How I Married a Marquess (3 page)

He studied Royston with concern over the rim of his glass. If there was anything he could do to help, he owed it to the earl for the years of friendship between their two families. And the earl's troubles might just provide a distraction for him as well. “What kind of trouble?”

“Highwaymen.”

“Highwaymen,” Thomas repeated, and carefully kept his face stoic, not letting his disappointment at the mundane answer register.

Royston grimaced. “I know what you're thinking. What road in Lincolnshire doesn't have highwaymen?”

He had been thinking
exactly
that, but to ease the man's pride, he instead offered, “Actually, I was wondering why you didn't go to the constabulary.”

“I have, but to no avail.” He finished his whiskey, then stared down at the empty glass. “It's a damnable mystery.”

With that odd comment pricking his interest, Thomas stood to refill his glass. “How so?”

“There appears to be no pattern, except that there is.” When Thomas frowned at his contradictory words, he continued, “The only robberies have been of guests returning home from Blackwood Hall, and then, not all the guests and not all the time.” Royston grimaced. “We're being targeted. My guests.
Me
.
”

“I wouldn't go that far.” Thomas tried to keep the patronizing tone from his voice, but truly, the description of the robberies struck him as simple paranoia. Yet Royston's distress over it concerned him, and he frowned as he fetched the decanter. “You're a wealthy landowner in Lincolnshire, so surely more of your guests than—”

“I'm one of the wealthy men in the area, true, but not the only one.” He held up his glass to let Thomas pour more whiskey. “
Only
my guests have been robbed by this particular highwayman. No one else's.”

Well, that
was
odd. He set the decanter aside and sank back into his chair. “Nevertheless, it doesn't mean you, specifically, are being targeted. Could just be a run of coincidence and bad luck.”

Royston shook his head. “When the carriages are stopped, only the men are asked to hand over their valuables. One man in each coach, no matter how many others are present. And never anything from the women, not even when openly displaying their jewels.”

Thomas leaned forward. A highwayman who robbed only one man per coach and left jewels? Finally he was intrigued. “How long has this been happening?”

“On and off for the past two years.”

A faint needling of suspicion, one he hadn't felt since he stopped being a spy, tickled at the backs of his knees and made his heart skitter. “You're just now noticing the pattern?”

“I had noticed before, I'm ashamed to say. But it never needed to be addressed until now.”

“What changed?”

“I have grand hopes for the Lords next session. Some important positions will be opening, and I want to make my mark.” His eyes met Thomas's intently. “With your help.”

Shaking his head, Thomas set his glass aside. “I'm afraid you're wasting your time. I'm not involved in anything of importance in the government.”
Not anymore
.

Royston leveled his shrewd gaze on him. “I know things about you, Thomas,” he answered quietly, all polite pretense gone. “I know what you've done since you returned from Spain, and I have connections in the War Office who have vouched for your special skills.”

Despite the electric jolt that pulsed through him at the earl's words, Thomas remained silent and stoic, unwilling to either deny or validate Royston's assumptions about him. Only a handful of people knew the truth about what he'd done for his country once he left the army, once his real fight against the French had begun. Despite the close friendship their two families shared, he wouldn't endanger Royston unnecessarily. No matter how much he wanted to help.

Besides, those special skills the War Office had assured the earl he possessed were the same ones they no longer wanted.

“I want you to come to Blackwood Hall and investigate.” Asking for help from someone twenty years his junior was clearly difficult for the proud man, but judging from the exasperated look in his eyes, he'd found no other solution. “I want these robberies stopped, no matter the cost.” His gaze dropped back to his drink. “And if it goes well, I see no reason why I shouldn't put in a good word for you with Lord Bathurst, assuring him that you have my full support and confidence. That you are truly back to being your old self.”

Bathurst
.
Thomas froze even as his chest squeezed hard. This could very well be the opportunity he'd been seeking, his very last hope of returning to the life he'd led before the shooting. When he'd had purpose and meaning. When he'd last felt
alive
.

“Do we have an agreement, then, Chesney?”

Thomas nodded slowly, outwardly calm despite his racing heart. Stopping a highwayman was a far cry from the type of work he'd done as a spy, but it would also serve as a test to prove to Bathurst—and to himself—that his skills hadn't deteriorated.

