My Wicked Marquess (4 page)

That secrecy, that isolation, was a basic fact of his life, and after reading her file and seeing a glimpse of her mettle, he was not sure that a woman like Daphne Starling could be easily kept in the dark about his past and his true activities for the rest of her days. It could get messy.

He still wasn't convinced it was worth it. But all the same, he had to see her again.

Dodsley appeared by his side just then, silently, as if by magic. He offered Max a draught of whisky on a tray.

Max glanced at him in surprise and saw that Dodsley had brought the whole bottle. “Do I look that bad?”

“You look like you could use it, sir,” his sphinxlike butler observed.

“Cheers,” he murmured to himself as he tossed back the whisky to take the edge off after his brawl. He savored it, impressed by the quality. “That's good.”

“That Highlander master-at-arms of yours sent it over while you were out, sir.”

“Virgil sent it? Excellent!” Last night, Max had sent word to his handler, Virgil, as soon as he had arrived home. “Was there a note?”

“Here it is, sir.” Dodsley handed him the small sealed
card that had arrived with the bottle of Scotch whisky. Max quickly opened it and read.

Max couldn't help smiling as he read his old mentor's note. Improvements, eh? Lord, what new devices had Virgil come up with this time? Resourceful as any Scot, the grizzled old warrior was ever tinkering with his gears and machines and inventing strange new bits of machinery for Dante House, the Order's London headquarters, Max could only wonder about the latest modifications to the place.

For now, the more intriguing news was that he had made it back to Town before the other members of his team. He could barely wait to see his brother warriors.

On the other hand, the fact that Warrington and Falconridge were not yet back in Town gave him a distinct advantage in his bride hunt, one that he did not intend to squander. After all, he thought as a roguish grin tugged at his lips, they
were
his only serious competition when it came to women.

Like him, the fellow wolves in his pack had been putting off marriage due to their involvement in the Order, but their titles, like his, would require them to choose a wife and start begetting heirs. Like it or not, all three of them would have to go in for the old leg-shackle.

Max couldn't help laughing up his sleeve a bit in genial rivalry to know that he had got a head start on them.

Given the calculating side of his nature, he had obviously started preparing for this well in advance, just as he would for any other mission. Now, out of all the best brides to be
had on London's marriage mart, he would have the pick of the litter—and with that, his thoughts returned directly to Daphne Starling.

“Anything else I can get for you, sir?” Dodsley asked, watching him intently.

“An invitation to the Edgecombe ball.” Max took another swallow and winced at the whisky's brief burn while Dodsley's snowy eyebrows shot straight up. “What is it, Dodsley?”

“You, sir? Attend a ball?” the old fellow uttered in stately astonishment.

“I know,” Max said dryly. “Wonder if anyone will faint this time when I walk in.”

Dodsley dropped his gaze, pondering his master's rare foray into Society. As the supreme commander of the household staff, he had been kept apprised of His Lordship's bride hunt; he had never needed words to express his feelings on any subject to the brave, eccentric marquess whom he had so long served.

But now he could barely suppress his exultation upon correctly deducing that His Lordship must have taken a more serious interest in some eligible young miss.

He adopted a delicate tone, nearly holding his breath: “Might we hope there may soon be a lady of the house, my lord?”

“A certain viscount's daughter seems intriguing,” Max admitted, “but all is not smooth sailing, I'm afraid. Especially now.” As far as Daphne Starling knew, he was a wastrel, a drunkard, and a whoremonger.

No doubt, the sight of him stumbling out of that brothel would only seem to confirm what she would soon hear about him in Society if she learned his name and started asking questions.

Unfortunately, it wasn't as though he could just sit her down and tell her the truth.
No, not at all, Miss Starling, I wasn't there rogering harlots. I was only there to spy on you.

That was not exactly going to help his cause.

What cause?
He was not choosing her for his wife. He was
not
.

He frowned in irritation at himself. “At least I want to go to this ball for a little while and make sure she's all right,” he grumbled. “Also let her see I'm quite unscathed so she won't blame herself.”

Dodsley looked at him with no idea of what he was talking about. “Naturally, sir.”

“You know how women are. The way they worry.”

“If they have a heart,” his butler said with a sage stare.

“She does. By God, she does,” he murmured barely audibly, staring at nothing as his thoughts returned to her reluctance to leave the scene of the fight.
“Sir!”
she had called to him.

Twice. Risking her own safety to try to save him, even in the midst of
his
attempt to rescue her.

“Well, then.” Dodsley took the empty shot glass back from him and lifted his chin. “I shall inform Lady Edgecombe to expect Your Lordship at the ball tomorrow night. Being so recently returned from abroad, it is only fitting that my lord should wish to pay his respects to his noble kinsmen.”

“Ah, my kinsmen…I like that angle, Dodsley! I had almost forgotten. They
are
my distant cousins, aren't they?”

“On your mother's side, my lord. Second cousins, twice removed.”

Max smiled at his longtime servant in amused appreciation. “Good, then. For Lord knows, I shall have my work cut out for me.”

“With the Edgecombes, sir?”

“With the girl,” he said with a wince. “Afraid I've got some repair work to do.”

“Already?” Dodsley asked indignantly.

Max just sighed.

 

Daphne did not leave the Strand for another half an hour. With her worried servants looking on, she paced anxiously, waiting for the magistrate's men to return with word of her mysterious rescuer—at least to find out if the gang had murdered him.

She was eager to learn his identity, but when the old watchman returned, he told her they had found no such person
on the scene, just a dozen low thugs nursing bloody noses, bruised ribs, and a couple of nasty gashes.

The other officers had made a few arrests for disorderly conduct, and had gone to haul their prisoners off before the magistrate; but in typical Bucket Lane style, no one admitted seeing anything.

