Marguerite and Mr. Paxton waited a very long time for the Brechins. The butler, Farrell, plied Marguerite with macaroons and ratafia and produced a very good claret for Mr. Paxton. But they agreed they did not feel at all comfortable accepting hospitality from a host they detested.
The clock in the hall outside the small salon chimed away the hours, until Mr. Paxton became uneasy. He paced into the hallway and came back to report.
“It is already ten-thirty, Miss Ninian. The servants seem to have disappeared. The Brechins might not return before three or four o’clock. We cannot sit here like this. If anyone discovers you have spent hours in my company, it will do your reputation no good at all. On top of that, we are in the home of a well-known er...”
Marguerite smiled wryly. “I think I know what you mean, Mr. Paxton.”
“Actually, Miss Ninian, I doubt you really do.”
Marguerite was puzzled. As far as she could see, Lieutenant Paxton held Spencer Trewbridge in the greatest abhorrence. He had appointed himself her chaperon, and had then realized there was no-one to protect her reputation against him. Of course, they had both expected to be clear of Brechin House by now, he to visit his friends, and she to spend the evening at her Mama’s house. She wondered if keeping them waiting was part of some silly, complicated plan of Serena and Spencer’s.
Well, she would wait another hour, then she would take a hackney to her mother’s house in Holborn. God help her then. Her mother would demand to know what she was doing, arriving at this time of night.
Then she would exclaim at Marguerite’s lack of luggage.
Then there would be endless questions. Marguerite was developing a headache just thinking about it.
A carriage came down the street and stopped outside the house. There was the stamping of hooves and they heard Lord Brechin’s voice call out, “...won’t need you again tonight.”
Marguerite and Lieutenant Paxton straightened up in their chairs. The door was flung open and Spencer Trewbridge entered. “Good of you to wait this long,” he said cheerfully.
“Is your wife not joining us?” Mr. Paxton asked.
“Are you eager, young Paxton?” came the laughing reply. “How like your mother you are! Don’t worry. You shall have your foursome, just—”
It appeared that Mr. Paxton was a southpaw. His face aflame with an anger Marguerite did not understand, he took two steps towards Lord Brechin and with his good hand swung an impressive upper-cut to Spencer’s supercilious jaw.
Marguerite stood staring as Spencer Trewbridge staggered backwards and crashed on to the Aubusson rug in front of the fireplace. “Why did you...? I mean, I know he was being—”
“We are getting out of here right now,” Paxton said firmly. “I don’t care what you came for. We are leaving.”
“But shouldn’t we see if Lord Brechin...?”
“Bug—damn Lord Brechin.”
“You’ll pay for this, Paxton. Think you’re better than your mother, do you? Well, let me tell you some things about your mother,” spat Spencer Trewbridge as he struggled to his feet.
“No. I don’t think you need to do that, Spencer,” said a voice from the doorway. John Trewbridge stood, feet apart, surveying his brother with contempt.
“Lord John!” Marguerite cried in relief. Thank goodness! She had been wishing for the past two hours that either she had never left Trewbridge, or that John would miraculously come and rescue her.
“Good God! You too?” sneered Spencer. “To what do I owe this visit?”
“He came to see me, of course, didn’t you darling?” purred Serena’s voice from behind them. Serena must have come home with Spencer after all, Marguerite thought. But she wasn’t dressed for receiving callers. Her gown was the most intense blue that Marguerite had ever seen yet still it was not bright enough to disguise the fact that Serena wore nothing beneath it. In the candlelight her beautiful, sinuous body swayed towards John. “I was looking forward to an intimate evening with four. Now it appears we will have a positive orgy of five!” she carolled.
“You may have all the orgies you wish, Serena. But you will have them without Miss Ninian and myself. And I rather think Mr.—Paxton, is it?—will not be staying either.” John turned to his brother. “The scales, if you please, Spencer. Our father requests that they be returned to Trewbridge.”
Spencer was leaning on a chair-back, his face pasty and drawn. “Find them yourself,” he snarled.
John looked at him for a moment. “I remember when we were children you used to conceal things from Edward and me. You had special hiding places. Let me think.” John paced over to the escritoire in the corner and bent down to look underneath it. He pushed his hand right to the back and twisted. A large drawer slid out beneath the desk. Spencer smirked. The drawer was empty.
