A Scoundrel by Moonlight Page 2

  “Nell Trim, sir.”

  “Helen or Eleanor?”

  “Eleanor.” Her voice retained its curiously flat quality and she stared somewhere over his shoulder.

  Eleanor. An elegant name for an elegant woman. An elegant woman who was his housemaid.

  “Very good.” Except Eleanor wasn’t a suitable name for a junior servant. Eleanor was a queen’s name. It brought dangerous, powerful women to mind. “What are you doing in my library, Trim?”

  By rights, he should call a housemaid Nell, but with her slender neatness, Trim suited her so well.

  “If I tell you, you’ll dismiss me.”

  He kept his expression neutral. “I’ll dismiss you if you don’t.”

  She leveled that direct stare upon him. “I couldn’t sleep, and I wanted something to read. I always return the books, my lord; you have my word.”

  A housemaid who rifled his bookcases and offered her word? She became more extraordinary by the minute. “You can read?”

  “Yes, sir.” In a show of deference that didn’t convince, she lowered her eyelids. Years in the political bear pit had taught him to read people. He was sure of two things about the trim Miss Eleanor Trim. One was that deference didn’t come naturally. The other was that somewhere in this odd conversation, she lied.

  “So what did you choose?” She hadn’t carried a book when she’d run into him at the door.

  “Nothing appealed. May I go, my lord? I’m on duty early.”

  “Do I need to search you to see if you’ve stolen anything?” She could be a master criminal bamboozling him into complacency. Except he didn’t feel complacent. He felt alive and interested as nothing had interested him in months.

  Temper lit her eyes. She didn’t like him questioning her honesty. “I’m not a thief.”

  Ah, the false docility cracked. He hid his satisfaction. “How can I be sure?”

  “You could check the room for anything missing, my lord.”

  “I might do that.” Abruptly his sour mood descended once more. What the hell was he doing flirting with a housemaid in the middle of the night? Perhaps his political advisers were right about him needing a break.

  He bent to pick up the candle the girl had dropped when he’d barged in on top of her. He lit it from the branch and passed it across, then unlocked the door. “You may go, Trim.”

  She raised the candle and surveyed him as if uncertain whether this dismissal was good news or not. Her curtsy this time conveyed no ironic edge, then she backed toward the door. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “For God’s sake, I’m not going to pounce on you,” he said on a spurt of irritation. It niggled that for a different man living in a different world, the thought of pouncing on the delectable Miss Trim was sinfully appealing.

  Her eyes flashed up and he saw that beneath her drab exterior, she was fierce and strong. He awaited some astringent comeback. Instead she dragged the door open and fled.

  Wise girl.

  Chapter Two

  Blast, blast, blast.

  Exhausted, angry, disgusted with herself, Nell collapsed onto the narrow bed in the small room that had become hers a month ago. She buried her head in her hands.

  Why, oh, why did the depraved marquess have to catch her searching his library? And when he did, why on earth hadn’t she behaved like a proper servant? Until now, she’d managed to hide any rebellious impulses under a subservient mask. If she’d been humble and silent, he’d have sent her away, instead of finding her of surpassing interest.

  But she’d just been so furious to see him alive and well, when her beloved half-sister had died in such shame and misery. Caught by surprise, she’d forgotten to play the circumspect domestic.

  And now she’d attracted his attention.

  She didn’t want to arouse James Fairbrother’s curiosity. She wanted to find the diary that proved his offenses, then leave Alloway Chase and pass the matter of Leath’s destruction over to the Duke of Sedgemoor, his sworn enemy. A woman of her humble background would get nowhere, taking on such a powerful man. But the duke could use the book to blackmail Leath into behaving himself, or publish the details and expose the marquess to trial by public opinion.

  Nell hoped he chose the second course. Lord Leath deserved general condemnation.

