A Scoundrel by Moonlight Page 4

  Dorothy hadn’t stood a chance.

  “Perhaps you should.” The watchful light returned to his eyes. “Do you enjoy your post, Miss Trim?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, only partly a lie. The marchioness was a darling. Her kindness had gone a long way to helping Nell cope with her grief over Dorothy’s death. Nell winced to think that her vendetta against the marquess would ultimately hurt Lady Leath.

  “I need hardly say that I take great care for my mother’s happiness.”

  Given that he hadn’t visited his mother in months, she could disagree. But even if she’d been his social equal, it would be impertinent to say so. “As do I, my lord.”

  His eyes glinted as if he saw every prevarication. “Then please don’t imagine that your attentions will go unremarked.”

  “No, sir.” She took the words as the warning they were.

  “You may go, Trim.”

  Trim, not Miss Trim, she noticed. Clearly he’d indulged her delusions of importance as far as he intended. That suited her fine. She couldn’t help feeling that if she lingered, that searching dark gaze would winkle out every secret. Then where would she be? Out on her ear. And he’d be free to continue on his nasty, seducing, ruinous way.

  Strangely she was angrier now than when she’d arrived. And more intent on bringing this brute down. Even after a short acquaintance, she recognized that the marquess was a clever, perceptive, interesting man. Yet still he chose to wreck innocent lives.

  Taunton, Somerset, early October

  Hector Greengrass settled his considerable bulk into the oak armchair in the cozy little tavern’s inglenook. It was a bloody chilly night, but in the month that he’d been in the area, he’d trained the locals to leave the room’s best spot for him.

  He raised his tankard, took a deep draft and smacked his lips with satisfaction. The ale was good. Even better was this lark he’d set up over the last year since leaving the late Lord Neville Fairbrother’s employment. Sodding pity that the man had shot himself. Sad waste of a fine criminal mind.

  Greengrass knew that most people saw him as hulking muscle, but he possessed a fine criminal mind too. And he wasn’t a cove to let an opportunity pass. When he’d realized that things in Little Derrick had gone awry, he didn’t hang around to share his master’s fate. He’d kept his eye on the main chance and survived.

  He’d more than survived; he’d thrived.

  Before abandoning Lord Neville, he’d taken what cash he could find and a few trinkets. Best of all, he’d nicked his lordship’s detailed record of debauchery. Since then, that diary had bought Greengrass’s mighty fine life. Not to mention his fancy clothes.

  Even poor women paid to keep their sins secret. Luckily for Greengrass, Lord Neville had indulged his lusts up and down the country. Greengrass had plenty of bumpkins to hit for a shilling here and there, in return for suppressing the record of their ruin.

  The sluts whose fall had resulted in pregnancy were no use to him. Their disgrace was clear for the world to see. But thanks to Lord Neville’s yen for silly virgins, the diary listed hordes of girls desperate to keep a good name in small, gossipy communities. They’d give up their last penny to escape public shame. After all, if their families disowned them as wanton trollops, the likeliest outcome was a hard life on the streets. Something well worth digging into the housekeeping money to avoid.

  Greengrass still marveled at the diary’s salacious thoroughness. His lordship couldn’t bear to hold back any detail of his illicit encounters, and the pages were well-thumbed with use. A sane man would have hesitated to keep such a complete record of his sins, but clearly Lord Neville enjoyed reliving each affair over and over again.

  Still, Greengrass had good reason to be grateful to Neville Fairbrother for his nitpicking record keeping, as though the chits he seduced formed part of his famous collection of pretty baubles. Lord Neville could never get enough women to slake his appetite. The only pity was that he’d limited his depredations to the lower classes. It made sense—anyone further up the social scale wouldn’t believe that Lord Neville was the Marquess of Leath. They had access to newspapers and London gossip that would expose the lie before his lordship got into their drawers.

  Poor and stupid, that was how his late lordship had liked them. And poor and stupid in large numbers kept Greengrass in ready cash and easy bedmates.

