Page 9 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

S eventy-five Days to Win the Marquess’s Heart…

Melissande strolled across the empty floor of the hell after closing, checking if everything was cleaned and stowed away properly. Theo trailed beside her, yawning into her hand.

“Maybe I should faint directly into the marquess’s lap? Since he didn’t see fit to get up and greet me. That ought to do something. Or step out in front of his carriage in the middle of the road, forcing him to invite me inside so he has to share confined quarters with me.”

Theo raised her eyes heavenward. The gesture was quick, but Melissande noticed that even her friend was becoming annoyed with her insistent prattling about the insufferable Marquess of Rivendale. “I thought you were against doing anything reckless.”

She waved the words away as if shooing smoke.

“I changed my mind. Besides, I read last year in a string of society papers that a woman was nearly run down by a steam engine, and the gentleman who saved her by tumbling directly on top of her later became her husband.” At Theo’s dubious look, she added, “It’s true.

She is a duchess now. So surely being reckless works. ”

“Yes, the Duchess of Tyrone,” Theo said dryly. “I do not doubt the story, although I am certain it was vastly exaggerated. The duke used to be a constant patron of ours until his marriage. But I doubt such methods succeed for everyone.”

Melissande tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I don’t necessarily think he will propose after one more reckless encounter. He’s too unflappable. It’s insulting. I intend to rattle him out of sheer principle.”

Anne, one of Hades’ employees, rushed toward Melissande with a distressed look in her eyes. “Miss Lydia Lawless has arrived with a gun in her hand, demanding your audience,” she whispered urgently.

“A gun?” Gareth appeared out of nowhere and moved in front of Melissande, shielding her, Cerberus settling at his heel with a low growl.

“That’s not a problem, Gareth. It’s just Lydia, the thief. She will not hurt me.”

“You can never be certain,” Gareth countered.

Bear barked in approval.

“Fine,” Melissande relented. “You can go from the front and wait in the corridor by my office, while I will use”—she took two steps toward the wall and opened the secret passage—“my own way to get there.”

Melissande ducked into the narrow passage and quickly made her way to her office. She closed the secret door, lined with books, just in time to hear a tussle outside.

She stepped out of the office just as Lydia sprung to her feet off the floor, the guard, Darius, towering over her, his face menacing. The gun Anne had spoken of was nowhere to be found.

Gareth appeared behind Lydia, guarding the exit. She was cornered.

“Enough,” Melissande snapped.

“I need an audience,” Lydia said, her voice breathless.

That is no way to ask for an audience . But the poor woman was disheveled, and not from the fight with Darius. She was dusty, her clothing rumpled, her hair knotted. She’d gone through hell to get here.

Melissande stepped back, gesturing for Lydia to enter.

Lydia’s breath was still ragged as she looked between the guard and Melissande, then slowly, cautiously, walked inside.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Melissande asked, closing the door behind them.

“I need your help,” Lydia said, straight to the point.

There was a pause as Melissande tried to hold on to her laughter. She was unsuccessful. It was amusing to her that the woman who came to her with a gun, demanding an audience, now meekly asked for her help. After halting her mirth, she finally asked, “Do you?”

“Yes. Your half-brother and I will both be doomed if you don’t help me.”

Melissande walked toward her desk. “If you’re here to appeal to our familial bond, you’ll be sorely disappointed.” She plopped into her seat. “I barely know the man.”

She’d met her half-brother, Arthur, the new Marquess of Wakefield, a little over a fortnight ago for the first time. And he hadn’t even known of her existence before that meeting.

“That’s not why I am here.” Lydia walked toward the desk and took the empty seat.

“I promised you I’d steal the ring from him, and I failed.

As a result, you outed my identity as the notorious thief, the Mist .

And I”ve been hunted ever since. But Art gave you the ring in exchange for you fixing the situation.

The ring is now nestled on your finger”—she nudged her chin toward Melissande’s hand—“but the situation has not been remedied.”

