How to Master Your Marquis (18 page)

Putney Bridge, London

Mid-February 1890

S
tefanie arrived at Putney Bridge at a quarter past four, just to be safe. The sky was still ash dark and the cobblestones slick with fog, and she nearly fell on her arse twice as she made her way down the lane to the riverside.

Possibly she shouldn’t have dismissed the hansom quite so soon.

Still, a sort of Gothic magic did lurk about the river at this hour. A quiet expectancy of heavy gray stone and yellow mist and lapping wavelets. Behind her, on the high street, a set of hooves and wheels clattered wearily along a delivery run. She pulled her hat low on her forehead and walked along the riverbank, until the steep edge gave way to a slope suitable for the launching of boats. A row of houses lined the other side of the lane, with large carriage doors facing the water, all closed tight. The boathouses.

Stefanie found a seat on an overturned barrel and crossed her arms against the February chill. Inside her jacket pocket, the sheet of folded newspaper from last night’s evening edition lay crisply against her chest. She took out her watch: four twenty-eight. The ungodliness of it.

She leaned against the wall of the boathouse and let her eyelids sink downward, just for a second.

“Stefanie! What the devil are you doing here?”

Stefanie scrambled to her feet before the outraged face of the Marquess of Hatherfield.

“There you are!”

“Of course, here I am! You’re supposed to be safe in Cadogan Square!” His hands were planted firmly on his hips, and his eyes, beneath the brim of his hat, flashed and snapped in the dim glow of the streetlamp. “Instead of asleep on a barrel next to the damned river at five o’clock in the morning!”

“I had to see you.” She paused. “Was I really asleep?”

“Out like a light, you numbskull. Come on inside, before you catch a chill.” He turned to the carriage door and fumbled with the lock.

She smiled at the sight of him, all tall and trustworthy in his thick black overcoat, heaving the massive door open. She couldn’t help it. Even in his outrage, he was outrageously handsome, and he was
hers
. All hers, every golden hair and charming wink and taut sinew of him.

Oh, very well. True, he hadn’t kissed her since that night in her room, three months ago. He avoided every possible point of physical contact with her entirely, to be perfectly honest. But he was there, every day, in the breakfast room in Cadogan Square. He waited outside Sir John’s chambers as noon chimed the nearby tower of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, ate lunch with her at a tavern or tea shop—never the same establishment two days running—and returned her safely to her place of employment, except on the days she accompanied Sir John to court. Everywhere she went, he followed her like a faithful old hound, safeguarding her against every possible threat, casting a suspicious eye at every shadow in her path. At mealtimes they talked and talked, about the law and her work with Sir John, about European politics and palace intrigue, about Stefanie’s childhood in Holstein Castle, about books and science and gossip. On weekends they rode in the park and went on outings to Hampton Court and Windsor and Hampstead Heath. He showed her Eton, where he went to school, and pointed out the playing field where he’d had a tooth knocked out playing rugby. He’d showed her the replacement and tapped it importantly. “Not a bad facsimile, is it?” he’d said, and when she said she might have to make a closer examination, he’d laughed and pulled away.

Laughed and pulled away, every time. But she knew what it cost him. The more lighthearted and charming his manner, the more he wanted her; each laugh covered an inward groan of desire. And made her adore him even more, because how could you not love a man of that much strength? Of that much pure devotion?

Except at certain moments, when they were unexpectedly alone, and surrounded by darkness and privacy, and the intimate tension between them wound so tight it seemed the air itself might shatter into pieces.

Such as now. When he pulled her inside the boathouse and took her by the shoulders.

“What were you thinking? Coming here alone, falling asleep on the street like that!”

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” She smiled. How could she not smile at his passionate face, fraught with worry for her? “Anyway, I knew you’d be along any minute.”

“And what if I hadn’t?”

“Hatherfield, it’s Putney. Nothing ever happens in Putney.”

“You’d be surprised.” He set her away grimly and turned to the boats, stacked up high along the walls. “So what brought you here, eh? Risking life and limb?”

“Yes. That.” She reached inside her coat, brought out the newspaper clipping, and poked his arm. “Read this.”

