No Marriage of Convenience (9 page)

She smiled ever so politely. “Why, how to protect themselves from the unwanted and untoward advances of the lascivious popinjays they are likely to meet among
your
set.” She turned to Belton. “My carriage awaits me. Lead on, sir.”

Mason would have wagered that a more righteous and indignant departure than that performed by Madame Fontaine had ever been seen in a London house or onstage.

In fashionable London, the Ashlin house wasn’t the only one receiving unwelcome guests, as a rap at the door by a servant brought a frown to the Marquess of Cariston’s features. “What?”

“Milord, that person is here again.”

“Is anyone about, Sanders?”

“No, milord.”

Snapping the paper closed, his lordship waved at the servant. “Show him in. And make sure no one sees him.”

Getting up from his favorite chair, he poured himself a drink and tossed it back in one gulp.
It must be rare news indeed to warrant the likes of Nutley coming to the house in broad daylight
.

And the Marquess knew exactly who was responsible for this unwanted interruption.

Damn her. Damn her to hell
, he thought, pouring himself a second measure of brandy. The woman would be the death of him.

His fingers tightened around the glass.

Not if she…

His murderous thoughts trailed off as his visitor strolled into the room.

“Nutley,” he said, nodding at a hard chair in the corner,
well suited for someone of this man’s baseborn station.

Anyone looking at the tall, handsome guest entering into the Marquess’s private room would never guess that he had been born and raised in the slums of Seven Dials, for he had all the noble characteristics of an heir to the loftiest of titles.

Dressed in the height of fashion, his lean patrician nose, dark, rakish hair, and athletic build gave little evidence to the man known in London’s worst stews as “the Crusher”—a nickname earned for his ability to wring a man’s neck with one hand.

But Nutley hadn’t been destined for the dark horrors of an early death at Tyburn, like so many of his lowly peers. With his incredible good looks, and fashionable manners and speech picked up from his prostitute mother’s better clients, he passed, for the most part, as a gentleman—and spent his days working for them doing the odd jobs and rather unsavory tasks a true gentleman would never lower himself to undertake.

That, his lordship told himself, was what would always separate the likes of Nutley from the upper class.

Nutley’s gaze flicked over at the hard chair in the corner he’d been offered. He took the more comfortable chair in front of the fire, and glanced up at his host, as if challenging him to say anything.

And though Lord Cariston seethed inside, this nobleman, the son of an aristocratic line that went back to the victors at Hastings, was too much of a coward to provoke a man as dangerous as Nutley.

So rather than see his own neck snapped like a goose at Christmas, Lord Cariston soothed his vanity by pouring himself another drink and not offering one to his guest.

The subtle snub would have to do for now.

“I don’t recall sending for you, Nutley.”

“Forgive me, your lordship, for coming here without an invitation.” For all Nutley’s villainy, he was a polite devil. “It’s just that I got some news about her that I thought you should hear.”

Lord Cariston nodded for him to continue.

“She’s taken a protector.”

The words sank in slowly, like the fine brandy he’d consumed. But the fire it kindled inside him had nothing to do with pleasure, for if she had sought help within the
ton
, then it would be only a matter of time before she…

“Who?” he whispered, afraid to hear the answer.

At this Nutley laughed, a rarity indeed, but a telling one, for it momentarily reassured his lordship that perhaps all was not lost. “The Earl of Ashlin.”

Settling back in his chair, Cariston wished he could share in Nutley’s good humor.

“What the devil is she doing with him?”

“I’m working on that.”

“Not good enough,” Cariston snapped, forgetting his earlier fears of the man seated across from him.

Nutley glanced up. “No need to get into a dander. I can handle this. From what I hear, this Ashlin is a milksop.”

“If you had handled this correctly from the start, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”

Instead of showing anger, Nutley shrugged. “You’re the one who wanted her run out of business. If we’d done it my way from the start, she wouldn’t be around bothering you now.”

The look of disgust on Nutley’s face reminded the Marquess of an expression his own father had often worn—one that said they both doubted he had the stomach to do what was necessary.

Getting up from his chair, Lord Cariston poured himself another drink and swallowed it down. The evil warmth
gave him the final bit of courage he needed to take this very necessary, but distasteful, next step. To order her demise.

He stared at the almost empty decanter, the amber liquid hypnotic in its warmth.

Demise
. Now, there was a word that gave a man comfort when he had such business.

“Well, what do you want me to do?” Nutley asked.

“Get rid of her. But it must look like an accident.”

Nutley rose. “Accidents are my specialty. But it would be more fun to play with her a bit.”

