Page 3 of One Night of Scandal (Fairleigh Sisters #2)

“I couldn’t very well let you sneak out of London without seeing me again. Perhaps your butler has been remiss. I’ve called on you every day for the past week and have yet to receive a response.”

His gaze fell on the hall table, where a silver bowl sat over-flowing with calling cards and creamy vellum envelopes, none of which had been opened.

“Ah…I see it’s not the butler who’s been remiss, but I. I presumed too heavily upon the manners your mother taught you, God rest her dear soul.”

Hayden leaned against the door and crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to look guilty.

“My mother taught me that it was ill-mannered to meddle in the private affairs of others.”

Ignoring him, Ned picked up a stack of the cards and invitations and began to shuffle through them.

“Lady Salisbury. Lady Skeffington. The duchess of Barclay.”

He shifted his gaze to Hayden, cocking one silvery eyebrow.

“These are all from hostesses par excellence. Tell me—how does it feel to once again be one of the most sought-after bachelors in all of London?”

Hayden snatched the invitations from his hand and tossed them back on the table.

“I’ve no interest in keeping company with those who pride themselves on their manners but not their kindness. They’re not looking for a fourth for their card parties or a waltz partner for their daughters. They’re seeking someone their guests can whisper about behind their fans and cigars—a curiosity to be both pitied and reviled.”

“Ah, yes, the ‘Murderous Marquess.’ He cuts quite the villainous figure through the pages of the newspapers and scandal sheets, doesn’t he? It’s astonishing that I even worked up the courage to pay you a social call.”

Ned studied his neatly manicured fingernails.

“But since I’ve no intention of sleeping with any of your future wives, I shan’t worry about you calling me out or flying into a homicidal rage and stabbing me in the throat with a jam spoon.”

Hayden stiffened, stung by his friend’s boldness.

“Nor should you. I have no intention of marrying again.”

“More’s the pity.”

But it was sadness that touched Ned’s cool gray eyes, not pity.

“You were one of the most devoted husbands any woman could hope to have.”

They were both silent for a long moment. Then Ned’s teeth flashed in a ghost of his old grin.

“Come out with me tonight, Hayden! Harriette Wilson’s been bought off by the duke of Beaufort and retired to Paris to tantalize everyone with her memoirs, but her sisters still know how to throw a party. We can get thoroughly foxed, plant a pretty bit of muslin on our laps, and pretend we’re eighteen again and fresh from Eton. Come with me! You’ll see. It will be just as it was.”

Despite Ned’s insistence, they both knew it would never be just as it was. Instead of three wild and handsome young bucks sampling the city’s many illicit pleasures, there would be only two.

Hayden dredged up a smile of his own from somewhere in his memory.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to woo the winsome Wilson sisters on your own tonight. I plan to retire early and make an early start for Cornwall.”

Ned peered into the gloomy study just behind him.

“I can’t bear the thought of you entombed in this rented mausoleum on your last night in civilization. At least let me send over some small bit of comfort to warm you.”

“That won’t be necessary. The cook left a nice fat quail on the stove and a bottle of Madeira. That will be all the comfort I require.”

Hayden swept open the front door.

Ned didn’t waste time taking offense or pretending to misunderstand. But he did pause and turn on the stoop, a speculative gleam lighting his eye.

“You really shouldn’t be so hasty to dismiss my offer. Even the juiciest of quails can benefit from a dash of spice.”

Hayden watched Ned stroll to his carriage, troubled by the spark of mischief in his friend’s eyes. At Eton, that look had always meant trouble, usually of the female variety.

Shaking his head at his own fancies, he firmly shut the door, dismissing both the night and its ghosts.

Lottie picked her way through the shadows cast by the overhanging tree branches, thankful that she hadn’t allowed Harriet to accompany her.

Harriet had never been any good at sneaking.

She had an unfortunate tendency to clump about like a plow horse, no matter how soft the turf or how delicate her slippers.

Tendrils of mist rose from the damp earth, glowing ghostly pale beneath a wan scythe of moon.

As she emerged from the shadows, Lottie drew up the mantle’s hood to shield her hair from the moonlight.

The narrow, three-story house towered over her, dark and forbidding.

Had it not been for the maid-servants’ gossip, Lottie would have sworn the house was deserted.

She studied the darkened row of third-story windows, wondering which one hid the marquess’s bedchamber.

It was only too easy to picture him sprawled atop a satin coverlet, a snifter of brandy cupped in his long, aristocratic fingers, a sardonic glint in his eye and a cynical sneer curving his lips.

Before wooing and wedding his now deceased wife eleven years ago, Hayden St.

Clair, the marquess of Oakleigh, was purported to have been one of the most eligible young bucks in all of England.

The announcement of his engagement to the youngest daughter of a minor French viscount was said to have been greeted with hysterical fits of vapors and brokenhearted sobs.

Although his marriage to the girl had ended in tragedy, fond recollections of their whirlwind romance could still bring a wistful sigh to the lips of even the most prudish of matrons.

Despite his rather spectacular fall from society’s grace, Lottie had no doubt that those same matrons would still welcome him into their drawing rooms today, if only out of morbid curiosity.

But he had chosen instead to exile himself to the wilds of Cornwall.

His brief and infrequent visits to London were shrouded in secrecy.

Ironically enough, his attempts to escape notice had only whetted society’s curiosity and kept the scandal sheets churning out their lurid speculations.

Lottie waited for several minutes, bouncing up and down on her toes with impatience, but there were still no signs of life from the darkened house.

Perhaps the marquess wasn’t the recluse everyone believed him to be.

Perhaps he was even now at some gentleman’s club or gambling hell, indulging himself in some of the city’s seamier pleasures.

She was turning away, prepared to make the arduous climb over the wall and back up to the sitting-room window, when a flicker of light drifted past the French windows at the far corner of the house.

Her heart skipped into an uneven cadence.

It was probably only a maid or a footman, she told herself, securing the doors for the night.

But she moved forward anyway, skirting the shadows along the wall.

By the time she reached the corner of the stucco terrace, the light was gone.

Lottie glanced toward her aunt’s house.

The rattle of carriage wheels was growing more frequent, the whine of the violins more insistent.

She didn’t dare linger much longer.

Her brother-in-law might adore her, but the ton hadn’t christened him th.

“Devil of Devonbrooke” for naught.

If she missed the first dance of her debut, there would be hell to pay.

The light appeared again, a faint wink too tantalizing to ignore, then simply vanished.

Lottie tiptoed across the terrace, promising herself she’d allow only one quick peek into the marquess’s lair before she fully surrendered herself to virtue’s chaste embrace.

Lifting one hand to block out the glare of the moonlight, she sidled closer to the glass.

The adjoining window flew open.

A masculine hand shot out, caught her wrist in its powerful grip, and dragged her into the house.

Too startled to scream, she found herself gazing mutely up into the face of the Murderous Marquess himself.