Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
M ilky moonlight shone in through the master bedchamber’s window, illuminating the large bed and the sleeping form within. Francis glowered at his cad of a cousin.
The man’s mouth hung slightly open, his brow clear of worry—the bloody rotter—and soft snoring came from his bared chest. If Francis but wrapped his hand around the cur’s throat and squeezed hard enough, or pressed a pillow into his face…or fetched a knife from the kitchens and slit his throat, or tied him to the bed and cut?—
He shook himself. He could be rid of his infernal cousin right then, as could he have been countless times before.
But where’s the fun in that? While he wished his cousin a great deal of pain, he intended for the man to suffer for some time. A slow smile curved his lips. Indeed. He would play with this mouse. And in the end, Francis would prevail. The dukedom would be his.
* * *
The light of predawn peeking between Jasper’s bedchamber curtains cast shadows along the walls and ceiling. His gaze idly traced the lines, stretching over every imperfection.
It was nearly time to rise, and while he’d been to bed early enough, he’d struggled to remain asleep after his clock chimed three. He blamed Maria. Maria, and her determined search for a biddable and sodding beddable husband…and his body’s bewildering reaction to the revelation. He’d never felt such a disagreeable mix of boorish possession and irrational ire in his life. It was impossible for him to truly possess the woman—despite what many men of his station were wont to believe—but his body hadn’t considered that fact when it reacted so viscerally the previous night.
The pre-dawn light shining through his curtains grew brighter as he pondered his impossible feelings. Why did the thought of Maria Roberts finding a man to marry cause him such revulsion? They’d maintained a mild flirtation, and ever since she’d first rebuffed his request for a dance all those years ago, he’d noted a desire to learn more about her. Surely that was naught but idle curiosity.
There was no denying that she was a beautiful woman with a fiery passion for justice. Since they were young, Maria had frequently been the arbiter of his and Juliana’s disputes. Of course, a great deal of her admirable courage and determination was inopportune, which often put them at odds.
His chest squeezed. She clearly detested him—or at the very least considered him the irritating elder brother of her close friend. For she’d never hidden her distaste.
Perhaps it wasn’t jealousy at all that he’d felt the previous night. She was a dear friend of his sister; mayhap he merely wished her well, and he knew that Asham wouldn’t be the man she deserved. But he rejected the thought with a frown. If she were another woman, Jasper would not object to Asham’s pursual—he likely wouldn’t even take notice. It was that she was Maria, that she was strong and vibrant. And he’d begun to find himself attracted to her.
The allure of her striking physical attributes, however, was not alone enough to inspire such feelings, for he’d known many a handsome woman and had never before experienced this.
A gusty sigh escaped him as he ran a hand over his face.
After his abysmal attempt at protecting Juliana—damn, but that truly was an ill-conceived plan—had led her to flee through the English countryside while being pursued by Miles, Jasper could not abide being responsible for another person. And that was exactly what marriage entailed. Hell, even the thought of it put a pang of anxiety in his chest.
He had tenants and staff, of course, but relied heavily on his steward to manage those properties. His father had raised him to be a duke but had been negligent in his own role, leaving Jasper with debt and concerns that he was ill-equipped to bear.
Of course, he and his new steward had worked tirelessly with his tenant farmers to recover their crop and cattle yields. And, even now, the dukedom’s coffers were beginning to see growth. But, hell , someone among his household staff had permitted Francis access to his home! His gut sank. It was proof that he oughtn’t be responsible for others, for he couldn’t even maintain loyalty within his own household.
He heaved another sigh.
Even should he make the attempt with Maria, he might make the same mistake with her that he had with Juliana. She, of course, wouldn’t stand for his being high-handed. Given their long-standing acquaintance, Maria knew him better than any other woman of the ton —aside from Juliana—and even she found him lacking.
Nerves and uncertainty fluttered low in his belly. If she was bound by duty to marry anyway, would his offer be the superior choice? Or would she feel as though he’d forced her hand?
Damn, but it was a terrible muddle. And entirely vexing.
The sunlight was now shining through his curtains brightly enough for him to watch the dust motes dancing along the air. Jasper tossed his bedclothes aside and stood. His yawn misted his eyes and he swiftly blinked the moisture away.
Turning toward the table with his washbasin, his breath caught and his heart jumped into a staccato rhythm.
“What the hell?”
Where his washbasin had been, there was now a pile of coats. His gaze travelled over the remaining furniture in his bedchamber, and his trepidation expanded like a balloon of hot air, rising until it would surely burst and send him falling to his death. Every book, penknife, bit of parchment, personal possession, and article of clothing had been carefully removed from its proper place and strewn over every surface.
