Page 27 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

F ifty days to win the marquess’s heart.

The Laurent mansion was only a few streets away from their lodgings, so instead of summoning their carriage for such a short distance, Melissande had suggested they simply walk to their destination.

“The fresh air will do us both good,” she had said, and Rivendale had readily agreed.

He was in remarkably good health this evening. His leg barely troubled him, and for once in his adult life, he wanted to feel truly independent from his army of solicitous servants. The weather was sharp and cold, but he welcomed it after days of being confined to his stuffy, dank chamber.

Most importantly, moving independently in his chariot-chair, with the most beautiful woman in the world walking beside him, he felt… normal for the first time in a long while.

This wouldn’t last, of course.

They were on a mission to recover his stolen locket. Once they found it, or even if they failed, they would return to England, and his life would revert to its prior boring existence.

As for Melissande… he didn’t know precisely what her life had been like before their paths crossed, but he knew their brief liaison would have to come to an end.

Yet that was all the more reason for him to soak up the feeling of normalcy—and dare he say, even happiness?—while he could.

That was also why a part of him secretly hoped they wouldn’t find the locket tonight. He wanted a few more days, or even weeks, here. In Calais. With Melissande.

With the locket found, what were the chances of Melissande agreeing to remain in Calais with him a little longer? He could claim he was still not fully recovered from their journey and needed additional rest before attempting the return voyage.

Or—and this was a far more dangerous thought—he could simply tell her the truth. Admit that he didn’t want to return to his empty existence in England. Ask her to spend a month here in France, away from all the expectations and limitations that bound them both in London.

Of course, she was unlikely to agree. She had a thriving business to manage, a gaming hell that demanded her attention. She had family in London, friends, a life that was bustling and vibrant—just like her.

He cleared his throat, pushing aside these futile fantasies. “How certain are you that my locket is actually in Laurent’s possession?”

Melissande started slightly, lost in her own thoughts. He wondered what occupied her mind. She seemed nervous, tugging at the tips of her gloves, her gaze distant.

“I am not quite sure,” she replied after a brief hesitation.

“The papers from the London underground auction house clearly indicate that Laurent was the initial purchaser of the locket. I’ve also heard from reliable sources that he has several different lockets in his private collection, pieces he particularly treasures. ”

“But you’re not certain that my locket is among his collection?”

Her step faltered almost imperceptibly. “He might have traded yours already, yes. Collectors like Laurent are constantly looking for new items.”

“And if it does turn out that my locket is here, how exactly do we plan to retrieve it? Simply offer to purchase it from him?”

“Oh no.” Melissande shook her head decisively. “He doesn’t sell his treasures for any amount of money. The only way to acquire anything from Laurent is to win it from him at cards. That’s his particular vice—he’ll stake anything on a good game.”

Rivendale frowned. “How can we be sure that even if he has my locket, he will stake it?”

She shrugged lightly. “I have my ways.”

“And what if we don’t win it?”

She let out a soft, almost musical laugh. “My lord, you’re gravely underestimating me.”

He loved the way she called him ‘my lord’ in a teasing tone. It wasn’t uttered in reverence or to emphasize his station; on the contrary, Melissande clearly didn’t care a whit that he was a marquess. As far as she was concerned, they were equals.

As far as he was concerned, she was far above his station.

They reached the grand house just as another couple arrived, disembarking from an elegant carriage with liveried footmen.

The gentleman, in his early fifties, helped his much younger companion down and introduced himself as Antonio de Piro of Malta, and his companion as the French actress Mademoiselle Collette.

“Marquess of Rivendale…” Rivendale paused. “Of England.”

“Melissande Monroe.” Melissande stretched out her hand, and de Piro kissed her knuckles.

“Melissande, what a beautiful name,” he said in French with a light accent, still refusing to release her hand.

“You must be the esteemed Marquis de Piro’s son,” Melissande noted, her cheeks flushed.

“Not at all,” the man replied. “I am his nephew. Therefore, I am free to explore the continent as much as I wish.”

“And how do you find it here?” Melissande leaned forward, her eyes wide with interest, making Rivendale feel a twinge of jealousy.