“Perhaps it is not in this room,” John hazarded. “What about the library?”
He stalked out of the room and crossed the hall. One by one they all followed, as if they were playing some bizarre game. Marguerite was startled to see John stand on top of an ebony settle and stretch his arm above the pelmet where the curtains were gathered together to fall prettily. Sure enough there was something there, but it wasn’t the scales.
“Ah,” John said. “Edward wondered where his fob watch had gone.” He pocketed the watch then padded over to the mantelpiece and ran his eye over the knick-knacks there. In the centre of the ledge was a large, ornate music box. He picked it up and pressed the spring to open the back of it.
And there were the scales, lying on their side, inside the cavity. “You wouldn’t be the first thief to hide precious metals and jewellery inside something of lesser value,” John said.
Spencer yelled, “I am not a thief! How can I be a thief when I will own it all one day?”
“One day, is the point,” John replied. “But that time has not yet come. And Father asked me to bring the scales back to Trewbridge until that time comes.”
“You sanctimonious prig!” Spencer lunged at John. Only to be brought down by another punishing jab to the chin, this time from John. And this time Spencer made no effort to rise.
John looked at Serena who stood motionless inside the doorway.
“Put him to bed. He’ll be feeling very sore shortly.”
She said nothing. Her smooth, expressionless face gave nothing away. Only her eyes moved from John, to Marguerite, to Lieutenant Paxton and to her husband before returning to John.
“Come, Miss Ninian,” John said briskly, tucking the scales under one arm. “Mr. Paxton, would you care to accompany us?” And he swept from the room as if knocking down his brother was something he did every day of the week.
But Marguerite was getting to know him now. And she knew the hard punch that had landed on Spencer’s chin had probably hurt John as much as it had Spencer. Tonight he obviously felt satisfaction. Tomorrow, however, she suspected he would be filled with remorse, thinking he should have handled the situation another way. But Marguerite knew Spencer would not have given up the scales without a fight. Thank goodness John had come. She was a fool. She hadn’t stood a chance.
“Mr. Paxton,” John said, drawing on his gloves and flicking a coin to the shivering boy in the street who was holding on to his horses, “We shall be a trifle crowded, but may I drive you somewhere?”
“I-I don’t know, my lord. I—”
“Paxton!” John said suddenly. “I thought I knew you! The 72nd?”
Mr. Paxton grinned for the first time. “That’s right.”
“Remember those lovely warm haystacks outside Amarante?” John asked.
And to Marguerite’s bemusement, both men fell about laughing. Then John sobered, looking at Mr. Paxton’s hand. “I heard about your hand. A bad business. What have you done since you’ve been back?”
“Precious little,” Paxton said, grimacing. “There’s not a lot one can do with only half a hand.”
John thought for a moment. “I shall take Miss Ninian to the Christopher. We cannot drive through the night with a thin moon and the possibility of more snow. Would you come with us, and you and I can sit down and blow a cloud?”
Lieutenant Paxton’s face lightened, and Marguerite smiled to herself. If it was possible, John would do something for Mr. Paxton. He was that sort of a man. At least Marguerite loved a man worthy of her love, not like stupid Serena. But then perhaps Serena did not love Lord Spencer at all.
At the Christopher, Marguerite was ensconced in one of the best rooms. An abigail danced attendance on her. Weary after the most adventurous day of her life, she settled back on the feather mattress and closed her eyes. She was anxious about what John would say to her tomorrow, but she could not stay awake any longer.
****
To her surprise, on the following day John thanked her very much for endeavouring to recover the scales and apologized for blaming her for their disappearance. “I’m very sorry, Miss Ninian, but you must understand that the scales are known as the heart of the Trewbridge family. They are very important to us. Of course, Spencer knew that when he coerced you into stealing them.”
Marguerite flinched a little at the word ‘steal’ but she could not help an impish smile when she said, “I wonder how Lord Brechin’s chin feels today?”
John pulled a face. “Very, very sore, I imagine.”
Mr. Paxton entered the private parlour at that moment and breakfast was served, so they did not discuss her escapade any further.
“How was it?” John asked the lieutenant.
