The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) (2 page)

“We are not friends.”

“Survive past winter. Then put your cleverness to better use.”

Without another word, Chatham turned his back and left Reaver’s domain. Strode past Frelling and his nervous spectacles. Returned to his rooms, where he gathered up his coat and hat. And then he left Reaver’s club without a single notion as to where he was going. Seemingly between blinks, he stood swaying in the tiny square outside the red door, his boots gripping the cobblestones, his hand gripping the silver head of his walking stick.

Why had he trusted Sebastian Reaver? Bloody stupid to imagine anyone was worthy of faith or capable of loyalty. Not that Reaver and he were particular chums, but they had done business over the years. Mutually beneficial, he’d thought.

He secured his hat upon his spinning head and waited for his coach to pull around. It arrived minutes later, summoned by the ever-efficient Shaw, driven by his father’s man. Why the old servant continued to drive for the new Lord Rutherford, shuttling back and forth between Rutherford House and Reaver’s, he could only speculate. It was not as if he paid him much. “Shall I take you home, m’lord?”

Chatham glanced up, shielding his eyes from the sun behind the coachman’s head. He yanked open the door to the musty carriage. “It has not been my home in years, man. Why must I constantly remind you?”

The crackling voice beneath the coachman’s hat almost sounded amused. “Beg pardon, m’lord. Forgetful, I suppose.”

Ten minutes later, he arrived at the expansive white-stone town house in Grosvenor Square, where two carts were being loaded by five burly men. The first pair carried a bed frame from one of the guest chambers. Another pair loaded a large wooden crate, and a fifth man clutched paintings of Chatham’s ancestors in each indelicate paw.

“Damn me,” he muttered to the mold and dust. “Pryor moves as swiftly as he speaks, it seems.” The house had been sold only weeks ago to Lord Gilforth, whose solicitor, Mr. Pryor had a rapid rate of speech Chatham found taxing.

In the foyer, he was greeted by the abhorrent sight of his mother. She sat on the bottom step of the stairway, hands covering her face, shoulders hunched as she stifled her sobs. Pink, ruffled silk billowed around her slender form. As she heard the click of his walking stick on the cold marble of the entrance hall, her head came up with a jerk.

“Really, Mother. Pink?”

She dabbed her perfectly shaped eyes and just beneath her small, perfect nose then smoothed her perfectly arranged, white-blond coiffure with one delicate hand. “If you expect me to mourn your father—”

He laughed and moved to lean his shoulder against a column alongside the banister. “Of course not. Black has never flattered you. However, you are hardly a rose in its first bloom. Now, scarlet, on the other hand. Most appropriate. Or, perhaps green. I understand the ladies of Covent Garden find it disguises the stains of their profession.”

Cool, silver eyes gleamed with spite. “You would know.”

Again, he chuckled. “Has Mr. Pryor made an appearance?”

She gripped the bannister and pulled herself to her feet. Even standing on the bottom step, her forehead only came even with his chin. “No.” She sniffed and dabbed again at the corner of one eye. “Why are you here? To revel in my misery, I suppose.”

He had not remembered this was the day Lady Rutherford would be forced to find other accommodations, so no, he’d not intended to torment her. He paid her little notice, and certainly not enough to desire such a thing.

One of the burly men, built along the lines of Reaver, clomped across the marble and stood in front of Lady Rutherford, whose features melted into a plea. “Please, sir. I—I have nowhere to go,” she begged.

Pryor’s hired man glanced to Chatham with the beginning stages of panic.

Chatham sighed and grasped his mother’s upper arm, pulling her off the step and dragging her a few feet away from the stairs. “Lady Rutherford is overwrought,” he said. “Be about your business.” As soon as the man began to ascend the stairs, Chatham tossed his mother’s arm away.

She rubbed it as though he had bruised her. Ridiculous. Theatrical. She might be a duplicitous whore born and married to the aristocracy, but she had given birth to him. Besides, brutality was not in his nature.

He had never hurt a woman in his life. Unless one requested such specialized treatment and paid an additional fee, of course. That, however, was the sole exception, and one of which he was not particularly fond.

“Where am I to sleep?” she hissed. “Have you given a moment’s thought to
me
in your eagerness to dispense with your father’s possessions?”

“No. I do not care a whit where you sleep. Nor did he. Probably for the best, considering how many beds you landed in.”

