall we return inside?”

  Lord Blackridge’s voice jerked them back to themselves, making Ophelia flush and tug her hands from Lord Marchmont’s arm.

  “Yes, indeed,” she replied, putting a bright smile on her face to cover her embarrassment. “For it will soon be our waltz, Lord Marchmont, and Lord Blackridge, I do not think you have signed my dance card yet!” She laughed as the gentleman bowed quickly and reached for it, making Lord Marchmont smile too. There was something growing between herself and Lord Marchmont that Ophelia did not even want to acknowledge, for fear that she would become so aware of it, she would not be able to think of anything else. Turning her mind and heart away from Lord Marchmont, she hurried back towards the ballroom, determined that she would enjoy the rest of the evening and would not think about the note and her courtship until the morrow.

  9

  There was a sense of camaraderie growing between himself and Miss Grey, Peter realized. Gazing at her now, seated across the carriage and deep in conversation with Miss Smallwood, Peter allowed himself a long look at the lady he was courting. Her emerald eyes were glinting with happiness, as though she were very much looking forward to interviewing the proprietor of the boarding house, her chocolate-colored hair carefully pulled back under her bonnet. One or two small tendrils had escaped and played about her temples, bouncing gently as she laughed at something Miss Smallwood had said. She was not markedly beautiful but there was something about her that he could not look away from. Was it the lightness of her eyes? The way her lips curved as she smiled? He simply could not understand what it was about her that caught him now, as it had done the first time he had seen her.

  Of course, the first time he had sought to court her, he had been much too eager. Having decided that he was to do all he could to find himself a wife, he had been transfixed by Miss Grey’s seeming ease of manner as she conversed easily with a good many acquaintances. Having sought an introduction, he had been delighted with her seeming interest in him and eagerly asked to call upon her. Their first afternoon visit had gone well, although it was rather brief. Thinking that Miss Grey might soon be caught by another gentleman once the Season began to progress, he had acted rashly and asked to court her after only one visit. She had been surprised but had agreed—and things had only worsened from there. Now, however, Peter had to admit that he was seeing something markedly different about Miss Grey. Now that she knew the truth about his difficulties, she had shown both compassion and understanding, and instead of turning away from him had sought to share in his troubles and help him find a satisfactory end. Moreover, she was doing her utmost to not speak rashly and was obviously taking a good deal more time to consider her words. Whilst he had come to appreciate her honest manner, he could not pretend he was not grateful for the consideration she had begun to show in that regard. Perhaps, if she continued to do so, then he might…

  He shook his head to himself, stopping his thoughts at once. He could not allow himself to become caught up with Miss Grey, not in any way. He had to ensure that, whilst they continued to give the appearance of courtship, he did not allow his heart to become fettered. Yes, he was growing more considerate of Miss Grey and yes, he had come to appreciate her greatly in her willingness to help him, but he did not need to begin to feel anything of consequence for her. That would be entirely foolish, given that their courtship would come to an end once the identity of the person who had written the note came to light.

  “Are you quite all right, Lord Marchmont?”

  Looking up, he saw Miss Grey watching him curiously.

  “It is only that you just shook your head and then murmured something,” she explained, looking apologetic for interrupting his reverie.

  “Oh.” He shrugged, thinking quickly to come up with some excuse as to what he had been thinking about. “I was just hoping that the proprietor will be more willing to speak to me than he was the last time I spoke with him.”

  Miss Grey chu
ckled. “I shall make certain that he is,” she replied, making him grin. “Might I ask what he said to you last time?”

  Peter frowned, trying his best to recall. “I was in something of a haze when I left the boarding house at first,” he replied slowly, looking out of the window. “I recall the proprietor being rather angry with me for not paying my dues.”

  “Your dues?” Miss Smallwood repeated, speaking aloud for the first time since they had climbed into the carriage.

  Peter nodded, looking back at her. “Apparently, I was to pay for using the room I was in,” he replied with a shrug. “I had no knowledge of this but the man was most insistent.” Closing his eyes, he tried to remember what else had occurred. “My head was in a terrible state, but I recall asking him who had brought me there. However, he was so angry that I had not paid him as he had been promised that he refused to say anything more until I brought him the money.”