Marguerite looked from one man to the other, puzzled. John handed her the dish of muffins. “Kenelm has already been out and about. He went to see an acquaintance of mine about a job.”
Oh, thank you, John, Marguerite thought. There was nothing she could do for Mr. Paxton, but John had connections.
Kenelm Paxton grinned. “The poor fellow must be in dire straits. He didn’t ask for credentials at all, just said your note was good enough. I am to start immediately.” Then he grimaced. “Mr. Mathieson asked me to have all my things brought to Portman Square. I could not tell him that I own what I stand up in, a spare shirt and my old army uniform.”
“We shall discuss that after breakfast, you and I,” John said, with what Marguerite decided was a warning look in her direction. “I hope Tom expects you to eat your breakfast first before flying out the door.”
Mr. Paxton smiled, attacking a large plate of beef and eggs with enthusiasm. “I can see why you said he needs a factotum. The household is at sixes and sevens, and as for his study! There were papers spread over every available surface. He said he spends most of his time at the family bank.”
“Yes. I met up with him last month at a musicale and he told me then that his life was frantically busy. He said he needed someone he trusted to move between the bank and its business customers, but he wanted somebody who wouldn’t mind organizing his household too. I am surprised he didn’t offer the job to his cousin, Ottley, but Tom told me he could find nobody he trusted.”
“I shan’t let you down, my lord.”
“I know that, Kenelm. You didn’t let me down on the Peninsula, and you won’t let me down now. Your family name is a much respected one.”
Kenelm Paxton’s lips worked before he managed to get his face under control.
“However,” John continued, “there is one thing I must warn you about.”
Marguerite and Mr. Paxton stared at John. A reminiscent smile creased his face. “Tom has a very pert sister. I suspect you will have your hands full trying to resist her charms.”
“Ah, that must be Miss Cara Mathieson. We’ve already met,” Mr. Paxton said calmly. “Don’t worry, my lord. I have her measure.”
John gave a shout of laughter. “Kenelm! I need not have worried. I think Miss Mathieson has met her match.”
****
After they had said their farewells to Lieutenant Paxton, John handed Marguerite up into his curricle. The intermittent snow flurries had stopped and patches of snow lay melting under a weak, fitful sun. They should make good time to Trewbridge.
But just as John leapt up on to the box, a strident voice he knew only too well demanded, “And just what do you think you’re doing with my daughter?”
Damn. His horses jostled in the traces as he pulled them up.
“Mama!”
“Yes, Daisy. It is I. Thank goodness I arrived in time to save you from yourself.”
John cast a quick glance around. The stable-hands were staring open-mouthed at Mrs. Ninian. He would have to hustle Marguerite and her mother into a private room. He did not want the entire countryside to overhear the latest of Mrs. Ninian’s little dramas. He jerked his head at the nearest stable-hand who rushed to the horses’ heads.
“Just one moment, Mrs. Ninian. We’ll continue this inside.”
He lifted Marguerite down from her perch on the curricle. Her face distressed, she clung to his hand. He smiled encouragingly, then turned to dismiss the hackney that had conveyed her mother to the Christopher.
“Now, what is all this about?” he asked when he had managed to persuade the staff of the Christopher that he had not—quite—left and wished to return to the small parlour they had used earlier.
“You know very well what it’s about!” yelled Mrs. Ninian, by now out of control. Asking Amy Ninian to withhold her fire was tantamount to pressing a lid on a volcano. John was glad Kenelm Paxton had missed this exhibition. His faith in John would have been shattered.
“Mama, for heaven’s sake!” Marguerite tried to intervene, but her mother was no longer to be fobbed off.
“How dare you, girl? How dare you? Jauntering up to Town and staying at the Christopher with this—this fellow! Have you no consideration for your sisters’ futures?”
“I did not come up to Town with Lord John, Mama. I came on the stage.”
“The stage? I never heard the like! And why are you staying at the Christopher with this man, I should like to know? I received a note warning me—”
“If you would stop shouting for a moment, your daughter will tell you what she has been doing,” John interrupted.
Marguerite hurried into speech before John and her mother came to blows. “I arrived off the stage very late last evening, Mama. I was undertaking a message for the marchioness, and when I had completed that it was nigh on eleven o’clock. Lord John came north for a different reason. He suggested it might be better for me to stay at the Christopher.” Marguerite looked significantly at her mother. “The task I had to undertake was at Lord and Lady Brechin’s house, Mama.”
