‘Which means that if you go to him, cap in hand, you’ll be able to get some useful advice out of him.’ James sighed. ‘More useful advice than I can give, at any rate.’
‘I’m unused to going to anyone cap in hand.’
‘Because you’re rich enough to have a great quantity of men murdered for your amusement, I imagine.’ James looked narrowly at Marcus. ‘Bennington, why are you so good-natured? Most men with pockets as deep as yours are absolutely bloody horrible.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s the truth. I am but a humble truth-teller.’
‘You are a fool.’ Marcus laughed with James, pleased to feel a spark of hope in him again. ‘I… I do not know why I am pleasant. Perhaps my shyness led to an ability to listen. Being profoundly uncomfortable in most places makes one more attentive to those who may be in the same position.’
‘So my self-love was my Achilles heel. Of course.’ James sighed, smiling. ‘Arthur Weeks probably ascertained the same thing.’
‘And he will help me with Miss Harcourt?’
‘When it comes to the problem of Miss Harcourt, he will no doubt be invaluable.’
‘Miss Harcourt is not a problem. She… she is never a problem, however she acts. Whatever she wishes. Even if she never wishes to see me again, I cannot see her as anything other than a blessing.’ Marcus looked cautiously at James. ‘You must know this.’
‘Oh, Lord.’ James rolled his eyes with a smile. ‘If you’re not careful, you’ll begin to sound like me when I talk about Catherine.’
‘I don’t wish to be careful. Not at all.’
Meeting Arthur Weeks was always an intimidating prospect. Marcus rarely had cause to feel intimidated by anyone, given his wealth and generally placid nature, but Arthur carried an air of quiet authority that was difficult to ignore.
The man’s prize-fighting past probably had something to do with it. His days in the ring were behind him, but the man still had arms like the logs used for building ships. Marcus sat in the chair opposite Arthur’s desk, trying not to quail before the man as he considered what he had just told him.
It couldn’t be the first time that a customer of a pleasure-house had fallen in love with one of the girls working there. Neither could it be the first time that a partial owner of a pleasure-house had suffered the same fate. Marcus waited as Arthur considered the problem, wondering if this particular emotional quandary was something the man had heard before.
‘I’ve never heard such a damnably foolish thing in my life.’ Arthur’s moustache bristled. ‘First your bloody friend, and now you. I don’t know what happens to men with titles when they walk into this place. They stop thinking with their heads.’
Alas, it appeared to be a new and unwelcome problem. ‘I assure you that this is no sudden passion.’
‘A likely story.’ Arthur paused. ‘Are—are you the reason why she hasn’t come back?’
‘I believe I am.’
‘Then that’s money lost. Although, to be fair, you were the only one paying to see her.’ Arthur shook his head, clicking his tongue. ‘I suppose that counts as a saving.’
‘You’re being awfully impertinent.’
‘I’m not the one who has attempted to make a disastrous match.’
‘No. You are the one who made what everyone assumed would be a disastrous match, when you married Miss Lydia Holt, and you made it into an enormous success.’ Marcus clenched his fists. ‘I am here to ask you—to ask you how on earth you did it.’
Arthur leaned back in his chair, his expression softer by a near-imperceptible degree. Marcus, taking a deep breath, continued.
‘I… I imagine Miss Harcourt is rather like yourself, in terms of upbringing. She has had to fight for herself at every turn.’ He paused. ‘I cannot know what that is like.’
‘No. You cannot.’
‘I’m willing to learn.’
‘You can’t learn something that’s born in you. You’ve never known anything other than wealth. Miss Harcourt has never known anything other than working poverty.’ Arthur shook his head. ‘It’s difficult.’
‘But not impossible. You and Mrs. Weeks—’
‘My wife and I are a slightly different case.’
‘Not as different as appearances would suggest. As I said… Elsie is much like you.’
‘Christian names.’ Arthur sighed. ‘I should have told you to stop visiting her when I had the chance.’
‘There was never a chance.’ Marcus shook his head. ‘As soon as I saw her, that was—well. That was it.’
