Beauty in Black Read online

  “At last,” Louisa breathed, her excitement making her blue eyes gleam. “London!”

  Marianne smiled. “I hope you are not disappointed,” she said. “I’m afraid you are considering London in the light of some earthly paradise—it is not quite that, you know.”

  “Oh, but the parties and the parks and the balls—I cannot wait.” Louisa sighed in pure happiness.

  Marianne gave up and settled down to listen to Louisa’s chatter as they rolled across a bridge and turned east, toward London, the goal of all Louisa’s dreams.

  John set off the next day, frowning at the bright sunshine as his groom swung open the door of the chaise. Unfortunately, this journey was too long to be made by moonlight.

  The butler, whose long jowls gave his face a look of perpetual gloom, had supervised as the luggage was tied on. “Likely will be a fatiguing drive, your lordship.”

  “I trust I am up to the exertion.” John raised his brows. “Try to keep the cook from drinking up all the best port. You have the keys to the wine cellar.”

  “I think he’s learned how to pick the lock,” Pomfroy answered, his tone glum.

  And on that dismal note, John stepped inside the carriage, the driver flicked the reins, and the journey began.

  He arrived in London in late afternoon when long blue shadows stretched across the innyard. He chose a quiet inn on the edge of the city. Leaving his coachman and groom to see to the horses, John pulled his hat low on his forehead and, taking a deep breath, strode with his usual long steps into the building. The host, a short man with a balding head, hurried to greet him. Eyes wide, the innkeeper stared at the marquess for an instant, then pulled his expression back into one of polite welcome as he bowed low.

  “You wish rooms, my lord?”

  “Yes, a bedroom and a private parlor,” John said, his tone brusque. “And space for my servants and my team, of course.”

  “Of course, your lordship,” the man said, obviously forewarned by one of his servants, running in when the carriage with its faded crest had rolled onto the cobbled yard. He bowed again, then paused to exclaim, “Here, you mangy mutt, get out of my inn!” He waved his arms toward the small dog following behind the new arrival. It barked in protest.

  “Leave off—the animal belongs to me,” John snapped.

  Startled, the other man stared down at the undersized black-and-white spaniel with the drooping ear. “Of course, my lord, excuse me.”

  The dog pattered across the wood floor, catching up with her owner as the innkeeper led him up the stairs to show him the best bedchamber and the parlor adjoining it. John glanced around the room. “This will do.”

  “We are honored to have you, your lordship. Shall I serve dinner at eight?”

  John frowned. He was empty from the long ride, yet he knew that in town he would need to dine at the “fashionable” hour, absurd as it was.

  “Six,” he said, deciding that fashionable could wait till another day.

  “Of course, your lordship. Umm, is your man with you?”

  He meant a valet, of course, not the servants who accompanied the carriage.

  John shook his head. “I am without a manservant just now.”

  The last valet had been a deep drinker, and John had discharged him, although with regret, because at least the man had not wrung his hands and fussed over his master as most valets were wont to do once they regarded John’s unfashionable attire and careless habits.

  “I see, one of my servants will be available to assist you, my lord, if you should need it.”

  John nodded, and at last the man took himself away.

  John pulled off his cloak and wide-brimmed hat. He had seen the man’s stare, of course. John told himself he didn’t care, hadn’t cared for years, what people thought of his appearance. But somehow, it still rankled—that moment of surprise when people first gazed upon his pockmarked countenance. At least in his own home everyone knew what to expect, and he did not have to brace himself for his first encounter with outsiders.

  What was he doing here?

  London, England’s largest city, full of strangers who would gawk and whisper. And he would have to attend social events, just the thing he hated the most—he, who could not dance, had no polite discourse, and felt at ease only in the countryside with a fishing rod in his hand or strolling through a field of ripened grain.

  He must be mad.

  But he needed a wife. And he had seen all of the women of marriageable age and suitable estate in his own neighborhood, and none had caught his interest; not one had seemed to him a female whom he could bear to spend years with, much less stir his passion enough to allow him to engender a child.

  And he must have an heir. Else, the title he had so recently inherited would pass to his younger brother, and that indignity could not be borne.

  The little dog whined. She had an uncanny ability to read his mood, and she was right; just now his temper was as dark, almost, as it ever had been.

  “I should have stayed at home, Runt,” he told her, dropping heavily into a chair stout enough to hold his solid frame and scratching the small spaniel behind her ears.

  Wagging her tail, she regarded him with adoring eyes. She was the only female who did so. Was that why he had saved her life when his gamekeeper was about to drown the runt of the litter, a tiny pup who’d been born with a misshapen ear, besides?

  No, he thought he had been drawn by the spirit of the little dog, the courage so much bigger than her small frame. At any rate, her loyalty unfailing, she had followed him from that moment, ready to scrap with dogs twice her size to make sure she had the favored place at his feet. And how many creatures fought for the favor of his attention?

  “I could have married Miss Gunter,” he told her. “She grimaces when she looks at my face, but darkness covers a multitude of misfortunes.”

  The dog whined.

