The Ruin Of A Rogue (3 page)

Marcus considered, and rejected, posting down to Hinton. On such slender grounds, the price of a journey to Wiltshire looked a poor investment, not worth more than the price of a sheet of paper, for the delivery of which his mother’s uncle, Josiah Hooke, would have to produce a sixpence or two.

Which left Lewis’s other legacy, a concrete one.

Marcus took the marked pack and dealt a hand of piquet. Without looking at the telltale markings, he examined his cards. Not bad. In fact, quite good. Unless the other hand possessed a guarded queen of spades, he’d win. Nothing spectacular, but better than he’d enjoyed in months. Perhaps his luck was turning at last. With practiced ease he calculated the odds and found them in his favor. He eyed the extra cards available to the other hand and read the minute combination of pinpricks and ink, invisible to any eye that wasn’t looking.

Queen of spades. Eight of spades. Seven of spades.

Unbelievable.

He, one of the best piquet players in Europe, couldn’t even beat an insentient opponent with marked cards. It would definitely have to be the heiress.

Chapter 3

T
ravis had struck up an acquaintance with Miss Brotherton’s maid at the laundress’s establishment and advanced to friendship based on fervent and mutually held opinions regarding the correct application of starch. Well-informed of the heiress’s habits and movements, two mornings after their meeting Marcus entered Dangerfield’s, the Berkeley Square circulating library. Across the spacious reading room he spied Miss Brotherton perusing a section of shelves devoted to history. Rather impatiently, she stood on tiptoe to reach a volume on a shelf above her head, without calling an attendant for library steps.

“Allow me.” He reached over her shoulder. “Was this the one you wanted?”

She jumped a little, but when she turned to face him she didn’t seem displeased. “Thank you,” she said with a faint blush.

He read the spine of the stout quarto as though he didn’t know exactly what it was, from the previous afternoon’s reconnaissance. “
The Medallic History of Imperial Rome
? Interesting.”

“I think it must be. Do you know it?”

“Never heard of it. You must let me know.”

“I came to find the book by Mr. Warner you told me about. Dangerfield’s doesn’t have it.”

“What a shame.” He reached for the first of a set of volumes. “Have you read Gibbon’s
Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
?”

She averted her eyes. “I would like to but my grandfather was particular about what I read. He told me it wasn’t a proper book for a lady.”

“Do you know Greek and Latin?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Then you should be quite safe. The questionable passages are in the footnotes, in the original languages. As schoolboys we found them quite an incentive to study.”

Her eyes widened. “Are there many such passages?”

“Not nearly as many as schoolboys wish.”

“I shall take the first volume, and this one. Then I think I’ll walk to Piccadilly and see if Hatchard’s has the Warner book.”

“Are you alone? May I keep you company?”

“My maid is waiting for me, studying the latest edition of
La Belle Assemblée
.” Then, after grave consideration, “I would be happy to accept your escort, but we haven’t been introduced.”

He made a play of looking about him. “I was hoping to find a mutual acquaintance to perform the office, but I don’t see a soul I know. We shall have to remain in ignorance of each other’s identities.”

Since she smiled at his joke, he summoned his luck, as he did when about to cast the dice with a large sum at stake. “Viscount Lithgow at your service, ma’am.”

“Oh.” Oh, indeed. Then, happily, she smiled again. “Lord Lithgow! Caro’s friend Marcus! I’ve heard about you for years.”

“Nothing bad, I trust.”

“Oh no!” The way she averted her eyes told him she wasn’t being entirely truthful. How could she? No one ever heard of Marcus Lithgow without hearing something bad. He trusted she had heard only old stories of his wild youth, rather than any recent and specific sin. God bless Caro for her loyalty. She might be furious with him, but she wouldn’t carelessly blacken his name to others. He had bet on Caro keeping the cause of their quarrel to herself—and won.

“Forgive me,” he said, “but should I know you?”

“I am Caro Townsend’s—the Duchess of Castleton’s, I mean—cousin Anne Brotherton.”

He seized her hand and shook it heartily. “How extraordinary! Caro’s cousin Annabella. I would never have guessed. You don’t look anything like I expected.”

“Oh? How did you expect me to look?”

