by Darcy Burke
“Always a pleasure to see you, Rip,” Harry said with an easy smile.
“Have a seat.” Marcus gestured to the chair across from his and sat down once Harry had done so. “Brandy?” A low table bearing a bottle and two glasses sat to the side and between their chairs.
“Thank you.”
Marcus poured and handed the libation to his old friend. “Keeping busy?”
“Always.” Harry took the brandy and raised his glass in a toast. “To Christ Church.”
“To Christ Church.” They customarily toasted their Oxford college, where they’d met fifteen years before.
Marcus got right to the point. “I’m looking for my cousin, who seems to have gone missing.”
Harry rested his arm on the chair and held his brandy glass in his fingers. “When?”
“He hasn’t been to his lodgings since early Wednesday.” Marcus had called on him yesterday to tell him how things were going to be—that he’d stop swindling investors and return the money he’d stolen. However, the landlord had informed Marcus that Drobbit hadn’t come home the previous night.
“It’s only been two days,” Harry said. His dark auburn brows pitched over his tawny eyes. “Not even, since it’s only afternoon. You think a man is ‘missing’ after such a short time? He could be curled up in his mistress’s bed. That’s where I’d look for you.”
Marcus let out a short laugh. “I don’t keep a mistress.”
Harry gave him a knowing smirk. “Too permanent for you.” The fact that mistresses weren’t necessarily permanent at all was not lost on Marcus—he understood the jibe. “Are you concerned he’s met with foul play?”
“Perhaps.” Not really, but Marcus couldn’t discount the notion given what Drobbit was up to. However, he didn’t want to disclose all that to Harry. Not yet. Marcus would give his cousin the opportunity to make amends. Yes, he’d let Harry think he was concerned. “I’d just like to find him as soon as possible.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know your cousin.” He tipped his head to the side. “How is that when I’ve known you for so long?”
Because Marcus had never spoken of him. “We aren’t close, but he’s the only family I have left, so I feel a need to look after him. His name is Archibald Drobbit. He lives on Suffolk Street.” Marcus went on to describe him.
Harry nodded here and there. “Do you think he’s gone missing of his own choice?”
Marcus considered the question. Since he didn’t want to divulge Drobbit’s scheme, he said, “It’s possible, but I suspect he’s trying to avoid me in particular.”
“Why is that?”
Marcus should have anticipated such a question from a Runner. “A family disagreement. We had a bit of an altercation in the park the other day.” Harry would surely learn this in the course of his investigation, so Marcus mentioned it now.
“I take it you’d prefer to keep the subject of the disagreement private?”
“For now.” Marcus realized it might be helpful for Harry to know about Drobbit’s thievery in order to find him, and if Harry wasn’t able to track him down, Marcus would reconsider what to reveal. Not that it would be hard—if Drobbit chose to avoid doing what Marcus had demanded at the park, Marcus wouldn’t protect him from anything. In fact, Marcus would be the first to see him punished.
Harry finished his brandy and set his empty glass on the table before standing. “If you discover anything else I need to know, please inform me as soon as possible. I’ll get started.”
Marcus deposited his glass next to Harry’s and rose. “Thank you. Keep me apprised.”
Inclining his head, Harry turned and left.
Marcus frowned after him. Perhaps he should have told him everything and just allowed Drobbit to hang. Or suffer whatever justice he deserved.
Picking up his brandy glass, Marcus hoped Harry would find him quickly. Then Marcus could see how deep this scheme went. And what it would cost to at least make partial amends.
“My lord?” Dorne, Marcus’s butler, came into the study. “His Grace, the Duke of Halstead, is here.”
“Show him in.” Marcus picked up Harry’s empty glass and took it, along with his own glass, to the sideboard. He turned just as Graham walked in. “Welcome. Would you care for a brandy?”
“No, thank you.” Tall, with long legs and an athletic grace likely due to his fencing skill, Graham strode to the middle of the room. “I don’t have much time. So much to do with the wedding on Tuesday and planning to vacate Brixton Park. That’s why I’ve come. Your offer is too much.”
