The paper spilled open to reveal a shimmering sea of yellow silk. She gasped and touched the rich folds as if she feared it would disappear. He watched in pleasure as she stroked the feather-light fabric and drew it from the folds of the package to billow around her.
The yellow silk overskirt was lined with white satin, and the elbow-length sleeves had a waterfall of white lace. The delicately embroidered white satin stomacher was modestly adorned by a fabric so sheer it could not be compared to a kerchief. She sighed in pleasure and tossed the folds to catch the fire’s light.
Morgan smiled at the ease with which she could be won. Hers wasn’t a greedy reaction so much as admiration for an object of beauty. She hadn’t even noticed the lace-edged petticoat or the satin corset and silk stockings he’d provided to go with it.
He had thought to prove her a woman. He had succeeded in proving she was an innocent.
“I do not know if the fit is right,” he told her. “You will need to try it on in the morning. Right now, I think you had best go on to bed. There are shadows under your eyes.”
Faith clasped the silk, not knowing how to thank him. If she should thank him. Then Morgan glanced down to the remainder of the package, and she blushed a bright red. He had bought her intimate garments, as if she were already his mistress.
She blushed. He could not possibly... But he could. Those green eyes said he very definitely could. Faith once again registered the elegance of Morgan’s attire, the contrast of fine lace to harsh visage and callused hands, and remembered the seductive tenderness of his mouth. He chose not to, but he very definitely could think of her in the way he thought of Molly.
That knowledge sent a tingle all the way to her toes that had little to do with fear. Laying the precious silk back on the table, Faith carefully backed away to the ladder. She refused to let his heated look intimidate her.
As her foot touched the first rung of the ladder, she could hear Morgan’s deep voice call softly, “Pull it up behind you, lass, for your own good.”
Heat raced through her blood just as if he had crept up behind her and kissed her ear again. Understanding the wisdom of obedience in this case, Faith pulled the ladder into the loft.
***
Morgan was gone in the morning before Faith had time to try on the yellow silk. She tried not to look at the empty cottage with dismay. He had gone to London as he had said he would. Last night was no more than a wicked memory.
But the bruises on her arms and breasts were very real. Faith shivered as she pulled the new gown’s fine white muslin over her breasts and tucked it into the stiffly embroidered stomacher. The gauzy fabric did not conceal the livid bruises. Faith inhaled and watched her breasts swell with breathing.
The silk of the gown rubbed across her uncovered nipples, and she knew a pang of longing akin to the one Morgan had aroused with his kisses. She would have to make a chemise to go under the gown. It was indecent to feel her nakedness. Indecent, but very exciting.
Faith hastily removed her elegant garments and returned to her old wool ones. They would never feel the same again, and she sent a longing glance to the silk. She knew it was her place in life to work for a living, but she couldn’t help dreaming of wealth and elegance. Her mother had given up such a life in return for love. She would have to hope for the riches of love too.
Glancing at the highwayman’s cloak beside the door, Faith felt the blood rush to her cheeks once more. What hope of love would she find there? It might be easier to seek wealth.
Chapter 10
March, 1751
Lord Mountjoy’s valet adjusted his lordship’s wig and added a dusting of powder. Behind his face cone, the marquess coughed. Growing impatient with the process, he waved aside the valet and threw down the mask.
His scowl grew blacker at the scuffle of feet and restless rustle of silk behind him. Glancing in the mirror, he could see his son and heir lounging across the settee, sipping at wine, while his nephew stalked the dressing room like a hungry tiger. The two men could not be more unlike, and he could not stifle the unbidden hope that it would someday be his handsome nephew and not his portly son who would take the title.
Made even more irritable by that thought, Mountjoy rose and allowed the valet to remove his dressing robe and bring his coat. He glared at the indolent sot sprawled across the chair. “Wine at this hour, Edward? Do you never let your liver rest?”