“I'm hosting a house party at Blackwood Hall next week.” The earl set aside his glass and stood. “A chance for friends and associates in the area to gather for a sennight and break up the boredom of the country season. An irresistible target for the highwayman, I presume.”

Thomas rose to his feet, his mind already whirling with this new assignment. “Make certain the guest list is common knowledge to your household staff.”

Incredulity flashed over Royston's face. “You think the highwayman could be someone within my own home?”

“I think he could be anyone.” Fighting down the excitement that coursed through his blood and replaced the anxiety that had clawed at him less than half an hour earlier, Thomas slapped him on the shoulder and walked him downstairs. “See you next week, then.”

With a grateful expression, Royston took his hat and gloves from Jensen and headed out the front door. “My thanks, Chesney.”

And mine to you
.
More than the earl would ever know. His chest pulsed with the first real hope he'd had in a year. A highwayman in Lincolnshire…not exactly an enemy to the crown
. But at this point, with all other avenues blocked, he would claim whatever small victories he could.

Small victory?
He laughed. Whom was he trying to fool? He knew the truth, no matter how reluctant he was to admit it.

A week at a boring Lincolnshire house party might just save his life.

Emily looked up from her book as he sauntered into the morning room and slumped down next to her on the sofa. “Business concluded, then?”

“Not business.” He grinned, feeling like the cat who'd gotten into the cream and the closest he'd been to his old self since the shooting. “Pleasure.”

Her lips twitched mischievously. “Hmm,” she commented with mock innocence, “and here I'd thought Helene had already departed.”

He shot her an icy look that made grown men quake in their boots but seemed only to amuse her.
Brat
.
“Royston invited me to a house party at Blackwood Hall.”

“Oh?” Her single bewildered word spoke volumes. She blinked, incredulity visible on her face that he would so eagerly gallop off to a party certain to be filled with dull dandies and old gossips.

He dissembled by adding, “The earl has political aspirations and wants counsel on some recent matters which have been troubling him.”

“And he picked
you
?” Astonishment rang in her voice. “He wants to succeed at these aspirations, does he not?”

He grimaced at the teasing insult. She was needling him, trying in her own fashion to get the truth from him, but he would keep this investigation to himself. If the trip to Lincolnshire went as well as he hoped, it just might prove his salvation, and he would tell her afterward when all was set to rights again.

And if not…well, there would be little she could do to help fight back the demons that would come for him, the suffocating blackness that would eventually devour him whole.

“Getting away from London might do you good after all,” she added thoughtfully. “You might be introduced to a whole new group of potential wives.”

Stifling an exasperated groan, he kicked his boots onto the tea table. “You know, brat, when you were a child, I sold you to the Gypsies,” he told her bluntly. “I'm still waiting for them to take you away.”

Emily laughed, her blue eyes shining, and offered him a cup of tea.

J
osephine!” Elizabeth Carlisle waved her fan high in the air to catch her daughter's attention across the crowded ballroom at Blackwood Hall. Every inhabitant of every household in Lincolnshire seemed packed into the room for the opening night soiree of the Roystons' annual house party. “Over here!”

With a smile Josie squeezed her way through the crush.

Countess Royston had topped herself this year. Complete with orchestra, free-flowing wine, and sugared fruits at the refreshments table, the evening would be the center of gossip for months to come. Even the dancing would be wonderful. Although it was a country dance and not a grand London ball, Josie had it under good authority from the second violinist that at least two waltzes were scheduled for the evening. And she did so love to waltz! In fact, waltzing was the only thing that had made the past five seasons bearable.

Five seasons.
Good God
.

Her shoulders sagged. At twenty-three, without any suitors or prospects, she supposed she would soon be officially on the shelf, and then she wouldn't have to worry anymore about seasons or finding waltz partners who didn't step on her toes.

Truly, though, she wasn't surprised. On paper, as the daughter of a baron, she rivaled most of the young ladies of England. But naturally, she was an adopted orphan who had been surrendered by her mother when she was three months old, a castoff of unknown lineage. Perhaps the child of a washerwoman or maid. Or worse. And no proper gentleman wanted to pursue a woman whose ancestry would only soil his progeny.

