In the Arms of a Marquess (4 page)

“Marcus,” Tavy said quietly, “won’t you tell me what distresses you?”

“My dear,” his brows knit, “if we are to get along well together you must leave the minor unpleasantries of business to me and content yourself with being beautiful and charming.” He took her hand. “Simply having you by my side relieves all foolish displeasures, I assure you.”

Tavy nodded, but conviction settled. This could be her project. Marcus had trouble with a dishonest man of business. He would not share the problem with her. But if her future lay with him, she must do what she could to help. And she was fortunate to be perhaps the single lady in London who knew where best to seek assistance with this sort of challenge.

A frisson of old doubt mingled with new certainty glistened up her spine. Pushing the sensation away, she took a step up, lifted her gaze past his shoulder, and her breath failed.

As though it were yesterday and not a lifetime ago, in a street crowded with market stalls instead of carriages, bathed in sun rather than misty midnight rain, Lord Benjirou Doreé stood at a distance, watching her. Perfect, clear awareness shone in his dark eyes.

She stared back and his regard did not falter.

“Why do you keep that man in your service?”

She dragged her gaze away and followed Marcus’s up to the coachman’s box where Abha sat beside Lady Fitzwarren’s groom.

“He—” Tavy caught up her breath. “He has been with me for years.”

“It is unseemly for a lady to go about London with a manservant of that sort.”

She slid her fingers free. “Thank you, my lord. I will take that under advisement. Good evening.” She stepped into the carriage. The baron bowed and shut the door. Tavy sat back and closed her eyes, fingers clamped about her reticule.

“What a splendid outing,” Lady Fitzwarren exclaimed. “I daresay I’ve never met with so many friends at one theater production. I’m simply exhausted from talking.” She chuckled liberally. “But you wouldn’t know a thing about that, you are such a demure lady now. Don’t remember you being like this when you were a girl. How you used to kick up a lark wherever I took you and St. John’s sisters about town. Must be that horrid East Indian sun. Bakes a girl’s head until she ain’t got two thoughts in it to rub together.” She cracked a laugh, then her voice sobered. “Or perhaps it was that awful Imene Stack. Wretched woman. Don’t know why your mother let her have the care of you, though it ain’t charitable to speak ill of the dead, of course.”

Tavy bit her lip and reached for Lady Fitzwarren’s fingers.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for all those larks years ago.”

Taffeta rustled. The dowager surrounded her hands.

“Dear girl—”

“It was not the East Indian sun.” She could not open her eyes. The image behind them was too fresh yet far too familiar. “Although it may have had something to do with Aunt Imene.” Her lashes parted and she met the dowager’s concerned gaze. “But I think perhaps I am through with it now.”

“Through with what, dear girl?”

Tavy smiled hesitantly. “Pretending.”

Chapter 3

MAGNETISM. The quality or constitution of a body . . . a transient power, capable of being produced, destroyed, or restored.

—Falconer’s
Dictionary of the Marine

“W
ho was that lady last evening at the theater, Ben?”

He turned from the drawing room window. “Which lady, Constance? I spoke with several. Lady March, Alverston’s wife, the Countess of Savege. I believe you are acquainted with them all.”

Constance tilted her head, the diamonds threaded through her hair-ribbon glinting.

“You did not speak with her.” Her light brogue lilted across the chamber. “But you may as well have. A great deal was communicated in that exchange of glances, I think.”

He returned his gaze to the street traffic. Tradesmen mostly, thin at this early hour.

“I haven’t the foggiest what you are hinting at, as is often the case, my dear.”

She made a clicking sound of displeasure with her tongue.

“Communicating with me like one of your prized horses, Connie?” he drawled. “I am flattered. Truly.”

“Don’t patronize me. We have known each other far too long.”

“Then you should be aware that I do not wish to continue in this line of conversation.” He turned to her. “Disappointed Styles did not show last night?”

She tightened her lips and her forehead wrinkled.

“Very becoming.” Ben lifted a brow. “Hold your face in that manner for long and it will stick.” He moved away from the window to the pianoforte and sat at the bench. “Play a duet with me, will you?”

“After that comment? Absolutely not. You sound like you are thirteen again.”

“You bring out the best in me.”

She chuckled, moving toward him, and draped a hand over his shoulder.

“Are you certain we should not marry, Ben? It would be so much easier than—”

“Yes, Constance.” He spread his fingers and touched the keys.

“C minor. Amusing,” she murmured. “But I daresay it is best that at least one of us is strong.”