  In her bedroom at Mearsall, the plan had appeared straightforward, once she’d come to terms with the exalted status of Dorothy’s lover. A check of her stepfather’s old newspapers had confirmed his lordship’s presence at a house party in Kent, around the time Dorothy fell pregnant. Leath had been near enough to seduce Dorothy. Given her deathbed confession, that was enough evidence to convince Nell to pursue the marquess’s downfall.

  As Dorothy had promised, discovering the location of the marquess’s family seat had been easy. It had also been surprisingly easy finding employment as a housemaid.

  She’d set herself a daunting task, but she’d made a promise to someone she loved—and she was angry. The idea of this devil ruining more innocent girls like Dorothy made her want to scream with rage. She’d left Mearsall to seek the diary and other evidence of Lord Leath’s sins. If she failed in Yorkshire, she’d find work in his house in London and continue her quest there. However long it took, she’d make him pay for his crimes.

  But now that she’d met the marquess, nothing seemed so clear-cut. After that oddly charged encounter downstairs, her heart still galloped like a wild horse—and her mind whirled with bewilderment.

  Dear heaven, when his wicked lordship had locked the door, she’d nearly collapsed with horror. She was alone in the middle of the night with a lecherous monster. She’d never imagined that her quest might involve physical risk.

  Cursing her naivety, she’d prepared to fight off the hulking brute.

  Then the marquess had confounded every fear. Apart from catching her to stop her escape, he hadn’t touched her.

  Which was… puzzling. And troubling.

  She’d sensed his interest. At twenty-five, she wasn’t a green girl, and she knew what it meant when a male leveled that prickling, intense concentration on a woman. Yet he’d kept his distance and remained remarkably polite, given her barely concealed insolence.

  In her mind, Lord Leath had always been a caricature of a villain. But tonight, once she’d realized that he wouldn’t leap on her—and she’d realized quickly despite that unwelcome awareness—he’d proven much more real. And much more alarming.

  Immediately she’d noted his cleverness, his calmness, his confidence. All worked against her. The man in the portrait in his mother’s apartments was big and powerful, with a personality that threatened to burst from the frame.

  In the flesh, he’d been… more.

  He wasn’t a pretty man, by any means. But there was beauty in that tall, strong body and that craggy, individual face with its beak of a nose and heavy black brows. No wonder Dorothy had been smitten.

  Still, Nell had expected more overt charm, a Lothario from a play, all smooth words and false compliments. She couldn’t picture this man filling a girl’s head with nonsense until she spread her legs.

  These riddles gave her a headache. And she faced a day’s work and, if she could evade the marquess, a night’s searching.

  Hope staged an uncertain return. Perhaps Leath’s unexpected arrival was more blessing than curse. Perhaps Nell hadn’t yet found the diary because this dedicated seducer kept his record of ruin with him.

  If so, the diary was now at Alloway Chase.

  “Darling, I didn’t know you’d come home.” From the chaise longue, Leath’s mother extended her hands toward him.

  He hated to see his mother’s health deteriorate to a point where she spent most days in her apartments. At least his rustication meant that he could devote more time to her. Guiltily he realized that he hadn’t been home since his sister Sophie’s hurried wedding last May. Parliamentary business had been pressing, as had his need to rise above the scandals engulfing his family.

  “I
got in late last night.” He took his mother’s hands and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “You look well.”

  It wasn’t true, but it was less of a lie than last time they’d met. The gray morning light through the large windows was stark on her thin body. But her cheeks held a hint of color and her eyes were brighter than he’d seen them in years.

  “I’m feeling better.” She indicated a chair, inviting him to stay. “How long are you here?”

  “Until people can say the Fairbrother name without a sneer,” he said flatly. He supposed that he’d learn to accept his exile, although at least with his mother he needn’t hide his bitterness.

  She frowned. “I’d hoped the brouhaha about your uncle might blow over by now. After all, it’s a year since he shot himself to escape a hanging.”

  A year in which everyone had eyed Leath as if afraid he might resort to violence and larceny the way his odious Uncle Neville had. A year in which Leath’s every political plan had fallen foul of some opponent mentioning the Fairbrothers’ infamous criminal tendencies. A family flaw only widely recognized since his uncle’s exposure as a thief and murderer. Thanks to Camden Rothermere, the damned meddling Duke of Sedgemoor, the whole world knew about Neville Fairbrother’s crimes.