Oh, she'd had a few suitors over the years. There'd been a few young gentlemen who'd visited Blackwood Hall for previous parties and taken an interest in her, but in the end their interest had lasted only as long as their stay. Local sons of squires and merchants had called on her over the years, brought her posies, taken her for picnics, and even had the daring to request a few kisses before offering for other young ladies. Occasionally a soldier or a vicar had been bold enough to pursue her.
Those
she chased away herself, knowing they were willing to overlook her past only to gain her dowry and a familial connection to a peer.

Given all that, then, was it any wonder that she was still unmarried?

But truly, wasn't it for the best? While other young ladies focused on hunting husbands from the right families—with the right fortunes, of course—Josie had found purpose in working with the local orphanage and in doing everything she could to give the best lives possible to the children who hadn't been as fortunate as she'd been. Which was why she'd never asked her parents for a London season. Here, in Lincolnshire, what did it matter if anyone knew her true past? Those people who really mattered to her knew who she was and cared about her anyway. But the London ladies would ostracize her if her past became common gossip, and no gentleman would dare to court her then. And even if she found a man who loved her and was willing to overlook her soiled ancestry, he most likely wouldn't allow her to continue the work she did for the Good Hope Home. Certainly not
all
she did.

And she couldn't stop because she knew firsthand the horrors of that orphanage…cold winter nights sleeping three to a bed to keep warm, days when the only food was weak broth, and clothes worn until they fell away in rags, never washed and filled with lice and fleas. Mrs. Potter, the manageress whom Simon Royston had hired into the position, constantly stole from the supply stores and beat the children, locked them into the coal bin with no food or chamber pot, and often passed out drunk from gin.

But Josie had been lucky. Just six years old when Richard and Elizabeth Carlisle adopted her, she'd been picked by them because she was the toughest little girl in the orphanage, afraid of nothing, and more than able to hold her own against three older brothers. Even as a child she'd vowed that she would never forget the other children, that she would do whatever she could to help.

So if remaining unwed meant she could continue to care for the orphans, then it was more than a fair price to pay, she supposed. Yet her foolish heart still longed to meet a man who would fall in love with her. But with each passing season, that dream became more and more just that. Only a dream.

And so she was still unwed and most likely always would be. Her family had never pressured her to marry, leaving the choice entirely up to her, and at this point, she was accepting of her impending spinsterhood.

Impending?
She stifled a laugh. Goodness! Hadn't it already arrived?

Finally reaching her mother's side, Josie kissed her cheek. Seventeen years after the moment when she'd first seen her, Elizabeth Carlisle still reigned as the most beautiful woman Josie had ever seen, even after raising four children to adulthood.

“I need your help tonight.” Mama peered frantically over the top of her flitting fan to scan the ballroom for her three sons, all lost somewhere in the crush. “Keep a keen eye on your brothers, will you?”

As if on cue, Josie's middle brother, Robert, sauntered into the ballroom and headed straight toward the refreshments table and a glass of Madeira.

“Keep Robert away from Miranda Hodgkins at all costs,” Mama warned.

“But Miranda's a lovely girl.” The niece of the neighboring farmer, Miranda had practically grown up in their nursery at Chestnut Hill and, thankfully, had given her brothers someone other than her to torment.

“Yes, and someday she will make a wonderful wife. But right now she is only eighteen and easily influenced.” She squeezed Josie's hand and lowered her voice as if sharing a secret. “She needs to hang a while longer on the vine.”

Josie frowned at her mother, perplexed.

She arched a knowing brow. “She's not yet ripe.”

“Mama!” Josie's mouth fell open in astonishment.

“As for Sebastian,” she continued
about the oldest of her sons, “I'm certain he's lurking in a corner, talking politics and farming techniques. Do make him have some fun tonight, will you? I swear he was born an old man.”

Josie smiled at her mother's perfect description of Seb. “And Quinton?”

She watched as the youngest of her three brothers approached Robert and slapped him on the back just as he was about to take a sip of wine, spilling it onto his boots. If her mother was lucky, the two men wouldn't come to blows right there.

She heaved a sigh of frustration. “Don't let
him
do anything!”

Josie bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing. Her brothers had never been manageable, even as little boys, and how they hadn't killed each other long before now God only knew. But she dearly loved them, as much as if they were truly her own flesh and blood.