“No!” he barked. “And hire the job out. I won’t have this connected to you, and in the rare likelihood, to me. I cannot be associated with her.” For a moment, his liquor-induced bravado outweighed his usual cowardice. “If any of this goes awry, I won’t pay.”

Nutley laughed, crossing the room until he stood nose to nose with him. “You’ll pay, gov’ner. Or the fine people around town will be mourning a second unexplainable accident.” Nutley’s gaze narrowed and he stared at him until Lord Cariston blinked. “That’s more like it,” Nutley told him. He picked up a glass and helped himself to a drink. “So what about this earl of hers?”

“Move quickly, and keep him well out of it.”

“Shouldn’t be so hard. I’ll do it first thing tomorrow,” Nutley said. “But I don’t see what you’re worried about, this man is hardly a bloke to be concerned about, from what I hear.”

If it had been the previous Earl of Ashlin they were discussing, he might have been cheered enough to offer Nutley a second drink with which to toast their shared good fortune. But he saw nothing to celebrate.

Mason St. Clair, the Earl of Ashlin, was no fool, and if anyone could solve the mystery of Riley Fontaine, it was the man determined to be the first saint of Ashlin.

“D
amnation, here comes Del,” Mason muttered early the next morning, as he watched Lord Delander round the square on his best horse, leading an equally well-blooded mount for Mason. Unlike his mother, Del was an amiable sort, loyal to his friends, though unfortunately, not what Cousin Felicity would call a “cornerstone of discretion.”

Del liked to share a good story.

“Belton, is that clock wound?” he asked, pacing back across the foyer and stopping in front of the tall, ornate clock that Caro had picked up in Italy on her wedding trip. Standing eye to eye with the gold filigree hands, he could only hope the time was wrong. “It can’t be half past seven.”

Belton’s bushy white eyebrows rose just ever so slightly, an indication that the Earl’s statements bordered on impertinence.

“Yes, well, I suppose it is correct,” Mason said hastily, not wanting to offend his servant.

“It would seem, my lord,” Belton said, “that Lord Delander is early.”

Mason shook his head at this calamity. Del being early meant his rakish friend had been up all night and had yet
to seek his bed—or had sought it someplace other than his own house. And he’d now expect an invitation to breakfast.

“I clearly told her punctuality was essential for discretion, and now…” Mason stopped himself from going any further as he caught a glance of Belton’s expression, a strained look which clearly said that the butler thought Mason’s partnership with the notorious lady was sheer folly.

Belton’s unholy disdain for those in trade came second only to his utter contempt of the theatre.

Oh, the butler would never tell his employer a person was inappropriate, but Belton had a way about him that never left any doubt in one’s mind exactly what the uncompromising man thought.

“Well, she’s late,” Mason repeated.

“She is an
actress
, my lord,” Belton shook his head as if his simple statement told the real truth.

“Exactly,” Mason muttered. “Unreliable and flighty. And not just actresses, Belton—all women. Is it any wonder I chose the academic life? And as soon as I am rid of my nieces,” he said with a nod toward the stairwell, down which came echoing their shrill voices as they argued like a trio of fishwives over the possession of a bonnet, “and rid of Freddie’s debts, I am returning to my books and studies and the peaceful life I once enjoyed at Oxford.”

He paced back across the foyer and stopped before the window to survey the square. Though the only other occupant about appeared to be a young maid returning from an errand for her mistress, that didn’t ease his apprehensions.

Del was even now dismounting and looking around for the lad to come and take the reins.

And any moment, Madame Fontaine’s carriage would
come rolling into the square and his risky partnership with the most notorious woman in London would become public knowledge, compliments of Del.

It had seemed so easy yesterday—to tell her that he would seek his bride, make a marriage of convenience. And yet he’d gone out last night, determined to find his countess, attending party after party, looking over the heiresses and gaining the proper introductions to well-to-do widows, yet these all too respectable ladies of the
ton
left him wondering if he could live his life without the passion he’d experienced in Madame Fontaine’s arms.

If only he hadn’t kissed her. It had made a muddle of all his plans.

“My lord,” Belton said. “You’d best intercept him. Now.”

Mason had little choice but to go out and get Del away from the house as quickly as possible.

Before opening the door, he told Belton, “When Madame arrives, escort her up to the Green Salon and see that the girls join her immediately. Then don’t admit any visitors—not a soul—until I return.” Taking his hat from the butler and snatching up his riding crop from the stand by the doorway, Mason strode out the door and bounded down the steps, colliding with the maid he’d seen earlier.

He caught her before he sent her careening back down the steps, righting her and saying, “Excuse me, miss.” It was easy to see how he’d overlooked her, for her drab little cloak left her all but blended into the stones and paving.

