by Anne Stuart
“You needn’t worry that they’ll turn you off without a character, my dear Miss Incognita,” he continued smoothly. “I’m certain after twenty years my scandalous reputation will have paled noticeably. Your employers will scarcely look at me twice.”
“Doing it a little too brown, Marlowe,” Vivian snickered.
Marlowe ignored him. “Come, come. We can scarcely leave you off in the middle of Berkeley Square in the pouring rain, can we? Which house is your destination?”
There was no help for it, Gillian decided, still loath to disclose her actual relationship with the house in question. For one thing, she was hideously embarrassed that she should be mistaken for a governess or whatever it was they supposed her to be; for another, the less these two wicked-looking gentlemen knew about her, the better. “The Redfern mansion on the west side of the square,” she admitted.
Marlowe let out a low whistle. “My dear girl, I am afraid that does complicate matters. Do you belong to the household of Derwent Redfern?”
“I do.”
“I was afraid of that. I must confess that Mr. Redfern and I were never very close. A disagreement over a lady.”
“It would be, knowing you,” Vivian piped up. “Though what that dull stick Redfern would be doing in the petticoat line is beyond me.”
“You forget, Viv, that it was twenty years ago.”
“Who won?” Gillian was aghast to find herself asking. Her unruly tongue had caused her more than her share of trouble in the past twenty-nine years, and seemed determined to continue its work. She blushed.
Marlowe smiled at her, his practiced rake’s smile, she told herself sternly, fighting its insidious attraction. “Need you ask?” he questioned without the slightest trace of vanity. “I could hardly expect that you’d be fond of the old boy. A more stiff-rumped cod’s head I’ve never met . . .”
“Beg the lady’s pardon, Marlowe,” Vivian said blearily. “Mustn’t use the term stiff-rumped in a lady’s presence. Though come to think of it, don’t know whether she’s a lady or not. Very tricky situations, these governess-companions. Never know whether they’re servants or gentry. Deuced embarrassing, at times. Especially when you’re trying to give some fetching young thing a slip on the shoulder, and she turns out to be a poor relation. You’d best watch yourself, Marlowe. Redfern might have his eye on her already. A bit long in the tooth, you might say, but she ain’t bad-looking. Ain’t bad-looking at all. Besides, you should see what Letty Redfern’s become. Fat as a pig, and just as smug as her spouse. Yes, you’d best watch yourself with Miss Incognita there. Don’t be getting ideas that could run you into trouble all over again. Need to re-establish yourself. No seducing proper young ladies. Got to be careful.” With that last utterance Vivian Peacock succumbed to the night’s brandy and began to snore gently.
Once more that devastating smile was directed toward Gillian. “You’ll have to excuse poor Vivian. He drank a bit too much tonight. Of course, he wasn’t to know we’d have the honor of a lady’s company.”
“I thought it was yet to be determined whether or not I was a lady,” Gillian shot back, amazed at her temerity. But if truth be told, she felt completely removed from her normal, humdrum life, bouncing over the nighttime roads in a carriage with the most attractive man she had ever seen in her life, bar none. The pouring rain drumming down on the carriage roof added to her sense of dreamlike isolation, where for once in her life she couldn’t be called to account for her actions. They thought she was some sort of upper servant, and considering the limited circle of her acquaintance nowadays, there was no reason why they ever needed to find out otherwise. She could sit here in the darkness and be as pert as she pleased, as outspoken as she had always longed to be, and the wretched Derwent would never find out and deliver one of his thundering scolds. She met Marlowe’s swarthy face with a smile of her own.
He blinked, startled. She was even prettier than he had anticipated when she smiled like that. A little flirtation would beguile the remainder of the trip, he decided. “Much as it grieves me to admit it, there’s little doubt you’re a lady, born and bred,” he said mournfully.
“Why does it grieve you to admit it?” she inquired curiously.
“Because if you weren’t it would enable me to make all sorts of outrageous suggestions.”