Suddenly tearless silver eyes narrowed to slits. “Disgusting, selfish man. I despise you with every fiber of my body. I should have smothered you in your cradle. I should have—”

“Now, Mother.” He tapped her temple lightly with his fingertip. “Remember the vein that bulges here when you let your anger loose upon the world. Most unattractive.”

Two more men entered and clomped past them toward the dining room.

Her face took on a harsh cast as she stared past his shoulder at their retreating backs. In the daylight, he could see fine lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Within five years, he calculated, her beauty would abandon her entirely. He wondered what she would sell then. Mentally, he shrugged. The problem was hers, not his.

“They are taking everything, Chatham.
Everything.
I’ll have nothing left.” She was pitiful. A mewling, helpless harlot.

He sighed. “Rutherford’s solicitor already arranged for your jointure to be distributed. That should be more than enough to rent a house or—”

“It is spent.”

He blinked. “Spent. Four thousand pounds.”

She smoothed one of her ruffles and sniffed. “I had not been to a modiste in two years—”

“Unbelievable.”

“—and that old coach smells of mold—”

“Mother.” His eyes fell to the glittering necklace around her pale throat. He’d assumed it was glass, as all her “jewels” had been for the last four years as his father had floundered. Now, his suspicions changed. “Tell me one of your paramours gave that to you.”

“A proper son would not ask such questions.”

“We have established I have no wish to be your son, proper or otherwise. Is it real?”

Her fingers brushed against what appeared to be rubies. “I do not wear paste.”

Releasing a huff of laughter, he shook his head, then grasped her shoulders and set her away from him.

“Where are you going?” she mewled.

He grasped the smooth, polished banister and pulled himself up the stairs. He did not answer her. She was not worth his breath. As he reached the top and made his way down the wide corridor, he noted the rectangular spaces on the walls where his father’s line had once been displayed. Old, dead men. Generations of Chathams long passed. Now gone from view.

Faintly, he heard his mother begging, “Not the sideboard. It was carved by Thomas Chippendale, himself.”

He continued on to the rear of the house. Opened a set of doors and stepped into Rutherford House’s grand ballroom. Gray-veined marble, buttercream walls, and white moldings, columns, and niches gave the room a glowing sort of brightness. Slowly, he paced to the left end of the room, hearing the alternate rap and click of boots and walking stick echo against hard surfaces. Inside a scooped niche stood a white statue of Poseidon. How often during his mother’s frequent fetes had he taken up a post here, sipping something pleasantly numbing, examining the crush, commiserating with the god of the sea?
Yes, they are a lot of fools, are they not?
he would observe silently.
Note the one who wears a corset. No, not her. Him. Does he think he is deceiving anyone? And that hair. Surely it is a wig. No, not him. Her.
Naturally, the god never answered. Gods were above all that.

“Lord Rutherford?”

He closed his eyes. Someone must be asking for his father.

“Lord Rutherford.”

His eyes opened. No. The voice asked for him. The third Rutherford. The disgrace. “Yes?” He turned. “Mr. Pryor. I was wondering when you would arrive.”

The short, balding man bustled forward across the ballroom clutching a bundle of papers against his bulging middle. “My lord, have you not received my messages?”

Chatham opened his mouth to answer, but the solicitor gave him no opportunity.

“This matter is most urgent. Most urgent, indeed. My client wishes to speak with you immediately. The boy I sent with the messages must have—”

“Mr. Pryor.”

“—been waylaid, or perhaps he simply made off with the tuppence I paid—”

Chatham sighed and interrupted the rat-a-tat word stream. “I had supposed our business concluded, as evidenced by Lord Gilforth’s disposal of the valuables.”

The small mouth that raced like a thoroughbred at Ascot temporarily halted into an O. Eyes set beneath an infinite forehead blinked rapidly. “Different client, my lord. Misunderstanding is all. No, no, no. This client wishes to meet with you on an entirely separate matter. And it is most urgent.”

“Mmm. I am getting that impression.” Chatham brushed past the portly solicitor and ambled toward the doors. Coming here had been a mistake. He supposed he must find lodgings elsewhere. Perhaps one of the hotels. “You may tell your client I have nothing left to sell. Unless he is eager to acquire a coach with an unfortunate mold problem.”

“Oh, but—”

“Good day, Mr. Pryor.”

He was halfway down the corridor before wheezing breaths and crinkling paper signaled the solicitor’s pursuit. “My … my lord. This … is an offer … you will wish to hear.”