Interacting with them had been difficult when she was first adopted, not knowing her place as an outsider among the boys who had an established home and sense of security within the family. And of course, she'd been bitterly jealous of their golden looks and charm, while it seemed that with her uncontrollable chestnut hair and petite frame she was seldom noticed. Of course, years later she'd realized that if people hadn't paid as much attention to her as to the boys it was mostly because they were watching her brothers like hawks, as the three seemed to always be rigging traps for unsuspecting persons. Or setting things on fire. Including each other.

She'd grown to love them all, although even now an irrational part of her sometimes worried that she might never truly belong to the family as much as her brothers did. And the fact that no man wanted to marry her once he'd discovered her past only emphasized her difference from other society daughters.

But then, all three of her brothers were still bachelors, and none of them fretted about avoiding spinsterhood, as if such a thing existed for men.

Not that her brothers needed to worry about remaining unmarried. The strappingly handsome,
golden-blond Carlisle men stood at the center of female attention wherever they went. Her parents would have gladly seen them settled by now into homes of their own, although Josie also knew her mother was very cautious about choosing the ladies with whom her sons associated. Not because she worried that some social upstart would trap one of them into marriage but rather
that the Carlisle boys would trap some poor unsuspecting girl who had no idea what she was getting herself into by leg-shackling herself to one of them for life.

“Where
is
Sebastian?” Josie swept her eyes across the room. “I don't see—”

She stopped, the words catching in her throat as a pair of blue eyes stared back. Dark eyes more sapphire than simply blue. Deep, brooding, a bit dangerous. And bold. Oh,
definitely
bold as they held her own gaze captive. And below those eyes was a full, sensuous mouth that quirked up in amusement. At her.

Oh.

She was staring at the man, and
he
knew she was staring, and
she
knew
he
knew…and when he raised his glass slowly in a rakish toast to her, that dark, brooding, dangerous, and bold stare curled hotly down her spine and straight to her toes, stealing her breath away.

Oh. My.

“Which devil are you?” she mumbled.

Because her family lived on the neighboring estate, Josie had assumed she would know all the guests at the dance, every last boring, elderly blue blood. But she certainly didn't know
him
. Whoever he was, blue blood or not, he certainly wasn't elderly, and from what she'd seen so far, he wasn't the least bit boring.

“What, dear?” her mother asked absently.

She tore her gaze away from the stranger to glance at her mother. “Nothing.”

When she looked back, he'd turned away to join in conversation with Lady Agnes Sinclair and her niece. Disappointment washed over her that she should lose his attention so quickly, and before she'd even had the chance to meet him, for heaven's sake. And yet, never being one to let an opportunity pass by, she shamelessly seized the moment to study him.

Dressed impeccably in a dark blue superfine jacket over a gray brocade waistcoat and snow-white silk cravat, black breeches, and boots polished to an impossible shine, he was tall, dark, and—to her chagrin—handsome.
Very
handsome, right down to the wide breadth of his shoulders and the black hair that curled in thick waves against his collar. And undeniably charismatic. Even from this far away she saw how the two women hung on his every word. Yet Josie was struck at how he seemed to be aware of everyone around him, even while deep in conversation, just as much as she was struck by the keen jealousy pulsing through her that his attention no longer focused exclusively on her.

Jealousy?
Good heavens, what on earth was wrong with her tonight?

Shaking herself, she cleared that ridiculous notion from her mind and tried to concentrate on keeping watch over her brothers. Which was the only place her attention should have been. She had no business making a cake of herself over a man when she knew from past experience that her curiosity about him would come to nothing as soon as he found out who she truly was.

“I'm going to find your father. Enjoy yourself, my dear.” Elizabeth placed a kiss on Josie's cheek. “And don't let your brothers near the musicians. We certainly don't want a repeat of that cello incident from two years ago.” She sighed heavily. “I don't think they ever found the bow.”

With that parting warning, her mother slipped away. But Josie barely noticed, her interest still focused on the other side of the room.

Who
are
you
?
She'd never seen him before, of that she was certain, because she would have remembered a man like him, who filled the room with the intensity of an oncoming storm. A man who captured her interest the way no other man had in a long time. If ever. And who had her wondering if he found her just as intriguing.