A Marquess Scorned (Tales from The Burnished Jade #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

A mile west of World’s End, Chelsea

Few men could stand at the gate of a graveyard at night without feeling the chill of dread. Fewer still would look upon old stone and unkempt gardens and find a measure of peace. But Gabriel knew the dead did not lie, deceive or disappoint. That wickedness belonged solely to the living.

Yet his thoughts were not on those resting beneath the hallowed ground. Every thought since turning his horse onto this lonely road centred on a woman still very much alive.

A stranger, all things considered.

A stranger with a secret.

Was that what fed this unwelcome obsession? The mystery. The puzzle. Or was it the enigma herself, with hair of burnished copper, and a mind like a labyrinth of hidden passages he longed to explore?

He tethered his horse to the post, his gaze straying to the quaint cottage next door, its red brick choked by creeping ivy.

Faint candlelight slipped through a gap in the curtains, proof Miss Woolf was not yet abed.

The graveyard pressed close, as though death kept watch over its solitary mistress.

Yet something compelled Gabriel to intrude.

If he could help her unravel the riddles of her life, perhaps he might forget his own.

He moved to the rickety garden gate, noticing the length of string tied to a strip of rusted metal, a makeshift alarm.

Sensible for a woman living alone in the wilds of World’s End, though it spoke of fear rather than foresight.

He lifted the latch with care, the faint rattle carrying into the night like a warning bell.

The curtain twitched.

Doubt gripped him. He should have sent a note, but he wanted to catch her unawares and see her unguarded reaction. Why the devil had she moved here? Why had he, a marquess with unlimited resources, struggled to find her address?

The reason became clear when she wrenched open the door, levelled a pistol at his heart, and drew back the hammer. Trust Miss Woolf to greet him with steel in hand. He ought to have been alarmed. But some dark part of him admired her nerve.

“Raise your hands, sir. High enough so I can see them.” She firmed her grip to banish the tremble and stared down the barrel. “State your name and your business. Be quick. Out here, we shoot trespassers.”

He raised his hands to shoulder height. “Gabriel Montague Saville. Marquess of Rothley. Friend, not foe. And fellow lover of morbid poetry.”

Her gasp sliced through the cool air. He suspected she had known all along and only wished to prove she could defend herself.

“Lord Rothley?” Her voice carried doubt as she stepped to the threshold, scouring the gloom as if unwilling to take him at his word. “Most men look the same in the shadows. Tell me something about yourself, something I would know.”

He bristled, torn between offence and amusement.

He was nothing like other men.

That she could not recall the subtle edge of arrogance in his voice, or recognise that no other man in London bore shoulders as broad as his, frankly, grated.

“We accompanied friends to Cheltenham last month and stayed at the Duck and Dog. We witnessed a duel in the walled garden. Afterwards, I escorted you back to your bedchamber.”

The moment was seared into his memory. Nothing short of death would eradicate the image of her copper hair tumbling in waves about her shoulders, and the knowledge she wore nothing but a nightgown beneath her pelisse.

“Good heavens. What are you doing here?” Miss Woolf didn’t lower her pistol or offer him a gracious welcome. “It’s almost eleven o’clock. Do you make a habit of calling uninvited after dark?”

“Madam, I could knock on any door in town and people would be tripping over themselves to let me in. Must we have this conversation on the doorstep?” He glanced at the graveyard, certain no gossips lurked behind the headstones.

“Surely you’re not concerned about your reputation.

There’s not another living soul within half a mile. ”

The lady angled her pistol towards the shadowed cottage beyond the hedgerow. “I’m not entirely alone here. Mrs Hodge was the housekeeper at Canfield Manor before she retired. She’s used to dealing with intruders.”

The woman also had a loose tongue. While his friend Gentry treated her chest ailment, Mrs Hodge had gossiped about her new neighbour.

“I’m struggling to think what would bring you charging out here on horseback.” Her gaze shifted to his imposing black stallion. “Is there trouble at The Burnished Jade? Is Joanna unwell?”

“The countess is fine.” Which was more than could be said for his nerves. “Miss Woolf, I’m not a pedlar hawking brushes door-to-door. Might we speak inside?” He stepped closer, daring her to deny him. “I wouldn’t be here were it not important. Now—”

“Fetch the master!” came a shrill voice from inside.

“She’s got a pistol!” came another.

“Ah, your feathered footmen.” He ought not be surprised. He’d heard Miss Woolf had acquired two African grey parrots to serve as protection. But protection from whom? “I hadn’t realised you meant to train them for sentry duty.”

