Page 116 of Lessons for Marquesses
For four days,Nicholas waited in London for Viscount Tufton to arrive back from a regatta in his racing yacht from Greenwich to Gravesend, Kent. On the day of his return, Tufton was unavailable. From the description of the race in the St. James Post, Tufton’s vessel had won the one-hundred-to-one wager over a boat owned by the young prince. It was probable that Tufton was unavailable due to an excess of celebration.
Up at dawn on the fifth day, Nicholas bided his time at Eastwick House on Grosvenor Square, waiting for a decent hour with a stack of his mother’s magazines. One journal, titledWife, penned by aWidow of Quality, was dedicated to advice on felicitous marriages. He enlightened himself onWell bearing the passions and little petulancies of a HusbandandSleeping in different Beds,and his favorite,The danger of living in the same house with any Relation of the Husband’s.
Soon he would have to stop hiding as Mr. Wolf and assume the mantle of the Marquess of Eastwick. He would be forced to confront what Caroline and society believed: he had killed his brother. More, he would have to live with it.
A maid set another journal near the stack, curtsied, and vanished. Nicholas retrieved it, shaking his head over a cup of coffee.The Royal Female Magazine. From the author’s name,A Lady that knows Everything, it promised nothing but gossip.
He slogged through a treatise on fashion. Women’s ankles were being shown at the French court. There was a bit on Mrs. Folliett, made a widow by a duel, and no one had yet found Lord Greville, though it was rumored the scoundrel had run off to Paris which was filled with those cynical Gauls who revered scoundrels.
And then he saw it. If not for his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it.An Inventory of Faults as Itemized by a Miss St. C— in Ode to her Passions for a Mr. W?—.
1. I’m too strong. I could strangle a man with my thighs.
2. My mouth is far too large. I can nearly fit an entire black pudding sausage in it.
Nicholas skimmed the list, furious.
And, dear readers, all of these faults will be on display at Lady T—’s much anticipated ball. Never fear, I shall report back on the accuracy of the above-mentioned inventory.
There was only one undeniable source for this slander. Caroline.
How could she? An idiot he was to even wonder. His chest was on the verge of rupturing wide open. How many others had Caroline hurt? How many women feared her?
Stuffing the journal in the back of his breeches, he launched from the sitting room. “Have my horse saddled at once!”
Eastwick servants scurried into alcoves and hastily opened doors. With his groom, Nicholas rode hard through the quiet of Sunday morning under the peal of church bells and a tenacious mist, thick like his rage.
At the Tufton’s London townhouse, he tied the reins. “Come with me. I need a witness,” he said to his groom. At the door, he ignored the brass knocker and pounded with his fist.
The butler lifted haughty brows as before, judging Nicholas’s hair, his unshaven jaw, and scar. He began an admonishment on the early hour.
“The Marquess of Eastwick,” Nicholas interrupted. “Allow me in or I throw you aside. Your choice.”
The man gulped and stepped aside.
“Where is he?” Nicholas asked in the entry hall. “I am not waiting. Show me to him. Now.”
The butler scrambled up the staircase and paused at a door. “I will announce you.”
Nicholas shoved open the door. A woman screamed. In the grey light diffusing from the windows, plump, naked flesh sped across the blue-and-gold chamber.
Between a slit in the bed curtains, Tufton yanked the linens to his narrow chest. “Good God, man! This is the outside of enough! She is not your wife, I assure you!”
Nicholas jerked the curtains wide. “I am Eastwick. Are you familiar?”
Tufton went dumb.
“Your wife has thrown herself at me, repeatedly. No, I shall amend that. I fucked your wife in three moments of absolute stupidity, and if able, would cut off my cock to spite it.” Withdrawing the journal, he fixed it in Tufton’s shaking hands. “This is what your wife printed on her cousin, her own blood, Georgiana St. Clair.”
Tufton looked from the journal to Nicholas to the groom.
“Read it!”
Tufton read.
“Your wife stole that list, a private reflection. Alex,” he directed his groom, “find the woman.”
Tufton went white. “There’s no need?—”
