Beauty in Black Read online

  “I don’t know, Louisa. His lordship is concerned about the runaway horse. And there was the falling rock in Bath. Perhaps it was only an accident; such things do happen.”

  “But two accidents—” Louisa argued.

  “They were almost three months apart,” Marianne countered. “And they were very different. It may be nothing. I would not refine too much upon it.”

  She would write to her sister-in-law before she retired, and the letter would go out by special post tomorrow. In the meantime they would certainly be vigilant, Marianne told herself as she watched Louisa sigh. Just in case the unthinkable might be true, and someone, somewhere, lay in wait to harm Louisa.

  The thought troubled her sleep, and Marianne woke early, going over some of the ideas that had sprung up during her long intervals of sleeplessness, when even the remotest suggestion of danger somehow took on nightmarish proportions. Some she discarded, though reluctantly. Hiring a Bow Street Runner to watch her modest town house and to shadow Louisa—even though she did have the finances as long as she had access to Louisa’s trust fund—would only call attention to them and incur more gossip, which would distress Louisa. Besides, the idea of a burly bodyguard stalking about outside a tea party seemed insane. In the warm light of day, such measures seemed like obvious overreaction. Nor could they keep Louisa shut up inside the house forever, although Marianne would try to keep a close eye on her.

  But at least Marianne could find out about this unknown uncle. She sent the letter to Caroline on its way as soon as she rose.

  When Louisa came downstairs, Marianne obtained the girl’s reluctant promise to stay indoors for the morning.

  “But it’s a nice day, I thought perhaps a walk in the park—” the younger woman said, sounding wistful.

  “Not today,” Marianne said, her tone firm. “Stay inside and look through the latest edition of La Belle Assemblée—you might find some ideas for your next evening dress. We are going to plan a dinner party.”

  “Really?” Louisa brightened at once. “How many people?”

  “As many as my small dining room will hold,” Marianne promised. “You will be able to meet more of Society.”

  Louisa looked more cheerful at once. “Oh, I was so afraid you would postpone our social engagements,” she confessed. “And all because of this possible threat, which on reflection, I cannot believe to be real. It is such a farfetched notion. I know the marquess only means to protect me, and I am delighted by his solicitude—he will make a wonderful husband, don’t you think? But his concern must be exaggerated.”

  Marianne nodded, though she dodged the central question. “We will certainly not imprison you for the entire Season, Louisa. You came to London for a purpose, and we shall see that it is not forgotten—you shall enjoy your stay.”

  Louisa looked appeased, and she promised to stay indoors while Marianne ran some errands of her own.

  So Louisa took her second cup of tea to the drawing room and settled down with the book of fashions, calling her maid to her with her sewing basket full of snippets of fabric, threads, and laces so that they could compare hues and textures, and she could have someone to listen as she pondered the choices aloud. Marianne knew that the two young women would easily lose the morning in a long discussion of fabric, lace, trim, and matching accessories.

  A discussion Marianne was just as happy to miss. She tied her bonnet snugly beneath her chin—from her bedroom window she had noted the tops of the trees tossing in a spring breeze—and drew on her gloves.

  But as she walked outside, ready to set out on foot with Hackett dutifully in tow, a familiar, overly bright barouche pulled up.

  The marquess!

  She waited while his groom pulled open the carriage door, and Lord Gillingham stepped out. He bowed to her, and she made her curtsy in return.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Hughes,” he said, his tone a bit formal.

  John knew he could not, must not, reveal how his pulse jumped when he saw her, her cheeks flushed from the wind, a few tendrils of dark hair escaping the confines of her brimmed bonnet to frame her face most pleasingly. And beneath the snug-fitting pelisse and morning dress, her full breasts swelled with promise . . .

  He pulled his thoughts together in time to hear her explain that she had been about to pursue some errands.

  “But I can put them off till later if you are calling on Miss Crookshank,” she told him. “I have nothing urgent requiring my attention.”