His writing desk, wardrobe, chaise and armchair, dressing table, and privacy screen were entirely covered with his belongings. His chest of drawers, however, was bare but for one thing: standing erect from deep within its wood was a dagger, holding a note in place.
“ Fuck .” Francis had been in his sodding room ! He’d moved everything about, and Jasper had bloody well slept through it. Fucking hell . Francis could easily have murdered Jasper in his sleep.
With sure steps, and dread pounding in his heart, Jasper searched his scattered belongings until he found and donned a pair of gloves—the third pair lost to these letters.
He couldn’t tell the women about the intimacy of this incident. And he couldn’t tell them just how terrified it made him. It was…jarring to be faced with his mortality not once but twice in less than four-and-twenty hours. And the women would no doubt find a way to put themselves in greater danger on his behalf. That, he could not abide.
With trembling fingers and a burst of force, Jasper tugged the dagger free and carefully slid the parchment from the blade. The faint scent of bitter almonds reached his nose, and he grimaced. The bastard had used laurel water again.
He opened the letter.
But I have, sir, a s O n by order of law
some year elder than this…
A curious mixture of anger and fear rushed through him. Francis had not only been in his home but in his private quarters. It sent a very clear message.
* * *
“As you see, Sir Vaughan, my cousin has access to my home—could very well have killed me last night?—”
“And yet here you sit, as well as can be,” returned the local magistrate, Sir Ludlow Vaughan, tapping his index finger on his desk’s surface.
Jasper frowned and adjusted his position in the seat across from him. “Well, yes, but?—”
“The way I see it, Duke, is this man—Mr. Sinclair—somehow escaped the noose then fled the country. Why would he remain in London? What you’re suggesting is illogical, I’m afraid.” Sir Vaughan leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his narrow abdomen. The morning light through the windows caught on the perspiration beading at his temples and upper lip.
Frustration sped Jasper’s pulse. “While it may be illogical?—”
“I’ll have no more of this nonsense.” The man waved a hand through the air in dismissal. “At this point, we are certain that Mr. Sinclair has meant to frighten you by hiring ruffians in town. My men are searching for those men, I assure you, and you shall be immediately notified with any updates.”
Jaw clenched, Jasper muttered his thanks and left, striding swiftly from the man’s office and past his secretary.
How could Sir Vaughan dismiss this danger so easily? His pulse rushed in his ears as he strode through the building and out into the street, where his carriage awaited him.
* * *
“You’ve made— grunt —the papers again,” Thomas announced gleefully when Maria entered their apartments.
“That is hardly surprising. I write articles for them.” She hung her greatcoat on her hook by the door and ambled toward the sitting area, her Hessians clicking on the polished wood floor.
“Ah.” He waggled a finger at her, then grimaced and grunted. “But you do not write the gossip column.”
She frowned at him, flopping down upon her favourite plum-coloured chaise and stretching her feet out on the threadbare rug. “And what have the gossips to say about me today?”
Thomas flicked the paper with mirth. “It would seem that our secretive, stormy-eyed, and slightly aloof wallflower— grunt, click, grunt —has peeled herself from said wall and deigned to dance with an aging— grunt —baronet.” His lips twisted in a grimace before returning to a smug grin. “Was he a fine dancer, sister?”
A loud groan escaped her. “Would that I not be obliged to dance at all, Thomas, but our parents gave me little choice. Sir Asham was kind enough. And he will most assuredly not inquire into my daily whereabouts, or my spending, and at the moment that is all I require.”
He shook his head, his floppy mop of brown hair wobbling with the movement. “Of course I understand your reasoning, and our…constraints, but you must know that you deserve much more than Sir Asham. You deserve love, Maria.”
“With you as the exception to the rule, men are largely contradictory creatures that offer praise and pretty words to one woman while carrying on an affair with another. You forget, brother, that I have lived much of my life these past years as a man, and have heard them discuss their wives and mistresses with detached disinterest or flagrant contempt. They drink and whore and find nothing iniquitous about the awful fact that they carry on infidelities while their wives are at home with newly born babes. Most women of the ton care not what their husbands do as long as they are discreet—while they themselves often carry out dalliances in response to their husbands’ inattentiveness.
“I could never abide such dishonesty and immorality. I will, therefore, never marry for love. I could not allow a man to hurt me in such a way.” An image of Jasper’s face flashed through her mind’s eye, but she forced it away with a sigh. “I’m afraid to say it, dearest, but a man is good for only one thing, and that is his seed.”
There was a long moment of silence, broken only by Thomas’ continuous twitches and spasms.
