The Wild Marquis Page 4

  She drew herself up to her full height of five feet, one inch and glared at him.

  “I am not a lady. I am a bookseller. And I wish to see Aretino’s Dialogues.”

  She spoke louder than intended. Every eye in the room rose from its bibliographic perusal and fixed on her.

  Wonderful. Most of the London book world, the men she was so anxious to impress, including Mr. Gilbert, had heard her demand a notorious work of erotic literature. She blushed to the roots of her hair.

  Uncertain whether to retreat or stand her ground, she rested for a moment, trying to summon the courage to argue her case, when she felt a light touch on her arm and a smoky voice in her ear.

  “Why don’t you let me see to this, Mrs. Merton.”

  The marquis had come to her rescue. She returned to her seat in mingled gratitude and resentment, with a touch of wry amusement at her own expense. For all her lectures she could hardly now accuse him of indiscretion.

  Poor girl, Cain thought as he waited for the now amenable porter to unlock the cabinet. He’d been watching, curious about what Mrs. Merton was up to, and felt a shadow of annoyance at seeing her smiling and curtsying to a man who looked as though he had a stick up his respectable arse. Irrationally, perhaps, he felt possessive of the little bookseller. She was supposed to be working for him. Then he heard her scandalous request echo around the almost silent room. He’d never been able to resist the urge to assist a woman in distress.

  Tarquin Compton stood beside the same bookcase. Cain often encountered him in the haunts of the demimonde: green rooms, masquerades, entertainments hosted by fashionable courtesans. Unlike Chase, Compton was also welcome in every haunt of the beau monde, a darling of the ladies who craved his opinion in matters of taste and lauded his wit.

  Cain had no reason to dislike Compton more than any other member of the ton that rejected him. Why should he care that the dandy exercised his wit at Cain’s expense, coining a series of stupid names for him? The Sinful Marquis (too obvious), the Unchaste Marquis (a bad pun), the Meretricious Marquis (lamentable alliteration). Most recently Compton had reportedly called Cain the Feral Marquis, suggesting he’d been raised by wolves.

  All these soubriquets referred, in apposition, to that of his saintly father. As usual Cain’s stomach roiled with acid at the mere thought of his sire.

  “Interesting choice of book,” Compton said.

  Seeking the hidden barb in Compton’s mild tone, Cain raised his head to meet the taller man squarely in the eye. “Then I’ll step aside and leave it to you, Compton. Let me recommend the thirty-five postures. You could use some lessons in performance, I suspect. I seem to recall Maria Johnson was under your protection until she found she preferred me.”

  “I doubt it was my skills she found inferior. Rather the size of my purse.”

  “And Belinda Beauchamp—not her real name, I fancy—left you after a week. Mm.” Cain put forefinger to his mouth in a mockery of concentrated thought. “Oh, yes, I believe she came to me. Without anything very flattering to say about her most recent lover. And I don’t believe she was referring to the size of his purse.”

  “I defer to your knowledge of the ladies of the night, Chase, since you were all but born in a brothel.” Compton’s tone matched the disdain on his perfectly shaven hawkish face.

  Cain adjusted his balance into a fighter’s stance. He could see the other man’s muscles tighten in preparation.

  Compton looked down his nose in silence.

  “You’re nothing but a hypocrite, Compton,” Cain said with a provocative grin. “But forgive me if I’m wrong and you sought these virtuous ladies only for the pleasure of their conversation.”

  Peace hung in the balance as Compton hesitated, clearly less willing than Cain to cause a scandal. Cain tossed another stick on the fire. “And speaking of hypocrisy, what are you doing next to a cabinet full of ‘unsuitable books’?”

  Cain prepared to dodge a punch but instead, to his great surprise, he was the recipient of a sheepish grin.

  “You have a point,” Compton said. “It so happens that I collect, among other things, the kind of books found in this bookcase. But only those,” he added with a hint of mock piety on otherwise expressionless features, “of outstanding artistic merit. I can highly recommend the one you’re about to look at.”