Melissande had to agree that she hadn’t given her all to clear Lydia’s name after dragging it through the mud. She had been too preoccupied with her own issues. But she wasn’t going to admit to that. Instead, she shrugged. “I did my best.”

“Your best?” Lydia scoffed. “I don’t believe for a moment that your best is us being threatened by a marquess.”

Melissande blinked. What in the devil was this woman talking about? “Apologies,” she said smoothly, “I believe I’m missing some vital information. What marquess is threatening you, and about what?”

“Rivendale,” Lydia exclaimed.

Something unfurled inside Melissande’s chest at the man’s name. Warmth? Excitement? She didn’t want to analyze the feeling. But she could see that this unpleasant meeting could turn out to her benefit after all.

“Rivendale is convinced that I stole something of his,” Lydia explained. “Something very valuable. And he is adamant about getting it back. If I don’t return it, he will ruin Art.”

Interesting . Melissande leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “What did you steal?” Because she was certain that Lydia, in fact, did steal whatever it was she was accused of.

“A locket,” she admitted easily. “It was gorgeous. Lined with rare stones. Very expensive.”

“And do you know where it is now?”

Lydia swallowed. “No. If I did, we wouldn’t be in this scrape.”

So Rivendale was looking for some sort of a locket. Was that the reason he had finally left his estate and come to London? It must have been very valuable. “Do you have any idea where to start looking?”

Lydia nodded. “Yes. The underground auction in London where I sold it. But it was years ago. Even if they keep the records—”

“They always keep the records,” Melissande interrupted. And it would be no problem for her to get those records.

She could get the locket, help her half-brother, clear her conscience for outing Lydia’s identity as a thief, and come out as a hero to Rivendale all at once.

Her mind made up, Melissande stood abruptly. “Very well. I shall help you.”

Lydia blinked, shock evident on her face. “Why?”

Melissande stood. “Because I can.” She rounded the desk and walked toward the door. “Follow me.”

“Where are we going?” Lydia asked as they were headed down the corridor toward Theo’s office.

“First, we will convince Rivendale that you’re not this infamous Mist,” Melissande said, without slowing her step.

“How in the world are we going to do that?”

Melissande knocked on Theo’s door and walked in unceremoniously without waiting for an answer. “Where is our betting book?”

“Downstairs in the wager room, why?”

“I need to borrow it for a few hours,” Melissande said.

“In the meantime, I need you to do me a favor. I need to find a locket. Lydia will describe it to you in fine detail. She will tell you the date and place where the locket was auctioned off, and I need you to find the trail from that auction house to the buyer or wherever the trail leads you.”

Theo raised a brow. “You want me to follow the locket wherever it ended up?”

“Yes, I need to find it. And I need to find it quickly.”

Theo gave a sharp nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

* * *

“Miss Melissande Monroe and Miss Lydia Lawless,” the butler announced, as Lydia and Melissande stood by Rivendale’s study door a few hours later.

Melissande had never intended to show her betting book to anyone outside Persephone’s Heaven, yet here she was, clutching it close to her chest. She’d had Lydia’s friend forge an early entry there to make it seem as though her outing Lydia as the true Mist was just a wager.

That it was a lie she had made up to scandalize the ton .

An easy explanation to believe if one had an extremely low opinion of her already.

And Melissande believed wholeheartedly that no one had a lower opinion of her than the Marquess of Rivendale.

“And she brought the abomination with her,” Rivendale sighed, sounding tired.

Abomination? Was Rivendale referring to her? Melissande couldn’t help but smile.

She walked past the butler and into the study before Rivendale even said, “Let them in.”

Lydia rushed toward her beloved, Art, Melissande’s half-brother, who was already sitting before the beast of Rivendale.

Melissande gave the whispering couple a wide berth and slowly approached Rivendale’s desk. He sat there, a stony expression on his face.