Being on the shelf had meant that she needn’t consider any man; she could pursue her writing, move freely about London, and live a happy and fulfilled life, caring only for herself and Thomas. She would grant, however, that she did long for intimacy.
Previously, she had been content to satisfy her needs with her own hands, but since Juliana had shared details of her intimacies with her “darling Leo,” Maria confessed to be curious about—and perhaps desirous to seek—pleasure with a partner.
The image of Jasper the previous night—sopping wet and entirely too appealing—flashed through her mind’s eye. And she blinked it away. To be sure, the notion of being pursued by the man had its attraction—and it did seem as though he was changing for the better—yet they could not possibly share the same beliefs when it came to matrimony.
“ Christ ,” Thomas said gutturally, his eyes wide as he cut through her thoughts. “I never knew that you viewed my sex with so jaundiced an eye.”
Maria nodded. “Sadly so. I’m certain that there are men who would not stray, such as Juliana’s lovely new husband, but finding one would be such a chore, and I’m afraid that I do not have the luxury of time.”
Thomas’ lips thinned, and he gave her a sad nod. “Well.” He heaved a sigh and forced brightness into his voice. “You know very well that I— grunt —disagree with your assessment. Men are delicious. If it didn’t threaten my life to do so—and should it be legally permitted—I would gladly marry one.”
A huffed laugh escaped her, and she matched his grin. “Of course you would. You’re a romantic.”
She rose to peruse her wall of books.
“And you’re a cynic.” He huffed a breath, turning his gaze back to the paper. “This column made note of another fascinating bit of gossip.”
Maria’s lips twitched. “I’m certain it did.”
“Did the duke truly arrive sopping wet?”
“Indeed he did, but I’m afraid the reason behind it is not so amusing.” Maria succinctly outlined the events of the previous evening as she inspected the spines on her bookshelves.
“Blimey,” Thomas breathed, his face scrunching in a twitch. “Have you plans on— grunt— how to proceed with your search for Mr. Sinclair?”
She hummed. “I intend to search through my works of Shakespeare here for the quotes that Francis used in his notes to Jasper. I’ll search through my collection at home should I not find what I seek. I’ve been introduced to a secretary in the magistrate’s offices, with whom I must develop a friendship. I believe I shall write to her once I’ve concluded my search, and then work on my novel.”
He grinned. “The timing is fortuitous, then. It would seem that you have quite the eager— grunt —group of readers awaiting the next Mr. Mystery novel.” He shook the newspaper once more.
Pride raced through her, warming her briefly from within.
“The printing press has the next instalment. It shan’t be long now.” Smirking, Maria strode to her writing desk and arranged her notes and new manuscript before sitting. “It’s this manuscript that is causing me grief. I cannot yet conjure a reason for Mr. Grayson to attend the country dance where the second murder must happen. He reviles dances and cannot tolerate large groups of people.”
“Have the murder occur someplace else,” Thomas offered.
Maria shook her head. “It cannot! The remainder of my plot depends entirely upon the murder occurring at that dance.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Grunt. He pushed off the arms of the chair and stood. “I have new fabrics to turn into waistcoats.”
“Sounds lovely, dearest.”
She returned to the bookshelves, withdrew a copy of Shakespeare’s Othello , and sat down to read. Then a thought occurred to her. “Oh!” She glanced up at her brother’s retreating form. “We have guests coming for tea this afternoon.”
He nodded and waved her on, turning toward the corridor leading to the bedchambers.
Several long minutes went by while she scanned Othello before she returned it to the shelf and retrieved Macbeth , then Julius Caesar …
Nearly an hour and three more notable works passed before she froze. “… In my corrupted blood, ” she muttered, darting out of her seat and hurrying to her desk to retrieve the quote.
Setting the parchment beside Shakespeare’s King Lear , Maria read: “ Thou art a boil / A plague-sore or embossèd carbuncle / In my corrupted blood. ” She lifted her hands in the air with a cry of victory. She’d done it!
But why King Lear ? Resuming her seat, she read through the play, then set it aside. King Lear had been forbidden since 1810—over seven years. Why quote it?
The play was full of family distrust, betrayal…and death. Rather a lot of death. A tremor of fear raced up her spine, spreading gooseflesh in its wake.
Francis meant to use King Lear as a threat—or promise—to kill to achieve his aim. Maria’s spine stiffened against her chair’s back, resolve steeling her nerve. She would not allow him to do so.
That thought, of course, brought her to her next task: penning a note to the magistrate’s secretary. She set the book aside and swiftly jotted a friendly greeting and request for correspondence. It was light and brief, but she would write again on the morrow, perhaps, to begin exchanging tales and exploring shared woes, until their acquaintance developed into something of a friendship. The association would be invaluable, but the prospect of a new friendship was rather exciting, for it was not something she ordinarily pursued. This woman, however, would know Maria as a runner, which meant there was one fewer thing for her to hide.