Marcus had been expecting this. “It’s a beautiful estate. I’m looking forward to hosting many scandalous events there.”
Graham cracked a small smile before straightening his features into a more serious expression. “I asked you for a loan, not a gift.” With the mortgage due on Brixton Park and Graham’s inheritance stolen by Drobbit, Marcus had loaned him money to pay the mortgage. Graham had planned to repay Marcus when Brixton Park sold.
“I’m not giving you anything” Yet. “I’m buying an estate.”
Graham’s dark eyes fixed on him, his mouth twisted into a half frown. “You’re being far too generous.”
“Am I? I really want the estate. Furthermore, I want you and your bride to stay there as long as you like.”
“How can we do that amidst all your scandalous events?”
Marcus chuckled. “I’ll postpone them for the time being. Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d like to host a masquerade there to celebrate your nuptials. Consider it a wedding gift.”
“I think you buying Brixton Park is gift enough,” Graham said wryly. “And allowing us to stay. We will be traveling to Huntwell soon to visit David and Fanny. She’s due to deliver their first child any day.” The Earl of St. Ives was Graham’s closest friend as well as his former employer, so it made sense he would go to visit.
“Then you definitely need a celebration before you go. How about next Saturday? And I mean it—I’m funding the event.”
Graham laughed. “So you can sneak in some debauchery?”
“Always,” Marcus answered with a grin.
He immediately thought of Miss Lennox and how close that would be to the end of their wager. If he hadn’t kissed her by then, debauchery would be required.
No. He’d said she would initiate it, and he would wait for her to do so. But a scintillating masquerade at the lovely Brixton Park couldn’t hurt…
Graham smoothed his hand down his jaw. “Well, I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done.”
“It’s the least I can do given my cousin’s actions and how they’ve affected you. Brixton Park should still be yours.” And if Marcus had any say, he’d gift it right back to Graham. However, he knew the man’s pride wouldn’t allow it. There would be another way to transfer the property back, and Marcus was patient. “Regarding my cousin, I’m working to ensure he doesn’t steal from anyone else. And that he returns whatever money he can.”
Graham blinked in surprise. “He told me he has none.”
“I mean to determine whether that’s true. I can’t say I’m inclined to take his word.”
“Nor am I,” Graham said darkly, his gaze simmering with anger. “I appreciate you trying to squeeze whatever you can out of him. I heard you fought with him at the park the other day and that a duel may be forthcoming. I assumed the latter was a fantastical rumor, particularly since you persuaded me not to call him out.”
“You’re correct. I simply tried to speak with him at the park, and he became defensive.”
“It’s no wonder. If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know. He nearly ruined Arabella’s family.” The fire in Graham’s eyes intensified as he spoke of his betrothed and her parents.
“Which is why I’d like to know who else he’s nearly ruined—or perhaps entirely ruined. To think we share blood…” Marcus shook his head. “I prefer not to think of it, actually.” He smiled at Graham, adopting a more pleasant tone.
“Do not concern yourself with any of this, not while you’re planning your wedding. How shall we arrange the masquerade? Shall I send my secretary to Brixton Park to organize the details?”
Graham shrugged. “I didn’t manage such things when I was David’s secretary, but, then he didn’t host masquerades. Let me speak with Arabella. Perhaps she’d like a hand in things.”
“Of course.” Marcus hadn’t ever hosted this type of event either—his parties were of a different nature. They were smaller, more private, and not for Society. This would be different. “I truly want it to be a celebration of your marriage.”
“Thank you. I know Arabella will be thrilled.” They spoke for a few more minutes and then Graham took his leave.
As soon as he was gone, Marcus went to his desk and pulled Miss Lennox’s handkerchief from the top drawer. He ran his thumb over the delicate embroidery—a purple flower and a yellow butterfly hovering just above it. Had Miss Lennox done this? Perhaps he would ask her when he returned it.
