Malia Martin (23 page)

All his life he had known the frustration he felt at that very moment: of not knowing exactly who he was, of feeling very much like he belonged nowhere. “I am sick of trying to make a name for myself. You people slap me down at every turn.”

James stopped and stood silently for a moment and then, suddenly, smiled. He had thought that evening of speaking with Prudence about spending time in London, having her help him become respectable in the eyes of the ton. Well, now, there would be no talking about it. He would just do it.

“I truly no longer have to try so hard, do I? I am married to a peeress, after all.”

Pru looked baffled.

“I think, dear wife, we should retire to London on the morrow.”

“Oh most definitely not, James. I cannot leave Gravesly.”

James cocked his head to the side. “Do not tell me, Prudence, that you suffer under the illusion that I would allow you to continue your work as the Wolf?”

Prudence swallowed audibly. “But I must, James. You do not understand. The work I do as the Wolf has kept people alive; it has kept this town alive.”

“You do realize, dearest, that every single thief, murderer, and cheat has a reason for what they do? And, believe me, ’tis never because they are lying, greedy cheats. No, it is always because of some other person’s downfall or need.”

“So you think I’m a lying, greedy cheat?” Prudence folded her arms in front of her and tapped the toe of her boot on the floor.

“You, darling, are a criminal, and any other person caught doing what you have done would be hanged. But, of course, as your husband I shall protect you. I am sure you realized that when you seduced me into your little trap.”

Prudence gasped. “I never …”

“Come, Prudence, no more lies.” James closed the small distance between them. He could smell her scent: that light floral cleanness that had addled his senses since he first entered this woman’s home. “But I most definitely will not allow you to continue in the role you have been playing. And we
will
be going to London, Prudence, unless you want me to bring Clifton to the attention of the magistrate in Rye.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“With pleasure, actually, if you do not comply with my wishes.”

“You are horrid.”

“You have no idea how horrid,” James said, and cupped his hand behind Pru’s neck. “You are no longer the Wolf, dear, but Mrs. James Ashley: soon to be the toast of London. You have gotten what you want from me, and now I require something from you.” James lowered his head and took his wife’s mouth in a bruising kiss.

London

T
renton Albert Von Schubert, the second earl of Wimsley, was in a horribly foul mood, and it was causing much distress throughout his Mayfair town house. The upstairs maid had boxed the ears of a lowly scullery maid, the lord’s valet had slapped the face of a footman, and the butler had dumped his breakfast on the floor and stated that the cook had not an inch of talent for making anything edible.

Wimsley sat ensconced in his favorite chair before the fire in his study, his gouty foot propped on a stool.

Viscount Leighton eyed his grandfather from his perch beside the beastly man.

“Are you on top of the Grave Matter, boy?”

Richard rolled his eyes. “Must we talk in code, Grandfather?” He leaned over and glanced beneath the chair. “I’m rather sure there are no spies about.”

“Shush, boy!”

“Really, Grandfather, do call me Leighton.” Richard flicked a speck of lint from his peach-colored waistcoat. “I am surely no longer supposed to endure being called ‘boy,’ am I?”

Wimsley leaned forward with a grunt. “I shall call you any damned name I wish, boy, and you will answer,” he yelled, spittle flying from his mouth.

“Now then.” Wimsley pushed himself back in his chair, the wig he insisted on wearing hanging too far over his right ear. “You deal with the Matter, boy. And you do it discreetly. The shipment we were supposed to receive yesterday never came. You promised that woman had the situation in hand even with that upstart down there causing problems, and now he turns up back in London married to her and putting it about that the Wolf is taken care of. I’d say she most definitely does not have the situation in hand.”

Richard laughed, then jumped from his chair when Wimsley reached out to slap him. “You’re getting slow, Grandfather,” he said.

Wimsley frowned darkly. “Exactly my point, you prancing imbecile.”

“Now, now, Grandfather, must we start calling names?” Richard went to the side table and helped himself to his grandfather’s best brandy.

“You just make sure that there’s nothing to worry about with the Grave Matter.”

“Of course, Grandfather.” Richard knocked back his entire glass of brandy and poured another.

“I knew it’d come to no good when that woman took over for her husband.”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

“Oh, shut up, you kowtowing peacock.”

“As you wish, Grandfather.”

Wimsley’s jowls turned purple. Richard placed his empty glass next to the crystal decanter of brandy. He did so love these little tête-à-têtes with his grandfather. Good brandy and small apoplectic fits, what could be better?

“With that woman in London and the rumor that the Wolf has been taken out, the town is ripe to be plucked, boy. But ’tis our town and our profits that will be taken out from under our very noses unless we get on the problem immediately.”

“We? I’m assuming you mean me.”

“Don’t be impertinent with me, boy.” This last was yelled so loud that Wimsley went into a coughing fit. The old man’s face went a horrible shade of blue. Richard stood waiting, as he always did when this happened, to see if perhaps this time his grandfather would fall over dead.