“It’s perfectly all right, my lord,” she murmured as he hurried past. “I suppose I deserve to be bowled over when I am so late.”

Her response barely registered in his mind, for he was
already down the steps and shaking Del’s hand when her words and soft voice finally took root.

So late
.

He swung around and found himself gaping at the maid who suddenly wasn’t as colorless as he’d first thought.

Nor was she a maid.

It appeared Madame Fontaine had taken his order to prune her feathers back in her own defiant style. Oh, yes, she wore the usual ugly, shapeless cloak one saw maids and ladies’ companions bundled in—but atop her head sat another cheeky hat. Though not her usual monstrosity of ribbons and plumage, this jaunty little chapeau with its swans down trim, green bow, and two feathers was not the modest headcovering one expected to see on a tutor to young ladies.

Did the woman ever go out without wearing feathers? he wondered, eyeing the two small plumes dancing in wild abandon atop her bonnet.

Not only were those damnable feathers laughing at him, but when she turned, her cloak fell open, revealing an elegant day dress of soft green, cut just low enough to give her audience a stunning view of the curves and generous bosom he knew only too well lurked beneath.

But it was her face which held his rapt attention. Scrubbed clean of the makeup and artifice that normally masked her features, her face shone through as fresh and demure as that of the greenest country lass.

The skin once hidden by paint appeared almost luminescent, graced as it was with a soft pink hue and a delicate rose at her lips. To his amazement there was even a teasing hint of freckles across the bridge of her nose, like the faint light of summer stars when they first appear in the twilight sky.

Madame Fontaine with freckles? His world turned upside down at such an ordinary notion.

Gads, this delicate seraph couldn’t be the nefarious woman who’d invaded his home yesterday. He swallowed hard. No, this girl looked exactly like the unknown English miss he’d told her he intended to wed.

“My lord,” she whispered. “I said I was most sorry about arriving late. Is there something else wrong? My bonnet? This gown?”

Wrong?
Hardly. She rivaled the first flowers of spring, the dew on a summer’s morning, the…

As if she sensed his amazement, her hand rose modestly to her face.

“What, or rather who, have you been hiding from me, St. Clair?” Del interrupted, trying to edge Mason aside.

Mason planted his feet squarely to the pavement and stood his ground. While he had been silently waxing poetic once again about this woman who was more surely the Helen to destroy his Troy than an Aphrodite to inspire his sudden perchance for lovesick odes, he’d forgotten Del stood close at hand.

“You’ll have to excuse the Saint, his manners are atrocious,” Del said. “And no wonder he’s standing there like a regular nodcock, an enchanting creature such as yourself would make any man a philistine.” He grinned and shoved the dangling reins into Mason’s hands, then smoothly sidestepped him and caught her by the elbow. “Allister Balfour, Viscount Delander at your service, my dear. And you are?”

“Charmed,” she replied, taking his hand off her elbow and returning it to him.

Del laughed. “As I am, most decidedly.” He turned to Mason. “You’ve been holding out on me, Saint. A veri
table angel in your midst. Am I to assume you’ve taken a bride?”

Mason saw nothing but the impending disaster before him, or he wouldn’t have been so quick to utter, “No, the lady is not my wife.” Once it had been said, he realized his mistake as Del’s eyes lit with delight.

“Even better,” his friend replied. Del’s lurid gaze swung quickly back to her. “Then you can rest assured that I will court you, my dearest angel, quite shamefully without having to worry about being called out by my friend here. Wasted in Oxford he’s been. Just wasted. Best shot in town. I remember when we were just lads out at Sanborn Abbey—”

“Del,” Mason interrupted. “This is not the time.”

Del nodded. “Of course not. Why would I want to charm a lady with your exploits when I am positive she would much rather be listening to mine.” The man laughed again, and much to Mason’s chagrin, Madame Fontaine joined in, her infectious good humor bubbling up like champagne on the tongue.

She’d never smiled like that around him—not that he’d given her any chance—still, she didn’t have to look at Del as if his every word were laden with gold.

Worse than that, her good spirits only fueled Del’s advances along. “Now, let me see,” he began. “I never forget a lovely face, and yours is not only delightful, but very familiar. Have we met?”

Before she could answer, Mason jumped in. “I doubt it, Del. The lady is newly arrived from the country.”

He had to give Riley credit, the only indication she gave to this lie was a slight shift of her brow.

“The country? No, I don’t think so, I’ve seen you elsewhere. Here in town and recently, if I recall.” Del took her hand again, and this time gave no indication that he
was going to let go until he gained some answers. “Were you at Lady Twyer’s musicale last week?”