“What a pleasure to see you again, my lord,” she said with a teasing curtsy. She couldn’t help but notice the cereus still sitting on his desk. At least he hadn’t hurled the innocent plant out the window. He wasn’t completely heartless, after all.

“You’ll excuse me for not standing to greet you,” Rivendale drawled. “Please, take a seat.”

Wakefield, or Art, as Lydia called him, helped both women into their seats, then pulled up a chair beside Lydia.

Rivendale leaned back.

“Wakefield has almost convinced me of your innocence, Miss Lawless.” He gave a slow, deliberate look at Melissande. “And yet here you are, consorting with criminals.”

Criminals? Was she a criminal in his eyes, now?

How peculiar. “Running a hell is not a crime,” Melissande said smoothly.

“It’s a business. A very lucrative one, I might add, frequented almost exclusively by lords.

” She smirked. Your peers. “At least… that was true until a few weeks ago. Now, ladies far outnumber their husbands.” Then her gaze dropped, lowering suggestively toward the space beneath Rivendale’s desk. “I wonder why,” she murmured.

Rivendale didn’t take the bait. Instead, he turned to Lydia. “Are you regretting your decision to bring her yet?”

Lydia let out an exasperated breath. “Hear her out. Please.”

Rivendale’s icy gaze fell on Melissande.

She grinned at him.

“Miss Lawless is innocent,” she said simply.

“If you say so,” Rivendale answered dryly.

“I have proof, I promise.”

The marquess raised a brow.

“Persephone’s Heaven—although it officially opened its doors during the masquerade—was operating in a limited capacity for weeks before that,” Melissande said easily.

This wasn’t exactly a lie, although the rest of her speech was going to be.

“One must always test a product before rolling it out. See how customers react to certain things, determine if anything needs to be added—”

“If I needed a lecture on running a hell,” Rivendale interrupted, “I would have probably committed myself to an asylum—because I’d surely be going mad. Please. Get. To. The. Point.”

Melissande gritted her teeth so hard her jaw snapped. “Fine. I made a wager. That I could convince everyone that the Mist was a woman. And not just any woman, but a wealthy widow with a distinct shade of hair.”

“You mean that you made up a wager to ruin someone’s life simply for the benefit of your pleasure.”

Well… yes. “If you don’t believe me, I have proof.” Melissande pulled out the betting book from her side and plopped it onto the desk, showing him the forged, made-up wager. If he only flipped a few pages to the left, he’d find the real wager Melissande had placed, where he was the main target.

“That’s a dangerous wager that could get people hanged,” Rivendale said stonily. “Although I shouldn’t have expected anything less from you.”

Of course. He thought she was impulsive and reckless. Was he wrong? “Anything to keep my guests entertained.” Melisande waved a dismissive hand.

“Are you convinced that I am not a thief?” Lydia asked.

Rivendale clenched his teeth. “Perhaps.”

“Can I be assured that you will stop pursuing me?”

“My sole goal is to find the locket,” he said tightly. “The only reason I was looking for you was because I believed you stole my precious gem. Turns out, if anyone’s to blame, it would be her.” He waved a hand at Melissande, refusing to look at her directly.

Melissande found his disdain for her quite amusing. “I admit to my faults, and I am willing to repair the damage.”

“How so?” Rivendale frowned and finally met her gaze.

She smiled, her coquettish smile. “I will help you find your locket.”

Rivendale’s entire face changed. He looked like he’d swallowed something sour. “I’ve been looking for it for years. Please, do not tell me I will have to tolerate you for that long.”

Melissande let out a laugh. “I will find it for you in two months.”

“And if you don’t?”

“Pick your forfeit.” She raised her chin.

“I think not seeing you ever again would be enough.”

Melissande fought not to get offended. “What if I do?”

Something in his entire demeanor shifted, and for a moment, she thought she saw hunger in his deep-dark eyes. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper. “Pick your forfeit.”