  “And you have not done so as yet,” Lord Blackridge stated with a half-smile. “But you shall do so now, then?”

  “I shall pay him more, if he will speak the truth to me,” Peter replied with feeling. “And whilst I hope he will allow us to look about the room again, I fear that it will hold no answers for us.” He opened his eyes, feeling the carriage slow. “Ah. I see the hackney is waiting.”

  Miss Grey blinked in surprise. “The hackney?” she repeated, sounding confused. “I thought we were to drive directly to the boarding house.”

  Peter hesitated, not wanting to frighten either Miss Grey or Miss Smallwood but knowing that he had to be honest with them both. “I am taking precautions, Miss Grey,” he said softly. “Taking my carriage to the boarding house is, in my estimation, a little unwise. It would be easily spotted and mention of its presence—as well as of those within—might well make its way to the ears of the man who put me there in the first place.” Miss Grey’s eyes flared for a moment before she nodded slowly, giving him a small smile. She was not afraid, then. Rather, she simply accepted that what he said was necessary. Peter felt his admiration for her begin to build.

  “Come, then,” Lord Blackridge said as the carriage door opened. “Quickly, if you please.”

  * * *

  It took another half hour before the hackney finally arrived at the boarding house. Peter had instructed the driver to take his time in reaching their destination, so that he might be sure that no one was following them. By the time they reached the place, he was more than satisfied that they were quite alone.

  “Here we are,” he said grandly, opening the door and jumping to the ground before offering his hand to Miss Grey. “Let us go inside with all haste.” Instructing the driver to wait for them and throwing him a guinea by way of a promise that he would pay the man handsomely, Peter urged the other three inside, ignoring the urchins that ran past them as they did so. The street was rather dirty and the boarding house itself did not appear to be particularly clean. He suppressed a shudder, knowing precisely why he had been brought here by the man responsible. It was a place where no one would be willing to speak of what they had seen. A place where men had to remain hidden and silent, for fear that opening their mouths would earn them grave consequences. Money held great sway over the people who lived here. It kept them quiet. It kept them from speaking the truth. It bound their tongues and allowed dark deeds to escape unnoticed.

  Peter’s stomach tightened as he walked into the boarding house, wrinkling his nose at the damp smell that assailed his nostrils. The front door opened directly onto a large, open space which had nothing more than a few chairs and a large table, where a man sat with a book open in front of him and a pencil in his hand. To the man’s left there was an open door that, if Peter recalled correctly, led to the rooms where patrons could stay.

  “Good afternoon,” he stated, walking towards the man and recognizing him as the proprietor. “You might remember me?” He saw the man’s brows furrow but held his gaze steadily, knowing that his very presence should force the proprietor to show him some begrudging respect.

  The man looked him over and then grunted. “You didn’t look like that when I saw you last.”

  Peter shrugged. “I suppose I was a little worse for wear,” he admitted, knowing that he certainly had not looked his very best that morning. “But that is not of any importance. What is important is that I inspect the room I found myself in and that you give me as much detail as possible about the fellow that brought me here in the first place.” He narrowed his eyes as the man frowned. “I know full well that I cannot have walked into this place myself and climbed the stairs to the attic rooms, so you need not pretend that it was so.”

  The man’s angry glare held no respect whatsoever, begrudging or otherwise. “You didn’t pay me what you owe.”

  “If Lord Marchmont did not come here of his own accord and was, instead, brought by another gentleman, then why is it his responsibility to pay what is owed?” Miss Grey stepped forward, her hands in front of her clasped together as she looked at the proprietor. “That does not seem particularly fair now, does it?”

  The man said nothing for some moments, his gaze running down over Miss Grey’s form and then back up again. Peter felt something within him flare with anger, to the point that he had to fight the urge to lean across the table and plant the man a facer.

  “Once you are finished regarding me, might you be able to find a tongue in your head?” Miss Grey asked, her tone a good deal sharper as she narrowed her eyes. Much to Peter’s relief, the man flushed dark red and looked away, stammering something incomprehensible.