  Of course, the girl should not be having male callers without her chaperone present. But John found that he was shaking his head. “I can see Miss Crookshank presently. She will be safe at home. Perhaps I should escort you on your expedition,” he suggested. “It’s breezy today for a lady to be out on foot.”

  “I would not wish to take up your time,” she began, but John overrode her.

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  She looked thoughtful. “Hackett, you may stay here—I have an escort now who will look out for me.”

  The maid pursed her lips in disapproval but did not contradict her mistress. “Yes, ma’am.”

  John helped Mrs. Hughes into the carriage, its top was up today, since the wind was brisk, and then took his place, daringly, beside her, instead of sitting opposite.

  She glanced at him and did not move away, nor, of course, did she slide closer. He should dream of such a pleasure! He reminded himself that he had come to London hoping to find, as quickly as possible, an amenable, proper young lady to take for his wife, to carry back to his secluded estate and live together without obvious discord but also without any real tenderness, as long as she would share his bed occasionally and bear him a son. That had been his plan, and he had been successful, so why did it now seem such a pale and joyless vision? The lovely Miss Crookshank was all that he had hoped to find, but that had been before he’d come to know Mrs. Hughes. Now, somehow, the dream had lost its appeal.

  It did not do to dwell on the irony of it. He would marry the girl soon, just as he had originally planned, but today, this moment, he was sitting beside Marianne Hughes, smelling just a hint of her rose scent, hearing the rustle of her skirts as—avoiding his gaze—she arranged them more carefully. Could it be possible that she was nervous, too?

  She cleared her throat. “I—ah—sent my maid back because I did not wish the servants to hear of our fears.”

  As if he would complain about being gifted with a rare chance to be alone with her! “You have thought of something new?”

  “No, but I have written to my sister-in-law, asking for the name and location of the unknown relation who is in line to inherit some of Louisa’s fortune, if—if something unthinkable should happen to her. I did not tell Caroline the whole of our concerns—she is increasing and already in a fragile state of mind. I do not wish to alarm her when she can do nothing from a distance.”

  He nodded. “Do you think she will find the request odd?”

  Marianne bit her lip. “I hope not—I told her I am planning a small but select coming-out ball to take place as soon as Louisa is presented at court. And it would be only natural to include any of her relatives, even those hardly known to her, if the man should happen to be presently in London.”

  It made sense; many people came to the capital for the Season, he knew, and it would not be unheard of for someone to travel even from the wilds of Scotland.

  “I shall be interested to hear her reply,” he agreed, trying to pull his thoughts from the delightful curve of Mrs. Hughes’ cheek. Perhaps he sounded absentminded, because her tone became more insistent.

  “It might be useful to us.”

  “I agree—pinpointing the man’s name would be helpful.” He still found his focus too inclined to linger on the soft curve of her lips, the delightful arch of her brow. And as for the swelling bosom that led down to a trim waist and womanly hips—his body threatened to reveal his too personal interest.

  John crossed his legs and looked away, trying hard to think of somethin
g innocuous. Outside the carriage a dog barked at a team of lumbering oxen pulling a wagon filled with coal.

  “My lord,” Mrs. Hughes said. “May I make a suggestion?”

  “Of course.” He fixed his attention on her face, determined to look no lower and to keep his mind off her personal attractions.

  “I am planning a dinner party for next week. I—we—that is, Miss Crookshank, will certainly hope that you are able to attend.”

  He nodded, although the thought of facing their other guests, strangers who would stare at him, gave him little pleasure. “I am honored by the invitation.”

  “In that case, for your own ease, may I take the liberty of suggesting—” she hesitated.

  John waited, not sure where this was going.

  “Since you are new to town, perhaps I could suggest a good tailor? You would have time to have a new set of evening clothes run up before the dinner.”

  John winced. “Are you implying that Miss Crookshank will be embarrassed by my lack of refinement?”

  Mrs. Hughes answered quickly, her tone conciliatory. “I am sure that normally, it is of little matter, living in the country and dining only with your friends and neighbors—”

  Perhaps just as well she knew little about his hermit’s life, John thought sourly. He suspected that Miss Crookshank was accustomed to a continuous round of gaiety. How would the young woman like living a quiet life in the country? He pushed away his misgivings and tried to focus on Mrs. Hughes’s words.

