What the Marquess Sees (3 page)

Usually.

“Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends.”

― Shakespeare, Henry VI

Dansbury House, London…

One Week Later…

“Rise and shine…you lazy toff.”

Dansbury opened one eye.
Oomph
. Mistake, that. Bright light bored into his brain bringing forth an involuntary wince. Hammers started pounding steel inside his head. He squinted and eyed the room. Purple spots obscured his vision, but he managed to locate his best friend, Ambrose Langtry, the Duke of Stonebridge, across the room. The man was bustling about, opening curtains, and acting suspiciously…jovial?

Huh. How odd.

Maybe he was dreaming. Yes, that must be it; just a bizarre dream. Nothing to be concerned about then. His eye drifted closed.

“Why are you still abed?”

Both his eyes jerked open.
Ugh.
The sun took it as an invitation to move in and set up housekeeping. “What do you want? Tell me, then go away.”

“Don’t you recall what day it is? It’s my wedding day. Why aren’t you up and dressed for it?” Ambrose pulled open the last set of velvet curtains covering three massive windows overlooking the back garden. Dust leapt into the air, dancing in the sunbeams.

Cliff groaned and closed his eyes again. “I don’t like you right now, and I certainly don’t like your fiancée, so of course, I’m not planning to attend your ill-fated nuptials. Remember? I told you an age ago…”

He dozed off. Or tried to. He’d almost made it back to dreamland when Ambrose started slapping him about the face, startling him awake,
again
.

“Enough!” he bellowed as he slapped at his friend’s hands and then rolled away from the source of his misery.

Ugh. I shouldn’t have done that.

The hammers started pounding steel inside his brain again. He vowed never to touch liquor again in his life. Probably.

Ambrose leaned in, undeterred by the outburst, and sniffed. “Damn, but you smell like a distillery, Cliff. Long night?”

“You could say that,” Cliff murmured.

Ambrose plopped on the edge of the bed and leaned back against the footboard, causing Cliff to roll back the other way. “Hmmm…sounds like an interesting story. I look forward to hearing about it…another time…”

“Please. Hold your breath while you wait, but do it at your house. Your death would have me answering all sorts of inconvenient questions. Besides, disturbingly cheerful morning people make me ill. And since when did
you
become a disturbingly cheerful morning person, anyway?” Cliff couldn’t stop his grin as he burrowed further under the bedclothes, seeking the darkness to be found beneath the sheets.

“Ha! I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor with your head. Excellent. But seriously, I need you to get up.” Ambrose nudged his leg. “Now. I have a task for you.”

Ambrose’s tone turned serious; which got his attention better than any of his friend’s previous attempts combined. He poked his head out from under the covers and studied his friend. Ambrose was dressed casually for travel.

Interesting. Why wasn’t the man clad in his wedding finery?

“Am I going to like this?” He didn’t know whether or not he wanted to hear the answer, but he asked it anyway.

“Oh, you’re going to love it.”

Cliff raised one brow in question, unconvinced.

“Don’t look at me like that. You will. You care too much about Grace to see her remain unhappy for the rest of her days, living and working without the man she loves. You’ll relish this task. I promise.”

Ah, Miss Grace Radclyffe, a wonderful woman—sweet, friendly, beautiful—and utterly in love with her Ambrose.

“I’m almost afraid to ask, but, exactly, what are you planning?”

And do I want to know the answer?

Ambrose crossed his arms in a defensive pose. “I’m going to ask Grace to marry me.”

Cliff lurched upright, the covers falling to his waist. Had he been drinking, liquid would have sprayed out his nose and mouth and drowned the both of them. “What? Are you crazy? Have you forgotten you’re about to get married in…oh…” he squinted over at the clock on the mantle, “about half an hour to someone else?” He refused to say his fiancée’s name.

“Of course, I haven’t forgotten—could you?” His friend raked his hand across his face. “Never mind. Don’t answer that. I already know the answer. No, I’m simply not going to marry Lady Beatryce, and that’s all there is to it.”