“The pickling aspects of alcohol have never been thoroughly pursued.” Edward raised the crystal to the light and admired the rainbow of colors. “What did you want of us at this ghastly hour, dear pater?”
The well-dressed gentleman at the window swung around and waited for the answer to his cousin’s question. Dark whereas Edward was fair, lean whereas Edward was rotund, Thomas was a direct antithesis of his cousin, but both held a common interest in this question.
Not for the first time, Mountjoy wondered if he had been wrong to keep them on such short purse strings. He had hoped to teach them financial responsibility, but he very much suspected he had taught them to pray for his early departure from this mortal coil. Well, it was much too late to change his habits now.
He shrugged into the coat the valet held for him. “It has been over four months since my granddaughter disappeared. The fools and babbling idiots I have paid to trace her can find nothing. It is impossible that a well-brought-up child can disappear from the face of the earth. I want the two of you to find her.”
Both men managed to look bored. The one at the window stared out into the street, evidently intent on some fascinating sight below. The one on the settee reached for the decanter.
“I cannot honestly see the point, dear pater. She is bound to be an uncouth country bumpkin with sharp tongue and pious airs given to hysterics at mention of fire and brimstone. Damme if I can think what you would want with the likes of that.”
“I’ll be damned if I can think what I want with the likes of you, either!” the marquess exploded. Shrugging the valet away, he gestured for the servant to leave, then reached for the decanter in his son’s hand. “If you do not find her, I’ll leave all that is not entailed to the institution at Bedlam. Bigawd, if they wouldn’t know better what to do with it than you.”
His nephew lifted a disdainful eyebrow. “That is quite an encouragement for me. I wonder at your calling me here at all. Should this personage be found, Edward inherits everything. Should she not, Bedlam gets half. I rather favor the second option myself.”
This wasn’t going at all as the marquess had planned it. He had meant to offer rewards, dangle rich plums before their indolent noses, inspire a little action and concern for their niece and cousin, but as usual, their arrogance had got the better of his temper.
Mountjoy growled, “Find her and wed her and you can have Bedlam’s share. That way I’ll know the line will perpetuate, something neither of you seems eager to do presently.” He threw his corpulent son a look of disgust.
“That sounds as much punishment as reward,” Thomas murmured, turning back to his observation of the street. A lone horseman caught his eye, and he watched the man’s progress as the marquess rattled their cages.
“Then marry someone decent and I’ll split the inheritance between both you and her, should she be found. All I want is to see the line carried out and my granddaughter located. That task should be none too difficult.” The marquess reached for the jewel case on his dressing table and removed the diamond-encrusted ring he favored.
Thomas concentrated on the interestingly garbed gentleman stopping at the door below. Black was favored only for mourning, but somehow, the man didn’t appear to be very mournful. His rugged jaw held a day’s whiskers. His dark queue was neither wigged nor powdered. Only the expensive imported lace at his throat and wrist bespoke the quiet elegance of a gentleman of fashion. A very interesting character, and about to knock at the door, if he did not mistake.
Smiling, the Honorable Thomas Montague turned and made a brief bow before his uncle and m
urmured words of departure. Searching for the lost Henrietta was a singular waste of time. The chit could not inherit the title and would only dilute what remained of the wealth. No, he had far better plans than marrying a holier-than-thou antidote who was too stupid to find her way out of the woods.
He trotted down the stairs in time to catch the butler opening the front door.
***
Morgan had studied the elegant limestone town house with its banks of windows as he rode up. The only Montague he could trace with a son about the age of Faith’s father was a marquess, and one wealthy enough to own nearly half a block of London property for his own personal use. The upkeep alone would house half the inhabitants of London’s slums for a year.
A man did not give up a life like this for something so intangible as religion, and the marquess was known to have only one son. Faith’s father had to be a liar. Unless her father’s name was really Edward and not George, Morgan very much suspected George Montague had glorified his name and origins.