“More like Caro, small and redheaded. I wouldn’t have looked for an elegant dark girl.”

“Elegant? I think not.”

“You will be once you buy whatever modish wonder your maid has discovered. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to go straight to the mantua maker?”

“I’m not sure I should go anywhere. I’m staying with Lady Windermere and she will be worried.”

Marcus hastened to weaken her resistance, which seemed to have been raised by his casual compliment. “What a coincidence. I know Windermere but I haven’t seen him in years and I never met his wife.”

“Windermere went abroad soon after their marriage.”

“Shall I escort you to Hanover Square instead?”

“The bookshop will do very well.” Her manner softened infinitesimally. As he watched her take her selection to the attendant and order it delivered to Windermere House, he pondered their recent exchange. Whether she was haughty or merely deeply reserved remained to be discovered.

A
nne had been pleased at knowing Lithgow’s identity. She’d grown up hearing about Caro’s friends, who always sounded such fun. Her own life had been spent in the country with her elderly grandfather. A year after the latter’s death, she’d come to London, staying first with Caro and now with Cynthia, Lady Windermere. She still lived quietly, aside from an occasional evening party. Lithgow was the most interesting person she’d met in months.

But Anne was naturally cautious, especially when it came to single gentlemen. The prospect of the Camber acres did strange things to unmarried men.

It had been too much to hope that a man she liked would also be a suitable match. Lithgow was hopelessly ineligible, despite his recent succession to a viscountcy. As long as she resisted any flirtation, she could enjoy the acquaintance. Where was the harm?

Feeling agreeably daring, she set off down the street on his arm, her maid trailing behind. After their first meeting she’d been unable to give Cynthia a satisfactory report on his appearance, having been overcome with delight by his ability to tell the difference between a Greek original and a Roman copy. Now she took inventory while he kept up a flow of inconsequential chatter. His straight brown hair, worn longer than the new fashion in London, suited a rather handsome forehead. His nose was likewise straight and well-shaped, his chin firm; and his cheekbones prominent. When he turned to listen to a reply she determined that the eyes were a catlike green. How had she missed that?

To her disappointment, Hatchard’s didn’t have Mr. Warner’s book. “I’ll have to order it,” she said to Lithgow.

“Since the printer is in Bath it could be weeks before you receive it. I know a bookseller in Soho who makes a particular point of carrying such books. Walking shouldn’t take more than a quarter of an hour, unless you prefer to go by hackney.”

She told herself that she really wanted Mr. Warner’s
Illustration of the Roman Antiquities Discovered at Bath.
Now. To read that very evening; nothing else would do. “It’s a fine day and I like to walk.”

Anne’s maid did not. The middle-aged dresser sent heated glares into Anne’s back. Not that she could see Maldon’s sullen expression, but the woman had attended her for most of her life and they knew each other very well. By the time they passed Burlington House, awareness of Maldon’s resentment and sore feet distracted her to the point of spoiling the conversation. It would be unkind to make Maldon walk farther, yet Anne was enjoying herself. Just for once she didn’t want to do the right thing.

“Maldon,” she said firmly. “Please return directly to Hanover Square and tell Lady Windermere where I have gone.”

“I shouldn’t leave you, miss.”

“I wouldn’t wish Her Ladyship to be worried, and Lord Lithgow will look after me.”

Her unwonted strength of command cowed the dubious maid and rendered her obedient.
I pay her
, Anne told herself.
I may have no control over my money but it is mine. I should be allowed to do what I wish.
A startling thought.

“I’m confident of my ability to keep you safe,” Lithgow said, once the maid had turned into Sackville Street, “but I would hate to expose you to gossip. My reputation is not of the best,” he continued with a wry twist of the lips, “and Caro would have my head if I hurt her dearest Annabella. Perhaps I should take you home at once.”

“No,” she said. “I will be safe with any friend of Caro’s. I want that book.”

The streets grew narrower and dirtier, the houses shabbier, and the passers-by poorer. As she picked her way gingerly through piles of rubbish, she reflected that Maldon was going to have something to say about the state of her shoes. Frogsham’s turned out to be a small shop on a road little wider than an alley. When she entered with some trepidation, the first thing that struck her, once her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, was an enormous stuffed owl, perched high and regarding the shambles below like an unblinking tutelary god over a bewildering mélange. Pictures, tapestries, statues, and Lord knew what else lay higgledy-piggledy on shelves, hanging from the walls, and heaped on the floor.