‘Well. Now you have seen for yourself, Sir Marcus. The poor aren’t a faceless mass of outstretched hands and hungry mouths, looking to be coddled and caged. The vast majority wish to make something of themselves—even the women.’ The faintest hint of a smile appeared behind Arthur’s moustache. ‘The finer ladies of the ton would be incapable of such energy.’
‘Your wife is—’
‘A finer lady of the ton. Or rather, she was.’ Arthur’s smile grew a little wider. ‘And then she met me.’
‘Miss Harcourt has always wished to make something of herself. To—to be independent.’ Marcus rested his chin on his fist, musing. ‘She has always insisted upon it.’
‘She’s been remarkably acute.’ Arthur shook his head with a low whistle. ‘I never would have known about… well. Her condition. She hid it from everyone.’
‘It doesn’t matter to me, you know. Her condition.’ Marcus looked guardedly at Arthur, wondering if the man would understand. ‘I know that it is meant to matter. That I am meant to view her as somehow… tarnished, or too free with her affections. But I do not.’
‘You love her just the same.’
‘I… I do.’ The word love shone in the air. ‘I do.’
‘Well, then.’ Arthur twisted the corner of his moustache, his brow furrowing. ‘You need to give her a way of making something of herself. A proper way—a way separate from yourself, and your funds.’
‘Her father will kill me if I offer him money, and Elsie will kill me if I offer her money with any sort of conditions attached.’
‘And they’d be right to do it.’ Arthur’s furrowed brow relaxed. ‘But her father wouldn’t turn down a business opportunity.’
‘I highly doubt he would wish to work at the pleasure-house his daughter was secretly employed in.’
‘For one of the richest man in England, you have remarkably little imagination.’ Arthur raised an eyebrow. ‘Can you really think of no business that would suit them? A brewery… a bakery…’
Marcus tried to imagine Elsie’s parents behind a wooden counter in a pub, or with floury noses surrounded by loaves. Both of the images were incongruous. There had to be something that would—
Yes.
He had it.
‘Well?’ Arthur leaned forward. ‘Where can you see the Harcourt family?’
‘With ink-stained fingers, balancing on stepladders.’ Marcus nodded triumphantly. ‘The Harcourts are in need of a bookshop.’
Useless. Elsie hadn’t known how many useless, pointless jobs existed in the world, until she began her first day working in Attlebury Hall. She had been too young to work in the village, before her family had gone into service, and didn’t have the knack for half the things the youngest maids were able to do with their eyes closed. Working in the Club had spoiled her beyond repair, that much was clear—it was an imposition to be up at dawn, to bend and stretch and pant as she cleaned cupboards, polished cutlery, and checked the china for cracks and chips.
Still. This was to be her new life, now. Wrapped in the bosom of her family, who had forgiven her—even if they still looked at her as if she had grown horns. Working as a drudge, as am incompetent scullery maid, until the child grew to big to ignore.
Marcus had read her books. Marcus had fed her, and made her rest, and treated her as someone above her station. But Marcus—Marcus could never marry her, and so Marcus was gone.
She had to scrub him from her life, like a st
ain from a shirt, and not think of him at all. Even if his absence caused a pain far greater than his presence ever had.
She hadn’t even been officially taken on yet. Her mother had spoken vaguely of informing the master, but Elsie knew His Grace had returned to London. His wife remained—the cool-faced, elegant woman who Elsie had so enjoyed conversing with in the herb garden.
She didn’t wish to speak to her now. She didn’t wish to speak to anyone ever again. Which is why she was in the library of Attlebury Hall, feather-duster in hand, pretending to dust books instead of cry.
She jumped as the door opened. To Elsie’s complete disquiet, Catherine Hildebrande entered the room.
For a woman of gentle but not extraordinary birth, Catherine carried herself as if she had been born a duchess. The woman’s face was a carefully cultivated blank. Elsie hurriedly snatched up her duster, determined to leave the room as unobtrusively as possible.
‘Wait.’ Catherine’s voice was as coolly commanding as her face. ‘Turn around.’
Elsie thought about disobeying her, and then thought better of it. There were worse states to be in than her current one, even if it felt like agony. Slowly, mutely, she turned and stared at the floor.
‘I recognise you. You have been in the house since the festivities.’ Catherine stepped forward. ‘Helping your mother and father?’