  The moment when every man in the room had raised his eyes at the sound of her voice had to number among the worst of Juliana’s life. Almost as infuriating was the fact that, as a woman, she was not permitted to show a valuable book to a client.

  The marquis experienced no difficulty having it brought out for examination. He returned to their table with the red volume tucked under his arm and took his seat at her side.

  She found his proximity disconcerting. Accustomed as she was to crowded viewing rooms and cramped seating, the presence of her fellow bookmen never bothered her. Her attention, like theirs, was engaged by the assessment of fine bindings, the condition of engravings and fore edges, the steady rhythm of collating pages.

  Even the odor of the occasional unwashed dealer dissipated in the familiar scent of book dust and old leather. But not Chase’s. An indefinable bouquet—cleanliness, a hint of tobacco mixed with some kind of pricey masculine unguent—assailed her nostrils. When his thigh, accidentally or not, rubbed against her own, she found it hard to concentrate.

  It had been bad enough when the object of their examination was something as untitillating as a Caxton. But the Aretino. Good Lord, what a book!

  She’d never actually seen an edition, merely knew of its repute—or ill repute. He placed the volume between them and opened the volume to the title page.

  The Dialogues and Thirty-Five Postures, after Aretino, she translated silently. Innocent enough, it appeared, until she discovered exactly what was meant by “postures.” She had no idea men and women could do such things.

  She felt her cheeks grow hot. Was that rather plump and almost naked woman actually about to…?

  She looked at the caption. La femme embrasse le Dieu Priape ailé. That meant embrace or kiss. She glanced back at the picture. Kiss in this case, definitely kiss. And the meaning of “the winged God Priapus” was all too obvious.

  “It’s a nice large copy,” she remarked, trying to project dispassionate judgment.

  “So I see.” Lord Chase’s voice was completely bland.

  Hurriedly she turned a page. This time the man was doing the “kissing” and in an equally shocking place.

  “Notice the freshness of the engraving,” she said. “A fine impression.”

  “Yes indeed,” he murmured. “I can see he’s making a very fine impression.”

  She shot him a look. His face showed nothing but perfect gravity, and she didn’t believe it for a minute.

  She babbled on about the quality of the drawing, the rarity of the edition, the splendor of the binding, with little idea if she made sense. Every minute the book lay open before them she was aware of Chase, not as a book buyer but as a man. Every nerve prickled and the room seemed stifling.

  Visions of herself doing some of those…things…with Lord Chase flashed through her mind. Heat bloomed in areas she never thought about and her breasts felt tight. She glanced down to make sure the hardening of her nipples wasn’t apparent through the fabric of her gown. The heavy mourning concealed her excitement but it also exacerbated her fever. She’d never been more relieved than when she reached the last page and closed the book.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Merton. That was very educational.”

  She muttered something, fairly sure that in this case the education had been all hers.

  “If there’s nothing else you’d like to show me today,” he continued, “let me take you home.”

  “Thank you, but I have a couple of errands to perform on the way. I shall walk.”

  “It’s a cold day,” he coaxed.

  Dear Lord, she hoped it was snowing. Then she would have a chance of cooling off.

 
Chapter 4

  It should have been the footman’s job, but Chase wasn’t surprised when his housekeeper limped in with a pot of coffee. He wondered what had kept her so long.

  “You’re up early. And you’ve been home early three nights in a row. Did your cock fall off?”

  She filled his cup, curving her arm with a trace of elegance that had rendered her successful early in her career. Unfortunately Mrs. Melisande Duchamp’s gentility was as spurious as her French name and had never extended to her speech, which was as earthy as her former profession.

  “I don’t believe the state of my private parts lies within the purview of your responsibilities as my housekeeper,” he said.

  She emitted a crack of laughter. “Purview! That’s a good one. Especially since it was me what taught you how to keep ’em in good order. Lusty little bastard you were. And is it within my purview to know why you’re upsetting the household by calling for your breakfast at nine in the morning?”