“Is this really a bookshop?” she whispered.

“Frogsham sells books and so much else,” Lithgow replied.

The proprietor, a wizened little fellow wearing a tasseled velvet hat like a nightcap, greeted him by name in an odd accent. Anne could scarcely understand him, but the essence of his inquiry seemed to be “Are you looking for something in particular, or just looking around today?”

“I thought you might have a book on Bath by Richard Warner,” Lithgow said.

“Third shelf down.” Frogsham pointed into a corner. Behind the tall figure of a turbaned Moor, Anne perceived a small, neatly arranged collection of books.

Her eyes flew to Lithgow and he nodded his encouragement. Edging round the lowering Othello, she peered at the row of books and found not only the desired volume neatly bound in calf, but an intriguing quarto on the antiquities of Northamptonshire that must surely be worth a look. Alas, the author apparently believed antiquity to begin with the reign of Elizabeth. Finding nothing else she
had
to have among the books, she turned her gaze on the confused miscellany around her.

“Do you have anything Roman?” she asked the shopkeeper.

“There’s a basket of heads over there.”

Despite this alarming statement, she discovered nothing but a group of decapitated miniatures—men, women, and children in marble or terra-cotta, sporting the unmistakable hairstyles of the classical past.

“What do you think of these? Are they Roman or Greek?”

Lithgow studied them gravely. “Roman in style, but whether they are ancient I couldn’t say. I’ve seen forgeries by the thousand in Italy, produced for the tourists.”

“I shall take the risk and buy one.” She decided she liked this shop, an adventure compared to the modish emporia of Bond Street. She selected a pretty child, not sure if it was a boy or a girl, and a rather handsome young man. Then her eye caught an item in weathered bronze on the next shelf. “I think it must be a pendant,” she said, “judging by the loop at the top, but I can’t imagine what it signifies.” The curved cylindrical column had a slight bulge at the bottom and matching spheres on either side at the top.

“I have no idea.” Lithgow smiled. “Roman jewelry can be very odd.”

“It’s rather ugly so I won’t take it. But I will buy the book and the two heads.”

“Let me handle Frogsham,” he said softly.

In Anne’s experience a price was a price. If she decided she wanted something, she paid whatever was asked. Lithgow and Frogsham, however, commenced an extended bargaining session over what was, in the end, quite a small amount.

“Oh dear,” she whispered at the conclusion of the negotiation. “I don’t have any money with me.”

Marcus had foreseen this. He’d escorted rich women all over Europe and found one thing they had in common, regardless of nationality: They never carried ready cash.

“Usually when I go shopping the merchant sends me the account,” she continued, “but I’ve never been in a shop quite like this.”

“Frogsham is not a man to issue credit, but allow me to take care of this trifling sum.”

“I shall repay you, of course.”

“No need.”

“I insist.”

Marcus never expected to see those few shillings again. Wealthy ladies tended to forget insignificant debts and he had no intention of dunning her. The excursion had been a success. Frogsham, the rogue, had happily overcharged him for the Warner that Marcus had himself placed on the shelf the day before. But he’d beaten the man down on the heads, one of which probably was Roman. Thank God Miss Brotherton had decided against the pendant. She might not recognize a phallus, but he didn’t count on the same innocence from Lady Windermere.

With a wrinkle of her aristocratic nose, she accepted the package crudely wrapped in newspaper. Miss Brotherton had no notion of life outside the rarefied confines of Mayfair though she had, he fancied, quite enjoyed the exposure to Frogsham’s specialized pawnshop.

He let her precede him into the narrow lane and guided her to the broader thoroughfare of Warwick Street. A gentleman should always walk on the traffic side, to protect his lady from the dirt cast up by passing vehicles, but she got ahead of him, just in time for the appearance of a coalman’s dray careering at excessive speed. The cart hit a bump and lurched onto the pavement for foot travelers, within feet of the oblivious heiress. Marcus threw his arms around her and dragged her to safety. “Take care,” he yelled at the disappearing tradesman.