Once Upon a Marquess

  He blinked down at her. “I beg your pardon? I don’t believe I heard you correctly.”

  “We have a body to dispose of,” she repeated, enunciating the words, as if saying them more slowly would make them more socially acceptable. “Now are you going to help me, or must I drag it to the midden myself?” She didn’t wait for his answer; she turned and walked a few paces down the street toward a house where there was indeed a bodylike heap on the porch.

  He had no doubts that after all was said and done, she’d still cast him as the villain of her life in her head. But he wasn’t a mustachioed, plotting malefactor, bent on destroying everything good. He wasn’t a blackguard. He wasn’t an evildoer. He was the sort of villain who made jokes and tried to do the right thing, damn it.

  No battle plan survived first contact with the enemy, so it was imperative that Christian kept his objectives in mind. He had just one: If she was going to hate him, the least she could do was hate him accurately.

  “How exciting,” he said to her back. “Hiding corpses. My favorite activity; how did you ever know? I always said that if I wanted to become an accomplice to murder, I’d do it on a public street in broad daylight. How kind you are to oblige me in this.”

  She looked upward, raising her hands in supplication. “I don’t have time for explanation. There isn’t a minute to spare.”

  “Of course not,” Christian said. “If you wait too long, your next victim might get away. By all means, let me not delay my initiation into a life of crime.”

  She turned to him. “Oh, for the sake of cygnets.”

  Christian blinked for a moment at that turn of phrase until he remembered that Judith had started swearing on waterfowl at the age of eleven. He was never exactly sure how that had started, but now that he’d heard her say it, he couldn’t imagine how he’d forgotten.

  “If I had killed anyone,” she went on, “do you think I would tell you, of all people? Have you eyes in your head? I’m talking about that.” She gestured at an indistinct lump lying on the somewhat rickety steps leading up to a dismal-appearing house.

  He squinted and let out a covert breath. It was not, thank God, a real body. It was a set of clothes stuffed with straw, a beige-ish-something-colored scarf trailing behind it.

  “Here,” she said. “Help me with it, and quickly.”

  “It’s lovely to see you, too,” he said dryly. “My, it has been years since we last spoke.”

  “Goodness.” She pronounced that word with a hint of venom, touching her fingers to her forehead.

  For a moment—just a moment—he had the sense of how much must have changed in the years since he’d seen her. For that second, Judith looked…

  Old was not the right word. Neither was haggard; that last implied a loss of beauty, and he did not think that Judith could ever be anything but beautiful. But she was no longer a young girl on the verge of her first Season. She would have been…he subtracted from his own age…twenty-six last March, on the fifteenth, and the fact that he still recalled the date of her birth was not lost on him. But for one second, there was something about the way her lips pressed together, the way her eyes shivered shut, that made him think that Judith had very clearly become an adult, and not just because of the passage of time. She had responsibilities. She was, perhaps, weighed down by them.

  She shook her head. “Might we defer the social niceties, if you please?”

  He’d prepared himself for this. There was enough history between the two of them that given the opportunity, they’d descend into mutual sniping. He’d steeled himself to rise above the fray. He was not going to snap at her. He was going to be polite and kind. He was going to be himself, and if part of him thought that being kind was a weapon—a weapon of the see what you’re missing variety—then, well, all the better.

  “Body or no,” Christian heard himself say with all the stiff, kind politeness he could muster, “I do not consider myself to be a complete savage.”

  “There is no time to not be savage,” Judith said.

  While he was working out that double negative, she bulled on.

  “I promise you, in ten minutes, we shall go in the house and I shall make tea and we will ask after each other’s families. We shall stare at each other with all the awkwardness that our situation entails, and if you like, we shall call that being civilized. But we haven’t time for this now.”

  “You know,” Christian said, “one of the reasons we always did get on so smashingly well is that we were both utter shite at etiquette. Very well. We can pretend later.”

