The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler
Two
I
n the privacy of his bedchamber, Loren Spears, the fifth Earl of Griston, tugged one end of his elaborately tied cravat, where it unraveled into a wrinkled mess, draping each side of his neck. All in all, he considered the evening at the Peachornsbys’ musicale a rousing success.
He’d managed an impossible feat. Lady Maudsley would be attending his country house party. He was flooded with a huge sense of relief that was equally aggravating. Since the death of her husband, she’d been quite reclusive. Understandably, of course. She’d been in mourning. But he took it as a good sign that she’d come out before the end of the full year. Despite his reasons for pursuing her, her late husband hadn’t deserved an ounce of mourning, but protocols were created to be observed. Especially for women.
He yanked the shirt from his throat, anything to alleviate its constriction. It didn’t help. The pressure inside him mounted, threatening the tentative hold he had on his control. He looked down at his trembling hands, and his fury renewed. He’d had a devil of a time convincing Vlasik Markov of the need to wait before murdering Loren where he stood. The Russians were an impatient lot.
Twelve years ago, at the age of twenty, Loren had joined the war effort against Napoleon. In his stint with the Royal Navy in 1806, the company had landed in Italy at Calabria under General Stuart. Loren had been injured, and damned if Vlasic Markov hadn’t saved his ass. The next thing Loren knew, under the heavy influence of opium, he’d been dragged into their sick little game of buying young blonde, blue-eyed English girls for whatever their nefarious purposes. If they were of noble birth, then all the better.
The entire situation reeked with revulsion. It was regrettable, however, that the fourth earl of Griston had run his family estates into the ground and Loren found himself in dire need of funds.
Unfortunately, the promises he’d made were to individuals who didn’t believe in renegotiation. Only sheer luck had saved him at Maudsley’s timely death; Lady Maudsley’s mourning had bought him almost a year’s reprieve. But time was quickly running out.
Lady Maudsley’s younger daughter was in the vicinity of age four, maybe five, he wasn’t quite certain. Even that fact had given him a two-year window. Things had almost blown up in his face the year before when Maudsley’s man had taken Irene in error of her younger sister. That debacle had cost Maudsley his life, and almost Loren’s own. Their mother was proving more challenge than he’d anticipated; her trust issues were mountainous. Hell, who could blame her after her disastrous marriage to that baboon Maudsley? The man had been a menace to society. Loren had taken great pleasure in killing him. The lady had no idea how much she owed him.
Well, knowing or not, he would be exacting payment. Marriage was his only option, he feared. He just hoped he could deal with that horrid laugh of hers long enough to get her to the altar. If she ever discovered the truth, it would be much easier to silence her as his wife. In any event, by the time he returned from Colchester to London, Lady Maudsley would be a solid fixture in his bed, he vowed.
A tap at the door jarred him from his nerve-ending musings. “Enter.”
Sid appeared around the edge. “A note, my lord.”
“Thank you. Where is Winslow?” Loren asked, taking the note.
“Your son has been summoned to tea with the dowager.”
Scowling, Loren waved the man away. His mother was too soft an influence on his heir. He read the missive and let out a low hiss. The timeline on plans for Lady Maudsley had just shortened. His ears burned like fire as he reached for the vanity to steady himself.
The door opened again and Farcle entered. “There’s word?”
“Yes, dammit. Get me a brandy.” Loren tapped the paper against his thigh, attempting to digest this latest development. “We’ll need to readjust our strategy. I’m supposed to take Lady Maudsley for a ride in the park tomorrow afternoon. I’ll think of some way to meet her daughters. That will ease our way forward.” Fury poured through him as he scanned the note again. All that accomplished was a heavier, pulsating, erratic pounding of his heart. Lady Cecilia would be the last young woman for the greedy Slav. The last one, he promised himself, for his nefarious schemes, if Loren didn’t give the man a bullet instead.
But the price for killing the bastard would likely bring the rest of the Slavs down on his head, and Loren nor his son could ever survive so drastic an action.