Placing the folded and addressed missive on her desk’s corner, her gaze once more caught on King Lear . Agitation crawled up her back and tightened her shoulders. Would that she had greater control over Francis’ actions, and of their search for him.
A sigh escaped her. She did have control over her writing, however.
Adjusting her leather writing gloves, Maria settled in to her desk’s chair and, within moments, was lost in her writing. Despite her troublesome plot, words flowed, the ink scratching along each piece of parchment, scarcely legible from the haste of her hand’s movements.
“Maria, for God’s sake!” A sharp, feminine voice broke through her writing fog.
Maria’s back creaked as she turned to find her friends standing in her sitting area, watching her with amusement.
“Oh!” Maria placed her pen aside and stood. “My apologies; I was lost in my work.” She strode forward and noted the mirth shining in her friends’ eyes.
“You’ve got a little something…” Heather pointed at her own chin, and at once Maria became very aware of what they found so amusing.
Glancing down at herself confirmed it: she was still dressed as Mr. Robertson, with matching grey breeches and coat, a blue waistcoat, starched white cravat, gleaming black Hessians, and the shadow of a beard dusted lightly on the lower half of her face. “Drat.”
“Handsome as ever.” Juliana winked at her.
Maria shook her head. “Please excuse me while I change.”
Several long minutes later, Maria swept from her bedchamber wearing a front-fastening blue paisley day dress with matching slippers, her hair pulled back in a tight knot and her face washed clean of her artificial beard shadow. She strode toward the sitting area, where Juliana, Heather, and Thomas had served their tea and sat conversing.
Heather had prepared sandwiches, which they’d displayed happily upon a decorative platter, and Maria selected two before sitting on her preferred purple chaise.
“Now,” Heather said, turning her gaze on Maria. “What of your case? Have you spoken to your love to learn if he has heard once more from his scurrilous cousin?”
Thomas snorted, then attempted to disguise it as one of his twitches.
Maria frowned at her friend and brother. “The duke is not my love, and I?—”
“But you wish that he was,” Heather muttered over her.
“Here, here,” Thomas put in.
The truth in their teasing sent Maria’s stomach into knots and flutters. But she would never admit it. Even the thought of her feelings was not to be borne. She knew what sort of man Jasper Sinclair was, and he was most assuredly not for her…no matter what her heart thought of the matter.
Maria’s eyes narrowed. “Damn you both.” She shifted in her seat.
“You know,” Juliana put in, “if you were to wed Jasper, we would become sisters .”
“Not you as well,” Maria groaned.
“Come, now.” Juliana reached out to pat Maria’s knee. “Wouldn’t it be lovely?”
“That might be,” Maria conceded, “but you know the man is not biddable.”
“Mmm,” Heather hummed. “Quite so.”
Juliana waved a hand through the air. “I daresay it scarcely matters. He already knows of your position on Bow Street, so your absence from home will not be alarming.”
For the briefest of moments, a spark of hope kindled in Maria’s chest. But just as swiftly, she doused it. If she were to pursue a romance with Jasper, she would undoubtedly fall in love with him. And she could not endure the pain of her feelings going unrequited.
She cleared her throat. “As you know, I have a new suitor.”
Heather shrugged one shoulder. “That should not stop you from carrying on a deliciously torrid affair with the duke, I imagine.”
Anger flared in Maria’s chest. “That is precisely why I do not wish for a fashionable marriage! Most particularly not with a man for whom I might actually come to care.” Already do , her conscience whispered. “No, indeed. When I marry, I will take my vows to heart. Additionally, you know that I am not an ordinary woman… As a duke, Jasper would require someone more suitable to exhibit before the haut ton .” She took a deep breath. “As for the case, I discovered something of note?—”
Knock, knock .
Their gazes swung toward the apartments’ front door, and Thomas stood.
“I’ll— grunt —get it,” he said quietly.
They remained silent and still as Thomas answered the door, ensuring that his body blocked their newcomer’s view of the room.
Maria’s pulse sped. Who would come calling on Mr. Duncan Robertson ? Not many knew of her shared apartments, and most of those were currently within its walls.
With a murmur of thanks, Thomas closed and bolted the door, then sauntered back toward them, a missive in one hand.
“From Grace,” he said, before grimacing and squeezing the letter in a fist as a spasm overtook him. “Beg your pardon.” He handed the bit of crumpled parchment to her.
“Thank you.” She opened the letter and smoothed out the wrinkles. “It’s a summons. We must leave at once.”