My Wicked Marquess Read online

  Gaelen Foley

  My Wicked Marquess

  Any fool can tell the truth, but it requires a man of some sense to know how to lie well.

  —Samuel Butler

  Contents

  Epigraph

  September 1, 1815

  Chapter 1

  She entered the realm of lost souls in a single…

  Chapter 2

  With catcalls and wolf whistles, rude leers and laughing invitations,…

  Chapter 3

  The night of the Edgecombe ball arrived and brought with…

  Chapter 4

  Well, I never,” Daphne breathed. She could not decide if…

  Chapter 5

  Pish-posh? Inside his lightless carriage, Max shook his head, the…

  Chapter 6

  Two weeks later, Daphne was upstairs in her sunny bedchamber,…

  Chapter 7

  His mind is gone, poor bastard. He is a hollow…

  Chapter 8

  Lord Rotherstone!” Daphne said breathlessly, dropping her gaze. She floundered.

  Chapter 9

  Oh, bloody hell,” he uttered under his breath.

  Chapter 10

  That night, Dresden Bloodwell arrived in London, his new post,…

  Chapter 11

  Max trusted he had laid her fears to rest. At…

  Chapter 12

  Max took a sip of his morning tea as he…

  Chapter 13

  Oh, no, you don’t!” Jolted out of her shock to…

  Chapter 14

  London seemed familiar.

  Chapter 15

  The long day had ended, and Daphne sat before the…

  Chapter 16

  Wake up, sleepyhead,” Max whispered in her ear the next…

  Chapter 17

  Virgil had been scant on details, but apparently there had…

  Chapter 18

  It is so kind of you to call on me,…

  Chapter 19

  Don’t speak in front of the prisoner unless it’s absolutely…

  Chapter 20

  Daphne was waiting patiently in the parlor when Max returned.

  Epilogue

  I’m so glad you're back in Town,” Carissa said as…

  About the Author

  Other Books by Gaelen Foley

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  September 1, 1815

  Dear Lord Rotherstone,

  If you are reading this, then I must welcome you gladly back to London after your long and perilous journeys. You charged me with no small task in your absence, but I have forged on without ceasing and now am pleased to present you with the fruits of my labor. After months of making all the inquiries you requested, also using the unusual research methods that you imparted to my understanding, I have assembled the list you desired—five of London’s most sought-after aristocratic brides for your consideration.

  Rest assured that all five excellent young ladies meet Your Lordship’s exacting criteria of health, youth, breeding, beauty, pleasant temperament, good family, and above all, a stainless reputation. Your prospective brides’ names are as follows:

  1. Miss Zoe Simms—age nineteen, excellent singing voice, highly accomplished. Niece of the Duke of Rowland.

  2. Miss Anna Bright—age eighteen, daughter of the Bishop of Norwell; a budding essayist, first published work titled “Virtues for a Young Lady.”

  3. Lady Hypatia Glendale—age twenty-one, known as a spirited sportswoman and huntress, rides to the hounds.

  4. Miss Adora Walker—age sixteen. Though barely out of the schoolroom, considered the greatest beauty Society has seen in many years, thus a coveted prize.

  5. The Honorable Miss Daphne Starling—age twenty, a leading belle of the ton, known for her kindness to strangers—but problematical, my lord. Beware! (See Post Script.)

  I am at your service to discuss my findings in greater detail, though I surmise Your Lordship will wish to continue the investigation in person from this point onward. All my files on this matter are available as soon as you wish me to send them. (As you directed, I assembled a file on each young lady containing more detailed biographical information, as well as upcoming social calendars and typical weekly schedules. This should more easily allow Your Lordship to observe each girl at your own convenience.)

  Awaiting your further instructions—and again, my lord, with all the joy of England’s great victory at the end of this dreadful war—welcome home.

  Your servant respectfully,

  Oliver Smith, Esquire.

  Solicitor & Gentleman-of-Business

  Post Script: About Lady Number Five, sir—You may wish to cross Daphne Starling off your list straightaway, for over the past few weeks, there has been an unfortunate whiff of scandal concerning this young lady.

  Due to her recent refusal of a suitor, a leading dandy by the name of Lord Albert Carew, I fear Miss Starling has begun to gain a reputation as a jilt.

  Chapter 1

  She entered the realm of lost souls in a single horse gig with her footman and maid. Leaving the safety of the well-traveled Strand, she crossed into the shadowy labyrinth.

  Her horse tossed its head in protest, but obeyed William’s urging, walking nervously into the narrow lane between the crowded buildings. Above them, half obscured by the thick morning fog, the great blocks of tenement houses loomed, as forbidding as medieval towers.

  The clip-clopping of her trusty gelding’s hooves echoed everywhere off grimy brick and stone, but little else stirred at this hour. The rookery came alive only at night. To be sure, they were far from the green, sculpted grounds of her father’s elegant villa now.

  This was no place for a lady.

  But these days, however, what the world thought of Daphne Starling mattered to her less and less.

  Losing her reputation was proving to be oddly liberating. It had given her a new perspective on things, and refocused her attention on what mattered most.

  Like getting the children out of this nightmare world.

