Page 17 of The Marquess Wins a Wife
“Whereisyour sister?” Luke asked. “I can’t imagine she would approve of your presence here.” Probably she would fear that his dissipation would corrupt them.
Probably she would beright.
The girl edged her chin up still further. “She’s hiding the valuables,” she said.
It had been on the tip of Luke’s tongue to say, scornfully,What valuables, as there didn’t seem to be a damned one of them in the room that by all rights ought to have had the most. Except, perhaps, for the razor, which had to be worth a bit with its ornate handle. Instead he said, laconically, “Is she? How odd.”
The boy shrugged, his hostile expression easing somewhat. “Naw,” he said. “Lizzie and Imogen do it every time Papa comes home for a visit.”
“They hide the valuables from yourfather?” Worse still, neither of the children seemed to find this in the least strange or puzzling.
The girl gave a steady blink. “Of course. Last time, Papa took most of the silver with him when he left, and we had to eat with our hands until Lizzie could buy new.” She lifted one hand to smooth at her plait, which hung draped over her shoulder. “Willie says Papa would pluck the nails from the very walls if he could. So we have to hide anything we don’t want him to take.”
Good God. “How often does he—er, come home?” Luke asked.
Another jerky little shrug, a bland lift of one shoulder. “Dunno,” said the boy. “Been a year at least. Huh, Jo?”
From the girl, “One year, four months, sixteen days.”
How precise. Something of his bemusement must have shown on his face, for the girl added, belatedly, “He came for our birthday.” Her chin lowered just a bit, those dark eyes flashing with remembered disdain. “Hesaidhe did, anyway.”
From this, Luke deduced that dearPapahad likely not onlynotbrought his children a gift, but that he had in fact stripped down the manor for everything he could carry besides.
He wondered what the man’s vice was. Cards, probably. Or dice. Or simply just a general apathy toward the welfare of his children, whom he’d abandoned to a crumbling manor and in increasingly desperate circumstances. So desperate, in fact, that his children now worked at storing anything they did not want sold out from beneath them, lest their ne’er-do-well father get his grubby hands upon them.
“I take it you’re not fond of him, then,” he asked.
“We don’t know him, sir,” the girl said, her brow marred by a little wrinkle, as if the question had troubled her. As if the concept of beingfondof one’s parent were so alien that she could not comprehend it. “He left when we were just babies.”
Just babies? And if the man’s wife had been dead going on nine years, then that would mean—Luke bit back an oath.Papahad left his eldest daughter alone to raise his children when she had been hardly more than a child herself.
No wonder Lizzie Talbot had stooped to abduction. She had dwindling resources and three dependents to feed—if one did not include Willie amongst that number. And even the meager resources at her disposal weakened yet further with every visit from their dear father, who stripped the house of its valuables and left once again.
How else was she meant to bring the man who had ruined her sister up to scratch, to salvage a terrible situation that would no doubt spell disaster for all of them? There was no one else to do it.
Except, perhaps,him.
Chapter Nine
Lizzie had never been in a position to pluck stitches from anyone’s flesh, but she could not imagine that it would be a pleasant process. She wasn’t certain whether the bottle of gin she carried with her was forhimor for herself—her stomach roiled at the very thought, but she supposed the removal of stitches had to be a much less nauseating process than applying them had been.
It had gone past midnight, by the chimes of the ancient longcase clock in the foyer, which had been left in its place only because it had been far too heavy to stash away in the attic, and she was betting that Papa would not be able to lift it, either. Georgie and Jo had gone to bed hours ago, and so had Imogen—pleading a headache and fatigue due to the baby which she believed ought to have exempted her from washing up. It never seemed to occur to her that those chores which she did not complete would then have to be performed by someone else.
It was simply too unfortunate thatthiswas not a chore that she could assign to Imogen—but then, being alone with an unrelated man had gotten Imogen into enough trouble already.
She paused before the door to the master chamber. Through the gap at the bottom, a faint light glowed. A candle, most likely. His lordship did seem to have an inordinate fondness for late hours. No doubt he’d burned through quite a few of their precious reserve of candles.
The shears were tucked into the pocket of her gown. She clutched the bottle of gin in one hand and with the other plucked free the stopper, tilting the bottle to her lips to take a swift drink. Her eyes watered at the burn of it, her mouth flooding with the taste of alcohol and juniper berries. Once, there had been wine and champagne, and in those days when life had been comfortable and pleasant, she had occasionally had a glass of wine with dinner. There had been spirits, too, but those had been Papa’s domain only, since ladies of good breeding did not indulge in them.
That had all long gone by the wayside. Now, this ancient bottle of gin was the only alcohol left in the house. Mutton was becoming a cost too dear; their meager budget did not extend to indulgences like wine. And gin—well, she knew already that she would not miss it once this bottle, too, had been depleted. But it had served its purpose well enough, which was to distract her from the unpleasant task that lay ahead.
She gave a careful rap upon the door, and heard a rumble of sound from within, some inaudible, faintly annoyed grumble that she took for permission to enter. The door slid open with a shriek of the hinges, deafening in the quiet of the night.
“At last,” came a sulky drawl. “And here I had thought I would be forced to spend another night with bits of thread in my flesh.”
The gin sloshed about her stomach at the reminder. “My apologies, my lord,” she said, striding forward to plunk the gin down upon the desk at which he was sitting. “Regrettably, I have better things to do than to humor your every smallest whim.”
He produced a scowl. “You are the foulest-tempered female it has ever been my misfortune to meet,” he said. “Might I remind you that youshotme and that it would be in your best interestnotto antagonize me?”
