The Marquis At Midnight (14 page)

Hester was either oblivious of the tension
between her companions or determined to carry on despite it. Grace
rather thought it was the first. Tonight, she would be seeing
Lovington. Tonight, Bertie would be visiting Eaton Square to take
back the Woodward necklace. All in all, Grace thought that her
friend had good reason to feel anxiety, no matter how she cloaked
it behind bright social chatter.

As were all balls given by people of high
social standing, the Linwood event was very well attended and the
rooms were crowded. Morvyn did not stray far from Grace’s side,
even when she was asked to dance by others. He himself danced with
Hester, who accepted his invitation with a smile, but it was clear
that she was preoccupied and after a time, he stopped trying to
make small talk, instead looking down at her quizzically.

‘My Lady Woodward?’

‘Oh really,’ she sighed, ‘you’ve know me for
years and you're one of my husband’s greatest friends. Call me
Hester.’

‘Hester,’ he acknowledged. ‘May I ask if
something is the matter?’

‘Matter?’ Hester looked up at him sharply.
‘What should be the matter?’

‘My very question. You seem troubled
tonight.’

She was silent for a moment, then shook her
head. ‘I am sorry. I’m afraid I am very dull company.’

‘I do not need you to amuse me. I merely
wish to know if there is any way I can be of service to you. I have
noticed in the past few days when I have seen you...’

‘Far more frequently than is customary,’
Hester broke in, giving him a sly upward smile. ‘I wonder why that
might be?’

‘That aside, I have noticed that you appear
to be troubled. I know that I am Porter’s friend, but I can assure
you, if there is anything I can do for you, you can count on my
discretion.’

His words, uttered with such kindness, made
her fall silent. Hester found herself tempted to tell him exactly
what was going on. About Lovington and her foolish gambling and the
Woodward necklace. Morvyn was a pillar of common sense, a fountain
of solid reliability. He would tell her she was a fool and he would
fix it. That was the kind of man he was, but he was also one of
Porter’s most trusted friends and telling the marquis would put him
in an untenable situation. She had no doubt he would keep her
secret, but it was a difficult secret for a man of honor to
keep.

‘You are very kind,’ she said softly, ‘and I
appreciate your concern, but I am perfectly all right, I can assure
you.’

He looked down at her, gray
eyes sharp and perceptive and for a moment. Hester held her breath
lest he should read her foolish folly in her face. Then he smiled
and nodded, accepting this. ‘But I
am
very much Porter’s friend,’ he
agreed quietly, ‘and as such, your friend too. You can always rely
on me if need be.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’ They moved around the
floor for some moments in silence, until Hester said. ‘My
lord?’

‘You have known me for years, Hester. Call
me Sheridan. Or Sherry, if you prefer. My family calls me
Sherry.’

She smiled at the way he had turned her own
words back at her. ‘Sherry,’ she repeated, trying it out. For a man
of such quiet gravity, it suited him very well. ‘I cannot help but
notice that you seem to be paying particular attention to my good
friend Grace Pemberton these past few days.’

‘Under the circumstances, I see no reason to
deny it.’

‘I do not know if you are aware, but Grace
has no parents. They died some time ago.’

‘I did not know. Has she any male
relatives?’

‘None. She was an only child.’

‘Thank you for informing me of her
circumstances.’

‘My pleasure. And as she
has no relatives concerned for her welfare, as her
best
friend, I think I
may be allowed to ask what your intentions towards Grace are.’
Hester continued on virtuously, ‘As her
best
friend I believe it is my duty
to enquire.’

‘I understand perfectly,’ Morvyn said
gravely, ‘and I can only assure you that my intentions are entirely
honorable.’

Hester arched an eyebrow at him. ‘Honorable,
my Lord?’

She was delighted when a tinge of red
appeared in his cheeks. The marquis was a hard man to disconcert
and she had scored a hit. ‘I intend to ask Grace to marry me.’

Hester nodded. She had expected nothing
less. ‘I am please to hear it.’

‘Yes, well as
she
has not heard it yet,
perhaps you might not mention it to her.’ He hesitated. ‘I am aware
that she was under the impression that I was the cause of her
husband’s death and, as such, she has held me in considerable
dislike.’