Her mother looked thoughtful. “Oh! Well, it was good you did not stay there. But you should have come to me, Marguerite. Now you are well and truly compromised. I received a note this morning, probably from those wretched Brechins, saying you had spent the night at the Christopher with two young men, one of whom was Lord John Trewbridge. Well? Did you?”
“Not exactly, Mama.” Marguerite stumbled to explain.
John interrupted. Things had gone too far. Before he could stop himself he said, “It is immaterial, Mrs. Ninian, what other people think. Marguerite and I are to be married er...shortly.”
“I should hope so!” Amy Ninian yelled before realizing the full import of John’s words. “You are? You are? How wonderful! Oh my dear boy, such a sensible thing to do! Daisy dear—”
“Before you go any further,” John said with a sidelong glance at Marguerite who was standing with her mouth open, “please be aware that my future wife’s name is Marguerite, not Daisy.”
Mrs. Ninian would obviously have called her daughter Cyclops if it made John happy. She waved a hand and said, “Of course, dear boy. Anything for my son-in-law.” She giggled and John winced.
“Lord John—sir!” Marguerite whispered, looking as if she had swallowed a frog. She clutched her reticule upside-down and a couple of guineas dropped on to the carpet.
John bent down and picked them up. He took Marguerite’s reticule and stuffed the guineas back inside. No doubt they were all going to regret this day, but all he could feel at the moment was a strange lightness. “We shall talk more later,” he said, smiling at Marguerite. He had no alternative but to carry this through. Not only must he save Marguerite’s reputation, but with Spencer and Serena out for vengeance, he also needed to save Kenelm Paxton from the gossips. Marguerite had no idea that the man she had chosen to befriend was the son of a woman with a tongue so salacious, and behaviour so prurient, that her husband had disowned her. John would bet that Kenelm had spent years trying to live down his mother’s reputation. Spencer had recognized the Paxton name and stirred the pot.
John held out his hand to Marguerite. Doubtfully she put her small hand into his big one. He squeezed her hand. God knew, he needed some warm reassurance right now and he was sure Marguerite did too. “Mrs. Ninian, we would love to chat over the details with you, but we need to return to Trewbridge before it snows again.” He doubted Amy Ninian had any idea that the weather was clearing. She did not seem like the sort of woman who would notice the state of the weather.
“But D-Marguerite will stay here in Town with me now, won’t she?” Mrs. Ninian inquired.
Damn. He hadn’t anticipated that. That could lead to all sorts of complications once her mother jumped on the gossip wagon. “Well...my mother relies on Marguerite. She has become used to having her at Trewbridge and—” John shrugged, trying to intimate that his mother would be helpless without Marguerite. He hoped Mama never heard about this. She’d flay him alive.
“Oh, I would be loath to upset dear Lady Trewbridge.” Mrs. Ninian’s thin lips stretched into a smile. “Please pass on my felicitations to her.”
John managed to edge Mrs. Ninian towards the door. “I shall ask the Christopher to provide a private carriage for you. So much nicer than a hackney, don’t you think?”
Marguerite rolled her eyes. Struggling to keep a straight face, John managed to offload Mrs. Ninian on to mine host and they could hear her voice as she trailed along the passageway, extolling the virtues of her future son-in-law.
There was an edgy silence in the room.
“What have you done?” Marguerite demanded. “You’ve got us into a terrible pickle and—”
“I’ve got us into this pickle? Excuse me?”
“You must be mad to tell Mama such a tale. She will gabble it all over Town.”
“Marguerite, you know I had no option.”
She wrinkled her nose. “There must be something...” Then she was struck by an idea. “But one might as well say I should marry Mr. Paxton! I was in his company as long as I’ve been in yours.”
“At this juncture, Kenelm cannot afford to feed himself, Marguerite, let alone support a wife.”
“So you drew the short straw and got landed with me,” she said gloomily.
He could not help laughing. “Come, it is not that bad. I think this is for the best.”