  “But in town, you might be more at ease with more—ah—fashionable apparel. I hope I have not offended you, my lord.” She sounded anxious.

  John drew a deep breath. “I will admit that I pay scant attention to fashion. It has always been of little interest to me.” He rubbed his chin, absently touching the old pockmark that disfigured it, only one of those that scarred his face, then regretted the too telling gesture.

  He knew she watched him, and he braced himself, afraid to look back at her and see pity, damning pity, in her smoky blue eyes.

  But when he turned to face her, he encountered something else, something he had rarely dared to expect: the genuine warmth of her smile, her eyes full of easy acceptance and free of censure.

  It was so intoxicating that he drew a deep breath.

  The barouche pulled up. They must have reached Bond Street and too soon for his taste. A tailor fussing about him; the idea displeased him, but for Mrs. Hughes—no, no, for Miss Crookshank—he supposed he would have to make the effort.

  She nodded toward the establishment. “Would you like me to come in with you, or would you prefer for me to do my errands and rejoin you in a while? I am going to my dressmaker to check on the order Louisa put in few days ago.”

  “I will face the rack alone, thank you,” he told her, his tone dry.

  She did not try to argue, wise woman! Instead, they set a time to meet again.

  His groom opened the door and John stepped out, then handed down his passenger himself, relishing the momentary touch of her hand. She smiled, but with an impersonal friendliness that, after the moment of closeness inside the carriage, only made him hunger for more.

  He had the ridiculous impulse to hold on to her hand, to call her back as she turned down the street. Nonsense, get a grip on yourself, man, he told himself sternly. John set his shoulders and entered the shop.

  A dapper young man hurried up, but he frowned, looking John up and down with as much disdain as if he were a beggar asking for alms. “Perhaps you have the wrong establishment, sir? There is an ironmonger’s two doors down.”

  John held his temper, but barely. Perhaps Mrs. Hughes was right; he was tired of being mistaken for a servant, or at best, a farmer come to town for the day.

  “Please tell your employer that the marquess of Gillingham is considering bringing his trade to this shop. If the work done here is up to his standards—” John fixed the calfling with a steely glare, daring him to point out the disgraceful state of this new customer’s existing wardrobe—“and if the shop has attendants who are becomingly civil.”

  The young man gulped. “Ah, yes, sir—that is—your lordship. I will inform him right away, your lordship. If you would care to come into a private room and take a seat? May I fetch you a glass of wine, my lord?”

  John followed the man into a small fitting room, sat on the padded chair, sipped the mediocre wine that soon arrived on a silver tray, and waited.

  The tailor himself, when he appeared very shortly, was even more obsequious. If he repressed a shudder, he nonetheless did not remark on his new patron’s current attire. Instead, he eyed John’s form with obvious appreciation.

  “My lord, you are wise indeed to come to me. With such a straight posture and such shoulders, a fine chest, and, ah, such calves to your legs, oh yes, no padding will be required there, either! You shall not regret your decision, my lord.” Tapping his cheek, the man appeared to lose himself in a delightful daydream, perhaps of ambitious schemes for a whole new wardrobe for a customer who had the means to pay.

  “Just come to London, are you, my lord? Yes, yes, obviously. You will need evening dress, and morning coats, pantaloons and trousers, riding dress, cravats—oh, dear, oh, dear, such a travesty—” He eyed the carelessly tied neckcloth that John wore as if it were a personal offense. “And good linen shirts—I shall send you to a shirtmaker, next.”

  “He can come to me,” John snapped. At least neither of the men had stared overlong at his face; they seemed too appalled by his costume. “Or send him my measurements—I do not care for tedious fittings.”

  “We shall arrange it, my lord,” the tailor agreed. “All shall be done to your liking, and you will have new, well-fitted attire, all wrought with taste and style.”