  “I’m told the agencies that furnish the gentry with their staff open early. I’ve decided to replace the lot of you with respectable servants.”

  “Like any of them would come and work for you,” she replied, unconcerned.

  “Oh sit down, Mel, and have some coffee. Tell me the news.”

  “Certainly not. It wouldn’t be proper.” It was absurd, but Mel insisted on clinging to the notion that she knew her place. Yet Cain had been as close to her as any person since the day she and her friend Bet had found him bleeding in the gutter and given him shelter at Mrs. Rafferty’s bordello.

  She might refuse to sit in his presence but she had no scruples about speaking her mind. “I’ve got your paper and mail here. You can read the news yourself. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on.”

  “Nancy and I have parted company by mutual agreement. She has decided to devote more time to her vocal efforts.”

  “From what I hear she’s sparing a minute or two for the efforts of Sir ’erbert Litchfield.”

  Chase wondered how long it had taken for the news that his mistress had found a new protector to reach the ears of every servant in the West End of London. About an hour, he guessed.

  “Gave you the boot, did she?”

  “As it happens she did initiate the severance of our arrangement.”

  “Smart lass, that one. Coming up to six months with you. She knew it wouldn’t last. But what I don’t get is why you ain’t out there finding another one. It ain’t like you, Cain.”

  “Haven’t you heard? I’ve decided to devote my attentions to literature. I’m going to buy a book. Or, if Mrs. Merton has anything to say in the matter, many expensive books.”

  “Hah! I knew there had to be a woman. Why d’you want to buy books? Don’t you have enough of them?”

  “Mrs. Merton tried to interest me in a famous Italian work on the lives of prostitutes and pimps.”

  “Not much point in that. You know all about them already.”

  “As it happens, I had read the book.”

  “Is it good?”

  Cain shrugged. “Signor Aretino’s work is, at least, blessedly free of the moralizing that some commentators seem to feel a necessary accompaniment to titillation.”

  “Why’d this mort want you to buy it then?”

  “I believe she thought it the kind of book that would appeal to me.” He smiled. “I punished her a little for her presumption. I made her examine the book with me.”

  He felt guilty about causing his little bookseller embarrassment but hadn’t been able to resist. She’d blushed quite charmingly, speaking with earnest enthusiasm about the quality of the engravings. All the while trying to ignore the fact said engravings depicted acts that were, he was quite sure, foreign to her experience. His own mind, predictably enough, had toyed with the notion of giving her a practical demonstration.

  In the end he’d got what he deserved for his teasing. She’d fled Sotheby’s with flustered haste, refusing his offer of a ride home. He never had the chance to interrogate her about Sir Thomas Tarleton’s unorthodox methods of acquisition.

  Mel’s gray eyes glinted, revealing a flash of the beauty she’d once possessed before hardship and injury had dulled it. She’d been past her peak already when Cain had met her, eight years earlier. No longer a prime article with her own rooms, she’d descended to the level of brothel fodder.

  “Are you going to make her an offer?” she asked.

  “Mrs. Merton is a respectable shopkeeper and much too good to be associating with someone like me.”

  “Is she a looker? Young?”

  “I don’t know. Not very old. And I’ll thank you not to gossip about her. I’m not in the habit of ruining tradeswomen.”

  Mel snorted. “Only those what are already ruined.” She raised an arm at his mutter of protest. “I’ll keep my mouth shut. I’ve got better things to do than stand around and palaver with you. That new maid needs watching every minute, silly little drab.”

  Alone once more, Cain shuffled through the post: bills; a missive from the steward of his estate; the usual selection of requests for his charity or patronage. He left all this to his man of business. Robinson, a canny and tough old fellow, had even stood up to his father, convincing the Saintly Marquis that his heir should be granted a meager allowance rather than continue the scandal of living in a brothel.

  Which left one letter in a feminine hand.

  He held it for a full minute, both reluctant and eager to open his mother’s monthly genuflection to duty, then tore off the seal.