“For the best?” Her lilting voice rose to operatic heights, rivalling her mother’s. “Whose best? You don’t want to be saddled with me for a bride, and I don’t wish—” she broke off for a second then continued, “to be married to a man who does not want me.”
John rubbed the hair on the back of his head. “It is not that I don’t want to be married to you in particular, Marguerite. You are a lovely young woman and under normal circumstances I’d—anyway, I decided months ago that I was best on my own. I had thought to eschew marriage. I don’t seem to deal well with women.” Dash it all. He sounded downright pathetic. He hadn’t meant to blurt out such damning words.
Marguerite’s voice dripped with scorn. “I presume this has something to do with Lady Serena. I would never have thought you would feel so sorry for yourself.”
For a moment, John saw red. Then he realized she had turned the tables on him. She was quoting his words on the first day they had met. “That was what I said to you that day, wasn’t it?” She nodded. “How I hated you! But I knew you were right.”
John sighed. “When I sold out I thought most of my troubles were over. I had a nice estate to go to and I didn’t have to bother about London society any more. But in the past few weeks my life has become just as complicated as it was in the army.”
“And now you’ve complicated it even more,” Miss Ninian snapped. “And my life too.”
John struggled to explain himself. “Marguerite, this was as inevitable as moonrise. When I set out to bring you back to Trewbridge, I knew there’d be gossip. There was no room to bring an abigail with me, and on top of that, speed was of the essence. You could have been in danger.”
“I see.” Marguerite looked down at her feet, her voice muffled. “Truly, I think it is best if I go to stay with my mother. That way we can have a sort of ‘understanding’ that never quite comes to fruition. In a few months we can say that we are unsuited or—”
“Your mother would kill me.”
Her lips quirked. “Possibly.”
John cupped her chin. His little pocket Venus had skin like warm silk. “Hush,” he said. He bent his head to kiss her. He’d meant it to be a chaste kiss, like their first one when they’d visited Diabalo’s grave—a ‘let’s get used to one another,’ sort of kiss. But somewhere along the way things changed. John felt his skin heat as Marguerite pressed closer, her hand plucking at his sleeve. He tucked her flush against him and couldn’t suppress the satisfied murmur that escaped him.
Miss Marguerite Ninian might be innocent, but her response was unmistakably sincere. It made a man feel encouraged.
So instead of the milk-and-water kiss he’d intended, he found himself feasting on Marguerite’s petal-soft mouth. Lord, she was delectable. But urgent little flutters in her ribcage warned him of her fears, and reluctantly he drew back. He was relieved to find she did not hold him in aversion, so much so that he felt almost euphoric. He took a deep breath and warned himself to be careful. “Marguerite...” He hesitated.
She smoothed down her skirts. “Thank you,” she said sedately. “I was afraid I was going to die never having been kissed. And now I have been kissed twice. And very nicely too.” She sent him a saucy grin.
He grinned back. She could always be relied upon to say the unexpected. He tried to gather himself together, still feeling off balance. “There’s no chance of that now, Marguerite.”
Her smile grew strained. “Lord John, there might be a way out of this coil. If we—”
He put his finger to her lips. “I do not want out of the arrangement. I am content.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. Oh. And you, Marguerite? Are you content?”
She had said she wanted to marry someone who wanted her. Well, dash it all, he did want her. But he was fairly sure she had meant someone who loved her. He couldn’t offer her that. Hers was an understandable sentiment when one took into consideration her upbringing under the thumb of Amy Ninian. Many other young ladies of quality did not look for a strong attachment to their husbands, but Marguerite needed someone to supply the love she’d never received. His heart ached for her, but he could not help her. Maybe one day... He stamped down on the thought. He had enough to contend with right now. “We will be happy, Marguerite. We will raise a family at Trewbury Manor and live useful lives.”
Her eyes, pensive and solemn, surveyed him as he pulled on his driving-cloak and fastened the row of pearl buttons down the front without taking his eyes off her. Then he helped her into her cloak and allowed his fingers to linger on her shoulders. A fellow was entitled to some small liberties if he was promised in marriage, surely?
She blushed and laid her gloved hand over his fingers.
John whistled under his breath as he handed her up into the curricle. It would work. It must work. That silky skin and tongue like a rapier were unexpected bonuses. He began to grin. No chance that life with Marguerite would be dull.