Gillian smiled. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d let someone’s position in society stop you.”
“It wouldn’t, if they were married. But I make it a practice not to dally with single young women. I prefer ‘em experienced.” He was busy wondering how he was going to maneuver himself onto the seat beside her.
“Isn’t that rather unfair? How can the poor ladies gain experience if you’re going to be so harsh?” This was dangerous, and she knew it, but exhilaratingly so, and she couldn’t resist.
That was more than enough invitation for a man of Marlowe’s address. Before Gillian could gather her scattered wits he was sitting beside her, dangerously close, as Vivian slumbered on. “I could always be persuaded,” he drawled in a beguiling undertone, “to make an exception or two.”
Like a skittish mare Gillian slid out of his grasp, moving to the far side of the coach. Unfortunately she hadn’t far to travel, and even hugging the door she was still ominously close. “Or two?” she questioned, her voice a brave quaver, wondering if she could bring herself to kick him.
He surveyed her for a long moment, his eyes alight with something she couldn’t read. “One exception might be quite enough,” he allowed, and reached for her.
Chapter Two
“MR. MARLOWE . . .” she stammered nervously, practically cowering, her eyes wide and frightened in the dim light of the rocking carriage.
Vivian Peacock raised his balding head and eyed the two of them owlishly, not a trace of surprise at the change in seating arrangements marring his slightly dazed features. “Actually, he’s Lord Marlowe, y’know,” he confided. “Marquis of Herrington, what’s more. Never saw a fellow so surprised when it turned out he was the heir. Thought your demmed uncle would live forever, didn’t you, old boy? Never thought your cousin would pop off like that, either. Damned unhealthy, these wars. Wouldn’t be caught dead in one.” He chuckled softly to himself with pleasure over his little joke.
“Go back to sleep, Viv,” the marquis ordered gently, his eyes still intent on Gillian’s face.
“Heavens, no, m’boy. That would be rude,” Vivian protested, pulling himself upright. “Forty winks, that was all I needed, and now I feel right as a trivet. As I was saying, Miss Whatchamacallit, here we had Ronan Patrick Blakely, black sheep of the Marlowe family, racketing around the Continent with pockets to let, and what happens? He gets the nod and returns home in triumph. To the bosom of your family, eh what?”
Marlowe had by this time accepted the inevitable with good grace, and he leaned back against the squabs, his broad shoulders inches away from Gillian, the predatory look in his eyes replaced by one of amusement. “I hadn’t noticed any particular warmth in their welcome, Viv. As a matter of fact, you’re the only one who was noticeably glad to see me.”
“Well, of course, old man. We’ve been friends forever. It was the least I could do,” Vivian said benignly, his bleary eyes going from the amused face to the nervous expression of their guest. “I say, did I interrupt anything?”
To Gillian’s intense discomfiture Lord Marlowe laughed. “Nothing at all. I was merely about to demonstrate to Miss Incognita the difference between Derwent Redfern and my humble self.”
“Didn’t I warn you about toying with the lower orders? Especially this damned bourgeois class,” Mr. Peacock reproved. “If I were you, Miss Thingummybob, I wouldn’t get my hopes up. Lord Marlowe, I regret to inform you, is a rake.”
“No!” cried Gillian in tones of mock amazement, having gathered her courage and her wits. “Surely you are too harsh.