Still, he needed to verify that the heir still lived before giving up on this lead. If Faith were the only daughter of the marquess’s heir, he would have to return her to her family for her own good.
Perhaps at the cost of a little ransom. Morgan grinned up at the blank windows. He didn’t want to part with his little faerie, and he thought it doubtful that she belonged to so noble a house as this, but just in case...
His boots rang out on the stone steps as he climbed up to lift the knocker. The butler answered the door, but the tall, dark gentleman lounging in the foyer was the one to approach at Morgan’s first careful question.
“Mannering, what is this? Do you always leave gentlemen to idle in the streets? Have you an appointment with the marquess, sir?”
Morgan narrowed his eyes and studied the very proper young man in fashionable cadogan wig and expensively tailored gray silk coat. The aristocratic arrogance of his sharp features and air of authority labeled him the heir, and Morgan didn’t know whether to feel relief or disappointment for Faith’s sake. He felt certain she would not be happy with a stiff, proud bastard like this one.
“I am searching for the family of George Montague, sir.” Morgan refused to offer the obsequious “milord” the man obviously expected. “I have news of some importance. Have I found the right household?”
“I am sorry, sir,” the young gentleman replied coldly. “The name is unknown to me.”
Morgan had lived in a world of deceit and lies for the better part of his twenty-five years, a world created by Sassenachs such as this one. He recognized their lies when he heard them.
It was no more than he had expected. Faith wouldn’t be welcomed here. But glancing over the man’s shoulder to the gleaming tiled floors dotted with priceless carpets, the gilded framed oils of Montague ancestors, and the heavily polished mahoganies of an earlier decade, he couldn’t help the suspicion that Faith was being robbed.
Morgan removed his hat from beneath his arm and adjusted it to his head. “That’s a pity. Then I suppose I shall have to visit a solicitor. Perhaps you would recommend one?”
The gentleman sucked in his breath and glared, then took Morgan’s elbow and started down the steps to the street with him, discreetly closing the door after them. “I don’t know what you want,” he ground out, “but this is a house of mourning. The marquess’s health is failing. He can withstand no further shocks. A solicitor will avail you nothing and would only hasten the marquess’s departure. Unless that is your intent, I would advise leaving the matter alone.”
So, the heir did not deny George’s existence. Interesting. Morgan caught his horse’s reins and pitched a penny to the lad holding them. He gave his companion’s nervous features a shrewd look. “What is it worth to you?”
“The price of your silence will be your health and that of anyone who would make false claims against the estate. George Montague never existed, for all the world knows.”
Morgan smiled mirthlessly at this confirmation. he world would no doubt suddenly remember the twenty-year-old scandal of George Montague were its memory jogged. What it would cost Faith was another matter entirely.
He mounted his horse and met the heir’s gaze steadily. “You can be certain that no one of George Montague’s intelligence would wish to claim any part of this family, but against the vagaries of health and fortune, I would suggest a little insurance. A trust fund sufficient to provide a reasonable income for life would be my recommendation, drawn up in the name of... let us say, Faith Henrietta Montague? It’s a small enough sum to protect against the ill fortunes the future might bring. Registered at the Bank of England, it should be safe enough, and should no one ever claim it, it can always revert to the estate. What could be more fair?”
Without a moment’s regret, Morgan watched the gentleman flinch and slowly turn red. He wagered the marquess kept his heir on short purse strings. He waited to see if the young cad would offer to take the tale to his father.
Instead, the lordling merely glared and bluffed. “Anyone claiming such a fund would have to have damned good proof.”
“I’ll grant you that.” Morgan shrugged and took up the reins. “Tie it up nice and neat. It might take two months to work out the details. I’ll have my man check with the bank then. I give you good day.” Morgan made a pretense at tipping his hat and spurred his stallion down the street.