“I daresay.” He played another chord. Strong was not the correct word. He stood up and started toward the door. “You will be late for your breakfast party.” He paused and gestured for her to follow.

“How welcome you make me feel.” She came forward. “Yes, I am late. Please, won’t you accompany me?”

“Constance, you cannot continue using me like a crutch. A man has his limits.”

“Not many when it comes to me,” she said with a pretty shrug. “Admit it.”

He nodded. “But I still will not accompany you. I have business to attend to this morning, and you must face the gorgons on your own.”

She laughed, a tinkling sound full of high nerves and warmth. “Wretch.”

He allowed himself a slight smile but could not hold it. He turned toward the door. A woman stood upon the threshold, the footman beside her.

“Miss Pierce,” the servant announced, and withdrew.

Just as she had done twice the previous night, she met his gaze squarely now, her wide brown eyes direct. Ben remembered this the best about her—her forthright approach, entirely unlike what he had known of Englishwomen before her, a female devoid of subterfuge, secrecy, and manipulative lies. Or so he had thought for a time.

Otherwise her appearance was wholly altered. Her fashionable gown of icy blue, hair swept into an elegant arrangement, rigid posture, and the straight line of her mouth held little resemblance to the girl he had known. Especially her mouth.

“How do you do, Miss Pierce?” Constance moved forward and shook her hand. “I am Constance Read. I am pleased to make your acquaintance but must beg your pardon now as I am late for an engagement elsewhere.” She cast Ben a glance, murmured, “My lord,” and left the room with less fanfare than Ben had seen her do anything in his memory.

He met Octavia’s gaze.

“Hello, Benjirou.” Her voice was cool, another alteration.

“It is Ben now.”

“Really?” she remarked as though singularly disinterested. “Have you changed it?”

“It is the name I go by.”

“I see. But I suppose everyone calls you Doreé.” Her gaze flickered about the lavishly appointed chamber. He followed it. No trace of his father’s obsession with India lingered in this place, a dwelling entirely designed to lend consequence to the most English of English lords. Ben’s eldest brother, Jack, would have been proud. But then, he had always been proud of Ben, regardless.

“What brings you to my home this morning, Miss Pierce?”

“Then it is clearly Doreé for me as well.”

“Do you have a particular purpose in calling, madam, or are you conducting some sort of study on names?”

“I see you are quite as droll as ever.” She drew off her gloves and folded them between her slender hands. “I have come here to ask for your help.”

He allowed no flicker of surprise to show upon his face. But he should not be surprised. People applied to him for help every day. Never in his drawing room, however, and rarely beautiful women. Her lips were dusky pink, her skin like cream. She was the same all over, he knew, dusky pink and cream.

Her eyes narrowed. “A friend of mine is in some sort of trouble having to do with trade to the East Indies. Clandestine trade, I believe.”

Of course.

“A friend?”

“A gentleman. A friend of my family, rather.”

“Then I suspect you should be applying to your brother-in-law for aid.”

“I cannot. I do not believe St. John would be able to deal with this.”

“And how do you imagine I can be of assistance to this gentleman if his own friends cannot?”

“I know that your—” She paused. “—
business
interests are quite broad.”

“Do you?” He leaned back against the piano and crossed his arms loosely.

“Yes. One cannot live yards away from a person’s house for years without learning something of what goes on there. Anyway, it is common speculation in Madras amongst the permanent residents.”

The natives, she meant.

“Is it?” Ben turned his attention to the view beyond the window again. “Fascinating how mythology serves the imagination of the ignorant, isn’t it?”

“Mythology?” She stepped forward then halted, as though she had not meant to advance. “Eighteen months ago a band of sepoys defected from the army and stirred up trouble for hours throughout the city before they were apprehended. But I suspect you know that, and that you also know how they threatened every Englishman’s house in Madras except yours.”

Slowly he returned his gaze to hers.

“You recall,” he said smoothly, “that my mother, aunt, and cousins residing in that house are Indian.”

“Grenville Fletcher’s wife is Indian, but the rebels set fire to his property,” she retorted. “He of course is quite a minor trader, but—”

“And your brother-in-law’s home? He is hardly an unimportant figure in Madras. Was his house also targeted?” He already knew. This was a foolish gamble. He should end this conversation now.

“No.” Her brow troubled. “But the proximity to yours must have deterred them.”

“It must have,” he placated.

She stepped forward again, her gaze firm.

“You cannot throw me off with this. I know what I know, and I have nowhere else to turn. A man threatened Lord Crispin last night, a man of low speech. He was attempting blackmail, I think. I need assistance to discover who he is and what he wants.”

