Excerpt: The Marquess Makes His Move
Book 3: Clandestine Affairs
Chapter One
He noticed the woman the moment before she flung herself directly into the path of a lumbering oncoming coach and four.
She was young and attractive, but it wasn’t her eyes that caught Brandon’s attention, although they were large and almost unnaturally blue, like robin’s eggs. Nor was it her hair, which escaped its pins in long, gleaming waves the color of afternoon sunlight. No, it was her monstrous hat, an extravagant and overdone flourish of colorful feathers. She might as well have a peacock sitting on her head.
The woman stood out on the crowded London sidewalk and was exactly the sort of female he avoided—expensively dressed and probably known to high society. Although, to be fair, Brandon stayed clear of most people.
She had launched herself into the street. Feather hat and all. As she sailed through the air, her wool periwinkle pelisse flapped like a flailing bluebird. The four matching grays startled. One whinnied as eight pairs of hooves slammed against the road surface, bearing down on the woman.
Brandon reacted. He lunged, wrapping his arms around expensive fine wool. It took all of his strength to lug the woman back to the side pavement. She was heavier than she appeared.
“Get off of me, you lout!” She struggled in his arms. Instead of showing gratitude, she screamed at him as if he were accosting her? Alexander Worthington, Marquess of Brandon, was not accustomed to being berated. By anyone.
He stiffened. “No need to thank me for saving your life.”
“Let me go, you cow!” squeaked another raspy voice.
A child. Brandon blinked, finally realizing why rescuing the woman took so much effort. She had her arms folded around a flailing boy of about ten or so. The coach and four thundered by on the cobblestones just as she wrestled the youth out of the way.
She relaxed her grip. “Where is your mother?”
“In Hades!” The boy took off—or at least he tried to. Brandon grabbed the urchin by his soiled collar. The boy ran in place for a second before realizing he’d been caught again.
“Bugger!” He struggled to get away. The boy was all limbs, arms and legs squirming and kicking.
“Cease this instant,” Brandon ordered. “And mind your manners.”
Something in his voice, perhaps the dark tone of warning, prompted the boy to go still. “I ain’t done nuffin’ wrong.”
“I doubt that,” Brandon said.
“You are scaring the child,” the woman admonished.
Brandon took in the sly expression on the boy’s narrow face. “He’s not the sort to frighten easily.”
Her eyes blazed. Robin-egg blue edged in amber-red fire. “Do you make a habit of bullying young children?”
“Bullying?” Irritation simmered along the surface of Brandon’s skin. “I will have you know that because I saved both you and the child from being trampled, I am late for an important appointment.” A meeting that had taken weeks to arrange that would show his enemies
that he had lost patience.
“Nonsense.” She attempted to right the feathered eyesore on her head. “I went in after the boy to pull him to safety.”
“Nice hat,” he responded.
Amusement lit her eyes. “Yes, well, it was a gift from my elderly aunt. She knows I have a fondness for artistic hats, although this one is a bit outlandish.” She pulled back her shoulders. “She was very happy to see me wearing her gift when I visited her today.”
“What did you do to her?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“To deserve that hat?”
Her lips quirked. This woman was almost certainly a lady. Her bearing and clothing told him as much. As did her clear and precise diction. In contrast, Brandon was dressed like a member of the laboring class rather than a nobleman. And yet, she didn’t speak down to him.
“You, sir,” she said with a twinkle in her singular eyes, “are ungallant.”
He tipped his chin. “A failing I readily admit.”
“I’ll have you know that I received compliments about my hat today.”
“Did they have eyes?”
She swallowed a snort. “My elderly aunt’s friends. It’s possible that their eyesight is failing them.”
“Gor!” the boy piped up. “Are you gonna ’old on to me forever?”
“It will be as the lady wishes,” Brandon informed him.
“If you promise not to run,” she told the child, “I will supply you with a meal and perhaps an errand for which I shall pay handsomely.”
Speculation gleamed in the boy’s eyes. Brandon released him. The urchin looked wily enough to be lured by the promise of food and money.
Brandon shifted his weight from one foot to the other. It was time to take his leave. “I am late to my appointment. Good day.”
She finally looked at him again. “I suppose I should thank you for saving me.”
“You are most welcome.” He bowed his head before turning to weave his way through the crowded sidewalk.
“Although,” she called after him, “I did not need saving.”
Rose Fleming stared out the window later that day, her thoughts on the handsome stranger who’d dragged her out of the street.
His vigor left an impression. Even though her would-be savior was tall and well formed with rugged good looks, Rose kept remembering his eyes. Cynical yet glinted with humor, and so black that it was like staring into an abyss. A tap at the door cut into her reverie.
Rose turned from the window to find the housekeeper regarding her expectantly. “Yes, Mrs. Waller?”
“The footman candidate is here. The one that the agency sent over.”
“Oh, yes, of course. I’d forgotten.” The appointment slipped Rose’s mind because she was too busy woolgathering. “Has he been here long?”