  “This particular situation is difficult.” She glanced at him. “Can you carry the entire…thing…or must I assist?”

  Standing that close to Judith? He was too aware of her as it was. He looked over at her. He thought of her hands overlapping his, her body pressing against his.

  “That would be entirely unnecessary,” he said on a growl. Christian leaned down and gathered the straw figure in his arms. It was awkward and ungainly; the limbs kept trying to straighten. Judith was smaller than he was, and she’d likely not had the arm span to encompass the thing. He barely managed.

  “I have it.” He lifted. “When you say this particular situation is difficult, did you mean needing to dispose of this fellow here, or were you referring to the fact that we were going to get married until I proved your father and brother were traitors?”

  She looked up at him with wide, outraged eyes, and stared ahead with compressed lips.

  Better. If she was going to hate him, she’d best do so for the right reasons. “I see we’re not discussing that,” he said. “Never fear. Let’s talk about…” He rustled the thing in his arms. Little bits of straw poked out from the clothing. “…George here. Thank you for him. This is an extremely convenient gift on your part. A straw man? For me? With Parliament sitting next month? I always say the House of Lords can never have too many.”

  She gave him a pointed look. “This way.”

  He followed her down the street. “Technically,” he explained as they walked, “that’s untrue. One can have too many straw men. ‘Try another logical fallacy,’ I’m always saying. ‘Exclude more middles. Go for the ad hominem attack—I’m always hoping for some real insults, you know. But alas. It’s straw men, straw men, straw men, nothing but straw men all session long.”

  Once, that would have made her laugh. Now her eyes flicked to him briefly. “I understood your jest the first time,” she said. “There was no need to explain it.”

  “Right.” He wasn’t going to stop being himself simply because she hated him. “Uncomfortable silence it is, then. Don’t mind me; I’m used to uncomfortable silences. Why, I annoy my mother twice daily, just so she can look at me reproachfully.”

  “The refuse heap is just ahead,” she said. “To the right, and then turn into the alley immediately on your left after that.”

  “Just think,” he continued. “If you’d married me after all, you, too, could be an expert in uncomfortable silences.”

  Judith inhaled sharply.

  Good. He’d come all this way because she’d asked for his help—well, and technically, because he wanted something in return. If he was going to be made to feel uncomfortable, she should have to as well.

  “If I’d married you after all,” she said, “I would have had a real body to dispose of before now.”

  “How sweet.” Christian hoisted the straw man higher onto his shoulder. “I knew you cared.”

  They turned the corner and found themselves standing almost face to face with a boy.

  No. Not just a boy. For a moment, Christian felt light-headed. The boy was maybe twelve years old; his hair, somewhere between a dirty blond and a sandy brown, was badly in need of cutting. His hands were in fists at his side, and he looked down as he strode ahead.

  The boy paid so little attention to his surroundings that he almost walked headfirst into Christian.

  Christian almost let him do it. For one second, Christian thought he was lo
oking at Anthony—at his onetime best friend, the boy with whom he had climbed trees and argued Aristotle and spent all his summers.

  It was almost as if he had walked into one of his own nightmares. He couldn’t breathe. God, he missed Anthony. Nothing in the world had gone right since his friend had been transported. Nothing.

  But this boy was not Anthony. He was too young, and Anthony was too dead.

  This must be…

  “Benedict,” Judith said, moving forward.

  Benedict. The youngest child in the Worth family. He’d known Benedict first as a squalling baby, then as a precocious toddler, and finally, eight years ago, as a cherubic child with fat cheeks, dimples, and an eternal smile.

  Benedict had neither dimples nor smiles now. Once Christian’s mind was shaken of the terrible suggestion that Anthony had returned, he could see all the differences between this boy and his friend.

  Benedict Worth was thin, too thin. His wrists were just bones underneath those wide cuffs. There were dark shadows under his eyes and a fading yellow bruise across his cheek. A scab across his lip spoke of more fights. He looked up at the two of them.

