A Scoundrel By Moonlight. Anna Campbell
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blushing. “I told you, I wanted something to read.”
“Yet in all those volumes, nothing caught your interest.”
Oh, dear God, he was a devil. Why wouldn’t he leave her be? She’d been overjoyed when the marchioness had promoted her. She’d soon discovered that housemaids had no privacy and little time to search a house the size of Alloway Chase. As a companion, she had a lot of free time—the marchioness wasn’t demanding—and a room of her own. Not only that, she had access to the family’s apartments.
The disadvantage of her new status was that she’d hoped to pass through Alloway Chase without attracting notice. Even before last night’s encounter with the marquess, her ladyship’s favoritism put paid to that idea.
“Perhaps I could advise you on purchasing some novels, my lord,” she said with cloying helpfulness.
If she’d thought his smile was astonishing, his laugh made her sit up like a startled rabbit. It was warm with appreciation. She liked it so much that she had to struggle shamefully hard to remember she despised him. She stopped wondering why Dorothy had found him appealing. Even she, with every reason to loathe him, couldn’t stifle a prickle of attraction.
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.
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 the 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