He unfolded the page. “‘LOST PRINCESS FOUND! GERMAN ROYALTY LIVING IN LONDON WITH DUKE OF OLYMPIA; RUMORED ROMANCE WITH ENGLISH LORD; PRIME MINISTER ASSURES PARLIAMENT “WE HAVE NO INTEREST OR INFLUENCE” IN MATTER OF HOLSTEIN-SCHWEINWALD-HUHNHOF.’” He put down the paper. “I see.”

She grabbed the clipping back and shook it at him. “But look! It’s not me they’re writing about. It’s Emilie!”

“Your sister. Yes.”

“My sister! Hatherfield, she’s here in London! London! With my uncle!”

He took the paper back. “So it appears.”

“She’s living in Park Lane this very minute, she’s out of her disguise. Something must have happened, Hatherfield, because I had a letter from her a fortnight ago, and she was still in Yorkshire somewhere, tutoring, and everything was fine.” She strode to the door and looked out across the dark river to the anemic yellow glow of London. “Something’s happened, Hatherfield, someone’s discovered her, or she’d never have come back to our uncle’s house.”

“One of Olympia’s plots, I expect.”

She turned. He was frowning ferociously at the newspaper, as if to frighten the truth from its pages. Stern, fierce. But not surprised.

“You knew!”

“What’s that?”

“You knew she was here! You knew about all of this! You and Olympia and . . . oh! And you didn’t tell me!”

“There was no point. You can’t see her. You can’t have any sort of contact with her.”

She strode up and took him by the lapels. “How long have you known? How long?”

“A week or two.” He had the grace to look guilty. “We didn’t want you to go off and do something harebrained . . .”

She gave him a good shake. “Harebrained! How dare you! You know I wouldn’t have done anything without consulting you first.”

He plucked her hands away, one by one. “But then you’d have gone off and done the harebrained thing anyway, regardless of my advice. My expert advice, I might add. I do know what I’m doing in these matters, Stefanie.”

“Ooh.” She turned away. She couldn’t speak, she was so angry. All last week, all those breakfasts and dinners, those hansom journeys, those rides in the park. They’d gone to the theater on Saturday.
David Copperfield
. And all that time, he knew. He knew where her sister was, he knew she was—good God!—not even a mile away!

“Don’t be cross, Stefanie. Olympia agreed with me, we both thought it best. The thing is . . .”

“Who is he?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The man she’s supposedly in love with. The English lord. I presume it’s the man Olympia placed her with. He seems to have a knack for matchmaking of that sort, the old meddler. I suppose he thinks it will keep us distracted and out of trouble.”

“Stefanie . . .”

“I know already that he’s from somewhere in Yorkshire. Miss Dingleby told me, before we all left. A widower, obviously. He’s got a son, about sixteen or so, the one she’s tutoring. I could find out myself, so you might as well tell me.”

Hatherfield made some restless movement behind her. “It’s Ashland. The Duke of Ashland. I’ve only met him once or twice, but he was legendary in his time, absolutely untouchable, until he was injured in some godforsaken mountain pass in Afghanistan a dozen years ago. She’s in good hands, I assure you.”

“Oh, I have no doubt of that. Look at the magnificent specimen Olympia chose for me. You’ve done your job perfectly.”

“Don’t be unfair. You know my sole object is your safety.”

She turned back to face him. “Well, obviously something’s gone wrong, or my uncle would never have taken Emilie out of her disguise and gone public like this. Something’s happened. What is it?”

He hesitated only slightly. “I don’t know, actually. Olympia’s asked me to stay away from it. He’s got his own men on the case, and frankly, I want you well away from it.”

“I’m not a fool, Hatherfield.”

“It’s the truth. I believe the duke found her out, that’s all, and . . .”

“And brought her down to London, and put her in danger.”

“I rather think it’s the opposite. If I know Ashland, he wants to end things, once and for all.”

Stefanie took him by the arms. “We’ve got to find out. You’ve got to help me, I’ve got to speak to her!”

“Now, wait a moment . . .”

“You don’t understand. If she’s in danger . . .” She let the sentence dangle. The possibility was too awful to contemplate.

Hatherfield folded the newspaper and handed it to her, forcing her to release his arms. “She’s well protected. She’s got Olympia and Ashland by her side, and I’d like to see the bloody fool anarchist who thinks he can get through the two of them combined. No, she’s well enough as she is, for the time being.” He picked up her fingers and held them lightly between his own, right next to his chest. “The question is you. Whether you’re in danger. Because if this Revolutionary Brigade of yours has discovered your sister’s disguise . . .”