Together, they reached the top of the stairs. In a moment of grave miscalculation, Pryor grasped his elbow. Chatham stopped. Glared. The pudgy hand was hastily withdrawn, the endless forehead turning pink with embarrassment.

“Apologies,” Pryor panted. “But you must consider—”

Chatham lowered his head to meet the shorter man’s eyes more directly. “There is no ‘must,’ where I am concerned. You—and your client—should know that about me.” He started down the stairs, watching his mother’s pink ruffles dance as she rose on her toes to grasp at a vase extending above the edge of a crate. The burly man holding the crate turned slightly to keep it out of her reach as they both exited the front door.

“The client is Rowland Lancaster, my lord.”

Chatham’s boots froze, one on the third step above the marble floor and one on the fourth. His fist attempted to crush the banister where it steadied him.

“The American?”

“Indeed. I cannot express how strongly I believe his offer will interest you.”

Chatham smoothed a hand along the waist of his coat. Felt the small lump of Mrs. Knightley’s coins beneath the wool. Along with a sufficient supply of whisky, it would buy him a fortnight, no more. Lancaster, on the other hand, possibly represented a lifetime. Perhaps several lifetimes. Doubtless it would come at a price, but he was accustomed to such transactions. “Well, my good man,” he said with false joviality. “Why did you not say so?”

*~*~*

CHAPTER TWO

“Lacking both beauty and grace, a young lady must rely upon either her fortune or intellect to secure a sound match. I do hope your father has offered a generous dowry, my dear.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Miss Penelope Darling at her weekly luncheon.

Gazing down into the wily eyes of her least favorite pawnbroker, Miss Charlotte Lancaster could see her moment of triumph approaching like a ship coming into port. “These are genuine seed pearls, Mr. Pegg. Garnets and sapphires of the finest quality.” She stroked one gloved finger across the double strand on her wrist. “Seven is less than half what they will fetch for you.”

Avarice shone in Mr. Pegg’s eyes as the light from the shop windows danced with the precious stones. “Five,” he rasped, the scar over his left brow twitching in a familiar tell. “No’ a shilling more.”

She calmly withdrew her wrist and tilted her chin. “Seven. Or I shall take my business to Mrs. Willey.”

He snorted and wiped his nose with his sleeve. “That old sow wouldn’t know a pearl from a bag o’ sand.”

“She knew enough to give me nine for the gold combs I offered you last month.”

Greedy eyes flashed and narrowed. “Ye’re bammin’ me.”

“I do not bam, Mr. Pegg.”

He sucked at his front teeth, the sound grating and rude. “Seven, eh?”

She waited while he rubbed his bristled chin.

“Very well.”

Her grin broke wide as she calmly unclasped the bracelet she had worn precisely twice and laid it on the pawnbroker’s counter. “An excellent decision. Your customers will be clamoring for this piece.”

He grunted then counted out seven pounds’ worth of coins from inside a hinged wooden box. His palm flattened against them, scraping as he slid them across to her. “Ye say the same ev’ry time.”

She arched a brow and deposited the coins inside her reticule with a light clink. “Am I ever wrong?”

Again, he grunted and shot her a surly glare. “Nah. Ain’t natural, ye ask me.”

That only made her grin grow. “Until next time, Mr. Pegg. A pleasure, as always.” She exited the dusty Oxford Street shop through the side entrance, which was designed for those who did not wish to be seen either entering or leaving such an establishment. And she would surely be recognized. There were not many orange-haired women of her height in London, never mind Mayfair. After four-and-a-half humiliating London seasons, she was bordering on notorious.

But that would change. As soon as her father realized no lord wanted her as his wife, Charlotte was certain he would concede defeat. She would be free to travel to America and begin the life she should have been living all along. No more seasons. No more balls. No more relentless quest to buy her an English title. If he’d bothered to ask her opinion, she could have explained his folly five years ago. She had tried, goodness knew, attempting to breach that wall of disbelief and failing miserably.

She sighed and let her long strides carry her from the alley onto Oxford Street where the clatter of carriage wheels, the shouts of an angry driver, and the haggling of a neighboring shopkeeper invigorated her every step. When she had arrived in London for her first season, she had expected to wallow in her own misery, for she’d quite enjoyed living in Surrey with her Aunt Fanny and Uncle Frederick. At Farrington House, one could ramble freely over long flats and gentle rises, hearing nothing but the breeze and birds and bleating sheep. There, the air was scented green with crushed grass and soft rain, not choked with acrid smoke and animal leavings.