Nobody had anything to say.

This news left Daphne even more distressed. While it might mean the lunatic lord had escaped, it could just as easily suggest that they had already killed him and stashed his body someplace. He had been so badly outnumbered.

The officers had made a cursory search of the pub and the brothel's first floor, but they could not scour the other buildings on that dark and dingy lane until they came back with a warrant. Even the Bucket Street gang had their rights.

“I'm sure he must have got away, whoever he was,” William said with a worried glance from the driver's seat of the gig as the three of them finally headed back to South Kensington on the green and pleasant outskirts of London.

“The main point is, we did the right thing,” Wilhelmina chimed in.

“Oh, what if he was killed?”

“I should think, miss, that when a gentleman goes to a place like that, he must know what he's in for, surely. He had no cause to provoke them like he did.”

“I think he was trying to help us.” She turned to her maid in distress. “You know, to lure them off!”

“I think so, too,” William admitted with a grim look. “Even foxed like that, a gentleman knows what he must do to help a lady.”

“God!” Daphne whispered, sickened to think she might have got a man murdered today. Equally disturbing was the thought of what might have happened to
them
if he had not come stumbling out of that brothel when he did.

“Now, miss, ye must have faith,” her footman offered stoutly when he saw her stricken face. “I know what our old mum would say—the angels looks after fools and drunks and children.”

She gave him a look of gratitude, then she shook her head. “Still, I cannot help wondering who he was.”

“Maybe he'll be at the Edgecombe ball,” Wilhelmina spoke up with a simple shrug.

Daphne suddenly stared at her.

“Aye, if he is highborn, why not?” her brother agreed.

Daphne absorbed this in wonder, but even as the notion filled her with wild thrill, she had no idea how she would react if she spotted that handsome maniac in the ballroom.

The thought was so unsettling that she put it aside. “I implore you both to forgive me,” she said with a chastened glance from one twin to the other. “I had no right to risk your safety, no matter how noble the cause.”

“Ah, 'tis no matter, miss. All's well that ends well,” William said as the gig glided to a halt before the Starlings' large stone villa.

“Thank you. You both are so good to me. Um…” Daphne hesitated, turning back to them with a sudden afterthought. “There is no need to mention this, er, unfortunate incident to Lord or Lady Starling, is there?”

The twins exchanged a firm but uneasy glance.

“No, miss,” her maid replied. “But we will not go back there.” The stubborn looks on both their faces told her they meant business.

Not overly surprised at this rebellion considering all she had asked of them already, Daphne dropped her gaze. “Fair enough.” She'd have to figure something out for next week.

They all went inside, and were immediately engulfed in all the usual clamor of home: the pounding of the pianoforte as Sarah banged away dutifully at the keys, while Anna went romping down the corridor amid raucous laughter, tormenting the cat.

Daphne's stepsisters, the two young, coddled, boisterous Amazons, ages fourteen and twelve, were the products of the once-widowed Penelope's previous marriage to a navy captain.

“Anna, where's Papa?” she called after the younger girl, now dangling poor Whiskers.

“Upstairs!”

Daphne nodded, then paused, glanced in the parlor on her way, where footman Davis's labors were evident in the newly rearranged furniture. Her eyes widened suddenly as she saw Mama's old pianoforte now positioned on the wrong wall. Sarah stopped playing and looked over. “I hate this song! It's too hard! What are you staring at?”

“Your mother moved the piano,” she said softly.

“What do you care? You never play it anymore.” Sarah huffed and changed to an easier piece, then resumed her banging.

Daphne shook her head and moved on. Maybe she'd have been better off marrying Albert, if it meant getting out of this madhouse. She parted ways with the Willies in the entrance hall as they all went about their business.

Still shaken up by their brush with danger, Daphne longed for a moment of her father's company. He always made her feel calmer, and she wanted to let him know she was back. He was not in his cluttered library, so she sought him upstairs, moving lightly as she took off her bonnet and gloves.

As she neared the master chamber on the upper floor, however, she slowed her pace with a sinking feeling, already hearing Penelope browbeating Papa again through their cracked bedroom door.

Once more, it seemed Daphne's refusal of Albert was the cause of their marital strife. She winced, knowing she had made her peaceable father's life more difficult.

“Honestly, George, you are too sentimental by half! When is she going to grow up? All little birdies have to leave the nest eventually!”

“My dear woman, why do you work yourself into these tizzies? You know that I require a tranquil household.”

“Oh, George, you've got to
do something
about her!”

“Do what, dear?” he countered wearily.

“Find the girl a husband! If you don't, I will!”

“You already tried that, Pen. I don't think it warrants a repeat,” he said archly.

“Well, it will take a fearless gentleman indeed to brave her scorn after her latest refusal! That's three suitors now she's rejected!”

Oh, you can't even count those other two
, Daphne thought with a scowl as she leaned quietly against the wall outside their bedroom—not eavesdropping, mind you, just waiting for the right moment to make her presence known.

“George, you've heard the talk. People are beginning to say she is a jilt.”

“You mustn't listen to gossip, my dear. When the right fellow comes along, she'll know. We all will know.”

“I hope you're right, or she is going to end up a spinster.”

“Nonsense. She is far too beautiful for that.”

Oh, Papa
. Daphne fought a smile and leaned her head against the wall, still grateful to him from the depths of her soul for not forcing her to marry Albert in spite of Penelope's pressure.

Penelope had all but accepted Albert's offer on her behalf, but thankfully, Daphne's frantic arguments over the match had roused her vague and distant papa from his waking slumber for once. At last, he had heard her plea not to be handed over to that spoiled cad.

Good old George, Lord Starling, had ambled over to White's, his club and second home whenever he needed to escape the drama of an all-female residence, and had quietly taken Lord Albert Carew's measure for himself.