“Better feathered footmen than none at all.” She stole another glance down the eerie lane. “They keep intruders guessing.”

“So, I’m right in thinking you live here alone.” Rutland’s comment slipped into his mind: a woman with her intellect and beauty would make the perfect poet’s muse. Damn it, the man was not wrong.

“Is that why you’re here? To play night watchman?”

“You know why I’m here.” He advanced to the door, closed his hand around the barrel, and eased the pistol from her grip. Her fingers resisted for a heartbeat, as though testing his strength, before she yielded the weapon. “May I come inside, Miss Woolf?”

She swallowed hard. “I’m in my nightclothes.”

Must she remind him? He kept his gaze on the weapon in his hand, not the elegant column of her throat, and tried to recall why he’d come. “Fetch your wrapper. I’ll wait at the door.”

A moment passed before she returned, shrouded in a dowdy grey wrapper she’d fastened in a double bow. The glow of the candle in the chamberstick she carried drew his eyes to her full lips, proud cheekbones, and the copper hair bound in a braid.

Still, this felt like an illicit liaison, and he imagined slamming the door shut behind him, pinning her to the wall, and crushing his mouth to hers.

For heaven’s sake, man, pull yourself together!

For this plan to work, he had to preserve indifference. But the fact he was miles from home late at night proved he was anything but. Damn the devil. God willing, he’d be over it soon.

“It’s rather late.” She stepped back and beckoned him inside. “I trust this won’t take long.”

“Time tarries for no one, Miss Woolf. It buries us all in the end.”

“Then let us not waste more of it at the door.”

He crossed the threshold, stooping beneath the low lintel, and entered the sitting room, a fraction the size of his dressing room at Studland Park. It seemed the fire had died an hour ago, though the open book and blanket on the chair said she had been absorbed in its pages.

He didn’t need to glance at the gold-embossed title. A parrot perched in the corner croaked, “The paths of glory lead to the grave.”

Gabriel found himself smiling. “You’re reading Thomas Gray.”

She glanced at the book as if it were a familiar friend. “Indeed.”

“What passage keeps you up so late?”

Her gaze fell to the dying embers. “The idea that beauty and wealth are meaningless. We all return to the earth in the end. A sobering thought, even for the proudest of men, my lord.”

Her reply sounded much like a veiled attack.

“We all have a place. The mistake would be believing some of us are better than others.” He’d be damned before he felt ashamed of his title. “We all know pain, Miss Woolf. We all know heartbreak.”

Her mouth curved in wry amusement. “Even a man as confident as you?”

“Impressions deceive.” He gripped the barrel and returned the pistol. “I believe you know that better than most. Who are you hiding from?”

A mocking laugh escaped her. She turned away, setting the pistol on the mantel as if she might need it again soon. “Must we revisit the same questions? Surely someone so enigmatic detests sounding like a bore.”

A bore? Of all insults, trust her to pick the worst.

“I’ve been called many things, Miss Woolf. Murderer. Rake. Libertine. But never a bore.”

“Perhaps relentless is the better word. Few men possess your intellect for seeing beyond the ordinary.”

Pride stirred despite himself. The King’s praise had never touched him as hers did now. “No one could call you a bore. One minute you belittle me, the next you bestow your good opinion. A man might grow dizzy.”

“You are quite confounding.”

“I’ve been nothing but honest.”

“What tripe!” a parrot squawked.

That accursed bird.

Miss Woolf laughed, a rare sound, for sadness hung behind her eyes like a mourning veil. Though he was drawn to her solemnity, the lightness in her voice stole his breath.

“Forgive me. They can be terribly rude, though rarely wrong, much to your discomfort, I suspect.”

He seized on her reply. “You speak as if you believe them.” Men had lied to her before, and he wondered who. “Ask me anything, and I’ll answer honestly. You’ve no cause to be afraid.”

“Afraid?” She lifted her chin, a silent gauntlet tossed down. “Very well. Are you here because you imagine our mutual love of poetry means I might share your bed?”

He didn’t laugh. “No, Miss Woolf. I have no wish to bed you.” It was the greatest lie he’d ever told. But desire was fickle. “Though I am concerned for your welfare. You moved house without telling a soul, not even your closest friends.”

“You found me.”

“And was left staring down the muzzle of a pistol.” He’d been surprised, not shocked, and darkly intrigued by her audacity. “You failed to attend the recital at The Jade on Tuesday. People were worried.”

Namely him.