In the distance, she spotted a hack and raised her arm to wave to the driver. Her hand struck a passing man’s hat. “Apologies,” she murmured reflexively. The man grumbled but continued on.

No, she had not expected to enjoy London. But she did. The bustling energy. The constant motion. It was true the smells were often unpleasant, but where else in England could one find the intensity of commerce that London offered? She often pictured Boston or New York being much the same.

The black coach pulled to a stop in front of her. One benefit to being extraordinarily tall was that she never had to worry about flagging down a hack. “Brook Street, please. Number sixty-eight,” she called up to the driver, who tugged at his hat’s brim. She climbed inside and closed the door, only to find the hem of her pelisse snagged inside it.

“Drat,” she muttered, then sighed, rolling her eyes at herself. As the hack began moving, she tugged at the emerald twill sarsenet to no avail. She twisted at the waist, reaching for the door handle, but the motion of the carriage drove her off-balance, and her bonnet slumped forward over her brow as it scraped the ceiling. Deciding to wait until the coach was still, she tried to settle onto the seat, but found she was only able to place one half of her backside on the bench. The position proved dreadfully uncomfortable; at least her journey was a short one.

She could walk the route easily, but then she would risk her father discovering what she’d been about. And that would be more than uncomfortable. Her father did not react well to being outmaneuvered.

Rowland Lancaster had arrived in London from Boston two Sundays past. It was the first time she’d seen his face in five years. One glance had told her his quixotic crusade had reached the apex of its fervor. He was focused, fired with determination. But then, so was she. And she better understood the battlefield. London was her territory, not his. He would soon discover what she had known from the outset—dowry aside, she would never be the choice of any duke, marquess, or earl. That was simply true.

By the time the hack rocked to a halt and she’d managed to shove the door open, the buttock that had taken most of her weight was numb. She rubbed it discreetly, disguising her motions with the settling of her skirts, before descending and paying the driver. As she faced the stuccoed exterior of Aunt Fanny and Uncle Frederick’s rented town house, she took a deep breath and smiled in satisfaction.

“Such a grin must have a fascinating cause,” came a masculine voice from her right. “Do tell.”

Rolling her eyes at the sandy-haired dandy who stood two inches shorter than she, Charlotte retorted, “Only a fool would share such knowledge with you, Andrew, dreadful gossip that you are.”

Her cousin laughed, his dimples appearing, brown eyes dancing. He offered his arm. “Was Mr. Pegg sensible today?”

She took his arm and let him escort her inside, pausing in the white-paneled entrance hall. Releasing the ribbons beneath her chin, she removed her bonnet before snorting. “What an obstinate, tiresome man. Still, his shop is nearby, which is convenient when time is short.”

For the past five years, her father’s plump ferret of a solicitor, Mr. Pryor, had monitored every penny of her generous allowance, ensuring it was spent only for gowns and slippers and hats and emerald sarsenet pelisses—everything required for a fashionable lady’s success on the marriage mart. Had it been her choice, the largest portion would instead have been set aside for a far worthier goal. But it was not her choice. In fact, the only reason a cache of coins lay beneath her bed even now was that she’d carefully, discreetly dispensed with selected items, trading them to proprietors such as Mr. Pegg for a quarter of their value. All because her father was nigh obsessed with making her into a duchess. Or a countess. Or a marchioness.

Forget that she had no wish for such a fate. Forget that, despite having been raised in England, her soul was thoroughly American. Forget that her destiny lay thousands of miles across the sea and involved no man at all, much less a worthless Englishman born into privilege. No. Her many pleas and persuasions, painstakingly crafted in letter after letter, had made not one whit of difference to Rowland Lancaster.

She rifled through the tray of correspondence on the table near the door. One was addressed to her in Mr. Pryor’s small, neat handwriting. Drat. She relished the thought of being rid of his prying interference, the irritating little man.

Andrew removed his own hat and gloves before eyeing her pelisse. “You realize the Pennywhistle affair begins in an hour.”

Her eyes flared and she groaned softly. No, she had not realized it. “Drat,” she muttered again. “Can you delay your departure?”

“For you? Of course.” He grinned and sauntered toward the stairs. “Not too much longer, though. I find myself anticipating this dinner with great enthusiasm.”

She followed him up, a frown wrinkling her brow. “The Pennywhistles are not known for their stimulating conversation.”