  “Yes, I know,” John agreed. “Her laugh sounds like the screech of a pen hen. That would be a trial. And there was Miss Allan, the vicar’s niece, with her sour frown. But she browbeats her servants, and they say she’s a terrible miser, though I suppose that would save on the housekeeping bills.”

  The little dog licked his hand.

  “But none of them made me anxious to be a husband,” he admitted. “Yet, in London, how shall I expect to impress a strange lady? As if anyone would want to be my bride. Oh, I know, I have money enough, and a respectable estate, and an ancient title to share, but still—”

  She would still have to look at him, his unknown and undiscovered bride. John frowned again, catching a glimpse of himself in a small looking glass across the room. He picked up his wide-brimmed hat and tossed it toward the glass. It landed in front of the frame, hiding his reflection.

  John sighed and put one hand across his face.

  When they brought up his meal, he ate his dinner alone, tossing bits of the best meat to the spaniel lying at his feet. When he retired to bed, he slept poorly. The noise of the street—the rumble of carriages and wagons passing, the staccato beat of horses’ hooves, the babble of people talking and shouting to each other—all seemed to reverberate through his bedchamber. The clamor sounded very loud after the quiet of the countryside.

  It was early in the morning before he dropped into a restless doze, and then he woke soon after, when the first rays of light shone through the polished windowpanes.

  He lay there, his head aching dully, knowing what awaited him. He had to call upon two perfect strangers, and he dreaded the prospect. But how else would he be able to find introductions to polite society? He could hardly ride into Hyde Park, pick out a likely looking lady, throw her over his horse’s neck, and ride off with her like a Tartar.

  Too bad—it would have been much simpler.

  John pushed himself out of bed, washed, and dressed in clean linen. One of the chambermaids had unpacked for him last night, putting away his small supply of clothing. After donning buff-colored pantaloons, he tied his cravat with the
carelessness which had driven away many a valet within weeks of initial employment, then shrugged into one of his customary black coats. Since his illness, he had always worn black, disdaining the niceties of fashion as too petty to merit his attention. With a clothespress of black coats and capes and cloaks, he never had to make a choice. And why should he worry about his appearance, when it was a hopeless case?

  He took the spaniel out for a short walk in the innyard and made sure that his horses, and his groom and coachman, were being properly tended to. Then he returned to his rooms and called for food.

  He was standing with his back to the door when the servant knocked.

  “Come in,” he called without turning and continued to gaze out the window while he waited for the table to be laid.

  “You may go,” he said when he could tell that the servant had paused. Then at last, he returned to take his seat. But although the beefsteak was tender, and the eggs fresh enough for town produce, he found himself with little appetite.

  It had to be done. He was no craven, so he must take this necessary first step to find someone to reintroduce him to the polite society he had ignored for so long. He had come armed with the names and addresses of two of his father’s old cronies. John picked up his hat, adjusted it to shadow his face, and then spoke sternly to the small dog.

  “Stay.”

  She whined, but she sat obediently, with the doleful expression of one who will, despite being so abandoned, wait patiently for her lord and master to return.

  He shut the door, speaking to the maid who waited in the hall. “Do not allow the dog to wander outside. She is not used to city traffic.”

  The servant nodded.

  John found his carriage waiting. He had told his servants to be ready at nine, and his groom had obtained the necessary directions.

  Climbing into the carriage, John tapped on the door. The coachman flicked the reins, and the vehicle moved off into the congested London streets. Ahead of them a coal cart rolled with annoying slowness, and two carriages passed so close they almost scraped the wheels of his chaise.

  He was not accustomed to moving at such a sluggish pace, and he sat well back in his seat, refusing to stare at the crowded street and the houses and shops that edged the pavement, but even so, they eventually reached their goal. John climbed out and went up to the front door, lifting the brass knocker.

  The footman who appeared blinked at him. “Tradesmen go round to the back.”

  John grimaced. He knew his appearance was unfashionable and his face unsightly, but still—he quelled the servant with the kind of look that had sent grown men a step backward.

  “I am the marquess of Gillingham.”

  The footman gulped. “Beg pardon, sir, eh, my lord,” he said. “You’re here to see Mr. Laughlin? He’s at his office in the city.”

  John frowned. Had he gotten the direction wrong? “No, I’m looking for Lord Eschon.”

  The servant’s chagrin faded into a puzzled frown. “Lord Eschon? He’s been dead these ten years, my lord. The house was sold to my master long ago.”

  “I see.” John turned abruptly and stomped back to his carriage. So much for this contact.

  He would hope for better luck with the next man, old Sir Silas Ramburt. At the next house, a large structure which nonetheless managed to look somewhat shabby, he found Sir Silas still in residence. But the footman looked at him oddly when he asked to see the old gentleman.

  John was shown into a morning room, where he paced restlessly up and down. When the door opened, he turned quickly. It was not a gray, bent older man who entered, as John had anticipated, but a slip of a girl. She was well dressed, but her shoulders sagged and her expression was one of great weariness. He bowed, and she made a slight curtsy.

  “I regret that it is impossible to see my grandfather,” she said without preamble.

  “But this is important,” John protested. “I need—”

  “Why is it important? You cannot possibly know him; he has not gone into Society these several years.”

