Chapter Three
Allan and his two brothers went downstairs together.
They were early. The ladies being brought to inspect them would not be here yet.
But the marquess would not bother to monitor their movements, since he held seven hostages to ensure they turned up in the parlor at the required time, and performed creditably while under his eye.
They would be searched before they were permitted back into the tower, but if they could beg a sandwich each from Cook, or slip outside to buy a pie from a street vendor, there’d be that much more for the other brothers to eat.
Black, too. Last night, the bread allowance had not been increased to allow for the investigator’s presence.
Young Mr. Black was an enigma. Much more mature and confident than his apparent age would suggest. With a charm and a cheek Allan could enjoy if the man was not the marquess’s pawn.
Or perhaps it was more appropriate to compare Black to a knight, with his conversational leaps and unexpected changes of direction.
The man fascinated Allan. Why, he could not understand. If Black had been a woman, he’d have a name for his reaction to the young man. As it was, he was both mystified and uncomfortable.
The cook had heard they’d been released and had a good feed ready for them.
Three quarters of an hour later, their hunger satisfied, they were back in the drawing room and in the marquess’s presence.
They had timed it well, for the old man had no time to berate them before the first group of visitors was announced.
They had met all three families before. The marquess had been promoting these matches for weeks.
Allan had trouble remembering which skinny blonde fashion doll of the three proposed brides was which, but he recognized the mother of the one intended for Ernest—she was one of those who didn’t bother with a mask for her nighttime revels.
Allan knew her as a harpy with vicious lusts and a bad temper.
Was the daughter like her mother? It didn’t matter. Even if the girl was a saint with the temperament of an angel, none of the brothers wanted to bring another bride into the family. Not after what happened to Allan’s wife, or Cornelius’s.
The second and third group arrived, the girls all spoilt princesses confident they were about to marry into one of the foremost families of the realm, the parents all false smiles and fake good cheer.
All of them directed their attention at the marquess.
Everyone knew that Lord Teign held all the power in the room, and that his sons didn’t need to be courted.
Even so, each brother had an opportunity to speak to their prospective wife when the marquess ordered his sons, “Sit beside your young lady and be charming.” Allan held back until Baldwin and Ernest had seated themselves. Presumably, the remaining young lady was the one intended for him.
“You should be aware,” he told the woman, “that the marquess is the one pushing for this marriage. I am old enough to be your father, and have no interest in marrying a child, but he will beat my younger brothers until I agree. You may think he is old enough that you shall be soon be a marchioness, but I assure you, living in his household is hell on earth, and he is likely to live another twenty years. His father died in his nineties.”
The foolish chit giggled. “Lord Kemble, your father told mine you would tell me fables to try to persuade me to give you up. Papa says all men are afraid of marriage, but I am certain you and I shall be very happy.”
Unlikely in the extreme. The chit could not be more than six years older than Allan’s daughter!
Thank goodness his Lydia was being raised by someone who could teach her some sense.
“I very much doubt it,” Allan said. “If I am forced to marry you, do not hold me responsible for your misery after we wed.”
They were interrupted by the girl’s mother, who wanted to twitter on about what a handsome couple they were, and what lovely babies they would make together, and then the marquess gathered the three young ladies around him, two on one side and one on the other.
The parents looked on indulgently, assuring one another it was a pretty sight.
While the would-be daughters-in-law were serving the marquess’s tea and establishing his preferences regarding the display of baked treats, Allan told his two brothers what he’d said.
“I told Lady Patrice that it made no difference to me whom I marry, since the marquess would be the one bedding her,” Baldwin reported in an undertone. “Either she doesn’t believe me, or she doesn’t care.”
Ernest whispered, “I told Lady Imogen that my sister-in-law Thomasina ran away because he had her whipped when she refused his attentions. Look at the silly goose making up to him. Does she think being whipped is a pleasant little tickle?”
Patrice and Imogen. Which meant Lady Felicia was the one who had giggled at him and was certain they would be happy.