‘From what I saw this afternoon, that seems
to be a thing of the past.’

‘I very much hope so.’

Hester took pity on him, patting his arm
kindly. ‘You have quite swept her off her feet, my lord. Whatever
misconceptions she held have been cleared up by your conversation
with her this afternoon, I can assure you.’

Hester heard Morvyn sigh. ‘I am relieved to
hear it.’

‘So all you need to do now, my dear Sherry,
is woo her well.’

His eyes rose, moving around the dance floor
in search of Grace. Of course, they found her. He had a feeling
that, come what may, he would always know where Grace was. ‘I think
you can safely leave that to me, Hester.’

‘Why yes, Sherry,’ his partner agreed wryly,
‘I think I can.’

At ten p.m. in Eaton Square, Mr. Bertram
Coslowe was contemplating the well-bred façade of Lord Lovington’s
townhouse. He was not well versed in entering the households of
gentlemen without prior invitation, but Bertie believed there
couldn’t be all that much to it. Lovington’s place was a double
fronted stone edifice, windows flanking either side of the steps
that swept up to the front door.

Bertie wasn’t interested in the front door.
He was heading along the narrow path that led around to the back of
the property, an entry familiar to the servants, but not to the
gentry, which was why he almost landed on his face when his foot
tangled with a some gardening paraphernalia. He cursed, righting
himself with an effort while he extracted his foot from what
appeared to be a pottery urn.

‘Deuced ridiculous place to leave
something,’ he muttered, righting himself. There wasn’t a great
deal of light, just that which was filtering past the drawn
curtains, but he made it around the back of the house without
further mishap where he found no less than three doors. He regarded
them for a moment, then shrugged. Opening the first one carefully,
he stuck his head through and listened. He heard the clink of
crockery and a raised woman’s voice.

‘...what you did to these greens, Mrs.
Babcock, but they’s luverly.’

‘Well you eat up, then ‘an get yourself off
to bed. An’ don’t leave any. Old Grumble Guts ’ll ‘ave it all
otherwise. Or that shifty valet of ‘is lordships.’

There was a giggle. ‘Shifty’s right. ‘e’s a
rum ‘un an’ no mistake.’

‘Ah,’ the woman – who sounded as if she
might be the cook – grunted, ‘French!’

Clearly, this particular door led to the
kitchen. Closing it softly, he soft footed along to the next one
and opened it carefully. It appeared to be a washroom, of sorts. A
pair of ancient boots rested under a trough and there were several
earthenware bowls stacked nearby. There was nobody around and he
couldn’t hear voices so he elected to enter, closing it softly
behind him.

So far, so good. Now to find the
library.

Bertie had not come unprepared. In his
pocket was a flask of brandy and he had taken the precaution of
dabbing a little onto his clothing so that he smelled like a
brewery. If he were surprised, he intended to play the jug bitten
young cub who had come to call on his old pal Lovington. A fuddled
member of the gentry need explain nothing, if he were arrogant
enough. He was sincerely hoping that he would not encounter
anybody, however. Best to get the business over with and make
himself scarce as quickly as possible. Hester could have her
trinket back and, if she ever behaved like such a pea-brained
again, he would have Woodward threaten her with a horsewhip. Not
that the whole affair wasn’t a lark, but the girl needed to have
that husband of hers ring a peal over her if she was going about
wagering the family jewels. It simply wasn’t the done thing at
all.

At this time of the evening, there weren’t a
lot of servants about, just as Bertie had anticipated. Their day
started too early to be up all hours. It would be the butler and
the valet and the cook and maid in the kitchen, with any luck, and
as he knew where the cook and maid were, all he had to worry about
were Lovington’s man-servants.

As most houses were generally the same, he
found the library without any trouble and quietly closed the door
behind him. A candle had been left burning on a table and he picked
it up then headed to the desk.

‘Second drawer, hey Hester? Let’s see.’

The second drawer was locked.

‘Well, damn.’