“About a quarter of an hour.”
“Put him in the front salon.”
“Yes, madam.”
A few minutes later Rose joined the footman candidate. His height struck her first. He was over six feet.Standing by the window looking out, his profile revealed a strong nose, generous forehead and precise chin.
“Good afternoon, I am—”
He faced her.
Rose’s stomach flipped. “Oh.” She stopped short, staring at the dark-haired stranger with the cynical eyes. “It’s you.”
Surprise lit his face. “Are you—?”
“You are here for the footman position?” she asked at the same time. Surely, it was a mistake. How could the commanding stranger she’d encountered on the street be a footman? This man possessed the aloof splendor of a person accustomed to being waited upon.
“Yes.” He paused. Something unreadable flashed across the stern features that somehow contrived to make him handsome. “I am here for the footman position.”
His deep, gravelly voice sent a shiver through her. “I am Mrs. Fleming.”
“I hardly recognized you without the hat.”
She bit back a smile. “Insulting your potential employer does not do you any credit.”
“I apologize.”
“There’s no need for that.” Flustered, she looked around. She almost invited him to take a seat, which one most certainly did not do with a servant. “The agency sent you?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you have any experience?” This man possessed both height and looks, two highly sought-after
attributes in a footman. With his appealing visage and arrogant demeanor, he could find a position in one of Mayfair’s finest homes. Why settle for a merchant employer in a
not-quite-fashionable neighborhood like Spring Gardens?
“I have a little experience.” Thick, long lashes rimmed watchful eyes. Most women of Rose’s acquaintance would kill for those lashes. Pity they were wasted on a man. “But I am a quick learner. I won’t disappoint you.” What he lacked in experience, he made up for in confidence.
“What work have you done in the past?”
“I was employed by an elderly bachelor who passed away.”
“I see. And before that?”
“Mostly work on the family farm.”
“Your father is a farmer?”
“You could say that.”
That explained his athletic physique. Working on a farm would require daily physical labor. Did it also account for the golden-olive tint of his skin? She’d taken him for a Spaniard at first. Or perhaps black Irish. Yet, his accent suggested neither. He spoke very well for a manservant. “Are you aware of the work that will be required of you here?”
“I assume you will enlighten me.”
He certainly didn’t have a manservant’s deferential attitude. If he was going to work in her household, Rose needed to establish appropriate boundaries. “Let us begin
with your name, shall we?” she said coolly.
“Alex, ma’am. Alex Worth.”
“Very good, Alex. As a footman, you will be required to rise at seven o’clock. You will clean the knives and the lamps. Set the table for breakfast and serve Mr. Fleming and myself.”
“Mr. Fleming is your—?”
“My husband and the master of the house.” Not that Roger acted like much of a husband. Or master of anything. “As I was saying, you will lay the table and serve at breakfast and lunch, clearing the table afterward. At five o’clock, you will light the lamps and candles and
bring them into the drawing room. You will lay the cloth for dinner at six o’clock, wait on us at dinner, clear the table and wash up. You will take the candles and the lamps down at ten-thirty
when Mr. Fleming and I retire for the evening.”
“I don’t see any reason that should be a problem.”
“In addition, you will brush out Mr. Fleming’s suits, my skirt hems and our shoes. Either you or Dudley will answer the front door. You will divide these chores that I’ve just described and any other chores that arise on any given day.”
“I’m most grateful for the opportunity.” He spoke in a grave, raspy tone. His manner was perfectly correct, yet the slightest trace of irony gilded each word.
“Very good,” she said crisply. “You can expect to present yourself to Mr. Fleming this evening at supper.”
He dipped his chin. “Yes, madam.”
“Dudley will direct you to the tailor to have a livery made up.”
“I will check with him, madam.”
“Very good.” She hesitated. “I shall see you at supper, then.”
“As you wish, madam.”
Rose departed, leaving him standing in the salon. It was only after she closed the door behind her that Rose realized she’d been holding her breath.
Brandon, now known as Alex—he needed to become accustomed to being addressed by his name rather than his title—surveyed the stuffy attic room he shared with Dudley, his fellow footman.
He could barely stand upright without hitting his head. The room just managed to accommodate two narrow beds, the table between them and a wardrobe. Not exactly the sort of arrangements
Brandon was used to. But that was of no consequence.
What mattered was that he was here, in the home of Roger Fleming, London’s preeminent mapmaker. A man who thought he could use a fraudulent map to cheat Brandon out of his land and get away with it.
Fleming had crossed the wrong man.
A known recluse from high society, Brandon was not an idiot. Nor did being the half-Arab
heir of the Mad Marquess make him unsophisticated. Brandon suspected at least one of his adjoining landowners had conspired with the mapmaker to cheat him. Someone
who believed Brandon sullied their precious ton with his mother’s foreign blood and merchant roots.
