How to Master Your Marquis (7 page)

“Come now, your lordship,” she said. “We are both men of the world, aren’t we? A gorgeous young fellow like you, a fine, healthy animal. A chap has his needs, hasn’t he? Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m flattered by your assessment of my charms, Mr. Thomas, but I’m afraid I must disappoint you there.” He spread his hands. “No mistress.”

“Ah. You’re between lovers, then?”

“In fact, I’ve never kept a mistress.” Hatherfield shrugged and drank the rest of his wine, without moving his eyes so much as a millimeter away from the center of Stefanie’s gaze. He leaned forward and refilled his glass.

“Oh. I see.” Stefanie had just opened her mouth to ask why, when an Awful Possibility occurred to her.

No mistress. Warm gaze traveling down the length of Stefanie’s trousers. Masculine beauty beyond the range of ordinary human imagination. That absent mustache, those shaved cheeks, as sleek as a boy’s.

Stefanie’s mouth went dry with disappointment. Well, not disappointment, surely. It wasn’t as if she’d ever contemplated . . . After all, she had her disguise to maintain . . . Well, really, she was a princess, and once she regained her title, there could be no . . .

Oh, but still. He was so . . . so . . . delicious. Sprawled there in his chair, simmering with gorgeousness and strength and a sort of intent inventiveness, his red wine balanced in his palm. Like a golden leopard, ready to pounce. Her insides grew warm, just looking at him. Thinking about those large and calloused hands on her skin, that broad chest against hers . . .

What a shame. Not to be, apparently. Not that it ever
had
been to be, so to speak.

“I see,” she said again, and hid her face in her wine. “I expect the women of London are prostrate with disappointment.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Hatherfield, “but the fact is I’m a dull fellow, really. Up at dawn, in bed by ten. A few solitary habits. An investment or two to inspect, now and again. Not much to interest a lady.”

“Obviously, I wouldn’t know about that.”

“No, of course not.” Hatherfield set his wineglass on the edge of the desk and leaned forward. He steepled his fingers and contemplated her, smiling. “You, on the other hand. I have the distinct feeling there’s all sort of interesting things going on in that head of yours.”

“No, no. Not at all.” Stefanie swung her legs to the floor and shuffled a paper or two. “Nothing, you know, but my passion for the law and all that.”

“Tell me about this case you’re working on.”

“
This
case? Oh. No.” Stefanie’s face, already a trifle flushed, grew distinctly warm. “No, no. Very, very, extremely, just really quite a dull affair. Of no interest whatever.”

“Surely not that bad.” Hatherfield whisked a sheet of paper from the desk.

“Look here, that’s . . . a client . . . quite confidential, I’m sure . . .” She held out her hand. “Give that back.”

“Tell me what it’s about.”

“Give it back!”

Stefanie lunged forward. Hatherfield pulled back. She crashed into his chest.

“Careful,” he said, holding the paper just out of reach. His damned eyes danced a wicked blue dance.

Stefanie pushed against his chest (oh, marble-hard pectorals beneath a silky wool waistcoat, God save her!) and climbed to her feet. With great dignity she snatched the paper from his hand.

“If you must know,” she said, “it is a criminal case.”

“So I supposed. Who’s the criminal?”

“A . . . um . . . a dustman.”

“A dustman! What the devil has the dustman done to warrant the attention of the great Sir John Worthington?”

“He’s . . . well, he engaged in . . . with a woman . . . not his wife.”

“I say! Is that all? Not terribly cricket of him, but hardly a crime.”

Stefanie heaved a sigh, straightened her waistcoat, and sat back down in her chair. “If you must know. A very commonplace affair, really. The usual sort of thing. Husband works at night, his old childhood friend the dustman comes in at dawn pretending to be husband, engages in relations with wife . . .”

“What the devil?”

“I told you it was nothing of any real interest.”

“On the contrary. I’m immensely interested. Do you mean to say that the dustman just decided to creep in one morning and . . . and . . .”

Stefanie coughed. “The, er, the matter in question took place over the course of some months. Apparently.”

Hatherfield sat back in his chair. “Well, I’m dashed. Horrified, but dashed. Didn’t she realize something was off, in all that time?”

“She says she was half asleep and couldn’t tell the difference.”

“I say. And the dustman? What’s his defense?”

“Well, that’s the thing. He says she knew it was him, that they were simply having an affair, as it were. And when the husband came home early one day and surprised them, the wife turned on him.”

“Has he any proof of this? Love notes, that sort of thing?”

“Not that he’s presented so far.”

“Extraordinary. Still, either way, the dustman’s a blackguard.” Hatherfield rose from the chair and snatched his wineglass. “Creeping into her room like that, night after night.”

“But if she invited him in . . .”

He spoke to the wall of books. “What if she thought she couldn’t refuse him? If he threatened to tell the husband? To hurt her?”

“She has no proof. It’s his word against hers.”

“Yes, that’s the trouble. The law’s no help at all, is it?”

“The law is prosecuting him for rape. That’s something.”

“Yes, but what does the wife get, either way? Nothing. If her husband believes her, she might have a marriage left if she’s lucky, but it will never be the same, will it? Everybody knows what happened in that room. Everybody knows her shame. Her husband, her friends, her family. She’ll be shunned.”

“But if she was a willing participant . . .”

Hatherfield’s fist slammed against the shelf, rattling the books, spilling his wine on the rug. “But if she
wasn’t
, Thomas! What then?”