  “You shall give me the description of the fellow that brought Lord Marchmont here that night whilst Lord Marchmont himself searches the attic room.”

  The proprietor opened his mouth in protest, but Miss Grey held up her hand almost at once, silencing him.

  “You need not ask why Lord Marchmont is required to do so, for it is not for you to know. Now, the key to the room, if you please, and thereafter, draw up a chair for myself and Miss Smallwood so that we may seat ourselves whilst we talk to you.” She gave the man a small smile which did not warm her eyes. “And some tea would not go amiss.”

  The effect Miss Grey seemed to have on the man was incredible to witness. The proprietor seemed to deflate in his chair, sinking back into it as his red face began to turn a little more pink. He stared at Miss Grey for a full minute before nodding to himself, getting up with some difficulty from his chair, and lumbering over to a chest of drawers that sat close to the window at the back of the room. The sound of keys being jangled reached Peter’s ears and he looked at Miss Grey, who had a triumphant smile on her face.

  He wanted to pull her tight into his embrace out of sheer joy and relief that she had been able to do something he was certain he would not have managed. The look in her eyes when she directed her smile towards him told Peter that Miss Grey was just as pleased as he, although the smile disappeared from her face the moment the proprietor walked back towards them.

  “What is your name?” Peter asked as the man handed him the key.

  “Marks,” the man replied gruffly, not looking at Peter. “Do be quick, if you please. I have someone coming to stay in that room tonight.”

  Peter, remembering the thin mattress he had seen, winced inwardly, grasped the key, and hurried from the room with Lord Blackridge by his side.

  “Do you think Miss Grey and Miss Smallwood will be quite all right with Mr. Marks?” Lord Blackridge asked, looking concerned. “He appears quite brusque.”

  Peter snorted, grinning at his friend. “You need not worry on Miss Grey’s account, Blackridge,” he told him. “She is more than capable of not only securing the answers we need from Marks, but ensuring that they are both treated with nothing but respect. By the time we return, I expect they shall both be sipping tea out of Marks’ very best china cups and have him waiting on them should they require anything further.” His grin slipped as he looked up at the staircase that led towards the attic rooms. His memories of desc
ending it were not pleasant ones. “Someone with a good deal of strength must have helped me up these stairs,” he muttered, beginning to climb them. “Either that or I walked up here willingly of my own accord, and he struck me hard once I was within the room.”

  “You have no memory of being here other than when you awoke?” Lord Blackridge asked, making Peter shake his head.

  “None,” he replied darkly. “The last thing I recall was being at some ball or other and enjoying a few glasses of ratafia—nothing more.” He shook his head, the absence of memory frustrating him. “If I could recall anything more, then mayhap I would be able to understand who has done this.”

  “It is all very strange,” Lord Blackridge commented as they walked along a short hallway towards the final set of stairs that would lead them to the attic. “It is not as though there is any purpose or benefit to anyone in you marrying.”

  Peter remained silent, although he agreed entirely. Prior to coming here, the four of them had considered who might benefit from either his or Miss Grey’s marriage—but they had not been able to think of even a single name.

  “Do you recall who might have been drinking with you that evening?” Lord Blackridge asked as Peter took the key and pushed it into the locked door of the attic room. “Anyone who might have been able to put something into your drink that would render you either easily pliable or encouraged towards sleep?”

  Again, Peter could not recall even a single thing and so shook his head. “No, I do not,” he muttered, feeling embarrassed that he did not remember anything that would be of use to them. “If I could, then it would be a great help, I know.” He sighed and pushed the door open. “You think, then, that I imbibed something as opposed to being knocked unconscious?”

  Lord Blackridge shrugged as Peter walked into the room, the dry, musty smell of the room making him wrinkle his nose. “I think, Marchmont, that if you were hit on the head and knocked unconscious, it would not have been done in public. It would have drawn attention, would it not? Therefore, if you can only recall the ball that you attended and nothing more thereafter, then I would suggest that laudanum, or some such thing, was put in your ratafia without you being aware of it.”