  For months, Leath had been furious at Sedgemoor and his cronies. Only gradually had he admitted that ultimate blame for the family’s straits lay with Lord Neville.

  That was little satisfaction when another snide comment in the House of Lords topped one of Leath’s speeches with jeering laughter. For years, the Marquess of Leath had been the most powerful personality in parliament, his progress to the premiership taken for granted. The gossip now dogging him gratified his enemies—and a disappointing number of people he’d counted as friends. He was cynical enough to recognize that the world loved to witness an ambitious man’s fall. But recognition made it no more pleasant to be that man.

  “You forget Sophie,” he said grimly, rising and prowling toward the window, too restless to sit when reviewing his recent disasters.

  His sister had set tongues wagging afresh when she’d eloped with a penniless younger son who happened to be Sedgemoor’s brother-in-law. Sophie’s timing had been calamitous for Leath’s political hopes. The whole world now considered Fairbrother a synonym for flibbertigibbet. Or scoundrel.

  Neither adjective befitted a future prime minister.

  His mother looked troubled. “She’s safely married now, and you and Sedgemoor united to approve the match.”

  Much against Leath’s inclination, he’d offered the runaways what countenance he could. He and Sedgemoor had even patched up their feud, at least in public. They were never likely to be friends, but Leath no longer itched to punch His Grace’s supercilious nose.

  Whatever measures both families had taken, they couldn’t contain the scandal. Especially as it followed so closely on the heels of his uncle’s disgrace. Even worse, Sophie had jilted Lord Desborough, one of England’s most powerful men, and as a result his lordship had shifted from Leath’s greatest ally to his implacable foe. “My political career still hangs in the balance, Mamma.”

  He turned to see her raising a frail hand to her lips. “James, I’m sorry.”

  Damn it. His chagrin got the better of him. Upsetting his mother was the last thing he wanted. He wasn’t himself this morning. And he knew who to blame. A housemaid! He had bats in his belfry.

  “At the moment, the party powerbrokers consider me more hindrance than asset. I’m to retire to my estates, keep my head down and my nose clean, and reappear once the world has had time to forget the gossip.”

  “That’s unfair. None of this is your fault. Your uncle was an out-and-out rogue. Your father banned him from the house after he got that poor girl into trouble.”

  Leath had been a boy when his uncle had raped a maid. “Perhaps Uncle Neville’s crimes aren’t my responsibility, but Sophie was,” he said heavily.

  “At least she’s happy.”

  Her voice indicated that Sophie’s happiness hardly counted, compared to the damage she’d done to her brother’s career. His mother had married the late marquess, expecting to be a political hostess and eventually wife to the prime minister. After a carriage accident crippled his father in his forties, her hopes had focused on her then-twenty-year-old son. For the final eight years of his father’s life and the four since, Leath had devoted himself to fulfilling his parents’ political dreams. He’d loved his father dearly. The possibility of failure now when the prize hovered so close made him grind his teeth in frustration.

  “Your exile isn’t all bad.” His mother had clearly decided to take the news stoically.

  “Isn’t it?” he said gloomily, wandering to the dressing table and picking up a delicate Meissen shepherdess. The simpering expression mocked his pretensions to taking on his brilliant father’s mantle.

  “I’ll see more of you.”

  He sighed and replaced the figurine. “Yes, and my tenants will be pleased I’m home.”

  “There’s no substitute for the lord of the manor.”

  “Perhaps not,” Leath said shortly. “But I can’t angle for influence in London and be here at the same time.”

  “No,” Lady Leath said without offense. “But a period of reflection won’t go astray. It’s time you thought about a bride.”

  Startled, he bumped the crowded dressing table, setting the china figures and glass bottles rattling. “What?”