  He didn’t blink. He didn’t frown in question. He simply saw the thing that Christian was carrying and he blew out a long, resigned breath.

  Judith stepped in front of Christian. “Benedict,” she repeated, reaching for him. “It’s so good to see you.”

  He brushed off her embrace, stepped around her, and stared at the thing that Christian was carrying. He didn’t say anything; he just quietly unknotted the scarf.

  That was when Christian realized what he should have seen from the first. This was no straw man. It was a straw boy wearing an Eton uniform.

  The scarf was likely that odd shade that everyone called Eton blue, claimed was green, and looked basically beige to him. Christian felt sick.

  He’d given advice during her father’s trial in the House of Lords. He had known when he uncovered the evidence that his best friend would be implicated in the process. But he’d been right, damn it. What was he supposed to have done? Looked the other way from their treason?

  But in the aftermath, her family had lost its fortune. Her father had taken his life in the cell, and Anthony… God, Christian couldn’t think of what had happened to his best friend.

  He’d been right, but sometimes doing the right thing hurt people.

  Benedict let out a long breath. “Well.” His voice was high, on the verge of breaking. He didn’t look at his sister. He didn’t look at Christian, either. He simply shrugged his shoulders and looked away into the swirling fog. “I see there’s no need to explain why I’m never going back.”

  Chapter Three

  If the awkward nonconversation on the way to the midden had been uncomfortable, the discussion on the way back was downright disastrous. There had to be some way to negotiate the situation effectively, and Christian intended to find it.

  Judith jerked her head in the direction of the heap just around the corner; Christian slipped past the two siblings to deposit the thing in the rubbish. But even following the two Worth siblings at a distance was awkward.

  “Benedict,” she was saying. “Sweetheart, I’m so glad you’re back. There’s scones. Currant scones. And sandwiches. And ginger-ginger biscuits.”

  Benedict stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Lay off, Judith. I’m not eleven.”

  Judith’s smile faded. “No,” she said slowly. “You’re twelve. A big—a man, I mean, and—”

  “Stop patronizing me,” Benedict snapped. “You think you can bribe me with sweets? I’m not going back.”

  For once, Christian decided to keep his mouth shut.

  “Benny.” She glanced behind them at Christian, and then back to her brother. “You know how important this is. How necessary.”

  At that age, Anthony had never looked so…old. Benedict’s forehead wrinkled. His lip set. He shook his head and looked forward.

  “See,” she said, “you’re obviously upset. Let’s get you home, and…and…”

  Home was on the horizon. Benedict didn’t look at Judith as he trudged up the steps and opened the door.

  “You’ll see,” Judith was saying behind him. “I’ll make it work. I always do, don’t I?”

  Benedict stepped inside the house, and before Judith could follow behind him, he slammed the door in her face.

  Judith swallowed. “Oh dear. That could have gone better.”

  Slowly, she ascended the stairs. Christian followed silently behind her. She opened the door and let out a gasp.

  No wonder; Christian inhaled a lungful of smoke.

  “Oh, for the love of geese,” Judith swore. “Theresa! Theresa!”

  “What?” A pale shadow in dark gray popped around the corner. Christian took a step back; Theresa Worth was almost as tall as Judith. She was blond and frowning and surprisingly pretty.

  Judith faced her down. “Did you not take the scones from the oven? They’re burning.”

  “I like the smell of burnt scones.” Theresa blinked rapidly at her sister. “I was playing Dante’s Inferno. I was imagining that I was a heretic trapped in a flaming tomb. As the fire ate my limbs, I—”

  “Tee.” Judith set a hand on her hip. “You could have burned the house down, yes? Fire is not a playtoy. You are fourteen, for God’s sake.”

  “I’m not stupid,” Theresa said scornfully. “I was watching them. I had a bucket of water right here, just in case. Nothing was going to happen.”

  “At a minimum, you were wasting them.”