“Beautiful, truly beautiful. Very different from island life.”

“I have never been,” Melissande admitted.

“Oh, but you must come. The doors to our family castle are always open to you, cara mia .”

Rivendale angled his chair between the pair and took Melissande’s hand from de Piro’s grasp. “Should we go in?” he asked sweetly.

Melissande’s smile was tense as she inclined her head. “Of course.”

De Piro and his companion walked ahead while Rivendale paused, wincing at the realization that this was where his independence effectively ended.

Three stone steps led up to the front entrance. Only three steps, but for him, they might as well have been three flights of stairs.

“Did you have to be so sharp with Signor de Piro?” Melissande raised her brow.

Rivendale shot her a sidelong glance. “And did you have to be so overly coquettish?”

Melissande gave him a pointed look. “I am here to build rapport with people; we might need that later on.” She paused. “Why? Are you jealous?”

“Yes,” Rivendale replied sharply. Her eyebrows rose in surprise. She knew he was jealous. Rivendale supposed her surprise stemmed from his directness. But he felt no need to be coy.

He maneuvered his chair to the base of the steps and called out to the butler who appeared in the doorway. “I require assistance, if you please.”

Two footmen materialized before the butler even raised his hand.

Rivendale gripped the arms of his chair and pushed himself to stand.

He grabbed his cane from the back of the chair before the footmen carefully lifted it and carried it up the steps while he navigated the stairs on foot, one careful step at a time.

“Miss Monroe, a pleasure,” a man said from behind, prompting Melissande to engage in a conversation with the young Baron Josef von Donhoff from Prussia.

Rivendale bristled but let the baron escort her into the building while he struggled to make his way up the steps, cursing his inadequacy.

Sweat beaded on his brow as he swiped it away. One challenge was over, but that was only the beginning.

Once they had surrendered their outer garments to waiting servants, their host approached with a smile.

He was a middle-aged gentleman with a balding head and a pudgy stomach.

“Marquess of Rivendale,” the gentleman said with a perfect bow. “What a distinct pleasure to have you in my home. Miss Monroe,” he continued, turning to Melissande, “how delightful to see you again.”

Rivendale raised an eyebrow at this exchange. Melissande knew their host personally. He ought not to have been surprised, for she had secured the invitation to this gathering on his behalf. Yet, had she not insisted that his name and title were required for admission to such an exclusive assembly?

Perhaps knowing Laurent socially did not guarantee entry to his private gambling nights. She had mentioned that these gatherings were reserved strictly for the aristocracy, and the host himself bore the air of one eager to belong to the crème de la crème of society.

A coxcomb, she had said.

“Please, do follow me upstairs,” Laurent said, gesturing toward an elegant spiral staircase.

Rivendale studied the steep, narrow steps with growing apprehension. “What floor are we going to?”

“Just the first floor,” their host replied easily.

“I shall need assistance with the chair,” Rivendale said, trying to keep any hint of embarrassment from his voice.

“But of course.” Laurent signaled to his footmen. “Do you wish to walk up, or shall the footmen carry the chair with you in it?”

Heat crawled up Rivendale’s neck as he considered the question. Being carried like a child was mortifying, but struggling up the stairs like a decrepit old man would be equally humiliating and far more time-consuming.

In the meantime, Melissande would be chatting away with the other guests…

“Carrying the chair will be faster for everyone,” he said.

The footmen lifted him with ease, and he tried to ignore the uncomfortable sensation of being transported like cargo. When they set him down on the upper landing, Melissande immediately approached him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I just asked Laurent about the locket, and he said he indeed has one in his possession—a golden one adorned with colorful stones.”

Whether she was distracting him on purpose or simply didn’t care about the stares from the people watching his approach, the distraction eased the tension in him immediately. For the first time since they’d entered the house, he found himself genuinely relaxing.

“And when will we be able to see it?”

She placed a proprietorial hand on the back of his chair and led him toward the dining room. “He promised to showcase it tonight.”

“Does it mean he is going to stake it?”

Melissande gave a little shrug. “It seems so to me.”