Which he would do presently. Anticipation gathered in his chest as he tucked the handkerchief in his pocket. He pushed all thoughts of Drobbit from his mind and focused entirely on Miss Lennox. Hopefully, she was at least half as eager to see him as he was her.
He couldn’t wait to find out.
“Is that a Gainsborough?” Phoebe’s father asked as he entered the garden room. Phoebe glanced at her newest acquisition, a vibrant landscape that continued the garden theme of the room.
“Yes, welcome, Papa.”
The center of her father’s forehead pleated and formed a small divot directly between his brows. “You spend too much money.”
“You have no idea how much money I spend,” she said with a laugh, hoping to dispel the dark cloud in his gaze.
“No, we do not,” Mama said as she moved into the garden room. “You’ve decided to be independent.”
Phoebe stiffened. Someday, she hoped her parents would understand her choice to remain unwed. At least for now. And maybe forever. “I’ve decided to be happy, and I should think that would make you happy too.”
Papa made a low disgruntled sound. “No, making a good marriage and enriching our entire family would have made me happy.”
“I still hold out hope…” Mama smiled weakly before going to look more closely at the Gainsborough.
Gritting her teeth, Phoebe said nothing. There was no point in having the same argument.
Papa, however, had no problem doing so. “You should’ve married Sainsbury.”
“No, I shouldn’t have.” Phoebe’s insides shriveled as ice coated her skin when she thought of the future she might have had.
“His father has ten thousand a year, and his cousin is Lord Haywood. Sainsbury was an excellent match. I understand he’s still looking for a wife. Perhaps he would consider renewing your betrothal.”
Phoebe worked to keep herself calm—at least outwardly. The thought of marrying Sainsbury sent her into a near panic. “I would not consider such a thing.”
Mama went and put her hand on Papa’s arm. “My dear, there is no going back to that.”
“I suppose not. She all but ruined herself with her conduct.”
Her conduct? Sainsbury had been the one seen kissing another woman. Then there was the other behavior. The things her parents didn’t know and never would. The things almost no one knew—and even if they did, she would still be the one who was ruined. Society was grossly unfair to women.
Mama gave Papa a pleading look. “Let us not dwell on the past.”
Phoebe welcomed a flash of relief. It seemed Mama was at last ready to move on. The fact that they’d come to visit was a good sign. This was only the third time they’d come since Phoebe had taken up residence the previous autumn.
Papa made another aggrieved sound deep in his throat, but said nothing more on the subject. Instead, he turned from Mama and walked toward the doors that led to the garden. “You installed these when you refurbished this room?”
“Yes. I call this the garden room now.”
“I can see why,” Mama said, her gaze roving about the room with interest.
“I recall what this looked like before you spent what has to be a ghastly amount of money. It was fine. You needn’t have wasted a small fortune.”
Phoebe ignored his disdain. It was her money to spend, and she didn’t do so mindlessly. “Papa, I am capable of managing my funds.”
Papa glanced at her with derisive skepticism.
Phoebe tamped down her irritation. Sometimes her father made it difficult to love him, let alone like him.
“It’s a bloody travesty that you have all that money.” He looked at his wife. “Your aunt should have left that money to me to manage for Phoebe until she wed. It’s unconscionable. Better yet, she should have left it to you.”
Mama’s cheeks grew pink. “Well, she didn’t.”
For the first time, Phoebe suspected her father might be jealous. There was more than just anger at Phoebe disregarding expectation. “Papa, I know you’re still bitter about me not marrying Sainsbury, and apparently, you’re angry with Great-Aunt Maria, but is there more than that?”
“Of course not,” Mama answered. “You know your father can be difficult.” She pursed her lips and sent him a stern look before softening her expression toward Phoebe. “You know we love you, dear, and your happiness is all that matters.”
“Thank you, Mama.”