Dansbury tried not to cringe at the mention of Lady Beatryce, unsure if he was successful. He eyed his friend, but still couldn’t tell.

“Good God. It’s about bloody time.” Truth. “But what about contractual obligations, your word, and all that other shite you’ve been spouting for the last month?” His friend had been trying to convince himself as much as everyone else that he had to go through with this marriage. Dansbury had been trying to talk Ambrose out of it ever since the man had first announced his misbegotten plan to marry her.

“Funnily enough, I never actually asked Lady Beatryce to marry me. We just announced our betrothal as if I had. And I never actually signed the betrothal contract either.”

That surprised him. Lady Beatryce and her family had pulled all sorts of underhanded tricks to ensure this wedding would happen. He found it difficult to believe that a detail such as signing the betrothal contract would be overlooked by the Beckett Family. But he trusted his friend, implicitly. Hell, he trusted everyone—for better or for worse—except for Lady B and her family.

“Damn me, you’re actually going to do this, aren’t you?” Cliff’s heart picked up its pace. Damned fickle organ.

“You may depend upon it, and I need you to go to the church and inform Beatryce of the change of plans.”

“Ha! Of course.” Cliff fell back and threw his arm over his head. He was not hiding. He strove for indifference. “But why don’t
you
do it?”

“I don’t have time. I don’t want to waste another minute without my Grace. I need her like I need air, and I’m on my way to Oxford to tell her that, or something like it. I’m sure much begging and groveling will be involved.”

Cliff laughed. “What about our investigation? Did you get my note?” He still hid under his arm. The sun chose today, of all days, to be brutal with its intensity. That was his only reason for hiding his eyes. He wasn’t trying to hide his excite…er, surprise over his friend’s decision. Not at all.

Earlier in the week, Cliff had sent a note to Ambrose about his search of the Beckett Estate in West Sussex. Unfortunately, like in the case of the man’s London residence, he had found no evidence to help their investigation.

As part of their enquiry into the goings on of the Secret Society for the Purification of England, they were investigating the assassination of Ambrose’s father, the 9th Duke of Stonebridge, which occurred seventeen years ago. They believed that the duke was murdered by edict of the Society.

Ambrose was in charge of their investigation, and their primary suspect behind the assassination itself was none other than Lady Beatryce Beckett’s father, the Earl of Swindon.

Yea. It was a complicated mess.

Oh, Earl Swindon hadn’t actually performed the deed, the very idea was absurd, but he was the one who saw it carried out. They were confident of that.

He felt Ambrose stand. “I did. Don’t worry about the place being cleared. I have a plan, but that’s for later. Right now, you need to get up. You do want to make it to the church before all hell breaks loose, don’t you?”

Cliff’s grin, visible from below his armed sun block, was answer enough. He delighted in setting the ton on its collective ear, and Ambrose knew it. Even if Ambrose were planning to inform Beatryce himself, Cliff would have begged for a chance to do the deed. He relished the opportunity to put that witch in her place. Lady Beatryce deserved to be stood up and more. She was cruel and underhanded and didn’t merit his friend.

“And by the by,” Ambrose added before stepping out the door, “I’ll be paying you back for asking my woman to marry you…later.”

Despite the threatening words, he heard his friend laughing as he walked away.

Good for you, Ambrose, you lucky bastard.

Cliff jumped out of bed, whistling a jaunty tune, as he rang for his valet. The pain from his overindulgence was forgotten, his day had turned suddenly jolly. He hadn’t been this enthusiastic in quite some time, and he all but rubbed his hands together in anticipation of carrying out this task.

It was the reason his heart now raced. The only reason.

“Anger’s my meat; I sup upon myself, and so shall starve with feeding.”

― Shakespeare, Coriolanus

Beckett House, the Earl of Swindon’s Study…

At the Same Time…

Bea closed her eyes and tried in vain to find some measure of serenity.

Then, she knocked on the door to the earl’s study with a firm rap. She waited with more than a little trepidation for him to grant her permission to enter. He’d summoned her to his study, which was rarely a good thing. She fought harder to find peace, to steady her nerves.