  It was the usual rant, full of exhortations to renounce his wicked path and surrender to the will of the Lord, embellished with plentiful quotations from the Reverend Josiah Ditchfield, the pompous blowhard of a clergyman who had once been his tutor. After their last face-to-face conversation, following his father’s funeral, he never knew why she bothered to write at all. Yet he thanked her sense of duty, because of the brief letter enclosed within her own.

  In the eight years that had passed since he had been cast out, frightened and almost penniless, to face London alone, the only times Cain felt like weeping were when he received his sister’s notes, the slight, unsatisfactory contact that was all his surviving parent permitted.

  “Dear Brother,” she wrote.

  “I trust I find you in good health and obedient to the will of Our Lord and Savior. My studies progress. I have learned to play three new hymns on the pianoforte and have made a copy in watercolors of the Italian painting of the Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian acquired by our late Respected Grandfather. Mr. Ditchfield says it is very like. Mr. Ditchfield is also good enough to supervise my studies of the Bible. This month I am reading the Book of Ruth.

  “Your affectionate sister, Esther Godfrey.”

  Did she mean these pious platitudes? Did she enjoy her education, devoid, as far as he could tell, of any kind of frivolity? She never wrote of anything personal: a new gown, a pet, a thought that couldn’t have been placed in her head by their mother. Perhaps she was like their mother. He had no idea. He hadn’t seen her since she was his adored, adorable eight-year-old Esty, all eyes and curls and sweet laughter.

  A postscript at the foot of the page caught his eye.

  “Ruth 1:20.”

  He hurried to his library, the letter clutched in his hand. There had to be a Bible somewhere. Thanks to his father and the Reverend Josiah, he’d once been an assiduous if unenthusiastic student of the Good Book. Now, when he tracked it down among a group of reference works, he half expected it to go up in smoke at the touch of his hand. He riffled the pages in search of the Book of Ruth.

  And she said unto them, Call me not Naomi, call me Mara: for the Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me.

  Was the verse a message? His first instinct was to take horse for Markley Chase and discover what had made his sister unhappy. But likely it was nothing serious. A broken trinket, a scolding for a poor lesson. Better to imagine nothing more grave, or to see it merely as a recommendation for
biblical study of the kind his mother occasionally made and he always ignored. Because if Esther was in trouble, there was nothing in the world he could do that wouldn’t make things worse.

  As usual his sister’s letter depressed his spirits. For a couple of days now he’d lived with the hope that solving the mystery of the Burgundy Hours would provide him with something, some piece of information he could use to understand his late father’s behavior and make his obdurate mother relent and let him see Esther. In the cold morning light the idea seemed absurd. Why waste time pursuing a chimera?

  For eight years he’d been without family, thanks to his father’s accusations and banishment, virtually estranged from his social peers. He’d managed without them and survived to inherit his title and fortune. He hoped his hedonistic existence caused the late marquis considerable anguish in whatever section of the afterlife he inhabited.

  He thrust aside the momentary gloom engendered by word from home. What was the point? He had a reputation to live up to, and nothing better to do with his time and wealth than enjoy himself.

  Yet the present day stretched ahead of him, empty of engagements, one of the problems with going to bed early and alone and rising at this hour. Had he been a real gentleman of the ton he would have sought the company of his peers at Tattersall’s, or one of the other haunts of the sporting-minded. But horses interested him solely as means of transportation. He was adept at both boxing and fencing but maintained his skills only as a means of exercise. So much did he avoid interaction with his fellow men, he didn’t even belong to a club.

  Which left the ladies. After breaking with his mistress he should be in eager pursuit of new companionship, haunting the theaters and the promenade in Hyde Park to assess the fashionable impure. Or venturing into the few drawing rooms where he was received in search of more refined bedfellows.

  But today he found his mind dwelling on Mrs. Merton.

  He might harbor fantasies about stripping her naked and unleashing the passion he was convinced lingered under her forbidding exterior, but she wasn’t a woman who deserved to be trifled with by a worthless rake. Still, she was amusing to tease. And she knew more about Tarleton than she’d admitted.