‘Yes, my lady.’ Elsie bobbed a short curtsey, keeping her eyes to the floor.
‘You can look at me, you know.’ Catherine’s voice softened slightly. ‘I won’t bite.’
I might. Elsie slowly raised her head, trying not to look too rebellious.
‘Ah. I… I thought it was you.’ Catherine nodded. ‘The girl with the roses.’
She remembered. How had she even noticed the quiet, tense confrontation? Elsie closed her eyes, trying to soothe her rapidly beating heart, before giving a tight nod in response.
Wordless answers were impertinence. The duchess, however, did not seem terribly offended.
‘I saw you before dinner. I saw Sir Marcus leaving as soon as he was able. I—I believe I saw your father, if only briefly.’ Catherine smiled, the coolness in her face enlivened by the sympathy in her eyes. ‘It didn’t take terribly long to put two-and-two together.’
Elsie kept her fingers tightly clenched into fists, speaking stiffly. ‘I am not a worker in this house, my lady. Not yet. Neither do I work for Sir—Sir Marcus. If my conduct is to be discussed in relation to the employment of my parents, or—or—’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Catherine looked utterly confused.
‘My mother. My father.’ Else bit her tongue for a moment, determined not to cry. ‘If their places must be brought into question thanks to my current condition, then—’
‘Good Lord, no!’ Catherine leaned forward, shock written into every line of her face. ‘How on earth could you think such a thing?’
‘My lady, I—’ Elsie paused, biting her tongue harder, bowing her head as her tears came thick and fast. She had failed at keeping her composure, just as she had failed at everything else. ‘I…’
As she began to sob, Catherine’s arms encircled her. Too overcome with sadness to feel any sort of surprise, Elsie leaned her head on the woman’s pale shoulder as she cried her heart out.
She hadn’t cried in front of her mother. She certainly hadn’t cried in front of her father, who had seemed on the point of tears himself for the previous few days. This could be her only opportunity to cry—well, then, she would be damned if she didn’t exploit it.
‘There, there.’ Catherine stroked her hair, making wordless, soothing sounds. ‘I must confess, my dear—I didn’t think Mr. Bennington capable of such treachery.’
‘It was not treachery. My—my condition is not thanks to him.’ Elsie spoke in fits and snatches, sobbing heartily. ‘But he has taken such good care of me—such patient care, he brought me books and food and he never asked, not once—oh, my lady, he only came here on my request! I wished to tell my parents that I had a husband, that my child is—’
‘Oh, goodness. I see.’ Catherine paused. ‘And the father of your child?’
‘Gone.’ Elsie pulled away, gritting her teeth as she wiped her face. She wouldn’t waste a single tear on the man who had caused her such untold trouble. ‘Gone, and not worth thinking of.’
‘Well. This is… a complex situation.’ Catherine put a hand to her chin, her gaze suddenly quite faraway. ‘Very complex indeed.’
‘I am sorry for—for allowing my nerves to get the better of me.’
‘It’s astonishing that they haven’t already. I would be raving in a locked room somewhere.’ Catherine slowly nodded, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond Elsie’s vision. ‘But… but something can probably be done.’
Elsie blinked. ‘With all due respect, my lady, I very much doubt it. I wouldn’t have wept as I did, if I thought anything could be done. It is a lost cause.’
‘Nonsense. There are a great many things we can do.’ To Elsie’s astonishment, Catherine took the feather-duster out of her hand. ‘The first thing is to stop dusting books that do not need it. To stop working at all. ‘
‘I cannot stop working.’ Elsie shook her head defiantly. ‘I cannot be a burden to my parents, and to you. I have already fought my mother on this very point.’
‘You are far more of a burden to me if your condition means you do inadequate work.’ Catherine raised an eyebrow. ‘Had that not occurred to you?’
‘... No.’ Elsie wondered when she had ever heard such kindness wrapped in cruelty. ‘I had not.’
‘Good. Then you shall be put up somewhere clean and warm, with books and fruit and candles, so I do not have to concern myself with you wandering about the house weeping and dusting badly.’ Catherine nodded to herself, brow furrowed as she thought. ‘And I must write a letter to my friend.’