Stefanie watched him in amazement. His body, having released its thunderbolt of energy, now stood absolutely still against the bookshelf, his white shirtsleeves stark against the dark leather bindings, his head bowed to the floor. Only the slight movement of his breathing disturbed the granite smoothness of his back.

“Then you’re right,” she said. “Then there’s no real justice. Except in the hereafter, I suppose.”

“The hereafter is a very great distance away, Thomas.”

What could she say to that? Stefanie was no theologian. She went to church, she took the sacrament, she believed—more or less—during that hour or so each week. She humbled herself, she promised reform, and then she went out into the broad daylight and lived her life with very little thought for either eternal reward or eternal punishment. Simply doing her best to be a decent sort of person. She drummed her fingers on the papers before her and said, “I suppose life isn’t fair for anyone. High or low.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Still, your concern for the wife’s plight is laudable. Not many men would spare much pity for an adulterous woman, willing or not.”

Hatherfield’s head lifted. He turned slowly to face her, and by the time his eyes met hers again, his expression was perfectly composed. Smiling, even. He tipped the wineglass to his lips and drank deep. Stefanie watched the muscles of his throat work up and down.

“Well, there you are, Thomas. Perhaps I’m a bit unusual after all.”

Stefanie swallowed. “I had better get back to work. I’ll be up another few hours at least, finishing this summary.”

“What a nuisance. Making his point, isn’t he, that Sir John.” Hatherfield began packing the food back into the hamper.

“I suppose I asked for it.”

“Did you, now?”

“I was cheeky.”

Hatherfield tilted back his head and laughed. “Yes, I expect you were. Well. Enjoy your just deserts, Mr. Thomas. Let me know when you’re finished with the work and ready to head home.”

“What’s that?”

“Why, you don’t think I’d let you travel all the way back to Cadogan Square in the middle of the night, do you? By yourself?” Hatherfield shook his handsome head and tsked. “I’ll be in Sir John’s office, soaking up the comfort of his sofa. Wake me when you’re ready to leave.”

“But you . . . but . . . I can’t possibly ask you to . . .”

“No, of course not.” Hatherfield closed the lid of the hamper, latched it, and set it on the floor. “Which is why I’m not giving you a choice in the matter.”

He picked up his jacket and slung it over his shoulder with a broad wink, and then he strode off confidently for the darkened door of Sir John’s private office.

FOUR

Old Bailey

July 1890

T
he heat, if possible, was even worse this morning. The night had hardly cooled the courtroom air at all, and Stefanie’s shirt was already stuck most uncomfortably to her back. Her necktie she longed to wring about the throat of the smug Mr. Duckworth.

She looked up anxiously at Hatherfield, who had just been brought in. As calm and unaffected as ever, of course, as if the heat couldn’t reach him, as if he hadn’t been up for hours already. He’d requested his own custom-built rowing machine to be brought into his cell each morning, and being Hatherfield had somehow convinced the prison staff to allow it, and he stroked for at least an hour before dawn broke, in that meditative trance she knew so well.

The way he used to do, on the river.

The crowd lining the courtroom was even thicker today, for the Duke of Southam himself had just been called to the stand. If Sir John had looked pallid and exhausted, the duke looked like a cadaver. His skin hung slack from the gaunt bones of his face, and he had neglected to pomade his hair, which frizzed thinly about his skull. The prosecutor gave him a sympathetic smile.

“I ask your pardon, Your Grace, for forcing you to this ordeal. No doubt the past several months have proved very hard on you.”

The duke stared at him and did not answer.

“You must miss the duchess a great deal, Your Grace. Don’t you?”

The duke’s lips moved. “Yes, I do.”

“And your own son stands accused of her murder. It must be very hard.”

Silence, and a cold ducal stare.

Mr. Duckworth dropped his eyes, cleared his throat, and took a long breath. Despite herself, Stefanie was impressed. Even beaten down as he was, the duke could still fell an eager prosecuting attorney with one look from those pale blue eyes.

“Naturally a man does not want to think his own son capable of murder. But we are gathered here in this courtroom to discover the facts and administer justice, are we not, Your Grace?”

“Of course.”

“I’m sure you wish to see justice administered for your wife, the duchess, who has been murdered in such an unfathomable and—you will pardon me—brutal manner.”

“Of course.”

“To that end, I must ask you a few questions about the Marquess of Hatherfield, your son. Would you say that the two of you harbored a close affection for each other?”

The duke glanced at Hatherfield’s face, with its gentle smile, and turned back to Mr. Duckworth. “I am sorry to say I would not.”

“I understand—again, you will forgive me, Your Grace—that the estate to which Lord Hatherfield was entitled, on the unhoped-for event of your death, had encountered some financial difficulty. Is this correct?”

The duke straightened in his chair. “An estate so extensive as mine is costly to maintain, Mr. Duckworth.”

“I must beg you to answer the question directly, Your Grace.”

A long, slow breath. “Yes. I had recently encountered some reverses.”

“Did you confide these facts to your son?”

“I did.”

“Did he appear sympathetic to your troubles?”

Another quick glance in Hatherfield’s direction. Stefanie pressed her lips together, hard, and counted the beats of her heart.

“Your Grace? If you would kindly answer the question. Did the Marquess of Hatherfield appear sympathetic to your troubles? Did he offer you any assistance, either moral or physical, in your distress?”

The duke blinked, as if holding back tears. His knuckles grew white where they gripped the wooden rail before him.

He closed his eyes.

“No. No, Mr. Duckworth, he did not.”

FIVE