  John blinked, but he was willing to be blunt, as well. “My father, the marquess of Gillingham, was a friend of Sir Silas. They spent much time together in their youth. I have just come to town and wish to pay my respects.”

  The girl—he suspected she was barely old enough to be out, but the wrinkled brow and dark hollows beneath her eyes made her appear older—stared at him, and for a moment he thought she wavered on her feet.

  He gestured toward a chair, but she ignored his motion and took a deep breath. “Your father was the marquess of Gillingham?” she repeated slowly.

  Wondering if she was dim-witted, John nodded. “As I have said. He died last year, and I have inherited the title.”

  “Was it an easy death?” the girl demanded. Again, her tone seemed curt, and she hardly seemed to be offering condolences.

  John frowned. “It was a sudden illness,” he said. “His heart failed him. Why do you ask, Miss . . . Ramburt?”

  Silence stretched, and although she looked at him, she seemed to stare right through him. At last she answered, “My grandfather is alive, but his wits are gone, as well as his health. He is dying by inches, and I have to watch his pain and confusion get worse every day.”

  Relieved to have some explanation for her odd behavior, John nodded. “I am sorry to hear it. Do you not have help? You’re young to carry such a burden.”

  She shook her head. “My parents are dead. There is only me, and the servants, of course, but . . .” Her words trailed off as she seemed to forget the rest of the sentence.

  Feeling compassion this time instead of irritation, John bowed. “I am sorry to have intruded. You have my sympathy.”

  “Do I?” She sighed.

  “If there’s anything I can do to assist you . . .” He told her where he was staying, not sure if his words penetrated the fog of melancholy that seemed to bemuse her. “I will not trouble you further.”

  John made his way out. A house full of tragedy, he thought, though illness and death came to all families. Still, this situation seemed even sadder than most. He pitied the girl, though he knew he was still glad to hear the footman shut the door behind him.

  Drawing a deep breath, he got back into his carriage and discovered he did not know where to go next. How was he to achieve entry into the Ton now? Who would perform introductions? His two leads had both come to naught. There had been no point in explaining his request to Sir Silas’s granddaughter. Even if she had been not been consumed by more important matters—he was still not sure if she was a bit slow or just overwhelmed by her sad situation—a girl could not sponsor a grown man. Damnation.

  He told his coachman to drive on, without any idea where to go. The traffic was dense and held the horses to barely more than a walk. The city seemed to press in upon him. John suddenly wanted out of the confines of the carriage. He knocked on the panel and when the coachman pulled up the horses, said, “I am going to walk for a while. Find a spot to wait.”

  Pulling his hat down, he strolled along a walkway that was almost as crowded as the street. Wincing at facing such mobs of people, John tilted his head and tried to avoid meeting anyone’s gaze. But he had gone hardly twenty feet when a child’s clear voice penetrated the chatter of the other pedestrians. “Mama, Mama, what’s wrong with that man’s face?”

  John frowned. Several people turned to stare, even as the matron tried to shush her little girl. He felt an urgent need to avoid the curious looks. Turning abruptly, he opened the door of the nearest shop and bolted inside.

  Within the shop the atmosphere was hushed, with only a few customers contemplating shelves of merchandise. One woman in a gray walking outfit and dark bonnet stood at the counter examining gloves with the assistance of the clerk on the other side.

  “Yes, that will do nicely. And the two tan pairs, and one maize. And when will the rest of Miss Crookshank’s new gloves be ready?”

  “We’ll have them sent to you by the end of the week,
” the clerk promised. “I’ll just wrap these up for you, ma’am. I’ll be with you in a moment, sir.”

  John nodded and turned quickly away. His head tilted to hide his face, he glanced sideways from beneath his hat brim and stared at the shelves. Good lord, this was a woman’s shop! He should not have come in. He would slip out, locate his carriage, and return to the inn. But as he retreated in disorder, head still down, he trod on something, then collided with an appealingly soft figure and lost his balance.

  In his confusion he had not noticed the woman step away from the counter. She exclaimed in annoyance and pain—he had trodden on her foot—and now both wavered.

  Red-faced, John grabbed at her as she fell. But as he tried to grasp her upper arm, he brushed the tender curve of her breast instead, smooth and soft beneath its light fabric covering.

  She gasped and pushed him back.

  But she still tottered, and he tried again to seize her, even while he felt a wave of embarrassed chagrin, and—yes, something more—a spark of attraction. It made him, somehow, even more clumsy as he tingled with a surge of unbidden desire. She felt so rounded, so touchable, so intensely womanly.

  She regained her footing first and this time pushed him away with all her strength. “How dare you, sir!”

  He reeled backward, hitting a small table with a display of gloves and a small vase holding a sprig of flowers. The table went flying with a crash of breaking china, but at least he had his balance again.

  He tried to bow, but his hat started to fall and he paused to grab it. “My apologies, ma’am, I was only trying to—to—”

  “It was quite obvious what you were trying to do,” she retorted, her tone cold. “And if you touch me so intimately again, I shall summon the clerk and have you ejected!”