‘I—oh, no, my lady. Please tell no-one of this.’
‘Nonsense. I am going to have to tell someone of this—I can do nothing of any usefulness alone. I am going to speak to my dear friend Mrs. Weeks, and she is going to speak to her husband—and I am going to speak to my husband. Please put all thoughts of punishment out of your head—nothing is going to happen to you, or to your parents. We are going to attempt to solve this sorry mess, as quickly as possible.’
‘But why?’ Elsie looked at Catherine with wide, tear-clouded eyes. ‘Why on earth would you wish to spend so much time and trouble helping a servant?’
‘Because I am nosy and charitable in equal measure. And Marcus Bennington is a particular friend of my husband—who knows how he has managed to keep this concealed for so long?’ Catherine shook her head, tutting. ‘And given what you have told me, Miss Harcourt, it is quite important that you begin associating with my friends and I.’
‘Why?’
‘Because, my dear, you appear to stand a very good chance of becoming Sir Marcus’s wife.’
‘I—no. No, I cannot believe it.’
‘Neither can I.’ Catherine raised an eyebrow, a small smile on her face. ‘And yet, here we are.’
Marcus repressed a gulp as he looked up at the Hildebrande townhouse. The property stood only a little way away from his own palatial home in Knight’s Circle, but it still fell like a world away. Here lived the true aristocrats; those who had held their titles for generations, rather than making their fortunes in the space of a single lifetime.
Catherine’s letter had revealed very little, much like the lady herself. A meeting, with Miss Harcourt in attendance—how had Elsie travelled back from Attlebury Hall? Had she travelled with Catherine Hildebrande? Oh, it all seemed so beyond his control…
He would have preferred to meet Elsie at the Cappadene Club. It felt more like their place, somehow—the place where they had learned to love one another, albeit imperfectly. But he could also see the sense in meeting on neutral ground—in looking at one another away from usual associations, and usual sentiments.
Oh, rot. There was nothi
ng usual about any of this. He was half-mad with love, brought to the brink of discomfort with himself and his thoughts, and questioning the very course of action that Arthur Weeks had made sound so very convincing. Bringing his hand to the handsome brass knocker, Marcus knocked with a sinking heart.
The answering butler didn’t help matters. With a low bow, and a look that suggested this particular member of the serving classes had heard rumours of Marcus’s conduct, he ushered Marcus into the morning room with the efficiency of an artist removing a smear of paint from a canvas.
Marcus swallowed as he looked at the assembled company. No Elsie, not yet—James, Catherine, and Arthur’s wife Lydia all rose, putting down their cups of tea as they studied him.
‘Well.’ James smiled. ‘You’re early.’
‘I know. I couldn’t wait.’ Marcus bowed to the ladies, who curtseyed in response. Catherine’s cool expression was always hard to judge, but Lydia’s frown was easily read. ‘Does—does she—’
‘Does she wish to see you? I believe so.’ Catherine smiled gently, ignoring Lydia as she rolled her eyes. ‘But I doubt she wishes to meet you in front of us, as if she were presenting a pie at a village fair.’
Lydia sniffed. ‘If I had my way, she wouldn’t be meeting you at all.’
‘Lydia!’
‘Well—it’s true.’ Lydia tutted. ‘I think you have led this poor girl a very merry dance.’
Marcus blinked. ‘By loving her?’
‘Of course. How could she ever have been expected to react normally to such unusual circumstances? Your wealth alone makes the whole business a fairy tale.’ Lydia sighed. ‘It’s a wonder she didn’t flee to the nearest anonymous village.’
‘Does that mean she doesn’t love me?’
‘Of course she loves you.’ Lydia sighed irritably. ‘That is in no doubt. What I hope, Sir Marcus, is that you are worthy of her love.’
‘I am going to provide her family with the means to have them thumb their nose at me, if they wish. The means to make her completely independent.’ Marcus stood, his hackles rising. ‘Is that enough?’
‘You need not convince me.’ Lydia looked at him with scathing eyes until Marcus say back down. ‘Miss Harcourt is the only lady that needs convincing.’
Dukes of the Demi-Monde Page 20