He pulled what few clothes he’d packed from his valise. At the bottom lay the rolled map drawn by Fleming. He tucked the canvas in among his things and arranged them in the wardrobe opposite Dudley’s meager pile of clothing.
His thoughts drifted to Mrs. Fleming. She was a surprise. An attractive woman with a sense of humor. And not a lady after all. She was a merchant’s wife, even though the expensive clothing and regal bearing suggested otherwise. In any other situation, he might be inclined to like her. Did she know her husband was unscrupulous?
Dudley popped his head in through the narrow door frame. “We’re having tea now in the servants’ hall. Coming?”
Brandon shut the wardrobe door. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
He followed his fellow footman down to the basement.
“We usually have our tea after we’ve served at dinner,” Dudley said as they trotted down the stairs. “But Mrs. Waller called for an early tea today.”
They joined the home’s other servants: Bess, the maid of all work, Mrs. Waller, the cook and housekeeper, and to his surprise, the boy Mrs. Fleming rescued earlier in the day.
“You’re still here?”
“In me flesh,” the boy responded. Brandon saw now that the child was painfully thin, his arms like flesh-covered twigs. “Missus says I’m ter be fed while she finks of errands for me.”
The housekeeper sipped her tea. “Don’t you worry. I’ll find plenty for you to do.”
Brandon stared down into the weakest cup of tea he’d ever seen. It was certainly nothing like the strong black sage-flavored tea he was accustomed to. His mother, Lady Brandon, shed most things from her Arab past, including her name (Maryam became plain Mary) when
she married his aristocratic father. But she’d held on to her tea, going so far as to instruct the gardener at Highfield to plant mint and sage to flavor the shay.
“Why ain’t you drinking yer tea?” Bess set down her chipped porcelain cup. All of the dishes were chipped and mismatched. “You’d better drink up. We only get tea twice a day.”
“I prefer my tea a bit stronger.”
“Well, excuse me, Yer Grace.” Dudley smirked. “I don’t expect the servants got fresh tea leaves at yer last situation.”
Brandon frowned. Did all servants drink from used tea leaves? He had no idea what kind of tea his servants at Highfield consumed. He never thought to ask.
“I fink it’s good.” The boy gulped his tea down and reached for another piece of bread, the only food served with the tea.
The housekeeper, a portly woman with her hair glued back in a tight bun, gestured at Brandon’s untouched ration of tea and bread. “You’d best take whatever nourishment is offered. You will need it to fuel you for your duties.”
“Sound advice, I’m sure.” Brandon forced himself to drink the tea and made an effort not to grimace. He made a mental note to purchase tea on his afternoon out. Whenever that was.
“Where were you last in service?” Bess asked.
“I have limited experience.”
Dudley spoke around a mouthful of bread. “How limited?”
So much so that he had to bribe the employment agency to place him in Fleming’s four-story
terraced home. He also arranged for Fleming’s previous second footman to receive an offer of employment from the Duchess of Huntington, who happened to be Brandon’s sister.
“I was previously employed by an unwed elderly gentleman who died.” At least that was the story he worked out with the agency. Any gaps in his manservant knowledge could be attributed to serving in a bachelor household with few requirements. “Before that, I worked on
my father’s farm.”
A bell jingled. It took Brandon a moment to realize it was the servants’ bell. Similar contraptions were mounted in the servant areas at Highfield, but Brandon hadn’t laid eyes on them in years. He was accustomed to being on the opposite end—doing the summoning.
Bess popped up. “So much fer my tea.” She looked longingly at the half-full cup and crusty bread before heading for the stairs.
“Wonder what the mistress wants,” Dudley said.
Brandon set his terrible tea down. “Is Mrs. Fleming a demanding mistress?”
Mrs. Waller’s lips firmed. “We don’t tell tales about our employers.”
“Not usually,” Dudley said at the same time. “Especially not during the day. She normally closes herself off in her sitting room and sketches all day.”
“Every day?” Brandon pretended not to see Mrs. Waller’s quelling look. “She spends the entire day drawing?”
“She takes lunch and long walks. But then goes right back to it. Has done for as long as I’ve worked here, which is going on three years now.”
“Is Mrs. Fleming an artist?”
Dudley scoffed. “Can’t say. I ain’t never seen any of her drawings. Not a one.”
“Tea is over.” Mrs. Waller stood, her chair screeching disapprovingly across the flagstone floor. “Surely you two have something more productive to do than gossip about the mistress.”
“We surely do.” Dudley winked at Brandon. “I have a bill the master wants me to go and pay. Alex here can brush out the master’s boots by the back door.”
“Owen can help you with the boots,” Mrs. Waller informed Brandon. “He needs to earn his keep.”
“Who is Owen?”
“Gor, that’s me,” the boy piped up. “What’s yer name?”
“I’m Alex.”
“Are you goin’ to tip me fer ’elping clean the boots?”
“Most certainly not,” Brandon said, leading the boy up the stairs.