The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler
Eighteen
L
oren hovered deep within the confines of his brougham and pulled out his watch. The low light made it difficult to read the timepiece, but clearly he was going to be late meeting Lady Maudsley and her parents. Damn Vlasic Markov to hell and back. Meeting in the Almonry, or anywhere in St. Martin of the Fields, under the cloak of nightfall was in bad form. Markov’s timing couldn’t be worse.
Farcle was watching the Maudsley house, and Sid was dumping Harlowe. Left with no choice, Loren was forced into using one of the footmen of his mother’s hiring. The only good thing about the location was its six-minute trek to the theatre.
“Are ye sure this is the direction we’re to be takin’, m’lord?”
Of course, Loren couldn’t tell him yes. That would go straight back to his mother. “Circle up behind the Abbey,” Loren told him. “We must have missed the turn a couple of streets back.” The carriage rocked with a sharp lurch.
The door crashed in, nearly toppling the low-lit lantern from its hook. Before Loren could pull out his pistol, a hand reached in and grabbed him by his snowy starched cravat and yanked him out, felling him to the mucked ground. The stench alone was enough to kill a grown man.
“It appears we’re still missing our child bride.” The heavy menacing accent bordered on mockery.
Loren gathered his fury about him. “Well, you certainly are doing well in thwarting my efforts. You know very well, the opportunity has not presented itself—” A fist caught him beneath the chin, and he bit his tongue, giving him a mouthful of blood. He spat it out, leaving behind a metallic aftertaste. The crinkle of leaves stirred to a deafening level that turned Loren’s stomach.
“’Tis your responsibility to create opportunity, debilné. You’ve been paid.”
He spat out more blood and rubbed his jaw. “Not completely.”
A boot jammed his ribs. “Perhaps not ever. Perhaps I shall take care of the matter myself. I could not do worse.”
Loren groaned.
Another well-placed kick, this one to the head, had Loren unable to distinguish between the night and consciousness. “Heed my warning.”
It took Loren a few moments to realize he was lying in the street of one of the worst rookeries in London. With monumental effort, he struggled to his feet, looking about for his footman. He located him on the other side of the rig, out cold. He certainly couldn’t be seen the rest of this night. His cravat was crushed beyond repair, his evening wear mucked with God knew what, his face bloodied and swelling. Blinding rage consumed him at Markov’s stupidity.
Crawling to his feet, Loren located the footman and dragged him into the carriage. He thought he might faint with the throbbing pain in his ribs. He returned to the house and tossed the reins to a groom and limped up to his room. Farcle entered a moment later.
Loren lowered himself in a chair, wincing.
“The damned Maudsley House is full of people. I thought you said they would be at the theater?” Farcle leaned in. “Good God, man. What happened?”
“Mind your manners,” Loren gasped.
“Apologies, my lord.” Farcle rang for water, which couldn’t come quick enough.
Loren awakened the next morning to rain slanting against the windows. He’d wanted nothing more than to pull the counterpane over his head and lollygag the rest of the day. And once Maudsley’s younger daughter was delivered, he would do exactly that. Currently, however, he couldn’t afford not to be seen. He dragged himself from bed and rang for a much-needed bath.
Two hours later, he handed over his coat and hat to White’s most distinguished guard dog, Jones, vowing to settle the score against one stupid Slav.
Stepping across the threshold in the great room immediately brought a sense of tranquility over him, easing his doubts. A quick survey showed the rain had succeeded in bringing in hordes of youngbloods. Most of the hum of conversation flowed from the gaming room. Loren gravitated in that direction, stopping first for a glance over the betting book. He ran a finger down the list of newest entries until one jumped off the page in a glaring leap. Lady M to marry Lord B by Boxing Day… £500.
Loren considered the post and found himself relieved. He glanced through the other bets, carefully maintaining his benign facade. For the first time in days, a sense of amusement teased him. He took up the pen and added his own wager to the contrary.
“That you, Griston?” A heavy hand pounded his back, and pain shot through his chest, stealing his ability to breathe.
Barely managing to cover his discomfort, he turned slowly. He didn’t recognize the portly man, but he had a sizeable bruise on his face that rivaled Loren’s ribs.
The man chuckled, introducing himself. “Baron Wimbley. Hope you enjoyed the theater last night, my lord.” He touched the side of his nose. “Had a bit of a run in with a, er, brick wall.” He cleared his throat. “But I’m sure Lady Maudsley enjoyed the show immensely. She returned home quite late.”
Loren couldn’t very well say he hadn’t made it either. But it appeared it didn’t matter. The baron nattered on.
“How did you find the marquis? Bit of an arrogant arse, if you ask me.” He pulled a pipe from an inner pocket. “Join me for a port,” he said, slapping Loren on the back again.
Loren grit his teeth but managed a nod. “Honored,” he said on a low huff and followed the man to an unoccupied table. He needed all the information he could get.