Pathetic little fool. She would soon find out her mistake if Allan couldn’t stop the weddings.
The parents were discussing wedding dates.
In the new year, they all agreed. Preferably not until March or April, when Society returned to London for the Season.
The mothers wanted to make a show. The fathers had not finished maneuvering for advantage in the marriage agreement negotiations.
The brides, as one of them had the cheek to say, saw “no point in marrying if my friends are not here in London to be jealous.”
“No need to wait,” the marquess said. “We can acquire a license for each of them, and hold the weddings immediately after Christmas.”
Allan’s gut lurched, but as his mind raced to come up with a stalling tactic that wouldn’t see one of his brothers beaten or otherwise tormented, the families broke out into a chorus of denials and complaints.
It was too soon. The girls would need new gowns.
They must invite family members and friends to see the triumph of an alliance between them and the marquess’s family.
The marquess must accept that a mere week was impossible.
If the families thought that the marquess would accept anyone’s opinion other than his own, they were very much mistaken.
No one asked Allan’s view, nor Baldwin’s nor Ernest’s. They were ciphers in this entire transaction. Not that the transaction would ever be completed. If need be, the brothers would all escape tonight.
It would be awkward. For one thing, they had not yet saved enough money for all ten of them to travel beyond the marquess’s reach.
For another, Jerome was still under his lordship’s guardianship, so the marquess would have the law on his side in any pursuit—at least until May, when Jerome reached his majority.
No matter. They were all agreed that no more innocents would be brought within the marquess’s reach, so the marriages could not go ahead. They would have to manage. Somehow. The younger brothers could take ship, and the older ones could stay and distract his lordship’s attention.
But wait. One of the mothers had brought up a name that gave pause even to the Marquess of Teign. “My daughter Patrice cannot possibly be wed without the presence of her godmother, the Duchess of Winshire,” said the woman. “She is in Shropshire for the Yuletide season.”
“Yes, she is godmother to my Felicia, too,” said another. “We must write to her and find out when she will be back in London.”
Lord Teign ceased his adamant objections. “Winshire? Hmmm. I see. Very well. Write to Her Grace. We shall hold all three weddings on the first day that is suitable for her.”
A reprieve. Perhaps not a long one, but it would help.
*
It had been an informative afternoon. Mel, after an intensive search, had discovered a trapdoor in her floor that opened into a hiding space. It was partially under the bed, completely covered by the floor rug, and almost invisible to the eye.
The cracks running straight across several floor boards were her first clue, but she could see no catch, no way of opening the hatch, if it was a hatch. Then she found a knot in the wood that, when poked with her dagger, rose up out of the floor.
It proved to be the key to the mechanism. She pulled it, and nothing happened. But when she twisted it, the hatch popped up, and after that it was easy to open the rest of the way. She was disappointed to find it empty, but at least she had confirmed that such hiding places existed.
After that, she wandered around the tower, striking up conversations with the brothers.
She helped Lord Isaac to dry the dishes and put them away.
She offered a hand to Lord Cornelius, who was mending a chair and needed someone to hold a plank while his own two hands were busy trimming it to shape.
She played a game of chess with Lord Frank.
She assisted Lord Gerard in folding some dry washing.
Some of the brothers were guarded in their replies to her conversational sallies.
Others seemed pleased to have someone new to talk to.
Lord Jerome, the youngest of the brothers, was one of the latter.
She found him in front of the clavichord, and sat to listen to him play.
He had a gift for music. Skill, too, which was all the more surprising, for he’d had little formal training.
From what he said, he had been imprisoned in this tower, and not permitted to leave, since he was ten.
“My brothers have been my friends, my tutors, and my family,” he told Mel. “One day, though, I should like to walk in the sunlight. I should like to see places that I knew as a child, those my brothers have described to me, and even those where none of us have been.”
He had a distant smile on his face. “Allan went to Edinburgh once, and when Frank ran away and joined the army, he made it to Madrid before the marquess ordered his legs broken and had him shipped home.”