“They might have discovered mine.”

The faint clatter of hoofbeats invaded the heavy silence between them. Stefanie held Hatherfield’s gaze as they listened together to the rhythm of iron on cobblestone, to the squeak of axles in need of oil, louder and louder and louder, the harness now jingling. Hatherfield’s hands tightened around hers; his keen eyes grew keener, the eyebrows nearly meeting, as if he were trying to transmit some sort of message across the
cloppity-clop
,
jingle-jingle
,
rattly-rattly-rattle
, louder and louder.

And then, almost imperceptibly, softer. Softer and softer, and then it was gone, and only the waves slapped against the boat landing, and a dustman hallooed to another.

Stefanie let out her breath. Hatherfield bent his head and pressed his lips into her knuckles, and his breath spread warmth across her skin.

“Hatherfield,” she whispered, because she couldn’t speak.

He lifted his head and drew one hand away from hers to cup her cheek. “I will not let them harm a hair on your head, do you understand me? Not a hair. You have nothing at all to worry about.”

“But my sister. I have to see her. You have to help me. If she’s in trouble . . .”

“She’s well taken care of, I assure you.”

“Please.” Tears leaked shamefully from the corners of her eyes, and she never cried! What was happening to her? As if some bandage had been ripped away from the surface of her heart, leaving it raw. She felt Hatherfield’s thumb move on her face, brushing at a tear. “Please. She’s my sister. Please help me see her. Just once, just to see she’s all right.”

He closed his eyes. “Christ, Stefanie. Don’t ask this. The danger . . .”

“Please. You don’t understand. She’s my sister.”
My Emilie, my sweet Emilie, my confessor and protector. Loyal Emilie.
Stefanie had been so busy these past months, so consumed with her new life and with Hatherfield, that the pain of missing her sisters had receded to the background. Now her arms ached with the need to hold Emilie again, to confess all her new secrets, to hear all of Emilie’s secrets. Emilie in love! She wanted every detail, every look and kiss and word.

“I do understand,” said Hatherfield. “I have four sisters of my own, God help me. I love them very much; I’d do anything for them, if they needed it.”

“But it’s more than that, with us.” She choked on a sob. “Emilie and I, we shared a room. We slept in the same bed. It’s not even love, Hatherfield, it’s as if we’re made of the same clay, just . . . just opposite somehow, and yet we understand each other, she understands me, she kept all my secrets, she . . .”

“Shh. Stefanie. Shh. It’s all right.”

Hatherfield drew her close, and then she was in his arms, against his chest, his solid ribs moving her as he breathed. She buried her nose in the scent of damp wool and Hatherfield, a bit of soap and London smoke, his warm human skin, and she was understood again, she was accepted, she didn’t need to say a word. She was part of him.

“It’s all right, Stefanie,” he whispered in her hair. “I’ll do it, I’ll arrange something. I’ll talk to Olympia . . .”

“No! He’ll say no. He and Miss Dingleby. We’ll have to find another way.”

“Write a note to her. I’ll get it to Ashland. He’ll give it to her.”

“Oh, thank God. Yes.” She rubbed her cheek against his overcoat, trying to absorb more of him, before he drew away again. As he would.

“Give me a little time to work something out first.”

“Yes. I’ll write the note. We’re in court this afternoon, but you’ll be there afterward, won’t you?”

His hands moved to her shoulders, and he set her gently apart. A fond smile lifted his mouth, and his head made a single shake. “In court this afternoon. Look at you.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re extraordinary, that’s all. I love watching you in the courtroom, with that serious expression on your face. The way you scribble notes back and forth with Sir John. If only they knew, those men in their wigs.”

“Well,
you
know,” she said tartly, “and it doesn’t seem to affect you at all.”

She knew she was fishing. She wanted him to say,
God yes, it affects me, I dream about you all night, I think of you constantly.
She needed to hear him say again,
I want to
—what was it?—
strip you to your skin and take you to bed and make love to you until neither of us can stand.
Those words he’d said to her three months ago in her tiny bedroom on the third floor of Sir John’s Cadogan Square town house, words that had revolved and magnified in her mind ever since, repeating endlessly as she lay in bed at night, flushed and aching, imagining him there with her, naked and magnificent, on top of her, below her, at her side, at her back.