Then, before Mason could come up with a likely explanation, Cousin Felicity hustled out the front door, a dervish awhirl in muslin and lace.

His dire threat that she would no longer be allowed to attend the theatre or opera—two of her favorite places to gather gossip—if she let even a hint of Madame Fontaine’s presence in their house fall past her lips, was obviously foremost in her mind. She looked absolutely stricken at the sight of Lord Delander bent over Madame Fontaine’s hand.

“Oh, there you are,” Cousin Felicity said. “I’ve been sick with worry.” She caught Madame’s free arm and tugged her loose of Del’s overly cordial clutches.

“My lady, good morning to you,” Lord Delander said, nodding to Cousin Felicity. “Perhaps you can tell me who your lovely visitor is?”

“She’s…she’s…” Cousin Felicity glanced from Lord Delander to Mason and finally to Madame Fontaine, all the while her lashes beating wildly behind her thick glasses.

Del’s head cocked to one side, obviously smelling something afoot. “Well, do the two of you know this enchanting creature, or don’t you?”

Cousin Felicity gulped. “Of course we know her, my lord.” She glanced again at Mason.

He helped her along. “I was just explaining to Lord Delander that the lady is newly arrived from the country.”

“The country?” Cousin Felicity repeated. “Oh, yes,” she said, her face brightening with a smile. “Why, Lord Delander, of course, she’s just arrived from the country.”

“I don’t believe either of you, for I swear I have seen this lady before.” The Viscount scratched his head and
then grinned. “Now I remember where I have seen you, you vexing little mystery. And you can’t deny it now, for I have found you out.” He grinned at an open-mouthed Cousin Felicity and a stunned Mason. “I know exactly where I’ve seen you. At the theatre! That delightful little one on Brydge Street.”

Ignoring the look of apoplexy marring Lord Ashlin’s handsome face, Riley smiled brightly at the Viscount. After Lord Ashlin’s abominable treatment yesterday, she would show the pompous scholar a thing or two about how a gentleman treats a lady. She wouldn’t even go over his outlandish kiss—for she’d spent too much time last night recalling every moment. No, she had more reason than that to be angry with him.

Why, he’d tricked and deceived her most wickedly about his abominable nieces. He’d even had the audacity to call them gently bred.

Rabid badgers possessed better manners. And, she imagined, would be more amenable to training.

Then there was his insistence that she appear in an appropriate costume, and appear she had, albeit a little late, and not exactly to his specifications, but she’d had her own reasons there.

Why, she’d spent the better part of the night reworking a piece of curtain from one of their less popular plays into this cloak so she was appropriately covered.

However, the gown underneath was another matter. She’d be damned if he ever called her tolerably pretty again.

And she’d obviously gone too far with her decision to wear her newest spring gown, for all he could do was glower at her.

It was his insistence on her change of wardrobe that
was the very reason why she was late—she’d had a terrible time hailing a hackney, even with Hashim’s assistance. In her usual costume, the drivers lined up to carry her, but covered up like someone’s spinster governess, they drove by with nary a glance.

Now he wanted her to act like some country fool? Oh, she’d give him an innocent miss, one his overly attentive friend wouldn’t forget for quite some time.

“Oh, my lord,” she said in a sweet, breathy voice to the Viscount. “I don’t see how that could be possible. I have never been to the theatre.”

For good measure she let her lashes flutter and dropped her chin in a demure gesture. With a shy glance through her downcast lashes, she could see the man was taken in by her performance.

Obviously he hadn’t seen her role as the virtuous and upstanding young girl in
Wayside Maid
.

Lord Delander shook his head. “No, you must be joking. I know I’ve seen you before and I’ve a good memory for these things. It was the theatre, I know it was.”

Riley sighed. “I don’t see how. My esteemed guardian always told me that a theatre is filled with the worst kind of reprobates and not a place for the innocent of mind. And out of respect to his worthy opinions, I make it a point to heed his sage advice.”

Of course, Aggie usually finished his description of the typical London audience with a long, happy sigh and a breathy “God bless every one of them,” but Lord Delander didn’t need to know that.

“Yes, yes,” Cousin Felicity chimed in. “How could she have been to the theatre if she’s newly arrived from the country? You are simply mistaken, Lord Delander.” The lady let out an impatient breath as if that settled the matter, and took Riley by the arm. “Come along, my dear. The
girls are so delighted you are finally back from your stroll.” She turned to Lord Delander. “Have you ever heard of anything so quaint—taking the morning air, in London no less, and without a proper escort.”