He grinned at her over his shoulder. “They are not the reason for my enthusiasm.”

Again, she groaned. “You must stop pursuing her, Andrew. Your suit is hopeless. I have told you this.”

“Hope is only lost when one concedes defeat. I do not intend to do so.”

As they paused outside his bedchamber door, she rested a hand on his elbow. Truly, his fixation on Viola was growing worrisome. “Miss Darling is lovely, but—”

“She is more than lovely.” Her jovial cousin grew suddenly serious. “She is exquisite beyond compare. I have never witnessed such beauty, such grace.”

Charlotte again rolled her eyes. “Men,” she muttered beneath her breath as he opened his door. “Andrew. You are not yet twenty-one.”

He stopped. Turned. Her heart sank. Oh, it was hopeless, indeed.

“Age has no bearing on love, Charlotte.” His chin, once adorably rounded, now firm and sharp, elevated. “If you had ever experienced it, you would know.”

The charge stung. Blood tingled in her cheeks. True, she was a failure when it came to flirtation and courtship. A spectacular failure, even. Perhaps she was not the right person to offer advice. But Andrew was her cousin—a brother, really. And Viola was her friend. There were things she knew about this season’s diamond-of-the-first-water that Andrew did not.

“Love,” she scoffed, watching red rise along his cheekbones. “You are drunk on your own infatuation; it is both obvious and absurd. You must cease your pursuit for the sake of your pride—”

“What would you know of pride,
Longshanks Lancaster?
”

Her head jerked and her eyes smarted at the spiteful nickname. She expected such cruelties from the ton. Not from him. Not from family. Swallowing hard, she raised her own chin to match the tilt of his. “That is a hateful thing to say to me. If you do not wish to hear the truth—”

His narrowed eyes immediately rounded with remorse. “Blast. I am sorry, Char …”

“—that is your choice. But I will thank you to remain a gentleman, if nothing else.”

He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it like when he was a boy. “I beg your forgiveness. Please, Charlotte. I am a wretch. I should be drawn and quartered. Hung by the neck until dead. Dragged behind the king’s horse—”

Her lips twitched. “Nothing so drastic. You may, however, lend me
your
horse tomorrow morning. A ride would be most refreshing.”

“What happened to the horse you bought in February? I thought …” He stopped at her raised brow. “Ah. Fetched a grand sum, I presume.”

“Grand enough, I would say.”

The thunderous stampede and snorting chortles of two rambunctious boys racing one another up the stairs and down the corridor served as interruption. Drat. She wished the twins were more circumspect. But, they were fifteen. Boys still, in many ways. Freddie crashed into Edward’s back as they spotted her and Andrew.

“We—we thought you had left,” began Edward.

“It was Edward’s idea,” continued Freddie, a lock of brown hair falling over one eye. “Racing is not permitted. I warned him.”

Edward swiveled to face his brother. “Liar! This calls for a duel. I challenge—”

“Boys!” Charlotte pressed her brow lightly, feeling a headache form. “No duels. No racing. If you must clamber and cavort, do so at the park. Your mama and papa were perfectly clear on that score.”

Edward tugged at his waistcoat sheepishly while Freddie grinned a gleam of mischief. “Weren’t you and Andrew to accompany them to another tedious dinner?” Freddie asked. “The house shall be ours alone.”

Sighing, she met Andrew’s smile and shook her head. “Perhaps you can speak to them. I must change my gown. Do not leave without me.”

Two hours later, as she entered the drawing room of Mr. and Mrs. Pennywhistle dressed in plum silk with her gloved hand resting lightly upon Andrew’s arm, Charlotte’s eyes landed upon Viola—but not before her cousin’s did. She repositioned her hand to squeeze his elbow. “Steady, now.”

“She is a vision, is she not?”

Indeed, Viola Darling was a breathtaking beauty. Raven hair, ivory skin, features so finely drawn they appeared unreal, as though she had been conjured by fairy magic rather than nature. She was a tiny, perfect creature in diaphanous indigo, fluttering and glittering and glowing like a magnificent butterfly amidst her courtiers. Precisely the opposite sort of creature as Charlotte, though they were friends in spite of their differences.

Viola was also entirely wrong for Andrew, a fact which had not yet penetrated his enfeebled brain. Such was the spell of beauty upon the male half of humanity, she supposed. Charlotte watched as one gentleman, Sir Barnabus Malby, stood slack-jawed when Miss Darling turned the brilliance of her smile upon him.