  Aye, it had been a bonny twelve months or so. A false name and constant traveling kept him out of the magistrates’ hands—there was a warrant out for him, thanks to his crimes last year in Little Derrick. And it was grand how eager a lass became when disgrace was the alternative. In a lifetime of fiddles, this blackmail fiddle was the best.

  The landlord thumped a brimming plate of roast beef and gravy on the table. Fast as a striking cobra, Greengrass’s massive hand shot out to crush the man’s wrist. “I’ll have a bit more civility, my fine fellow,” he said cheerfully, closing his grip until the bones ground together.

  Hatred flared in the man’s eyes. But stronger than hatred was fear. Pale with pain, the man bobbed his head. “Your pardon, Mr. Smith.” He struggled to smile. “Enjoy your dinner. And of course, it’s on the house.”

  “Better,” Greengrass grunted, releasing him and picking up his knife and spoon.

  Aye, being cock of the walk was fine and dandy.

  And when he’d tired of catching tasty little sprats in his net, he had a bloody great mackerel of a marquess ready to take his bait.

  Chapter Four

  Lord Leath’s return soon had Nell seething with frustration. Until now, she’d found Alloway Chase a surprisingly congenial location. Perhaps because unlike Mearsall’s schoolhouse, there was no silent, reproachful ghost reminding her that she’d failed to watch over her half-sister. Her stepfather had seen her unhappiness and hadn’t discouraged her when she’d suggested finding work away from home. He’d have been appalled if she’d told him why she really left Mearsall.

  Under the marchioness’s relaxed supervision, she’d found ample opportunity to seek the diary. So far she’d concentrated on the library. It was a huge collection, but she had time and patience. Or at least she’d had both until the marquess started working there. And after their early hours encounter, she hadn’t worked up courage to wander the house at night again.

  Now he’d brought a secretary from London. Even when his lordship was absent, Mr. Crane occupied either the library or the small adjoining room. A room he locked every evening.

  As subtly as she could, Nell had quizzed the other servants about the marquess. Some of the maids had hair-raising stories about lecherous employers in other households, but nobody had a bad word to say about Leath. She’d failed too in all attempts to obtain evidence of his lechery from women living on the estate.

  It was decidedly annoying. And a little unsettling. Nell had imagined that the people who knew him best would despise him for the monster he was.

  His lordship had been home nearly a fortnight and he was yet to spend a night away from the house. For a heartless seducer, he was a diligent worker. Reams of correspondence came in and out, and he also paid conscientious attention to the estate.

  Clearly his licentious impulses were under control. So far, she’d only seen him behave inappropriately with one woman. When he’d caught Nell Trim about the waist that first night. When he’d spoken to her as his equal. And more, the shameful awareness that hummed endlessly between them.

  When they were together, dislike set the air sizzling. It must be dislike. She refused to admit that she found the man who had ruined her half-sister attractive.

  His lordship’s presence was impossible to ignore. The air buzzed with energy, the staff were on extra alert, the marchioness glowed, the gardens bloomed with extra color. Goodness, even the sun shone more brightly, now that the master returned.

  If Nell had remained a housemaid, avoiding his lordship would have been simple. For his mother’s companion, it was impossible. With every day, maintaining her loathing
became more difficult. And each moment felt more like a betrayal of Dorothy’s memory. Nell could almost believe that there were two Lord Leaths. One despoiled innocent girls and abandoned them to suffer the consequences. The other was kind to his mother and considerate of his staff and careful with his tenants.

  She couldn’t believe Dorothy had deceived her—her half-sister’s dying words had rung with anguish and burning sincerity. But still Nell couldn’t match the Leath she came to know with the man who so callously had destroyed an innocent girl.

  Her desperation to find the diary built to a frenzy. Hatred alone gave her courage to carry out her scheme. She didn’t want to think how Leath’s sternness softened when he smiled at her ladyship. She needed instead to remember Dorothy lying quiet and unmoving after breathing her last.

  Wariness—and awareness—deepened every time that enigmatic gaze settled upon Nell, as if the marquess added up all he knew about her and found the total wanting.