”
“No, I swear.” He leaned forward in drunken earnestness. “He may seem the jolliest of fellows, and indeed he is. Can’t think of anyone I’d rather share a tipple with, or place a wager, or do just about anything. But he’s a ladies’ man. They all take one look at him and the world’s well lost. Don’t know how he does it, but you mark my words.” He squinted at her in the darkness. “Now I know that you’re not at all in his common line. But that doesn’t mean you’d be safe. Believe me, Miss Thingummybob, he’s—”
“She believes you, Viv,” Marlowe drawled pleasantly. “And now that my character has been sufficiently blackened, I was hoping we might persuade our unwilling guest to disclose her name. Considering that we are now stopped outside the Redfern residence and an extremely angry gentleman is peering at us from the front door, we might—”
“Oh, merciful heavens!” Gillian said ruefully, scrambling for the door handle. A large, strong brown hand closed over hers, and she felt a thrill not unlike a shock as together they opened the door. Before she could leap out he moved, climbing down from the carriage with a grace illuminated by the streetlight, and reached out to help her down. The streetlights also illuminated Derwent Redfern’s discontented, peevish face from the wide oak doors, and for a craven moment Gillian considered denying all knowledge of the house and requesting her rescuers to drive on. But there was no help for it, and sighing, she placed herself in those immeasurably strong hands that lingered just a touch too long at her slender waist. When he finally released her, she looked up, way up, into his face and was surprised by the amused understanding there.
“He’s waiting for you,” he said gently.
“I know.” Her voice sounded unhappy to her own ears. “Perhaps you’d better just leave, and I’ll explain . . .”
“I wouldn’t think of it.” He took possession of her arm and led her reluctant figure up the broad front stairs that were still slippery from the rain. “Not that he’ll be particularly happy to see me, but despite Viv’s aspersions on my character, I do not escort a lady home”—there was a sweetly mocking emphasis on the word—”and then leave her on the street. You get delivered into Redfern’s hands, much as I think it a wretched fate.”
The expression on her brother’s face was enough to give pause to stouter souls than Gillian. But somehow the strong arm beneath her hand, the tall presence by her side lent her courage, and she lifted her head bravely and met Derwent’s horrified eyes as they reached the top steps.
“Good evening, Redfern,” Lord Marlowe greeted him smoothly, with just a trace of irony in his voice. “I have returned something to you.”
With a curt nod Derwent acknowledged the taller man’s greeting. “Marlowe,” he said coolly. “I heard you were back in town.” His tone of voice made it obvious that he hadn’t greeted that news with any particular delight.
To Gillian’s intense discomfiture he turned his chilly, condemning attention to her as she cowered beside Marlowe’s tall, protecting figure. “And I might ask, my dear Gillian, how you happened to find yourself alone and unchaperoned with a gentleman of Lord Marlowe’s reputation?”
“Derwent!” she exclaimed, so astounded by his rudeness that she failed to remember that Marlowe thought her an upper servant. She felt Marlowe’s interested gaze on her flushed face, and cursed her too-ready tongue.
“There’s no use looking so shocked, my girl,” Redfern snapped. “If it got around that my sister was alone with a man like Ronan Blakely . . .”
“At no time at all was your sister alone with me, my dear Redfern.” Marlowe seemed to take the relationship in stride. “If you would care to stroll down the front steps, you will find Vivian Peacock awaiting me in the carriage.”
“There’s not much to choose between the two of you,” Derwent sniffed.
Marlowe sighed wearily. “If I had the time, my dear boy, I would love to teach you some manners. However, I really do dislike making a scene on the front steps with the servants around. And I resent your insulting attitude toward your sister, and most of all, I resent your pompous presence on this earth, but I doubt I’ll bother doing anything to remedy the situation. Not tonight, at least.” He took Gillian’s chilled hand in his and brought it to his lips. “Your servant, Miss Redfern.”
With a trace of defiance toward her sputtering brother, she met Marlowe’s enigmatic gaze with a polite smile. “Thank you for rescuing me, Lord Marlowe. I am certain when I acquaint my brother with the details of this evening he will both apologize and thank you himself.”
“All the details?” he questioned in a laughing under-voice that just missed Derwent’s sharp ears. “I may have to meet him after all.”
For some reason, despite her brother’s ferocious glower and her intense dislike of scenes, Gillian found she could laugh. “Good evening, Lord Marlowe,” she said emphatically, giving him a gentle shove in the direction of the carriage.