  All certain to guarantee the new client’s modish appearance and lighten his pocket, John thought, wryly. Not that the size of the bill mattered, and if it would please Mrs. Hughes—Miss Crookshank—so be it.

  Measuring tape in hand, the assistant waited, like a serpent poised to strike.

  John sighed and gave himself to the gods of fashion.

  Louisa found that after an hour of perusing the fashion periodical, she had tired of its contents. She was about to send her maid off to look for another volume when she looked up to see Masters in the doorway.

  “You have a gentleman caller, miss. Shall I inform him you are not in, to visitors this morning?” His tone implied that this would be correct behavior, with her aunt not here to chaperone.

  But Louisa was suddenly even more aware of how bored she was, and, besides . . . Her tone hopeful, she asked, “Is it the marquess?”

  “No, miss. It is Sir Lucas Englewood.”

  Louisa felt her heart miss a beat. “Then show him to the drawing room at once, if you please.”

  When the footman hesitated, she frowned. “My maid is here,” she pointed out, daring a mere servant to give her lectures about propriety.

  “Yes, miss.” Masters bowed and turned smartly on his heel.

  “Eva,” Louisa said quickly. “Take your sewing basket to the chair in the corner and busy yourself with something.”

  “What, miss?” the servant asked. “I finished all your mending yesterday.”

  “I don’t care,” Louisa pleaded. “Just look busy!”

  The young maid took her basket and moved to the far side of the room, and Louisa stood as Sir Lucas was ushered in.

  He bowed, and she gave him a dignified curtsy.

  “How nice to see you, Sir Lucas,” she said, her tone formal. “Please sit down.”

  He looked somewhat ill at ease, perching on the edge of a narrow chair. “I simply wanted to be sure that you had recovered from yesterday’s fright,” he told her.

  “That’s very kind of you,” Louisa said, careful not to allow her flicker of pleasure to show. “My nerves were greatly agitated, I admit, but the marquess and my aunt were all solicitude, and I am feeling much better today.”

  “Good.”
/>   Heavens, he was standing already? What kind of call was this? Something like panic lanced through her, and the aching emptiness of his loss. The grief that had dogged her after he had walked out of her life ballooned again inside her. Louisa gazed up at him, trying to hold him with the intensity of her stare.

  “And do not concern yourself about me. I do not place too much importance on the marquess’s suspicions,” she added quickly.

  “No doubt,” Sir Lucas was saying. “If you will excuse me, I must be on my way. Things to do, you know.”

  “He thinks someone may have tried to kill me!” Louisa finished, speaking a little too quickly.

  At least this startling statement made Sir Lucas hesitate as he was about to turn. “What are you talking about? That’s nonsense, Louisa. The man’s not senile, is he?”

  “Of course he’s not senile!” Louisa snapped. “He’s not old!”

  “Looks it to me,” Sir Lucas argued. “But if you want an elderly husband, none of my concern, of course.”

  “And you’re the one to judge? You’re barely out of leading strings.”

  “Cutting it too thin, Louisa! I am two and twenty,” her erstwhile suitor argued, assuming an attitude of great dignity.

  She frowned. “For your information, Lucas, Lord Gillingham is in his prime—his form is superb, and his wits are as keen as anyone’s. He found blood on the horse’s neck—he thinks someone incited the steed to run away.”

  “Awkward way to kill someone; the beast could just as easily have run the wrong way,” Sir Lucas pointed out.

  Louisa sniffed and put her lacy handkerchief to her eyes. “It may have been an assault planned against me! How can you be so unfeeling?”

  “Oh, snuff it, you can’t pull your tricks on me, Louisa,” her unfeeling visitor objected. “I know you too well.”

  “I don’t think you know me at all.” This time the moisture that dampened her eyes was both real and unsought.

  Perhaps he detected the change in her tone because the look Sir Lucas cast her was uncertain. “Now, don’t take a pet.”

  “I thought you cared for me, once,” Louisa said. “I know, of course, that is all in the past, but still, if someone is trying to harm me, I thought you would at least feel an ounce of compassion.”