  As Leath approached the library after his morning ride, he heard the unexpected sound of laughter. Frowning, he opened the door and paused, observing the tableau before him. A tableau that didn’t please him at all.

  He was used to everyone snapping to attention. He wasn’t by nature a vain man, but how irritating that neither of the people sharing a jolly chat noticed him. Paul Crane, his staid-as-a-maiden-aunt secretary, poised halfway up the library stairs, passing books down to a beautiful woman who smiled at him as if she enjoyed the most wonderful time.

  Of course it was Miss Trim. Miss Trim who never looked so animated nor so happy in the company of the man who paid her wages. Morning sun poured through the tall windows to light her graceful figure. She looked unassuming in one of her ubiquitous gray dresses. Her hair was scraped back in its severe style. She made a most unlikely seductress, but something in Leath stirred to savage resentment that she smiled at Crane in a way she’d never smiled at him.

  “Clarissa will keep her ladyship busy,” Crane said.

  “It’s rather dour,” Miss Trim said. “What about something by Miss Austen?”

  “At least they’re shorter.”

  Who knew his secretary read novels? And what other housemaid discussed books with such familiarity? She was an unusual one, Miss Trim. So unusual that Leath felt like grabbing those straight shoulders and shaking her until she confessed her secrets.

  “Here’s Pride and Prejudice. That’s a favorite in my family.”

  “Mine too.”

  Family? She claimed to be an orphan. Leath tensed like a hunting dog on a fox’s scent.

  “Her ladyship might have read it.”

  “His lordship needs to get something more recent for his mother,” Miss Trim said, making Leath bristle at the implication of neglect. “It’s odd that she doesn’t get a standing order of the latest books from Hatchards. Surely Lady Sophie wanted to read something published in the last ten years.”

  “Lady Sophie wasn’t much of a reader,” Crane said. “If I can assist with making a list for the marchioness, I’d be happy to oblige. My sister is always mentioning some book or another in her letters.”

  “Clearly I’m not keeping you busy enough, Crane,” Leath said acidly.

  Silence crashed down. Crane wobbled on the ladder and dropped the leather volume onto the carpet. “My lord…”

  Miss Trim turned more slowly. “Your lordship,” she said coolly, curtsying and lowering her eyes.

  Damn it, Leath already regretted the loss of that glorious smile. It was possible he made her uneasy—God knew, his constant physical yen for her made him uneasy. But he didn’t think she was frightened. Instead, he felt like she watched him, waiting for some slip. He had no idea why. But his skin prickled when she was in the room, and not just because of his inconvenient interest.

  “My lord, Miss… Miss Trim wanted some reading for her ladyship. I didn’t think you’d mind if I helped her.” On unsteady legs, Crane descended and bent to retrieve the book. “I can only apologize most sincerely if I’ve overstepped the mark.”

  Damn it, Leath had reduced his obliging and efficient secretary to a stuttering wreck. He hated feeling like the specter at the feast. Illogically, he blamed the girl whose gaze was focused on the floor. The girl who looked as if she’d never permit an insubordinate thought to cross her mind.

  He believed that like he believed in fairies building bowers in his parterre.

  Despite his guilt, his voice was stern. “I’d like that report on draining the Lincolnshire property today.”

  “Yes, sir,” Crane said miserably. He passed the book to Miss Trim. “I’m sure her ladyship will like this.”

  Leath’s grumpiness deepened as she bestowed a glimmer of a smile upon Crane. “Thank you. I’m sorry I kept you from your work.”

  “Not at all,” he said, and Leath’s eyes narrowed on the young man’s besotted expression. Crane had always struck him as a sensible fellow. Leath would hardly have employed him if he wasn’t. Clearly the marquess wasn’t the only man at Alloway Chase susceptible to wide brown eyes.

  “Crane,” Leath said curtly.

  “Immediately, my lord.” He glanced nervously at his employer, swallowing until his Adam’s apple bobbed, then disappeared into the office.

  “Not so fast.” Leath caught Miss Trim’s arm as she edged toward the door. The contact slammed through him, demanded that he kiss the impertinence out of her. Pride alone steadied his grip. “I’ll thank you to stay away from my secretary.”