  “I was going to add salt! Everything is better with—”

  “Not this,” Judith said baldly. “Open the windows. Take the scones outside.”

  Tee blew out a breath. “I have to do everything around here. Benedict didn’t do anything today. Why doesn’t he have to help? Just because he’s a boy and went to school—which I’m not allowed to do—he gets sandwiches and biscuits and fruit? All I wanted was scones my way. Why can’t I have anything?”

  “Your scones are scones of evil,” Judith said. “And you’re not doing everything. You’re just cleaning up the mess you made. Now stop arguing and go do it.”

  Theresa made an enraged noise before stomping—loudly—down the hall.

  Judith exhaled and shut her eyes.

  If she didn’t remember he was here in a moment, he was going to have to…

  She didn’t need reminding. She turned to him. That pasted-on smile of hers slipped at the edges.

  “Civility,” she said with a frazzled air. “Yes. I promised you civility when we returned.” She bit her lip, as if puzzling out how to manage that. “How good to finally see you again, Lord Ashford.” This was not accompanied by a smile. “And I did request your assistance, after all. Do make yourself at home in the parlor. Have a sc—no, not those. Have a biscuit. I need to, ah, go see how Benedict is…settling in.” She turned away and then swiftly turned back. “No. I spend too much time around Theresa. I have to make myself clear. Forget what I just said. Do not literally make yourself at home.”

  “Figuratively will do,” he agreed.

  She nodded and dashed up the stairs, leaving Christian in a cloud of smoke.

  “Benedict?” he heard her say. “Benedict?”

  Civility. If they could agree on civility, they might be able to get through this.

  Over the years, he had sent her a passel of notes. One, apologizing for raising the question he had at her father’s funeral. Two, asking to see her. Three, several years ago, letting her know he was investigating her brother’s disappearance. Four, informing her of the results of that investigation, and five, a few months ago, asking her for a favor.

  He had not had a word of response from her. He’d heard nothing at all, in fact, until he’d received her letter this morning.

  There is a matter of some delicacy before me, one that may require your particular reputation. If you’re willing to help, send a man of business. In return, I’ll consider the favor you
asked of me.

  He would solve whatever problem she presented, and she could easily solve his. He couldn’t let himself care if she hated him at the end.

  Although perhaps he could see why she might do so. He’d spent summers at her family’s old house. It had been comfortable, clean, and spacious. This place? It was a hovel in comparison.

  Mismatched cushions covered the chairs. There were no painted landscapes on the walls, just yellowing whitewash. A hutch sat against one wall. All the china, such as it was, was laid out on the table, and so there were empty shelves, with the occasional bit of thick crockery set in place with as much pride as if these dishes were the finest porcelain. It was all completely altered, all except…

  Except, on the top shelf, there sat a familiar shepherdess. She was surrounded by three sheep. The shepherdess was china, as were the sheep. But the inner workings of the piece were clockwork. Christian should know; he’d given it to Judith almost ten years ago.

  I don’t want you to forget me, he had said. God, he’d been stupid then, thinking that his biggest worries were that he might miss Anthony—and that Judith Worth might fall in love with someone else.

  He wasn’t sure what it meant that she’d kept his clockwork shepherdess.

  He could hear the indistinct murmur of Judith’s voice from upstairs. Chipped china, threadbare cushions, and this rickety house in a neighborhood that could at best be called unfashionable. The shepherdess, looking over her shoulder, had once seemed serene and accepting. Now, that little arch of her eyebrow seemed mocking.

  No, Judith hadn’t forgotten him. That would have been too easy.

  He sighed, picked up a plate, and served himself a biscuit.

  Christian had ripped the pastry to pieces, and the smoke from the unfortunate scones had somewhat dissipated, by the time he heard Judith come down the stairs.

  Technically, he reflected as he looked over his handiwork, “ripped to pieces” was a tolerably accurate description of the biscuit’s demise. The part that would give anyone else pause was what he had done with the deceased baked item.