One could always hope.

His grandfather finally wheezed in a few breaths of air, his face returning to its usual splotchy red color. Richard went back to the sideboard and poured his grandfather a drink.

Wimsley accepted the offering with relish. “That Ashley fellow, he’s the source of the problems.”

There were always sources for his grandfather’s problems: always someone to blame.

With a grunt Wimsley slapped his empty glass on the table beside him and settled back in his chair, his thick brows drawn together over his bulbous red nose. Richard could not help but grimace at the sight.

“Think of the scandal if society found out exactly to whom the Hero of England has hitched himself.” Wimsley laughed. “The good Captain Ashley would be devastated.”

Richard stared at his grandfather for a minute. He had realized early on in life that Trenton Albert Von Schubert was a bit touched in the head. The man was just plain hateful and mean, and it had turned him into a fat bore. But ever since Captain Ashley had entered the arena of his grandfather’s interests, there had been a whole new twist to Wimsley’s spiteful outbursts.

“Seems to me you’d be devastating yourself as well,” Richard said.

“Well, of course, I would never do it, boy. It’s just a nice thought.”

A log on the fire broke in half, spewing sparks. “Well,” Richard said brightly, “as always, Grandfather, it has been a pleasure.” He strode toward the door.

“I’m not finished with you yet, boy. There’s the matter of your finding a wife.”

Richard stopped and sighed. He had truly hoped to miss the marriage lecture this fine morning.

“I’ll cut you off, boy, unless you have a bride before the end of the Season.”

“Please, Grandfather, that threat is getting rather old, is it not?”

Wimsley banged his fist on the arm of his chair. “I will not die until I am assured that this title will continue in this family!”

“Lord, does that mean you shall live forever? God help me.”

Poor grandfather looked as if he would never breathe normally again.

“’Tis your duty, boy, to make sure the title stays in the family.” The old man shook his head rather violently. “This is all your father’s fault. That man should have wielded a stronger hand when you were young.”

“I don’t remember seeing ‘that man’ more than twice before I was fifteen, so it wouldn’t have mattered what he wielded now, would it?”

“You were too often in the care of women, that is your problem!”

Richard laughed. “Right, Grandfather, you have finally pinned down the exact origin of my problem. Of course, you could be wrong, fancy the thought. Maybe my whole problem is that I ate too many sweets. Or, perhaps it is all because you have driven me into a life of lust and idleness.”

Wimsley choked, the veins at his temples bulging. “I have done nothing of the sort. Your problems have nothing to do with me at all.”

Richard grinned. “You are so right. I would definitely lay the blame at the feet of my nanny. Or, now that I think of it, perhaps it was all my tutor’s fault.” Richard sighed wistfully. “Dear Mr. Larson, such a lovely young man. He had good hands, as I remember.”

“Get out!” Wimsley screamed, his voice cracking and then wheezing. “Get out!”

“Yes, sir.” Richard bowed to his grandfather and left. He took a deep breath when he reached the hall. He had been having these conferences with his grandfather since he could remember, and though they were rather tiring, he would miss them when the old man finally died. Richard loved to shock, and it was so very easy with his grandfather.

He knew, of course, that the only reason his grandfather even allowed him to breathe his same air was that Richard was the old man’s sole heir. Richard was rather sure that his grandfather would have had him meet with a convenient accident if he had a brother.

Richard stopped in the front hall as Holmes rushed off to retrieve his hat and coat. The butler returned and nearly threw the clothing at Richard. Poor man was scared of him, always had been.

With a chuckle, Richard thanked the cowering Holmes and walked out into the sunshine. He grinned at the world in general. He had the promise of lunch with a particularly lovely companion to look forward to, the sun was actually warm, and his grandfather was probably prostrate on the study floor clutching his chest. All was well with the world.

“Of all the …” Pru slapped the paper her husband had just handed her onto his massive desk. “This is preposterous!”

“They are rules, Prudence, to which I expect you to adhere.”

Prudence blinked. “Adhere to your rules?
Your
rules? Who exactly do you think you are?”

“Your husband.”

Pru made a face.

James stood slowly from his seat behind his desk and leveled a frosty stare on her. “I own you, Prudence. You are now mine. And I can and will command you to keep my rules.”

Prudence stared at the man who had become her husband. Her honorable, sweet Captain Ashley had turned into the very devil. “Your rules are intolerable, James Ashley.”

“I don’t care, really, what you think of them, just so you live by them,” James said without showing any change in his emotions. He turned away from her then and went to pour himself a drink. “Now, as I was saying, I have appointed you a social secretary.”

“A keeper, you mean.”

“As you wish.” James drained his glass and placed it carefully back on the crystal tray. “I will have my secretary confer with yours each day on the social invitations I want you to accept. At two o’clock, you will ride in the park with your groom, you shall never leave this house without him in fact, and then you will be in the sitting room to accept guests from four until six every day. We will have supper, together, in the dining room. You will go to those social activities I have outlined and come straight home.”