“But we would be remiss if we weren’t concerned. You may think you’re happy now, but a fancy house and independence,” Mama said the word as if it carried poison, “won’t make you happy in the end. You’ll be lonely someday. You should have a husband and children. I trust you’ll come to that conclusion. I just hope it won’t be too late.” She gave Phoebe a warm smile of encouragement, but it didn’t soothe the sting of her condescension. She simply couldn’t imagine that Phoebe could be happy alone. Or that it was really none of their concern at all.
“You wouldn’t be remiss, actually,” Phoebe said tightly. “In fact, I absolve you of such worry, if that helps.” She offered a bright smile.
Mama came forward and touched her hand briefly. “Of course we will, whether you want us to or not.” She laughed, but it was high and false.
“Besides, I want grandchildren. It’s awful enough that I will have no grandsons to carry on my name, but to have no issue at all?” Her father shuddered. “Another travesty.”
Despite his behavior, Phoebe felt for him. Her older brother had died of illness in the war in Spain eight years ago. The loss had affected her father most profoundly.
“I didn’t say I would never marry, Papa,” she said softly. “I’m just never marrying Sainsbury.”
He responded with another low grunt, then turned toward Mama. “Let us depart.”
Phoebe invited them to return any time. She hated being at odds with them, but accepted there was nothing she could do. They would accept her as she was or not. She refused to change herself to appease their desires. This was her life, not theirs.
Going to the front sitting room, she watched through the window as they climbed into their coach and drove away. Scarcely a moment later, another coach arrived in place of her parents’. This one was larger and far more expensive. The door opened, and out stepped the Marquess of Ripley.
Phoebe’s breath hitched. If decadence were a man, it would surely be the marquess. He was the sweet you mustn’t eat or the expensive gown you didn’t need, a luxury one desperately craved but acknowledged you probably couldn’t—shouldn’t—have. Like her new Gainsborough. Evidently, she liked unnecessary things.
He glanced up at the façade of her house before climbing the three steps to her front door. She watched him move, the tails of his coat brushing against his legs, long and muscular, encased in superbly fitting breeches and glossy boots, polished to a near-mirror shine.
She heard Culpepper open the door and hurried into the garden room, where she always received guests. Heat flushed her sk
in, and her pulse thrummed.
The butler stepped in to announce the marquess. And then he was there, taking up the space and making the room feel much smaller than it really was.
He bowed. “Miss Lennox.”
She dipped a curtsey. “My lord.”
Culpepper retreated, and Phoebe was keenly aware of the impropriety of being alone with the marquess. Improper and yet infinitely exciting.
“I brought your handkerchief.” He withdrew the cloth from his coat, reaching beneath his lapel. “Though I’m loath to return it.”
“Why?”
“It’s rather pretty. Is the embroidery your hand?”
She laughed softly. “No. My needle skills are utilitarian. Design, I’m afraid, is beyond my ability. Unlike you.”
“I may be able to draw, but don’t ask me to stitch it into fabric.” He gave her the handkerchief. It was warm in her hand, reminding her that it had nestled against his chest. Or nearly, anyway.
“Thank you.” She sounded a tad breathless, which wouldn’t do. Lowering her gaze, she saw that the cloth was quite clean. “There’s not a trace of blood. Your maids are to be commended.”
“I’ll tell them.” His cobalt gaze held hers, and they fell into a charged silence. The room seemed to shrink even more until she wasn’t sure they were still in a room. All she could see, all she could sense, was him.
She forced herself to speak. “Now that you’ve returned this, how will you contrive to spend time with me?”
He took a step toward her so that they were just a couple of feet apart. “Is that hope I hear in your voice?”
She ignored his question. “You can’t keep paying visits. My parents only just left. If you’d arrived ten minutes earlier, they would have seen you.”
His eyes glinted with humor and dark provocation. “Would that have been a problem?”
“You know it would,” she said with a measure of exasperation. “You are you.”
“And I shouldn’t be visiting you, a self-declared spinster? Where’s the fun—or point, really—in being a self-declared spinster if you can’t receive whomever you want whenever you want?”