It was an inconvenience, pure and simple.
Bertie leaned back in the chair and surveyed the top of the desk.
His eyes lit upon a narrow blade, a silver letter opener, and he
leaned forward, seizing it. He stared at it thoughtfully for a
moment, then shrugged.

‘Devil a bit.’

The box was going to be
disappearing so Lovington would know that
some
body had been in his study. Might
as well suffer a broken drawer as well as a stolen box.

Inserting the tip of the letter opener into
the top of the drawer, he slid it in a little way and pushed the
handle up sharply, applying force. It was good wood, but no match
for determined metal and the lock splintered and cracked before
giving up entirely.

Sure enough, inside was a carved black
Chinese box of high gloss enamel painted with gold symbols. As
Hester had said, it was locked, but Bertie shook the thing and it
made a satisfactorily jingling sound. Something was in there.
Hopefully it was the Woodward necklace. He opened the drawer a
little more to make sure that was the only box inside. There was
nothing else, but some papers, official looking for they bore the
name of the Foreign Office on the top right hand corner and he
glimpsed a red seal at the bottom. Bertie would never have put
Lovington down as a government squab, but one never knew. With all
that rum business happening in Europe, the House of Lords seemed to
be meeting every second day, although if they’d recruited Lovington
they were scraping the bottom of the barrel.

Closing the drawer, Bertie rose to his feet.
All in all, a successful endeavor. He was rather pleased with
himself, actually. He even remembered to replace the candle on the
table and had just put his hand on the door to make his exit when
it turned beneath his fingers. Startled, Bertie could do nothing
but take a quick step back and press himself flat against the
wall.

The door opened and, thankfully, remained
that way, shielding him from whoever had entered the room. Surely
it wasn’t Lovington, not at this time. The man should be at that
damned ball for hours yet. He heard a soft footfall and things
moving about and then somebody else entered.

‘You are making up the fire?’

‘As you can see.’

Two men. Probably the butler and the valet.
The cook had called the valet a Frenchie and he certainly had an
accent.

‘My lord will be receiving a guest later
tonight. Be sure to leave a tray out.’

Bertie decided he didn’t much care for the
valet’s voice. It was slithery, a little sibilant and far too
soft.

‘Very well.’ The butler said, sounding
puffed up and high in the instep. In Bertie’s experience, butlers
were always Friday-faced and full of themselves, but in this
instance, he felt a twinge of empathy. Probably didn’t like the
other man’s jumped up attitude. ‘I can wait up and attend his
lordship myself.’

‘No need. I’ll wait up for him and see to
the guest, as well. You can get yourself off to bed, Boroughs.’

‘I cannot say I like your attitude, Mr.
Moreau!’

‘You do not need to like
it,’ the oily Moreau sounded amused. ‘You merely have to retire for
the evening.
Bonne nuit
, Boroughs.’

After the butler left, there was silence,
but Bertie didn’t think he was alone. He wanted to peek around the
door and take a look, but something held him still. After a time,
he heard a soft footfall and the door swung shut once again. Bertie
stared at the room for a long moment, now enlivened by a cheerful
fire burning in the grate, and blew out his breath. Slippery little
Frenchie, he thought in disgust. Typical that a loose cannon like
Lovington would have a valet like that.

He wondered, briefly, why anybody would be
having a guest so late, but immediately put the question from his
mind. It really didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Bertie
was gone before they arrived.

Chapter Eight

Dancing, Grace decided, had never been more
provoking or more seductive. And of course it had to be a waltz,
the most deliciously intimate of all, when danced in Morvyn’s
arms.

She was intensely conscious of him, the more
so because they had spent some time together tonight, allowing
their hunger for each other to go grow. Dinner, with his warm, avid
gaze on her across the table, making Grace forget what she was
eating. The carriage ride, with him so close that she could breath
him in. Morvyn smelt of the outdoors for all his fine clothes.
Something clean and fresh; wind and rain and solid earth.

And now this…

The arms that held her were every bit as
unwavering as she remembered from their first dance, no more than a
week ago. Only a week and so much had changed in that time. She had
begun it in the belief that the man was little better than a fiend
and had finished it…