  Brown eyes could be warm as honey. They could also flash with disdain. After a blistering moment of communication that had nothing to do with lord and housemaid and everything to do with male and female, she glanced away. “Yes, my lord.”

  He stared at her, willing her to look at him properly. Even, heaven save him, smile the way she’d smiled at that stupid boy Paul Crane. “See that you follow my instructions.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His hand tightened. Through her woolen sleeve, he felt her strength. He was used to society ladies. Miss Trim felt real and earthy in a way no woman of his own class ever did.

  The silence lengthened. Became awkward. Reminded him of those charged moments the night they’d met. He still woke from dreams with her citrus scent filling his senses and his arms curling around a fantasy Eleanor Trim. In his most forbidden fantasies, he did a lot more than hold her in his arms.

  He hadn’t panted after the maids since he was an adolescent. Even then, he’d recognized the essential unfairness of pursuing women who worked for him. How could a woman freely give consent to the man who paid her wages?

  Despite Miss Trim’s outward docility, he knew that she’d have no trouble denying him. Blast her.

  “May I go, sir?”

  He caught a faint edge of mockery. He hated to think that she recognized his lust. He didn’t trust her, he didn’t much like her, but dear Lord above, she set him afire as no woman ever had.

  “No.”

  This time when her eyes flashed up to his, he was delighted to see trepidation in the coppery depths. So far, they’d played a game where she knew the rules and he didn’t. That disadvantage ended today.

  He’d tried ignoring her. Much good that had done. Now he’d try a direct challenge. “Sit down. I want to talk to you.”

  A frown crossed her face. “Her ladyship will wonder where I am.”

  “I won’t keep you long,” he said coolly, releasing her with a reluctance he hated to acknowledge and gesturing toward a chair.

  He moved behind the desk, hoping that the authoritative position might lend him some desperately needed gravitas. How ludicrous that he’d faced down the greatest men in the land without a qualm, yet this one humble girl, who worked for him, goddamn it, made him as unsure as a boy with his first sweetheart.

  Not that he was naïve enough to imagine anything romantic happened here. He had a bad case of blue balls for an unsuitable woman. Given that satisfying his craving was out of the question—not least because if word got
out about him tupping his mother’s companion, he’d rusticate in Yorkshire forever—he needed to control himself.

  Easier said than done.

  Miss Trim had a subtle, enticing beauty. Every time he saw her, he thought her lovelier. Right now, with her chin set and a flush on her slanted cheekbones—perhaps embarrassment, more likely vexation—she was delicious. Like a cranky goddess.

  The silence extended. And extended.

  “We weren’t doing any harm,” she said eventually, without looking at him.

  “Crane has work to do. Too much to waste time flirting with pretty girls.”

  Hell, he’d better watch his tongue. At the compliment, the pink in her cheeks deepened delightfully. She had lovely skin, smooth and creamy. It looked as soft as velvet and his fingers curled against the blotter as he beat back the urge to touch her.

  “It was only a few minutes, and he was being kind.”

  Leath hid a wince at the unspoken criticism that he, in contrast, wasn’t kind. She had a point. Crane hadn’t deserved the reprimand. “My mother doesn’t like novels.”

  “She does now. I suggested something more entertaining than those dry-as-dust treatises you send her.”

  She was definitely criticizing him, the baggage. “She’s satisfied with my choices.”

  At last Miss Trim raised her eyes and looked at him properly. As he expected, there was no fear in her expression. Instead more watchfulness. “That’s what she’d tell you, I’m sure.”

  “She likes to keep up with my political career.”

  That lush mouth quirked with a faint derision that made him feel like a gauche schoolboy. “Yes.”

  An ocean of implication in one short syllable. Because Miss Trim must be aware that just now he had no political career. And if he didn’t keep his nose clean until they invited him back, he’d never have a political career again. Good enough reason, even if he forgot that he was a gentleman, to keep his hands off her, however beguiling she was. And now she’d stopped pretending to be a dutiful domestic with no will beyond her master’s, he found her very beguiling indeed, bugger it.