“Your servant, Redfern.” He bowed and ran down the steps two at a time. As he reached the carriage a very drunken Vivian leaned out and waved blearily at the couple in the doorway. The result was not quite felicitous, but Gillian, taking her brother’s unwilling arm in hers, said brightly, “You see, we were ably chaperoned the entire time. And if it weren’t for Pamela’s husband being so abominably pinchpenny as to send me out in a carriage that was falling apart, with the most wretchedly inept coachman and the saddest team of horses you have ever seen, I would have been fine. You are lucky I am not lying dead in some ditch between here and Winchester.”
Derwent closed the door behind them, his narrow, unpleasant face full of condemnation. “Have you ever heard the phrase, dear sister, ‘death before dishonor’?”
Handing her rain-soaked felt hat and pelisse to an avidly listening servant, she stripped off her gloves. “I have hardly been dishonored, brother dear, and no one would be likely to think so if you would only desist in these dire predictions.”
Against her will Gillian found her elbow grasped in Derwent’s rough grip, and she was thrust into the drawing room. The door slammed shut behind her. Despite the dampness of the spring evening it was quite warm, but Derwent, who always complained bitterly of drafts, had caused a roaring fire to be built. The result was something closer to the tropics than London on a spring evening. Gillian’s wool dress began to steam gently.
Taking a seat well away from the blaze, she eyed Derwent with an air of resigned expectation that just bordered on irritation. For some reason she felt less willing to deal with Derwent’s moral posturings than usual.
“Do you have any idea,” he began, placing his stubby fingertips together in a meditative pose, “just how bad Lord Marlowe’s reputation is?”
“Mr. Peacock was good enough to enlighten me,” she replied flippantly. “What would you have had me do, Derwent? The rear axle on the carriage broke. It was dark and raining. Should I have stayed in an overturned carriage till morning instead of accepting Lord Marlowe’s very civil offer of help?” she demanded with a certain amount of heat. “And you haven’t even thought to ask me whether I’ve taken any harm from the mishap. You’ve been too busy ranting on about my precious reputation to care for any bodily ills. As if such fustian would matter with a woman my age. I may remind you that I am not a helpless schoolroom chit. I am a spinster of advanced years, and hardly the easy prey of a . . . a . . .”
“A rake,” Derwent supplied, staring at his sister in surprise. “I must say, Gillian, this attitude of yours astounds me. You’ve always trusted my judgment in these matters before. Lord Marlowe is doubtless a very appealing fellow. Most rakes are. But the Redferns have also been rather high sticklers, and it wouldn’t do for us to associate with all the riffraff prevalent in the ton nowadays.”
“You call a marquis ‘riffraff’?”
“This particular one I do. To be sure, the Blakelys are an old, respected family, almost as old a
s the Redferns. But the current incumbent is nothing more than a wastrel. He was sent abroad by his family when he was no more than twenty. Something to do with a female, of course.”
“What about a female?” she asked curiously.
“Really, Gillian, I am not about to sully your ears with such a sordid tale. Take my word for it, the lady in the situation was married, but Marlowe, or Ronan Blakely as he was then, was old in the ways of sin, despite his lack of years. And it was not his first offense. His poor family had no option but to pension him off. It is most unfortunate that he should have come into the title, most unfortunate indeed. We shall have to be polite, of course, but that is as far as it will go, Gillian. Tomorrow I shall draft a very polite note thanking him for his assistance to my sister, and that will be the end of it. I do realize, my dear,” he continued in a kinder tone that set Gillian’s nerves on edge, “that despite your maturity of years you are still quite innocent. As it should be in a maiden lady. In lieu of a husband it is my duty to stand as protector to you, to warn you from undesirable acquaintances and to keep fortune hunters away.”
“I am entirely able to choose my own acquaintances, Derwent,” she said in a mild tone.
“Of course, you are,” he agreed with an indulgent laugh. “And I know I can trust your good judgment in being guided by me in these matters. Come, don’t let us argue any further. It is good to have you back. Letty and Felicity missed you, and the children were impossible. I do not understand why they refuse to mind anyone but you. You have been sorely missed.”