  Wraiths of mist floated past her small, open carriage, which was loaded with sacks of supplies that she had collected for the orphanage since last week’s visit. Though she had been coming here for some time, the conditions of the rookery still shocked her.

  A stray dog with protruding ribs scavenged for a meal in a pile of refuse in the alley. An unhealthy odor fouled the air; neither fresh breeze nor sun could penetrate the tight, crooked alleys. People here dwelled in constant twilight due to the closeness of the buildings, their broken windows like the broken lives of all those who had simply given up. Here and there the homeless slept: inert, shapeless bundles strewn by the gutter.

  A dark spell of despair hung over this place. Daphne shuddered, drawing her pelisse a bit closer around her shoulders. Perhaps she should not be here—sometimes she felt as though she was living a double life.

  But she knew how it felt to be orphaned young. At least she still had a loving father, a safe home, enough to eat. It was Mama, anyway, who had early ingrained in her the duties of a gentlewoman toward the less fortunate.

  More importantly, she knew deep in her heart that if someone did not go into the dark places of the world and give a little love to those who had no one, then life was truly meaningless. Especially the pampered life that she had always known as the only child of a viscount with a large fortune and an ancient title.

  Still, however privileged she was by birth, she did not ever want to become one of those selfish, artificial creatures like some of those in the ton who had been turning against her so easily of late.

  A fleeting thought of Lord Albert Carew’s smirking face flashed through her mind, but every time she thought of his oh-so-“romanti
c” proposal, she wanted to scream. The leading dandy and the leading belle—a perfect match! What do you say? Albert’s arrogance made him blissfully unaware of just how obnoxious he generally was. There was only one true love in Lord Albert Carew’s life: himself. Daphne gritted her teeth and kicked her jilted suitor out of her mind as William made the turn into Bucket Lane, where the dreary orphanage sat amid the squalor.

  Bucket Lane, or “Slops Bucket” Lane, as the rough locals jokingly called it, was a street were sin vied openly with virtue. Unfortunately, darkness seemed to be winning the battle here.

  Though a small city church still made a stand at the end of the lane, one last crumbling stone angel looking on in dismay, there was a large raucous brothel on the corner, a pub across the street, and a gaming house a few doors down from that.

  Last month there had been a murder in the alley.

  Two Bow Street officers had come by asking questions, but no one could be found who would cooperate, and the lawmen had not been back.

  Life in Bucket Lane had gone on as usual.

  “Tell me again what we’re doing here, miss?” her maid, Wilhelmina, peeped as they proceeded down the lane.

  “Hunting adventure, I reckon,” Wilhelmina’s twin brother, William grumbled.

  Though there might be a grain of truth to the charge, Daphne looked askance at him. The country-bred pair were known in the Starling residence as the “the two Willies.” They were good-hearted and exceedingly loyal, as their accompanying her each week to the orphanage proved.

  “Look to the window, William.” Daphne nodded upward as she waved a gloved hand in greeting. “They’re why we’re here.”

  Little faces full of excitement were peering down through all the grimy windows; little hands waved back.

  He harrumphed. “I suppose you’re right, miss.”

  Daphne sent her footman a bolstering smile. “Don’t worry, Will. We won’t be long. Perhaps an hour.”

  “Half an hour?” he pleaded as the gig rolled up to the orphanage. “We don’t have Davis today, miss.”

  “True.” She usually brought two footmen with her, but today—quite deliberately, no doubt—her stepmother had insisted that burly footman Davis stay at home to help rearrange the furniture in the parlor.

  Again.

  Busybody Penelope was the queen of the meaningless chore, as well as the queen of the meddlers.

  The whole Albert debacle had been her stepmother’s scheme from the start, a brazen bit of matchmaking in her eagerness to get Daphne out of the house.

  “Very well,” she conceded reluctantly. “I will do my best to keep to half an hour.”

  William gave her a grateful look and set the brake.

  “Miss Starling! Miss Starling!” a high-pitched voice cried as Daphne stepped down from the gig. She looked over and saw running toward her one of the older boys who had left the orphanage last year.

  “Jemmy!” He was thin and threadbare, but still capable of a sunny grin. She greeted him with a motherly hug. “Oh, I’ve been wondering about you! Where have you been?”

  “Here and there, miss!”

  She grasped his shoulders and saw that he was nearly as tall as she was. “You’ve grown so big since I last saw you! How old are you these days?”

  “Just turned thirteen!” he said proudly.

  She smiled at him. “Any chance you’ve changed your mind about an apprenticeship? I know of a wheelwright’s shop that’s looking for an honest boy.”

  He scoffed; she frowned sternly, and he instantly remembered what few manners he possessed. “Sorry, miss.” He lowered his head. “I’ll think about it.”

  “You do that.” She was not yet ready to call Jemmy one of her failures, but he was heading down a bad road. He had run away from two posts she had found him already, enamored with the “easy life” of the criminals he looked up to. “Don’t break my heart, Jem. If the law catches you making mischief, they’ll show you small pity. They don’t care if you’re just a boy. They’ll still send you off to Australia.”