Bea tapped her fingers against her thighs as impatience won the battle over tranquility. She only just stopped herself from drumming her foot in nervous anticipation.

“Come in, daughter.”

It took a full minute for him to say the words. He liked to use the delay to intimidate visitors. Even if they were family. Even if he’d been the one to summon them.

She entered the room walking on eggshells.

Just a little bit longer; you can do this, woman.

At the moment, she needed her little internal motivational talks like a fish needed water.

“You wanted to see me, Father.” Her voice tangled with the word ‘father’. She hoped he didn’t noticed the hitch.

“Good. You are prompt. Have a seat.”

He didn’t bother to rise; the poor chair groaned a complaint as he leaned back to watch her. The earl was an enormous man in poor physical condition and turned to fat; the solid oak desk probably weighed a few stone less.

As she crossed the room, she had to compel her eyes not to glance at the rug where she’d found his little secret compartment. She forced herself to be nonchalant as she walked directly over it and approached his desk. She pasted on a serene smile and looked him square in the eye with a firm, yet obedient look.

He gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk; his chair screamed again in protest. At least he didn’t force her to stand for this dressing down. And it would be a dressing down. It was always a dressing down.

He mopped at his ever-perspiring brow with a dinner napkin as he waited for her to sit. He was sweating profusely from having to walk from the dining room all the way to his office. He had to traverse the width of an entire hallway to do so.

He threw the napkin onto his desk, which was littered with loose papers and dirty dishes, mostly unclean dishes, all of them empty. Among a collection of half-finished cups of tea, she could just make out the silver hand bell he used to signal the servants; the nearby bell pull was too far away to reach from his chair.

“I wanted to have this discussion so that I might advise you as to how today will proceed. I cannot seem to counsel you enough on the subject.” He held up both hands in a placating manner as if she were about to argue the point. Or cry. She wasn’t sure which. “Now, don’t be upset. It isn’t a surprise. Women, as a general rule, are rarely reasonable.”

Bea clenched her teeth behind her composed smile.

Keep calm. Must. Keep. Calm…

“When we arrive at the church, you will proceed directly to the antechamber. Do
not
stop to talk to anyone. Don’t even make eye contact. And definitely do not seek out the duke. If he attempts to see you, I will step in and handle the situation.”

The image was laughable. No one could deter the duke, least of all the earl.

The earl handed her a frosty stare making her feel somewhat less than warm. As if she were wearing a blanket of snow. Downright chilled.

“I will
not
have you ruining this in the last hour. There is always a chance that you could do so—and destroy all that I’ve worked for in the process.” His glare turned glacial. Even ice would have sought the sun. “Need I remind you what the consequences will be should you attempt to back out now?”

“No, sir.”

Normally, she’d be terrified at this point. Today, she was confident he would stay his hand. He wouldn’t do anything to risk this wedding. And after the wedding, she’d be free of him.

Her demure smile threatened to widen to epic proportions. She tried her best to curtail it. Freedom wasn’t hers. Yet.

The earl continued as if she hadn’t just agreed. As if she’d shown some sign of hesitation or rebellion. “You will do whatever it takes to make sure this marriage proceeds as planned. It is what we Becketts do. Even the women. We do what it takes to achieve our aims.”

You’d better believe it.

Bea nodded her agreement. She didn’t trust herself to speak. The newly formed lump in her throat made her neck ache, but she forced her small smile and held her head high. She tried to swallow without it being obvious.

“Excellent. Then, come and give your father a kiss. And smile, girl. Today, you become a duchess. It is what any woman with sense would desire.”

Bea dutifully rose, walked around his desk, and placed a kiss on his moist, ruddy cheek. His stench made her want to gag; she suppressed the instinct.

And as she walked away, he added, “Oh, and fetch your maid. She has done a poor job of dressing your hair. Tell her she will be let go without a character reference if she does not do her best to make you reasonably presentable. We would not want the duke to run away in horror before the vows are spoken, would we?”

She made it out the door.

“And hurry or we’ll be late!” His voice chased her up the stairs.

God, not much longer…