Not until he reached the outskirts of the city did Morgan let his temper roil and burst into rising. Damn the bloody damn arrogant Sassenachs anyway! Who the hell did they think they were? He had half a mind to dress Faith in silk and lace and parade her beneath their noses on his arm. He’d hire solicitors and sue the arrogant bastard for half of everything. He could tie the estate up for years until the marquess was choked into offering name and fortune to the woman he had cheated out of her rightful home.
The only flaw in that pattern was Faith. Meek, pious Faith would never claim what was not hers, nor shame her family by behaving in anything other than a ladylike manner. To fight and claw and bribe and flaunt was not her way. Morgan was glad she was not like the rest of the world, but it seemed a damned shame the meek could inherit the earth only after it was stripped bare by greedy leeches.
Perhaps it was all for the best. She didn’t belong in that world any more than she belonged in his. Perhaps she belonged with the saints in heaven. Remembering her leaning out of the loft, holding a smoking pistol, and later, offering passionate kisses, Morgan thought perhaps she wasn’t quite ready for that world either.
That thought brought a wicked gleaming smile to his lips. Such a simple solution to so complex a problem! Why had he not thought of it before? The granddaughter of one of the premier lords of the land, the claimant to wealth beyond imagination, and the best damned cook and housekeeper he had ever known. He’d have to be a fool to let her get away, and the good Lord only knew, Morgan de Lacy was no fool.
The descendants of two great Norman families among the British nobility belonged together. She would warm his nights and ease his days, and when the time was right, they would take London by storm.
Morgan had never taken the time to imagine what kind of wife he would like, and he probably never would have imagined one like Faith, but she would suit him admirably. Though she was small and quiet, with a stubborn streak that was something of a nuisance, she was lovely in her own way.
He would have no difficulty bedding her and getting her with child. That would drive the marquess into shock of a certainty. Once they were wedded and had found their place in society, they would undoubtedly go their own ways as everyone else did, but he could always rely on Faith’s discretion. She would never turn jealous shrew or threaten him with his past. In fact, he rather thought she might be content just to have his children and adorn his home.
He would dress her in silks and lace and give her a lovely house to decorate as she wished. He could even imagine being content with just that for any number of years—that, and the full enjoyment of the ulti
mate revenge.
The trick was to persuade Faith into marriage. She was no silly miss who would marry the first man who asked. Morgan’s credentials were of the worst. What woman in her right mind would marry a highwayman?
But he had the advantage of knowing her response to his kiss. She was too innocent to know where such kisses led. Once he had taken her to his bed, her overactive conscience and religious upbringing would force her to accept his proposal. It would be the best thing for both of them.
Then it would just be a matter of scraping together enough wealth to set themselves up in society. If he could force the issue, the trust fund was a good idea, but that would be Faith’s security alone.
He might use her name and position, but he would bring his own wealth to this marriage. His robbery had earned him a steady income since the ill-fated Jacobite uprising had destroyed his hopes and his home. The amount he had in the funds wouldn’t buy him more land as yet, but with a little work he could double his savings over the summer.
By fall, Faith should be with child, and he should be ready to turn London on its ear. Morgan hoped the marquess was still around when they arrived. Perhaps even Faith would enjoy seeing her father’s arrogant family forced to acknowledge an Irish papist on the family tree.
Whistling to himself as he approached home, Morgan stopped at the Raging Bull to recover Faith’s clothes and upbraid Whitehead for attempting to ruin children. Leaving the innkeeper shivering in his greasy boots, he rode on to the next village, where he had left an order with a local seamstress. It was one thing to seduce Faith’s love of beauty with silk, but her practicality would be persuaded better with serviceable wool.
While he was there, he ordered gowns of dimity and lawn for when the weather changed. He added a new sewing kit and a bolt of linen to his order.
Content that his purchases would put his courtship off to a good start, Morgan started on the long ride home. He might have to curtail his activities for a while to assure his little Methodist that he was a changed man. Besides, he would need the extra time to seduce her. He didn’t want to do this crudely. She was a gentle girl who knew nothing of passion—yet.
Devil's Lady Page 10