  “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong!” he cried with the sparkle of a born charmer, nor was he a bad actor, either.

  “I almost believe you.” She eyed him archly, then she noticed the man posted across the street as the local gang’s lookout. The scruffy thug was smoking a cigar and leaning in the doorway of the pub, staring at her.

  He tipped his hat when she looked over, and sent her a broad, leering grin that was more threatening than friendly. Tensing at his stare, she realized she had better get inside. She nodded back primly, however, not daring to show disrespect in this place.

  They generally did not bother her because they knew she was not here to cause trouble, but to help their own cast-off children. The small residents of the Foundling House were classed as orphans, but while some of their parents actually were dead, most of them had merely been abandoned. Daphne did not know which was worse.

  The only thing she knew for certain was that she had to get these children out of here as soon as possible.

  She had been working on finding better accommodations for the orphanage for the past year and a half, lobbying all her erstwhile friends to contribute to the charity.

  She had even found an ideal property for sale, an old boarding school, that could have housed the orphanage, but despite her best efforts, the sum still fell far short.

  Well, I had better come up with something soon, she thought as she and Wilhelmina each lifted a sack off the back of the gig. The youngsters grew up so fast around here, and if no one intervened, the boys, like Jemmy, were almost destined to become members of the brutish local gang.

  An even worse fate, too horrible to contemplate, lay in store for the precious little girls. Daphne sent a look of hatred over her shoulder toward the brothel on the corner. In her view, it was worse than the gin house, for what went on in there made a mockery of love.

  Love was the only hope these children had—or anyone else, for that matter.

  Well, by God, none of her little girls was going to end up in that house of flesh. She would just have to work harder. She must find a way.

  Above all, she could not permit Albert to do any more damage to her reputation, for she understood full well that if he succeeded in turning high society against her, then her fund-raising efforts to move the orphanage to a safer location would all be for naught.

  The children were depending on her. In a word, they had no one else. With that, she heaved the sack over her shoulder, summoned up a carefree smile for the little ones’ sake, and went in to a loud greeting of high-pitched cheers that warmed the very cockles of her heart.

  What in the hell is she doing in there? Bride Choice Number Five continued to puzzle him. Half an hour. He checked his fob to confirm the time, then snapped it shut again.

  Shaking his head slightly to himself, Max St. Albans, the Marquess of Rotherstone, slid his watch back into the breast pocket of his black waistcoat and resumed surveillance.

  In the interests of careful research, he had tracked her to this godforsaken hellhole in the very armpit of London, and had taken up a position across the street from her destination.

  With his small pocket spyglass nosing through the tawdry curtains of the brothel’s third-floor window, he ignored the harlot nibbling on his ear.

  “You’ve got the room for the hour, love, and all that comes with it. Are you sure you don’t want to play?”

  “Positive,” he murmured, studying Miss Starling’s waiting carriage and the brawny hayseed of a footman that she had left holding her horses.

  Before going in, strangely, Miss Starling had turned and looked straight up at the brothel, as if she could feel him watching her. An electrifying thrill had run the length of Max’s body in response. The deep brim of her bonnet had hidden her face from his view; of course, she was wise not to put her charms on display in this place. The plain, beige walking dress and the deep poke bonnet both served that purpose, no doubt. But the brief moment had left
him all the more hungry for a look at her famed golden beauty.

  For now, he deemed it wise to keep an eye on her solitary footman. God, that overgrown farm boy was out of his element here. This was supposed to be her protection? Even Max, who was trained in combat skills both exotic and mundane, did not come into a place like this lightly.

  In the compact circle of his telescope, he could see the young manservant glancing uneasily around the cramped, dirty street. The sturdy country lad stood his ground faithfully, but he looked slightly terrified, as well he bloody might.

  Fortunately, the more streetwise ragged boy whom Miss Starling had embraced remained on hand, perhaps for moral support, ready to speak up on the do-gooders’ behalf, Max hoped, if any of his fellow ruffians bothered the trio.

  The boy not only looked tougher than the footman, but also, Max thought with a twinge of sadness, rather reminded him of himself at that age. All threadbare clothes and attitude, empty pockets and a swagger full of bravado.

  He, too, had grown up poor, but it had been genteel poverty, more a matter of shame than the kind of daily hunger that street boy was probably used to.

  Still, studying the youngster, he could hardly believe he had been no older than that boy when the Order had first recruited him. When his father had handed him over to be molded into…what he had become.

  He thrust the past out of his mind. The damned thing was done; his medieval ancestor’s blood oath was fulfilled; the Order’s secret, savage war was won; at last it was time to get on with his own bloody life.

  His first order of business as a private citizen, as he had long planned, was to clean up his family’s tainted reputation, after a few generations of declining fortunes and wild Rotherstone ne’er-do-wells.

  It wasn’t going to be easy, especially after his longstanding charade as the decadent Grand Tourist. Thanks, moreover, to his involvement in the notorious Inferno Club, he was at a particular disadvantage in his new quest.

  But, no matter. He knew how to woo human nature. He would soon have Society eating out of his hand, for he knew exactly what line of attack would deliver him to his desired destination with swiftest efficiency.