“Madam, I fear you labor under erroneous notions concerning my involvement with such persons, although I certainly thank you for the compliment. Perhaps you should ask Lord Crispin himself?” He tilted his head as though suggesting the obvious. But she had never been slow-witted. She had come to him because she knew. A hot, insistent pressure began beneath Ben’s ribs and threaded across his chest.

The fine line of her jaw set. “Denying your business will not make it nonexistent.”

“I have little to do with those matters, and less interest. My employees deal with India House here in London, and others abroad.”

“You know I am not talking about the East India Company.” Her breasts rose upon a short, jagged inhalation, a hint of color staining her smooth cheeks. But her carriage remained erect, her chin level. She was frustrated, but in perfect control of her emotions. Nothing remained in this cool, exquisite woman of the laughing, feeling girl he remembered. But then, nothing remained of the youth who had known that girl for a brief, time-out-of-place moment.

Almost nothing.

“I am afraid, Miss Pierce, that as this conversation fails to progress, we must remain at a stalemate.” He pushed away from the piano. “The footman will see you out.”

Her eyes flashed, then the look faltered and she blinked rapidly. Her lips parted, color rising full in her cheeks. Desire, thick and hard like Ben hadn’t felt in years, ground in his gut.

“Is that all?” she said. “Am I to be dismissed without any consideration whatsoever?”

He moved across the chamber toward her. Her gaze held, widening only slightly as he neared. He halted close and her scent filled his senses, Indian roses, sweet and musky. Sunlight slanting through the windows danced upon her soft skin and in her hair the color of fire opals. In seven years she had matured into her beauty, and it sat like a mantle of royalty upon her, rendering her untouchable, distant.

All the better.

“Miss Pierce,” he said evenly, “you have intruded upon me at home, accused me of consorting with low characters, and suggested that I am in the habit of lying. What more than dismissal do you imagine I owe you?”

A tiny breath of sound escaped her lips. He looked, and cursed himself for not being man enough to look away.

Her mouth tightened into a line again, and he lifted his gaze to her eyes. They were shuttered once more.

“How foolish of me,” she said. “Of course, I am no one. You owe me nothing.” She turned and strode from the chamber.

He stood motionless for an interval that might have been one minute or thirty. Finally he ran a palm over his face and stepped into the corridor. The footman did not so much as blink.

“Samuel, send word to the stable to have my horse saddled and brought around.”

“Yes, my lord.” He moved off toward the rear of the house. Ben hadn’t the need to instruct him not to repeat anything she had said. His employees knew him well, each of them loyal and discreet.

One, however, he would have a word with. She mustn’t come to his house again. But perhaps he had already taken care of that problem himself.

S
he should not have come.

“Home, please, Abha,” Tavy threw over her shoulder. She could not speed quickly enough down the steps of the imposing mansion. What had she been thinking? He might have a network of spies and underlings involved in clandestine business throughout India, England, and the whole world for all she knew, not to mention a fleet of ships. That did not make him her only resource for helping Marcus.

Abha closed the carriage door and they jolted into motion.

Tavy dropped her face into her hands. Dear Lord, what a fool she still was. She had come for the worst reason. For Marcus, yes, but more for herself.

Years ago she had convinced herself there had been nothing between them, that she invented the warmth in his watchful gaze, even her own profound reaction to him, his pull upon her from someplace inside that left her breathless. She had been so young, so naïve and full of imagination. Just a girl.

Now she knew she had not invented it.

His voice was wonderfully rich, deep and almost musical, beautiful—more beautiful even than she remembered it. And he seemed taller, broader, his shoulders filled out and square jaw firmer, the slightest creases about his mouth and brow. He was no longer the young man she had been infatuated with. He was a titled lord, power and strength in his very stance. But his eyes were the same, black, long-lashed, languid and intense at once.

A shiver ran along her spine, curling into her belly.

She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes. The heat in the pit of her stomach and the ache of longing in her chest, both dormant for so long, stirred the moment he had spoken. He merely looked at her and she was eighteen again, in the garden crying for him.

She threw back her head and sucked in a deep breath. All these years—
years—
should have taught her.

The carriage halted before her sister’s town house. Tavy smoothed her hair and straightened her shoulders. Abha let down the step.

“Abha, this afternoon I should like you to accompany me to visit Sir St. John at his office at the docks.”

Lines gathered upon his high, flat brow. “
Memsahib
, is this wise?”

“You needn’t come if you don’t like it.” She climbed from the carriage. “I am perfectly able to go searching out a shady character on my own. No one else seems to wish to help me, after all.” She strode into the house.