  His mother regarded him patiently. “Don’t pretend it’s an outlandish suggestion, James. You need an heir. Right now, you need more than an heir; you need allies. If this mess hasn’t taught you that a man can’t stand alone in politics, nothing will.”

  “With the stink surrounding the family name, who would have me?”

  “Don’t be a fool. You’re the Marquess of Leath. Anyone with a scrap of acumen knows that you’ll return stronger than ever.”

  “So nice that my private requirements count in this decision,” he said with a hint of sarcasm.

  His mother didn’t smile. “You’re not an amorous shepherd in a poem, James, free to bestow his heart and hand where he likes. Fairbrothers marry for advantage, not because they fancy a pretty pair of blue eyes.”

  “You loved my father.”

  Her face softened. “I did. But even if I didn’t, I’d have married him.”

  Leath struggled to contain his surprise. And disappointment. He’d always thought his parents had married because they were soul mates. Yet it seemed that they’d married for the same cold-blooded reasons as most other aristocrats.

  “My wife and I will enjoy a mutual regard.” He must marry to continue the line—and a woman from an influential family was the obvious choice. While he mightn’t pant after neck-or-nothing passion, nor could he be completely pragmatic about his choice. He was a man before he was a politician, however ambitious he might be.

  This time his mother smiled. “Of course, that would be ideal.”

  Ideal but not essential, he noted. His mother continued, “What about Marianne Seton? She behaved perfectly when Sedgemoor got entangled with that dreadful Thorne woman. You might balk at Camden Rothermere’s leavings, but her father would make a valuable friend.”

  Poor Lady Marianne, jilted when the Duke of Sedgemoor fell in love with the notorious daughter of a scandalous family. A love match that had only caused trouble. Just as Sophie’s love match had. Still some hitherto unsuspected part of Leath’s soul revolted at the idea of marrying without affection.

  “Mamma, I can choose my own bride,” he protested, even as he pictured lovely, sedate Marianne Seton in the Fairbrother sapphires. They’d match her eyes. Which seemed a dashed stupid reason for proposing to a chit.

  “What about Desborough’s sister? An engagement would heal the rift between you. Honestly, I could box Sophie’s ears for ruining that match.”

  A chill slithered down Leath’s spine. “Lady Jane is forty-five if she’s a day, not to mention a dedicated spinster.�
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  His mother sighed. “Pity she’s too old to bear children.” She paused and Leath hoped the discussion was over. A hope quickly shattered. “If only Lydia Rothermere hadn’t married that penniless libertine. She was a marvelous hostess, and a Rothermere match would silence talk of a feud.”

  “God made a mistake when he created you female, Mamma,” he said drily. “You’d make a capital prime minister.”

  She laughed and dismissed his comment with a wave, although it was true. “I’m a mere woman, James.”

  He smiled, hoping that she’d stopped listing possible marchionesses. “And clever as a fox.”

  “You flatter me, darling.” Briefly he saw the beautiful girl who nearly forty years ago had captivated the brilliant marquess with the glittering political future. Fate had played his parents some cruel cards.

  “Not at all.” He sank into one of the frail chairs near the blazing hearth. The chair creaked beneath his weight. He was a large man and the furnishings in his mother’s apartments were decidedly dainty. “Let me establish my credentials as a respectable landholder before we plot my walk down the aisle.”

  “You’ve always been a solid, reliable, thoughtful gentleman. People will eventually remember that. You’ll be back in London before you know it.”

  He smiled, while his vanity bucked at the description. What a dull dog he sounded. “Ever the optimist, Mamma.”

  “I have every faith in you.”

  Sometimes he wished she didn’t. Each step of his life, he’d carried the weight of his father’s unfulfilled promise and of his invalid mother’s hopes. No wonder he’d never kicked over the traces like his less burdened colleagues.

  Now he faced a solid, reliable marriage. The prospect was depressing. “I thought to find you all cast down with your own company,” he said. “You’re in better spirits than I expected.”

  “I was lonely at first. There’s no denying it.”

  “So what’s happened?”